Long World weary Poems
Long World weary Poems. Below are the most popular long World weary by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long World weary poems by poem length and keyword.
My vacuum cleaner’s broken,
sits in the garage gathering dust
Beside dad’s old green car,
oxidising an orangey rust
I tried washing it last week,
and the water turned to wine
Well the colour miraculously looks,
venetian turpentine
World weary in a dusty brain,
contemplating null dividends
Doubtful the universe grew from zero,
to mere accidental existence
I’m never sure of anything,
other than opening up my eyes
When intelligence outsmarts evolution,
worlds of meaninglessness arrives
Nothing ventured everything gained,
the cosmos just gave and came
Dust clumped together,
galaxies burst forth into flame
No blueprint just chaos,
serendipity’s our only friend
Instructions out the window,
laws of physics can’t comprehend
Anyway God created us,
a few millennia after we made him
Mankind needed order,
to rid an infernal world of sin
I mean who’d hold faith in dust,
when all is said and done
Well some of us actually do,
on the mantlepiece in an urn
Yeah I’m full of bull, this
agnostic needs little imagination
I’m wasting space on the fence,
making these observations
I watch dust versus crosses,
and a universe going bust
Neurons keep me company,
as my brain churns out mush
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
King-Size Bull Crap Poetry Contest
01/12/22 rhyme form
Dawn arrives in a dark widow’s shawl.
A hard sea rubs raw
the knuckled bones of the shore.
The first thing a sailor sees as he dreams of arrival
are the white hands. Sometimes the hands
are land marooned seagulls,
sometimes the hands are the open fists of the sea.
When in a stony village by the waves
he disembarks from the tossing dark,
when he clambers over its sea walls
he laughs, but it is not a merry laughter
more a harsh cry of a wild and restless of joy.
The cobbled streets are shedding their scales.
Fish heads are poking through net curtains.
Mackerels swim in world-weary eyes.
Old men leave their cots
shave their whiskers with a clam shell.
Seaweeds hang like dreadlocks from dripping eves.
Bare cold feet roll over paved stones
all is slipping backwards.
A sailor must wash his face with beer
while bailing green water out of his shipwrecked eyes.
etherial entities, Elsewhere and Elsewhen
less than omnipotent but exceeding their parts
abide in Netherverse, universal children
intertwining potentials conceive child of their arts
a difficult birth through a point of positions
with a breath of inflation our Cosmos survives
face lights up with symmetry breaking transitions
a familiar fine face in the microwave skies
expanding bubble within a where-when ocean
two-way quantum cuddles along the interface
to us, top and bottom, a confusing commotion
to Cosmos, it's all around, warm parents embrace
and Cosmos communicates with siblings and friends
beyond overlapping membranes down massive black holes
at centres of galaxies where light bends and bends
re-meeting and greeting wild oceanic shoals
an ocean of learning, an endless becoming
made in the image of imagined potential
and listen closely, Cosmos is faintly humming
music symphonic with daring differential
keeping a rhythm that fast-forwards down aeons
then surfs the present and through time loops back
fabulous instruments, incredible crayons
sketch the past and future in one amazing track
and our Cosmos is tuned to the beat of life
empathy etched across a holographic mind
sharing grief and joy, the world weary cries of strife
the sheer delight of being, delirious and kind
awareness arises and then consciousness awakes
first galaxy focused on planets around stars
life teems, dreams and dances as intelligence outbreaks
escaping gravity's grip but leaving some scars
for pain and exultation, they fly together
space-timed, time-spaced, while smiling over horizons
Cosmos listens, then learns, needs touch of a feather
to fine tune core settings and cosmic liaisons
the task is great, for the infant bubble may burst
and then duly deflate to a point singular
or forever speed out so flat-lined and cursed
where, when, then... would learning be in story so far?
Labyrinthia P. Babineaux …………… The White Witch of the Lower 9th Ward
Papa Babineaux …………………………… The Father, an honest apothecary
Algebra Babineaux ……………………… The even-tempered Mother
Bumblebee Babineaux ………………… The precocious younger Sister
Gnat Babineaux …………………………… The curious little Brother
Cabernet Babineaux …………………… The distant Cousin
Ulysses “Zully” Kowolski ……………… The world-weary Sailorman
Nikita Something ………………………… The learned Creole Seer
Mitchell Hollywood ………………………. The adulterous Inn Keeper
Tom Sickley …………………………………… The disingenuous Feather Merchant
Fr. Marcus Paternoster ……………...... The lecherous Clergyman
Steve Merkin ………………………………… The unscrupulous Accountant
Vince Fettish ………………………………… The nefarious Fantasy Man
Xerxes the Great …………………………… The Emperor of Persia and Media
Dante Foolhardy …………………………... The Stultifying Court Jester
John Travailleur, Esq. …………………… Just another John
Plus … townspeople, pirates, Indians, street musicians and beggars, Cajuns, swamp rats, women, young ladies, and girls.
I look outside my window, at the trees growing bare
I stare at speckled leaves, piling random everywhere
I watch them decompose, death’s clogging up my air
I want to rot with them, on the sidewalk over there
I’m weary with vitality, having discarded all it’s flair
I’m sick and tired of continuance, recycling and repair
I’m on the whole partial, to forget about the stairs
I’m doing cartwheels, first rectangular then a square
My heart lives up my sleeve, can only deal from there
My thoughts for others, cannot be bothered to share
My sole sense of achievement, is self inflated despair
My halo at last comes full circle, I kick away the chair
''W'' New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Choice word #1 Weary
11/24/21
From the Nostril Vortex
I breathe in your perfumed
Plasma leaves from the nostril vortex.
