Long With impatience Poems
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Tough
Your back is brittle, like time-greyed oak,
Curved like a bow,
The string constantly tight and ready.
The glare from your eyes:
Like cold steel.
The things that you do,
Always securely perfect and correct.
Your voice strained
Like a muted trumpet
Except, for when you get irritated,
Then, jarring for my ears
And thorns in my gut.
Your criticism is like sharp scissors
That cuts through silk,
But you never learned to sew.
And “join” “patch up” “repair” “sorry” “kindness” and “response-ability”
Are long gone from your life-dictionary.
You walk like a string puppet soldier,
Held, controlled and moved
By the invisible wire
Of your rigid up-bringing,
Conditioning and beliefs.
But sometimes, even the best machines:
Break down
And then you spend days in bed,
Sick with poisonous coughs,
Or thundering,
Heavy and oppressive headaches,
Or mysterious pain in your legs.
You view these “lapses” with impatience,
As indications of weakness
That need to be scrubbed out
Like an annoying stain
On a spotless white tablecloth.
You don’t see the blinking stars,
Or hear the constant, but faint whispers
Gently attempting to coax you back
To the road you abandoned,
Which still longs for the unique print
Of your feet.
Sometimes I glance at you and wonder:
Was the laughter and naturalness
Beaten out of you?
Or, all the warmth and juice
You must have had,
Freezed and squeezed away,
Like a once succulent plum
Is now an unrecognisable prune.
Or so shamed,
That the mask and costume
You took on to survive,
Grew roots into you,
And became like ivy that smothers a tree,
Making it almost unknowable.
You think you are strong?
Yes you are tough,
Scarred and shaped by the battlegrounds
Of the life that encircled you.
But strong Men know how to weep,
Bleed,
Give,
Shake with panic and fear.
Yes you’ve learned a lot,
Your intellect and knowledge
Could fill a bookshelf.
But your fertile, green valley
Of gentleness and vulnerability,
Has been ignored, over-looked
And forgotten for so long now…
That it is choked with weeds and thorns
And beyond recognition,
How sad.
Sangeet Portals October 2022
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(slack jaw froze mine countenance
when eyes blinded with figurative
daggers asper mistakes in original draft,
hence...this flood proof, fire resistant,
and fever reducing error free version.)
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with pizazz, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingeniousness emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled and docked by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over active imagination whirs.
Under the vault of shadow of unfulfilled love,
The sweet poison becomes the purpose of bitter days,
When the heart, caught in the tender dance of beginnings,
Gradually sinks into the labyrinth of forced intimacy.
A flight that seemed to reach for the heavens, in fact descends into the abyss,
Turning passion into a lost mechanical rhythm,
A dream turned into dark pleasure, insatiable fantasy,
A monster that has torn apart and consumed the fruit of love.
Searching for the primordial state at each crossroads of the soul,
Yet the thrill of the search breaks against the wall of acute compulsion.
With each dose of sweet loss, a new trap is woven,
And the soul, like a vagabond, desperately stretches out for relief.
In the whirlpool of desire, you feel like a fisher of illusions on a tumultuous ocean,
Hoping to catch solace but only grasping waves of fear,
You, slave to the flesh, find yourself chained by your own thirsty flame,
And once more you beseech, for a breath of air, as you sink into it.
You are like a leaf in the wind, the bars weigh heavy, and still the tumultuous passion is your cell,
"Have I become refuse?" you ask, but the longing is in the words, crying out your lost innocence.
The mirror lies to you every day, telling you there are no more stairs to forgiveness,
But inside you know you are more, you are the dream, the hope, not the shadow of your weary past.
Once more, a soul lost in its fractured loves,
On the path to find itself, it prays, it struggles; it contends mightily.
The addiction you carry is heavy, the hours whip with impatience,
And you cry to the world, "Help!" fighting against the inscrutable dusk.
In this labyrinth, you will find at one end, someday, the gate to your true self,
A path towards the inner light where your mind’s youth never ceased to beat,
Do not resign to be the prisoner of an endless maze,
For self-reconciliation, rise and shout, and beseech the heavens to hear you and to give you solace.
I won 1st place in the school oratorical contest
I got to say my poem in front of the whole school and they gave me a medal
I was proud that I was 1st
But he never told me.
