Long Wrangle Poems
Long Wrangle Poems. Below are the most popular long Wrangle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wrangle poems by poem length and keyword.
I do not intend to make a mess
Though there might be times I run awry
You must be certain I've done my best
Even when unzipped might be my fly
So take me now in a spirit's haste, and sigh
For I was never meant to sing nor dance nor blame
But in my mind and in my heart I will wake the Devil's cry
And wrangle and wiggle him out of Sunday's game.
I have a lover, a kindred, that does do test.
She devours me, directs me, and takes me on high.
Though even with such adventures, feelings the crest
I am seized by doubt and thrown into duress.
Show me the coals, Great Being! Bring me the flame!
I seek the truth and the folly in this Great World Fest!
The highs and the lows rub raw with this jest...
So a-Tuesday I take my mind out and linger with the rest,
The pitches and the tones and the places I did try!
Starbucks, and Tullys, and even Walmart: what a nest!
The modern world shakes like fragile timber with every try,
Let us wake this world, my love, then say our final goodbye!
We'll walk along the moving path like blooming flowers aflame,
Not knowing our left or right or up or down, but good and yes, and fly!
We'll find new loves, new fears, new lands, and none we'll try and tame.
A mess I may make, and you the same.
Though our love for each other will never die.
You've made me, and I've made our frame
For a picture, that will never be goodbye.
By 11, I thought I'd have it down by 15,
But by 16 and a sour sunday morn,
And daisy chains foiled into the moor,
And hands that tighten but ne'er lighten,
Hands that strangle, stitch, and liven.
Of ties that wrangle, withhold, hang o'er the handle,
And toe-tipp'd kisses of kids with scissors,
Incisions of misses by razors and flesh fissions.
And slaps of fathers that formed tender swine,
borne a brat, t'tender the bar o'wine,
And quaint affections that form'd none conscience. Greyed,
spurned eyes grown affray, blotting boils and sores, and
Loaned love t'be lost along the way.
And all ails of child, trebled the gall of blackened bile, tendrils of
Denial t'caress the carcass, and withdraw.
E'er unsupervised in sullied superstition, bled to th'core of frailing admonition,
And hitched a hind of loops and bunnies,
Ne'er t'tie and stead, but t'tumble into the rabbit.
O curs'd the cocoon in biblical serpentine,
O'riddles and remedies, and stewards in cemeteries,
Led to call and sit and stew,
Waiting, waiting, and awaiting
Sunday grace anew.
And sixteen drawls in th'stench of wine,
And sixteen sings the sickly hymm and diagnostic chime,
Of the flatline.
And sixteen awaits the mellow Monday morn.
And sixteen waits 'till there is none left t'mourn.
30//4//2025
In the aftermath of the bachelor's silent closure,
A plot with a building, wearied and older,
The nephew-in-law seeks to resolve the tangle,
Amidst power struggles, an intricate wrangle.
Uncertainty looms in the tangled estate,
An array of heirs, their conflicts innate,
The nephew-in-law, in selfless stride,
Strives for unity, in each turn and ride.
He sees not just money but the family’s dreams,
Amidst power-hungry eyes and silent screams,
His sacrifice echoes, with every step he takes,
Resolving disputes, for family’s sake.
While others vie for the biggest slice,
In a relentless struggle, a ceaseless device,
Each for their own, their vision so narrow,
The nephew's sacrifice lost in the barrow.
The dilapidated building, a silent stage,
Holds history and memories, a family's page,
The nephew-in-law, his heart in the fray,
Struggles for peace, amidst the dismay.
Power struggles persist, as ignorance reigns,
Each yearning for what each believes to gain,
In this vast theatre of plots and demands,
A family's unity left to disband.
Through the battles of power and ignorant claims,
The nephew-in-law keeps bridging the aims,
With every sacrifice, a peace to bestow,
In the drama of power, the familial undertow.
Amidst legal wrangling and familial strife,
He strives for harmony, embracing life,
The plot and the building, witness to the fight,
The nephew’s heart, set on making things right.
In this legacy's journey, a dramatic stage,
Echoes the nephew's relentless engage,
For within the estate, in each hidden lore,
Resides the nephew's resolve, a tribute to restore.
In this legacy's journey, a dramatic stage,
Echoes the nephew's resolve, an unwavering gauge,
Yet the niece and nephew-in-law, in a sacrificial ode,
Their selfless end, a testament to an arduous road.
For within the estate, in each hidden lore,
Resides the silence, of sacrifice and more,
The legacy tainted by the greed in the air,
Their ultimate sacrifice, a testament to care.
The pre-dawn rang
as cat choirs sang
in waring gangs
sharp and rank
before they sprang
with claw and fang.
Isn’t it an overweening piety
to think that diverse cat societies
would address conflicts more politely
observe more cultural propriety
and politic more peacefully and quietly
than our own species, which behaves violently
Are we not, in part, their masters?
Don’t we war for goals we’re after?
Aren’t some of our leaders practically gangsters?
Does any species author more disasters?
Humans are - frankly - alpha-predator bastards.
If the language of cats, we could unscramble,
and into their feral dialogs we could wrangle,
perhaps we’d see that they’re just following our example.
A cowboy ain't got no use fer the trappin's uv a meetin' house affiliation,
In which to commune with the Lord to git his religious inspiration!
He won't be corralled by a staid and sanctimonious congregation.
He's free to wrangle his spiritual grub from God's Grand Creation!
He ain't got no need fer a fancy altar er them hard-backed pews,
And he won't squirm fer hours as the preacher expounds upon his views!
The great outdoors is his cathedral where he can worship ever' day.
