Short Modicum Poems
Short Modicum Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Modicum by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Modicum by length and keyword.
Without a modicum
of truth
anchoring the leaves
to me
Autumn
had came calling
in Spring
and the leaves
were falling.
It's the exuberance of the souls
Any modicum of disaster
Rips us apart
Making us lean
Forward into the dark
And luminous Eye of
Truth.
I love you, Arm Fat.
I will always love you.
I think I've found a brand of food
that both my dogs enjoy.
I've served it up for several days,
I've served it up in several ways,
It's really going down a treat,
it seems to be a winner,
No longer do I need to shout
"Eat your flaming dinner!"
A modicum of triumph.
A moment of no regret.
Is followed in sadness,
And bitter loose ends.
When you don't know whats wrong or whats right.
Why do we even fight?
The weight of the world is oppressing and vile.
Its takes a great deal just to make me smile.
There once was a feller named Charlie Horse,
Who was unmercifully teased of course.
But he took it all in stride,
With a modicum of pride,
Damning his zany name 'til he was hoarse!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Escapades pursued with passion and abandon, blindness entertained to the hilt, perverse attitude embraced to the exclusion of any sanity modicum have torn my world to pieces as remorse strives to awaken my moribund mind.
Broken, foresaken
sunken to the lowest ebb
I eat my humble pie.
Such is life
A mixture of happiness and strife,
Not always in equal measure
The sadness and the pleasure,
We must take both in stride
For we are only along for the ride,
Trying to gain a modicum of control
To make ourselves indelibly whole.
written March 15, 2022
Ward-robe, things are stacked,
Jackets hang along the rack.
Stale smell of time that’s spent,
Designate the absent gent.
Practised shoes beside the door,
Cease to plod the polished floor.
A wallet emptied of its cash,
A modicum of the dead mans stash.
Buried deep beneath the clay,
He won’t be coming back today.
A modicum of power
Is important for esteem
For everyone, at times, should be
The captain of the team.
When someone always grabs the reins
And claims to be in charge,
The space between that someone
And those left behind looms large.
Just being in control
Of even something rather small
Can make one feel that he or she
Is in nobody’s thrall.
Words like rain dripping,
creating pools of poems
one after the another.
Stormy cloud of a poets mind,
only what is right is written down.
It’s not fame sought
but the truth
that is trying to come out.
Sea of words like droplets in the ocean
their modicum maketh
the greatness of emotions,
like tidal waves sweeping
through the mess
of a human mind shining
light on the dark.
It’s not fame sought
but the unity
of a world apart.
Plucked from Shakespeare
and plopped in Central Park,
Sturnus vulgaris, the mimic,
conquered New York.
It made it there,
You know it made it everywhere;
The continental stage stolen.
And here on my fence amid this tragedy
To be blessed with a modicum of bliss;
The sparkling spring songster
with his treasured chest pumping
my missing birds song list.
22.04.18
Craig Cornish's
Spring - Poetry Contest
3rd Place
Within this every now we know as life:
a singlet, without gravity of purpose,
provides a modicum of lack.
An only ear we listen to that cannot hear us back.
In that instant, sound will echo a fleeting distant cry,
a tremble slight that might at times come try,
press our thought, engage in whisper,
and speak to no one there:
I too have heard so clear the pain
a poet’s heart must bear;
to love and so embrace it all
as if thou were the air.
In a space-time continuum,
a random reality shift,
accelerating modicum,
without any discerning rift.
Awaiting illumination,
the world is on collateral,
discerning revelation,
of days counting in reversal.
When all the planets are in line,
preparation's a moving phase,
seals, symbols, an invoking sign,
annihilation upon gaze.
Holy judgment, heed forth your smite,
innocence crying a river,
despair hovering above flight,
no more tomorrow to savor.
4.22.15
Like a candleless night
the silence raises its voice
outstretching the hypercorrectness of a moon
standing among the walking trees.
You are at war with yourself, a modicum
of transparency.I disremember the name
of ancient lawbreaking.
My father climbs the tree to reach his home.
I saw him giving signs not to return.
A sack is thrown of mangled truths
to build a cage of screams. And the hazy
morn starts shedding the veil to become
a legend of regrets.
Satish Verma
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