Where was his medal?
When I found out, I told everyone and waited for the parade to begin.
Mother (who made much ado over my medal) said,
“Oh, really? I'm not surprised. Do you know he left breadcrumbs all over
the floor yesterday?
Didn't even clean them up!”
I was confused.
Do icons have to clean up breadcrumbs?
But he never told me.
“We just dug a lot of trenches for the ammo dump.”
He winked as he said the Marines kept him safe just for me.
He did tell me about "friendly" fire
from White boys standing over them as they dug ditches
but White men are always shooting at Black men - so I thought little of it.
As I rode his knee he used funny words like Guam and Guadalcanal
and he taught me to sing,
"from the Halls of Mon-te-zu-u-ma to the shores of Trip-po-lee . . ."
But never said he was the first to sing it.
He said, “We trained at Camp LeJune”, but never mentioned Montford Point.
As he tied his shoe he said he was a bit too young to be there.
“But I wanted to choose the Corps so I volunteered.”
When I had lived enough to navigate the oceans between
Camp LeJune and Montford Point - I asked,
“Dad, Do you know what you did? You never told me.”
Struggling to share memories clogged by clouds of time he chuckled.
“Yep, we were some of the first but I just didn't think nothin' about it.
It was just one of those things.”
Now I know what it means to be first.
Miss out on medals and parades - and think nothin' of 'em.
A silent machete carving ways through colored lines . . .
As we wiggle with impatience in our snow pants
while they bundle us up for the cold and put on our mittens.
Life is not always filled with cloying contentment.
There are taunting trials and things I'd rather not do.
Those tedious tasks that steal my smiles and my time,
but not the joy of life's most endearing moments
found within the confines of my happy home.
It's impossible to leave all my worries outside,
nor can I hide from them each time I enter through
the front door, but my home seems to cradle me
inside its welcoming walls. Each room comforts me
with familiarity, offering safety and solace from storms
of both the physical and emotional kind.
I am at peace in the serenity I find surrounding me,
even when I hear voices in another room, I know they
are my loved ones. My family's laughter assures me
that all is right in my world. There may be furniture
that needs dusting, or floors that have been scuffed,
but memories made in these haven halls are treasured.
Conflicts and controversies, struggles and squabbles
taking place in the world remain outside my refuge.
When my workday is done, I seek my family hearth,
the warmth within its sheltering roof, making it the safe
stronghold that I claim as my citadel. Trepidations
drift away when I walk into my garden and find seclusion
waiting there for me. I find peace and consummate
placidity in the sound of the koi pond's waterfall.
There are no horns blasting with impatience, only a bed of
colorful impatiens blooming in profusion beneath the
sweet scent of white magnolia blooms that soothe
my weary mind, blocking out stress and anxiousness.
I feel as if I'm in an innocuous world inside my fortress gate.
Protected from the chaotic cacophony of worldly woes.
Standing at an open window as night falls, I enjoy the song
of a nightingale as a myriad of stars surround a full moon.
At the end of the day, these moments are appreciated
for the assuasive effects that I need in my life.
This is the anodyne I seek. This is my home.
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingenious emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over imagination whirs.
Die Hard Smokers And Taxes
Die hard smokers, by the thousands countrywide, they rightly feel a bit abused…
Ouch! A latest 40% hike in price for a ciggie pack, they are definitely not amused…
Now is the time, they should be encouraged to rethink over their preference …
With rising costs, each ciggie stick costs a bomb, and financially makes a difference..
Some might swallow their pride and make e cigarettes their latest passion….
Others just might take one last long pull, called it quits as they exhale their pollution…
Those die hards who swagger on with their now expensive habits as a form of rebellion…
Are mistaken in their perception that this habit is identified with resilient and successful people..
Here in Malaysia, we are going through pretty hard times, with a new service tax and a weak ringgit..
To a man, everyone tries to hold fast to each lifestyle by stretching the buying power of the ringgit..