I thrive in the pleasant scenes and velvet touchings.
I wince like a skybird earthbound.
Dare to escape from me.
Dare to hide in the dark.
Shhhh! Don’t make a sound.
I am dancing without shoes in the moonlight.
I am waltzing with precise pre-planned movements in space.
I am spewing out movements that show you and me,
The two of us, walking the precise path to here and there,
And then finally to the place of all endings,
And like the cool morning mist, death enters unseen.
“It’s the tomb! I’m in the tomb!
Mother, Father come get me here in the dark!”
But first, slowly slowly slowly…
I lift up her leg there in the shadows,
And I caress, and smell and lick.
“I have found the best time!
This is the most excellent moment!”
I was there in the dusty places,
I was hanging nearby with all of you.
I was wet with unimagined enticings,
Weary, oh so world-weary to the nucleus of my bones!
Of tentatively living all the years of a dubious lifetime,
And of finally dying in the dry ditches of twenty thousand days.
“Come here honey, kiss me now, here in the distant cemetery.
We can hold on to each other
As the mad earth spins into oblivion.
“Sir, would you be so kind?
Some mindful enterprise and
The Pretext Syllogism combo.
And I will have a side of nomenclature
And for dessert two heapings of existential mind mysogenation,
Topped with granulated mesomorphic nom de plume!
Dancing, dancing, dancing and holding on.
She and me sweating in the black heat.
No other way to live.
No other way to breathe.
“I am just here.
See? Know what I mean?
I was born into this like all of you!
I had nothing to say about it.
What do ya say, honey? What do ya say?”
He was jaded with prostitutes.
The young ones were vacuous,
their bodies unleavened bread.
The mature models scored
by the violence of disappointment.
Both the naive and the world-weary
were dull molds.
The sculptor and anatomist,
delved deeply into the inquiry of form.
As an artist he craved perfection;
a risen Venus, immaculate.
He dissected, he plucked at visions.
On moonless nights carried their corpses
on muffled barrow wheels.
By the light of a hundred candles
he eased flesh apart,
nose swathed in verbena drenched rags,
hands tweaking tissue, tracing
once sensuous shapes under sallow remains.
He worked with live models,
hired women of every class.
The rich were flattered, vain,
the poor always eager to earn.
None made the stone under his
hands blossom.
It was a matter of timing,
catching Venus as she emerged
from her littoral crest.
It seemed his models
were always coming to, or moving away
from that conjunction,
yet he kept opening mythical shells
until death took him.
At his funeral
his straight-backed widow,
adorned in darkest weeds,
hid her anger well.
Despising those cold hands
that never did understand
the revelation of She.
In the marathon of life, we run with grit,
In the sprint of moments, we dash with grace.
In the relay of generations, we pass the baton.
Our legs pump like pistons, hearts our engines,
Our breath is the fuel that fires our journey.
We run through valleys of shadow and doubt,
We run over hills of triumph and joy,
We run beside rivers of tears and laughter.
Our feet leave imprints on the track of time,
Our sweat waters the flowers of our dreams.
Our second wind always waits in the wings,
Our hidden reserves hover just out of sight,
Our untapped strength lurks beneath the surface.
We inhale determination, exhale fatigue,
We drink from the well of perseverance.
We're strong enough to move mountains,
We're powerful enough to shift paradigms,
We're mighty sufficient to forge our paths.
Our will carves canyons through fields of impossibility,
Our resolve erodes the stones of obstacles.
But gentle enough to embrace butterflies,
But tender enough to nurture hope's delicate seeds,
But soft enough to cushion a fallen comrade.
Our hands, calloused from life's rough road,
Our touch is a balm for the world-weary soul.
We pace ourselves for the long haul,
We stride purposefully towards distant horizons,
We leap over hurdles that bar our way.
Our race is not always to the swift,
Our victory lies in the running itself.
So we lace up our shoes of courage,
So we stretch our muscles of resilience,
So we warm up our joints of adaptability.
Our course may wind, our path may twist,
Our destination: the finish line of our potential.
The sculptor became jaded with prostitutes
the young ones were vacuous,
their bodies unleavened bread.
The mature subjects
scored by the violence of disappointment.
Both the naive and the world-weary
were dull molds.
The artist and anatomist, delved deeply into
the nature of form, he craved perfection.
a risen Venus, immaculate.
He dissected; plucked at visions.
On moonless nights
carried corpses on muffled barrow wheels.
By the light of a hundred candles,
he eased flesh apart,
nose swathed in verbena drenched rags,
hands tweaking, tracing tissue,
seeking once sensuous shapes
under sallow remains.
He worked with live models, hired women
of every class.
The rich were flattered, vain, the poor always
eager to earn.
None made the stone under his hands blossom.
It was a matter of timing, catching Venus
as she emerged from her littoral crest.
It seemed his models
were always coming to, or moving away
from that conjunction,
yet he kept opening mythical shells
until death took him.
At his funeral his straight-backed widow,
adorned in darkest weeds,
hid her anger well,
secretly despising those cold hands
that never did understand
the revelations of female imperfections.
March winds blow and the memory remains
The day I had to leave and be on my way
Like a train into a black night
Without a conductor, no end in sight
Wrapped up in a blanket of doubt
Holding on to hope, not knowing how
To ease my trouble’s, kill the pain
Stuck outside in the pouring rain
World weary worry and feelings depraved
Of the soft easy comfort back in the day
Moving too fast and missing my home
People moving on and letting you go
To hold court on the corners of streets
Not knowing where to ever plant my feet
On solid ground a foundation so true
Remembering when I was finally removed.