Long Wrangling Poems
Long Wrangling Poems. Below are the most popular long Wrangling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wrangling poems by poem length and keyword.
Four scores and seventy
ingrained in blood stained garments
ancestors still rumbling in their graves
impatient souls lamenting their years
pages kept turning
pens are writing
and the story is unfolding
Dead trees hang over broken walls
threadbare buildings stand solemnly
in a city that was once their home
mothers weeping for their children
people scramble in the streets
and the great big God mewl from above
The tough bent curb wood swerves around
and cuts massive clouds into thin air
chopping trees pounding light posts
swinging and dancing from side to side
then paused upright in the open space
The karma
the sprit
the holy words
a limb for a limb
a sword for a sword
raw vengeance soaks up
the weeping earth
Stricken night makes its debut
swelling echoes mount from beneath
decades of blisters that clinches their feet
and the tension brewed as it gets closer
The moment fires strange emotions
filtering, wrangling and mooting
dignity and power captivates stubborn minds
and eminent slaughter looms from behind
anticipation impress heavily upon tainted lips
while an exodus flows in the manmade ditch
It aims directly at the center
empowered by a forceful northern wind
and moves vigorously toward the west
I saw her pulling his tiny hand
dragging him away from the screaming crowd
while she secured her little girl
intimately to her thumping chest
She struggles through the imposing crowd
with faith courage and determination
but the swelling boomerang ripped the children
from her weary arms
swiftly it disappears
and she heard these words
whispering in her ears
Wash your face
dry your tears
walk close to the mirror
and let down your hair
listen carefully
and tell me what you hear
breathe deeply
move slowly
you are here
©2013 Christine Phillips
Awe & shock bowlers in the dock our warlock & glock “the judge”
Rapscallion and stallion wrangling with dangling golden medallion
Facing the pacing battalion on our latest sinking Caribbean galleon
Our burly oracle with each follicle so curly a rock that won't budge
In that 90’s dungeon Robin our classy curmudgeon brassy bludgeon
Truncheon fine dining on a hurly burly Courtenay & Curtly luncheon
Calms alarms and qualms delivers us from harm with stoic heroic psalms
Call to arms more like baobabs than palms those offside charms “the Judge”
Speedsters scary & lairy others wary prime time for our hairy chest fairy
Robin our pace Pontiff willow ace not a whiff or a riff or sniff of what if
Believers in his jobbing levers will go biff in any tiff that's the pith of Smith
Not just a county squire but quite possibly the ultimate Hampshire Sire
Calling card hit it so hard earned the fable label of both BATman & Robin
Hall of fame name can’t smudge hats doff to a complete one off “the Judge”
When them cotton trees get rotten,
You cain’t pick very much cotton.
If I cain’t vote for Huey Long,
I’ll sit right down and write a song.
Country music has its themes,
the stuff that Big O saw in dreams:
prison, railroads, pickup trucks,
where kids are Billybobs or Hucks.
It’s telephones and wrangling steers,
and cheating hearts and chandeliers:
you’ll know just where I’m coming from
when I say, best of all is Mom.
But shorter, better: briefer, sweeter –
that much I have learned from Skeeter.
No necklace, then – just one fine pearl
(don’t want to leave you haggard, Merle!)
Ridge’s shoes are derelict.
Looking down, he says, “You picked
a fine time to leave me, loose heel!”
A lonesome whistle – gamblers deal.
Is Ridge in Fulsom? Nothing new,
but headed where the grass is blue.
Let the Long-Hairs twist and shout –
Ridge is fixed on busting out.
Once free, he finds a Travelodge,
unseen, hot-wires a jacked-up Dodge:
FM playing, wailing sax,
Ridge now needs to cross the tracks.
He’s almost reached his side of town.
Speed up! The bar is coming down!
A woman, dressed up to the nines,
on foot, steps on the railroad lines!
Thus Ridge fulfilled the Country rules
(not taught in fancy East-Coast schools):
the long-term loser fought the law,
but crashed into his loving Maw!
Howling winds flung me into the sea
waves lashed kelp ropes around me
my belligerence grew when I was seized
anger brewed the tighter they squeezed
With fists raised and teeth clenched
I resisted the harder they wrenched
voice rang out in acrimonious scream
my face contorted, wild eyes agleam
spittle dribbled from cracked lips
I neared the verge of sanity's eclipse
Man is but an elfin grain of sand
a mortal never has the upper hand
when wrangling with a sea of thunder
I was punished and plowed asunder
beneath coral reefs to ocean's floor
I cursed until I could no more
My swearing wails echoed my destiny
retched was my body from an angry sea
briny foam spit me on the rocky shore
done with me like an oft beaten whore
My crime was that I'd chosen wrong
the one I loved became my swan song
Piercing needles of torrential rain
burning injections increased the pain
Such bitter tea the cruel sea can steep
and I, a crumpet, tossed in restless sleep
Rebel Houston
(Snaps fingers) Acoustic Digital Hybrid... a breath, a fusion. So, what lurks beyond jazz funk, huh?/
Thinkin' big time, are you? Do you dig? Can you feel it as you pursue your passion for this jazz thing/
The inventive spirit of Rebel Houston burns, A saxophone supernova, learning, turning. Always into what's NEXT,/
not what's been. Right now, he's wrangling angles, Melodic patterns jagged and electric, Acid Jazz funk bleeding into Afro bebop./
Man, this cat... this cat is the vibe. The pulse. The current. Houston keeps step, Step, step, steppin', Into the Motherland, the source of love and hope, forged in sound,/
Blown through his tenor horn, a shimmering prayer. Meditation on the struggle of mankind, Aches in his fingertips, screams from the bell,/
Arranged, composed, a jazz logic unfolding, Melodic construction, harmony shaped anew./
This isn't just noise, it's jazz music architecture. It's the blueprint for the soul. New jazz funk, carved from the digital dawn, infused with ancestral fire./
So, are you hip? Are you listening? This ain't just music, it's a revolution. It's Rebel Houston, And it's happening… NOW. (Another snap)
I’m enjoying spending time with my mom - we have an intimacy braided like rope. I forgot how funny she is. At the same time, we’ve been softcore arguing for days.
She wants me to accomplish something this summer - to pad my med-school resume - do anything but relax. But I refuse. If I’m going to complete a master's degree next summer, then I’m going to have fun this summer. Periodt. I’m not an automaton for her to wind. Her stress radiates, as I play Animal Crossing on the couch.
I reach up towards her forehead, “Is there an off button?” I ask.
“Go away,” she chuckles, blocking my hand.
Before I turn away, I add, “You’re the most fun when you’re not giving advice or saying the wrong things..”
“Or breathing incorrectly?” She finished my sentence.
“Exactly,” I laughed, “then you’re practically perfect.”
The boys - Peter (my BF) and Step (my stepfather) - sit or stand, uninvolved, outside the action, like we’re in some other dimension - they try and look at anything but us when we’re wrangling.
Poetry time!
The phantoms of my discontent
are held at bay, by leisure,
are mollified by pleasure.
Am I crazy to set boundaries?
Am I lazy, cause I won’t let her chivvy me?
I’ve got my own voice; I’ll make my own choices.
We have the same goals - but I’m in control.
For every plan I’ve got, she has a hundred caveats.
Sure, I’ve done nothing, while she’s done it all.
I’m her little rocket that she doesn’t want to stall.
But she needs to understand, I’ve left the launching pad.
.
.
periodt ? slang for absolute period
.
songs for this piece:
Mama by Spice Girls
Hey Mama by Kanye West
Mama, I'm a Big Girl Now by Nikki Blonsky, Marissa Jaret Winokur, Ricki Lake, Motion Picture Cast of Hairspray
Wired mortal from the English Art
Banished from his home, spotted from a distance
Noble amongst scrawling African inscriptions
First veneration of mystical minds
Take a bow, take a bow.
Obliterating deliberate disregard
From interrupters of our histories,
With trophies, allays a regret and loss
So little for so great a heart,
Take a bow, take a bow.
Liberal lord of limpid looks
Grand philosophy too many for little minds,
Art of African arts
Impenetrable obscurity to the impatient,
Take a bow, take a bow.
Entangled genus in the darkest harbor,
Found in a waste howling wilderness,
Left to die in the gaols like their many kills,
And death too weak, spewed him in his flowers
Take a bow, take a bow.
Scrupulous dexterity of the bearded laurel
Multitudinous nobility and countless soothing saccharine
A restoration of our dignity not celebrated, and un-sung.
Tyrannous candor engulfed intelligential
Take a bow, take a bow.
Obdurate at the palaces of murderers
Smiling at military cavalcades, the terror of comrades.
Where barrels pacify the wrangling of children men.
A beholding bluff like Ogun’s iron garb
Take a bow, take a bow.
Yea, the snow-like signature in scraggy form
Impresses nature’s validity on his authority,
Corroding flesh lacerate aptness from his brow
Gyrating orbits of unmatched intelligence
Take a bow, take a bow.
Invisible man from the “kongi” kingdom
Imposing trepidation on pharaohs in the jungle,
Brawny penchant where others retire,
On Lagos streets and London’s courtyard
Take a bow, take a bow.
Nibble in niggle, stripping rogues of honor
Loathing unsavory milk unlike sycophants
Discarding opulence to mediate for the poor
With no reward or crown in intention
Take a bow, take a bow.
Knack for wars with imperious monsters
A constant blustery of unrepentant “Vagabonds”
Dusk till dawn, yearning for Justice.
Crying still, for murdered motherland
Take a bow, take a bow.
And if he dies tomorrow,
As death to all must come,
His posture, a statue for ever,
On our minds and in those rulers of the jungle.
Take a bow, take a bow.
Dedicated to Prof. Wole Soyinka
Nobel Laurate 1986
When both my feet don’t touch the ground
Lightheadedness proves overwhelming
Turbulent thoughts going while coming
They swirl about me round and round
Cloaked in black a moonless night
The howling dreadful spiteful wind prevails
Spellbound drags me over hills and vales
Like a ragdoll in the midst of a bullfight
Trails of lingering spirit ghouls
Hover over murky haze of mistiness
Harassing in dark gloomy cloudiness
Wrangling reaping mangled souls
Blurry visions twirl above
Creating mayhem in their path
Unleashing bold raging wrath
Till afar I think I see a dove
Fearing I’ll break into a coma
I force myself to get a grip
Catch my breath with every dip
Holding out for familiar terra firma
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
I’m moving down a forest trail,
wooden canyon on my right side,
above, on thermals, raptors glide,
always inspires without fail.
I hear a rustle before me,
and wonder just who that could be?
Perhaps it is an Indian,
face painted, war club on his back,
looking down at the dirt track,
the path taken by his foemen,
they took his woman in a raid,
his bow will flash, and they will pay…
Maybe it’s a militiaman,
on the lookout for that same brave,
the British stirred them to a rage,
bribed them to devastate the land,
dirty tricorn and old musket,
but he’s rarely had to use it…
Or could it be a long-hunter,
clad in leather, fringe, and fur hat,
rifle and necessary bag,
seeing it the duff is disturbed,
tracking an elk across the hills,
hoping tonight he’ll eat his fill…
Perhaps it is a pioneer,
just passing through on his way west,
his only clothes are on his chest,
his destination isn’t near,
looking for land that he can farm,
clear it with just strength of arm…
Maybe it is a lumberjack,
timber-cruising for trees to fell,
which ones to cut, his eyes can tell,
some of them broader than his back,
snaps is suspenders on his plaid,
they’ll have work for all of the labs…
Or a uniformed park ranger,
tired from long miles on his feet,
these winding trails his daily beat,
always looking out for danger,
knowing poachers frequent this place,
they’ll pay the price for unfair play…
It could be a tourist family,
father wrangling eager kids,
who dash about (like he once did!),
so many things they want to see,
his wife carries the little one
who snoozes in the mid-day sun…
Though it could be some teenager,
even now she’s glued to her phone,
why did she even leave her home?
Takes selfies to show off later,
Is she awed by the canyon’s drop?
or is it just another prop…
But it is none on these things, no,
it is an ambling black bear,
we’ve caught each other unaware,
neither seems to know where to go,
He’s as surprised by this as me,
was he also caught up in daydream?
There was a time, not long ago,
I’m sure this won’t seem strange,
When I would never leave my house
Without a pile of change.
My wallet would be fit to burst
Or pockets would be jangling
With all the quarters that from every source
I had been wrangling.
The parking meters ate them up.
The bus was just as greedy;
And every pay phone (once a dime)
For quarters seemed quite needy.
The laundry room had its machines
Equipped so they would take
As many quarters as they could
Before we’d bellyache.
I needed quarters in the car
For paying all the tolls;
And in arcades, a two-bit coin
Bestowed you the controls.
But now technology’s advanced
With cards of many types.
Some radar reads your E-Z Pass;
You board the bus with swipes.
I’ve plastic for the wash and dry,
The subway and to park.
A quarter proffered would be met
With shrug as question mark.
I miss my quarter harvest
Though I really must confess
I’m better off today because
My wallet weighs much less!