It makes little sense for any sane man to be literally burning the ringgit with each lighted cigarette…
During these days of weakened ringgit, it is the prudent man who does away with his cigarettes…
While the poor spouse who nags with impatience, puts up with all the tobacco scent and smoke…
Imagine the anguish and frustration amidst the coughing fits and the perpectual swirling smoke…
Horrific images on ciggie packs are not a good deterrent, those who smoke hardly spare a look…
All types of campaigns, written articles detailing a plethoria of illnesses and diseases by the book…
What else is there to portray and highlight as we try convincing our smoke belching brothers…
Reduce smoking, refresh the environment and we all get to live longer together as brothers…
With impatience, we leave
for a broader world covered in gloom
With imprudence, we deliver ourselves
Into a brand new darkness
With grace, we thrive
And embrace the bleak future of our lives
It's just how the society works, I guess
I've tried many times to theorize why we are
And why we hate all
I've tried many times to love
Only to be met with violence
Oh, dear society please keep it up
Maybe if I shout high enough
I will be understood
Maybe if I cursed loud enough
You'd hear me out
I'm just a pitiful error;
Unfit for modern society's perfect biology.
With anger, we delve down
Into a bloody hell that everyone seems to love
With anguish, we march to the tone
The tone to injure ourselves to
With perfection, we love
And I hate you
It's just how the society works, I guess
I've learned that all of us are fake pieces of rubbish;
I've learned we're all littering a beauty that we rape slowly, surely
Oh, dear society please keep it up
Maybe if I hurt immensely,
I can inflict these wounds onto you as well
Maybe if I leap down the concrete tundra,
I can make it rain acid on your precious face
We're all pitiful errors;
we're all perfect for one another
Screw your creations, beast
Screw your ideals
Society, please glue my shattered pieces
Into your deviated masterpiece
I hate you...
Maybe if I die slow enough,
I can enjoy the burning of it all
Maybe if my corpse mocks well enough,
I can stir tears in your toilet eyes
Pitiful error;
that's all we ever were.
Down in my hearts ocean
I will drown in my selfish emotion
My hearts empty room yet deafening commotion
My heart is black, sitting with no motion
As I throw stones to skip in the sea
As a symbol of sympathy
Cause this ocean is a endless hole
And one day, It'll fill full
And a weight that sits on my shoulders
Painful and as heavy as boulders
Dragging me under the ground
Into the ocean until I drown
Surrounded by burning coal
In this seemingly endless hole
Now covered in ash
Burning skin and soul
Crawling up through the grime
Rushing with impatience and so little time
The water and blood weighing down on my chest
And my hands loose grip and become numb, maybe for the best
But with a gasp of air which I now crave
I break through ash and coal and rise above my grave
But the burning ambers on my body took its toll
My souls puppet of flesh now a ragdoll
With no movement I float above the sea of blood
A heart that had a pain flood
The walls are going to fall and cave in
But I have two arms which can hold up anything
So limp and so cold
Reaching upward for something to hold
Now I am freezing even with all the coal and fire
But I break through with strong will and desire
Stuck in this thick pool of memories
I have stepping stones helping me
Step by step I emerge from this this hole below
And soon it will be a distant memory from long ago
Wailing like the sails of a trouble boat
Upon the sea amidst a storm, like clouds
Silent screams, like the stirred souls we can’t hear
But heaven is my hope
Unsure of T’where, like wood that is afloat
Not it would steer, the current takes about
So many concealed canvases I fear
But heaven gives me hope
Where would this tune that plays so loud, this note
This one that makes us dance like we were touts
I know not where it leads. To life or death?
But heaven is my hope
What would the penny that you save to gloat
Bring you, while your neighbour’s lack avows
With my eyes I watch. I can’t cease your breath
But heaven gives me hope
My hands can’t help! Eyes watch our values die
It’s heart had held a blade, and for so long
Poor kids that to earth come, your timing’s wrong
Let heaven be your hope
Plagued with impatience, greed that make gods cry
Strength filled arms folded oft, and hurtful tongues
We wrongly pride ourselves on what we’ve got
So heaven kept it’s hope
Our fathers had been humanly! We’re vile!
Our mothers helped all things like they were one
I hope that these saintly pasts would return
O heaven hear me hope
Man’s heart had loved and true, in pasts it had
It never told a lie nor nursed illness
Alas, now lastly filled with wickedness
O heaven, where’s our hope?