He lifts his eyes to the hills whence comes strength frum across the way!
The Lord provides music with the thunder rumblin' across the range,
Along with the tenor uv a ripplin' stream as it meanders through the grange.
The risin' sun warms his soul as his hoss canters across the plains.
The splendid sunsets are more stunnin' than any uv them glass-stained panes!
He ain't worried about enterin' a church to be met by a contemptuous sigh,
Jes' 'cause he ain't dressed proper in a three-hundred dollar suit and tie!
The Lord welcomes him in His cathedral with his scruffy boots and jeans.
With his sweat-stained shirt and old slouch hat, he's considered a man of means!
He ain't impressed with majestic naves, apses, transepts and sech things.
His sanctuary is the splendor uv the universe and the blessin's that it brings!
His pew is his saddle where he bows his head in reverent adoration,
Knowin' that frum the grandest cathedral of all, He'll hear his supplication!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Super Souper 9-16-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Super Souper
Super Soupers wrangle rhymes
into verses quite sublime
Taming wild-eyed metaphors
into iambic strophes galore
Lassoing doggy ironies
with clever lines, entendre ease
Galloping alliterations
corralled by personifications
Silencing cacophony
with gentle mooing euphony
Bucking wild imagery
herded into symmetry
Stampeding loco thin illusions
bulldogged into chutes of allusions
Bad hoss herds of assonance
saddled for a dressage dance
Bucking broncos hyperbole
Juxtaposed by analogy
Anaphoras on loco weed
settle into quatrain reads
Super Soupers let words rip
in rodeos of craftmanship.
It stands in the middle of the field looking furiously across the distance with its two ears shooting in the sky and its adrenaline rising up in its feet and running around with fear.
What is the meaning in this when you are trying to get away from the precipice, the corners around it are very steep and it is walking towards the middle of the street running around in circle and doing a double dance.
The morning starts off with a bang with lots of media bangarang , pundits and commentators, deal breakers and opinion makers all gather around the town looking at full moon, and the miracle to be declared at noon.
It has been months of wrangle tangling and more than a hundred thousand hours of deal making and trucks full of negotiation driving up and down the street.
It alone knows what it wants, and it can only be said in expressions or in a few words moving slowly from the lips; it is not to be written on paper or fold up in a diaper but to be tendered gently and delivered with the rush of the breeze.
The horse is still walking around the track with a miracle mounted on its back and the sole of its feet has a marking that will show you how to enter the dome and exchange the throne.
Two phases are over and some people have just crossed over, the mountain is clear but the ambush is drawing near, a chicken in the middle of the street will make your heartbeat, it is unusual to see chickens in the middle of a busy street when traffic is flowing in several direction, and if you see a reindeer coming out of the bush leave that place quickly it might be an ambush .
The grape is running up the vine, the tension has decreased and the officials have taken to the street to stand in solidarity with the horse and the moose. I am wounded but I am not done yet, I will make your body sweat, I will go the extra miles until you breakdown and cry and I will lift you up and mount you on the horse and take you home.
Mass of red and gold plumage
blood of supreme incessant immortality flows within
Only I alone can reign stronger
a fortiori
than the army of any man or beast
Symbolic of Christ, ressurection, afterlife
In death redeemed
consumed by fire
only to be born again of ashes
I will rise up again!
Injured from mortals wars
I simply ameliorate and regenerate
I am fire and divinty
Continually watching the irresolute
ever changing, dynamic world around me
In despair I scrutinize and contemplate
as all things moral
are taken from me periodically and adinfinitum
lost ever and again
Armys of mortals have chased my blood for an age
in want of my immortality
Whilst they wrangle with continual want
and I would content for less
I have met no immortal contender
my glorification to you either unobtainable
or a terrible curse
As a deity I serve this planet in all my supremacy
for I will foresee you all
Authors note
This piece was originally written as a two part collaborative effort with poet Kathleen C.
Mannon, otherwise known by pen name kkatie55 . The prompt we were given to write to for
contest was Mortal vs. Immortal in September of 2007, a month after I first started writing I
believe. To begin with we both took our ideas and wrote individually then bringing our ideas
together and changing slightly to fit from there… I tried to write so this would stand alone
too, and have only just decided to bring it out to share for opinion. To see the write with the
omitted verses written by the other poet, please feel free to go view at this link where each
poet has initialled over their respective stanzas/verses.
http://allpoetry.com/poem/3404940
Thankyou for your trouble in reading this explanation, but I do not wish to discredit its
original intention nor take anything away from the other poet by placing this half here. I
hope you shall be excited about reading it in full…
My muse showed up at sunrise
with a grin I didn’t trust,
whispered, “Let’s write brilliance!”
though my brain was gathering dust.
My notebook’s overflowing~
every page a scribbled plea:
Why do ideas strike at midnight
but ignore me during tea?
I chase down inspiration
like a tumbleweed in flight~
it rolls off toward the mountains
while I trip in morning light.
My drafts are wild stampedes,
every sentence bucking free;
I wrangle them with coffee
and a whispered, Mercy me…
"i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go . . . "
ee Cummings
the wrangle of the cell (the cell
that you own) touches me in places (warm
and tenderly the tinderbox explodes)
my ear —
a flame of agrabah (flying tendrils of
jasmine rejoice) riveting revelations of love
shared serendipitously, moving,
even sweetheart, over the ebb
and flow of sensuous oceans (keeping
us apart)
yet; close are we. . .
the wrangle of the cell (the cell
that you own) touches me in places (warm
and tenderly the tinderbox; explodes)
“warm and cozy, our toes curled together, in two different worlds”
11/14/2019
Writing Challenge, November- Some Kind of Love
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode