Long Adage Poems
Long Adage Poems. Below are the most popular long Adage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Adage poems by poem length and keyword.
Myths About Snakes
By Elton Camp
As to snake myths, a good place to begin
Feel and see. They don’t have slimy skin
Not matter how many this fib have told,
They certainly aren’t slimy, but only cold
Though many believe, there’s no way how
A milk snake could possibly milk any cow
In a barn that type snake may well be found,
But that’s true even if there’s no cow around
A hoop snake can’t make a wheel to roll away
“But I’ve seen it,” the uninformed man will say
If they could do this, it surely would be great fun
When scared, like any other snake they will run
Another myth that need cause no iota of alarm:
Snakes can their victims hypnotize or charm
But when a dangerous snake does come near,
Some animals will “freeze” in the greatest fear
Here’s another story that is simply of no account:
Calculate a rattlesnake’s age by the rattler’s amount
Each rattle show the snake have lived another year,
That a rattle is left at each of many sheds is clear
It’s untrue that snakes in pairs will always be found
In the brief mating season is when the male is around
A snake’s “mate” never on its killer vengeance seeks
Another falsehood is what that particular myth speaks
In great danger any person may become embroiled
If he believe a snake can strike only when it’s coiled
Because that foolish belief most assuredly, isn’t right
The fact is, from any position a snake is able to bite
To believe this dangerous myth, you shouldn’t oughter
A cottonmouth is unable to bite if it is under water
How could a water snake possibly eat and survive,
If it couldn’t feed on fish and other snakes on a dive?
Another widespread belief that is quite a bad mistake:
Is that there is such a fragile creature as a glass snake
Though such an ability would be an interesting sight
If it could, when threatened, break apart and reunite
But if someone whom you know insists these are true,
There is actually not a great deal that you are able to do
The adage may apply: He who is persuaded against his will
Will almost certainly remain of the very same opinion still
P.S. There is a legless lizard that looks like a snake except that
it has eyelids which no snake has. It can break into three parts
when threatened, but can’t go back together. The end with the
head may escape and later regenerate the missing parts.
Self quarantined misanthrope pitched into purgatory wham!
Ably cane resign eternal damnation (mine)
courtesy devil specially engraved telegram
prestidigitation found me vanishing shazam,
without a trace I disappeared in thin air voila
Earthly travails atop horns of dilemma ram
into me buttucks pitching yours truly ma'am
hoisted by my own petard sheepishly wool
ewe (red dully) bull heave human bug eyed
recalcitrant specimen (me) nonetheless lamb
basted skewered (think shish kabob) log jam
succinctly described helplessness to preserve
ultimately repurposed into green eggs and ham
harmless recluse no more valuable than flotsam.
Grant simple wish to withdraw into hermitage
coronavirus (COVID-19) just desserts we wage
us *****sapiens on trial across web world stage
severely misappropriating Earthly resources rage
understandable Gaia she pointedly reminds adage
inescapable comeuppance whereby our civilization
written off as atrocious, hellacious, malicious, page
poisonous primates essentially, dismally, yes clearly
bollixed, failed, leveraged, & tortured planet I gauge
hell in a handbasket ironic tragicomic fate wise sage
of yesteryear did prognosticate now we scurry hither
and yon, to and fro Smashing Pumpkins immortalize
metaphor likened each one of us as rat locked in cage
bajillion eons ago once upon a time our noble savage
ancestors levels playing field now new bacteriophage
relentlessly pits twenty first century civilization doles
microscopic organism (battling unseen enemy) voyage
around sun fraught tooth and nail powder milk biscuits
a Prairie Home Companion ruse buzzfeeding courage
for shy people (yours truly) communicating message,
albeit urgent to revamp paradigm to live social - nsync
with eco friendly coda allowing, enabling, & providing
liberty and justice for all living (colorful) things hostage
at mercy of self proclaimed superior beasts above average
with intelligence, yet rendering oblate spheroid garbage.
No major inconvenience incapacitates rather humdrum
bard (rarely bored), I wanna pitch headlong into scrum
no need to scream and shout, cuz I speak softly to mum
(Mother Earth) reassuring, she inevitably bests hoodlum
standing arrogant, boastful, deceitful comfortably numb
oblivious when day of reckoning delivers offal maelstrom.
To alchemize an attachment
Let me sit with it.
Here comes the fear again.
Why do you care?
Stop imagining people are there.
It's just an attachment, cloaked, trying to make you scared.
They are going to talk about me
Well, there is no proof; that's bad programming. Don't you see?
Let them do what they do if that is true.
So what if they will talk about you?
What if they will throw evil eyes at you?
Send them back to God with gratitude and lovingly.
They are on their job.
Be glad that I took the time and thought of you.
Be glad something stirred in them to resonate with you.
They don't realize the attachment they have living beside them.
It's not their fault. I repeat it: give them back to God.
Worrying about past presence never will keep you in your present.
Worrying about any future action is a false idyllic satisfaction.
Worrying is my form of addiction. My heaven
It's the place where I threw my sins in. Worrying was like my tempting friend.
I didn't want to, but I had to have that repeated feeling within.
Worrying had me on rose-colored glasses.
It had me thinking all these people were straight lies.
It had me assuming and playing out the fool in me.
Worrying is one of the biggest mockeries.
It covered me and cloaked me, at times even choked me.
Worrying didn't allow for any control, and it took hold.
It is coming back for me more and more.
It is coming back for me, leaving me quite sore.
It's painful to admit I couldn't stay in my present self.
I was paralyzed and couldn't scream for help.
Curiosity exposed me. It was worrying, that facade by me.
A distortion of my face that was a mask.
As honest as I could, it was hard to reveal that truth in me.
A hard truth that I embrace with no regrets.
I'll turn it around, clean it up, and command it to bow down.
Command it to be used for a real purpose.
It will be a novel new focus.
Look at me, haha; look how I wrote this.
Energy goes where attention flows, as the adage conveys.
These words I divulge are from my heart, my truth, and sure, they are powerful.
I needed to sit with this piece.
I needed to sit and take back my peace.
There is hope. Acknowledge it, notice where that comes from, and embrace it. Take Care. ????
Though amply rested, I still yawn
And feel energized after
light exercise doth spawn
break through viz mental impasse,
where endeavor to coax
germinating ideas to sprout
about as successful as
buzzfeeding, jump/kick starting
rooting brown lawn
to whether drought.
Long fostering literary creativity
analogous to prying open
figurative curtain drawn
shut tight within
thy noggin unresponsive
even when brute force
strongly applied, but still...
no progress (for aging Pilgrim)
made come crack of dawn,
thus I temporarily abandon intent.
An effort to craft satisfactory poem or prose,
(which coveted, kindled, unexpected...
futile endeavor deluges me when
least able to jot down eureka,
whereby brainstorm burst adrip
saturating yours truly head to toes
dribbling out nostrils,
asper my porpoise size bottle nose,
hence this feeble effort to appease.
No expected attaboy, kudos, bravoes...
discerning metaphorical whaling expedition
beseeching, imploring, soaking...
mine mindscape with
profuse voluminous wisdom
sans anonymous followers
waiting for me to compose
usual meaningless gibberish or
rare profound nugget of wisdom to disclose.
While thrashing within cyber sea,
possibly abandoning ambition to compose
superbly laced, ginned, coined...
poetic adage gee oh
into magnum opus masterpiece
eye catchingly exotic creation
exquisite as silk negligee pantyhose
(yea...perhaps yours truly
will also send near nude selfie,
a worse fate than death
cab for cutie)
and chuck stock inhibition
brokering favorable frescoes
tattooed across flesh
accentuating anatomical contours of flab
wharf flexing muscles simulates geckoes,
(albeit selling progressive insurance)
appearing to slither across body electric
predictably ejaculating Freudian peccadillos,
now bolt upright - ******** awakened,
no longer sleepy,
but dwarfed by giant spuds,
no small potatoes
eh...yar right to deem this poker face
eccentric - born (free) this way,
how Elsa to explain (without lion)
rambling riotous rumination
one among many bumptious desperadoes,
and oh...mooch hoe gracias reading poem
bumbling, degenerating, fizzling...
into lobbying primal salvoes.
The Good Wife
She remembers the words she spoke in front of a church full of people that on calm, September afternoon. She recalls feeling like it truly was the best day of her life, and that she never wanted it to end. So thrilled to be finally happy and in love with the man God had brought into her life. The one chosen just for her! The man that was destined to be her life-long partner, for better or for worse.
Before he came along, she had come to accept her life as a single woman. She knew that if that's how God had intended her life to be, then that's how it would be. But, she still couldn't get over the lingering feeling inside that held her deepest desire. In her heart, she wanted to marry and be a good wife. And if it was God's will, she believed that he would indeed bring her the right one at the right time.
She had cried many lonesome, sad tears back then.
And many of the same tears are being cried now.
The years together in this union have rolled by, the last few being the most trying for her. Things have fallen apart emotionally in a very big way, though unbeknownst to him. She feels a void where that love connection used to be.
She feels deep disappointment where her hopes and plans for their life together used to be. The happiness she felt in the early years seems to have withered away, taking along with it her outlook for the future. The adage, 'Happy Wife, Happy Life' has gotten real old, real fast.
And she's no longer sure if the words spoken in the church that day still hold the same meaning now as they did then.
But, if they did ... would she still be wondering?
Because those daily prayers to God, now tell of a different longing in her heart. A longing that causes her to question if that special man sent to her all those years ago, really was indeed the one she prayed so hard for. The one she willingly accepted into her life, for better or for worse. The one this 'Good Wife' just isn't feeling the good life with anymore.
If a relationship or marriage is no longer a happy place to be, despite attempts to encourage and foster that happiness...then what do you suppose a Good Wife is to do?
Does a Good Wife stay?
Or does a Good Wife leave?
91
91
CharlaXFabels
23Skeedo
This is a cliché. That's my name for an old aside or an adage here we go into the
world of CharlaXFabels once more gentle reader ewe 23 Skeedo. 23 skidoo
(phrase)
23 skidoo is an American phrase popularized in the early twentieth century, first
appearing before WWI and becoming popular in the Roaring Twenties. It
generally refers to leaving quickly, being forced to leave quickly by someone else
or taking advantage of a propitious opportunity to leave, that is, "getting [out] while
the getting's good."
23 skidoo has been described as "perhaps the first truly national fad expression
and one of the most popular fad expressions to appear in the U.S," to the extent
that "Pennants and arm-bands at shore resorts, parks, and county fairs bore
either [23] or the word 'Skiddoo.'"
The exact origin of the phrase is uncertain. PHRASE. OH. Okay today we learn
some old phrasers YOCK YOCK YUCK. All Wet - describes an erroneous idea or
individual, as in, "he's all wet." This works better if you can remember the ABBOT
bud and Costello lou he said an aweful lot of these phrases as everyday
wordage. Abbott: Well Costello, I'm going to New York with you. You know Harris,
the Yankee's manager, gave me a job as coach for as long as you're on the
team. Costello: Look Abbott, if you're the coach, you must know all the players.
Abbott: I certainly do. Costello: Well you know I've never met the guys. So you'll
have to tell me their names, and then I'll know who's playing on the team. Abbott:
Oh, I'll tell you their names, but you know it seems to me they give these ball
players now-a-days very peculiar names. Costello: You mean funny names?
Abbott: Strange names, pet names...like Dizzy Dean Costello: His brother Daffy.
Abbott: Daffy Dean...Costello: And their French cousin. Abbott: French? Costello:
Goofè. Abbott: Goofè Dean. Well, let's see, we have on the bags, Who's on first,
What's on second, I Don't Know is on third...Costello: That's what I want to find
out. Abbott: What? Costello: I said I don't give a darn! Abbott: Oh, that's our
shortstop.
http://www.baseball-almanac.com/humor4.shtml
Chapter I
Part II: Power and emptiness
Mariah of Magdala!
Opulent woman yet juvenile
Did your 'hood' bestow upon you such affluence?
Look how youthful you are
Flawless beauty with an enchanting aroma
Like a spring in the wilderness
Of apparent mint breadth of solace,
Your velvet skin, Maria, of such cottony
How do you make your even delicate body soft, Mariah?
They make figures stick like Sahara honey on your sheath
Your eyes Mariah of Magdala
They see through a soul-like infinite
They see the pain and confuse them with pleasure
A short, well-lived excitement.
Where did you get those sharp milky teeth?
Well separated neatly arranged ages
Like a perfect green cob for export
Your Mona Lisa smile Mariah of Magdala
They make your face like the goddess
Did the same maker who created other women create you?
How biased?
For the best, you gained
Of perfect Eden plump on the season after another
They say thy fruits are the sweetest
We have the best adage than yours Mariah
Yet men threw stones at yours
They sneaked with weapons
Some dug deep holes ensuring no ending harvest
Some made wings with baskets
While others became your best of friends yet foes
Some were witty and gave you toxic cherry
Just for a piece of your pie
To have fruitage where they ever so desired
Each left with a piece of sweet melody
Their half-filled hearts thirsted
They longed to come back sooner than they had left
They fought among themselves
Did they slay for your Eden Mariah of Magdala?
Mariah of Magdala!
How did it feel to let them in one after another?
Did they hurt you? Did they make you happy?
Did it convey completeness to thy thirsting soul?
To see the sons of women destroying each other for you
Was it pleasurable?
Oh! Mariah of Magdala
Piece by piece they took off your humanity
Did they neglect you when you needed them most?
Did someone hurt your childhood?
Did they trade you for generational wealth, Mariah of Magdala?
Or did they curse you for the cleansing ceremony?
For that which made you this cardinal
Must celebrate in a cheer of win.
1
We say the word, “mental”,
like we would spit.
But there are no pills
for waking dreams;
the pills that we
could only take in dreams
to take us to another place
as yet imagined
as everything the tortured soul
could conjure.
And perhaps we are so strong
the torture
is our heartbeat.
The waking dreams
like baseball bats
might beat us
into ditches
of self-loathing,
then lie with us
the way dark friends would do
and tell us there is comfort
in familiar suffering.
We can touch the mental
like a weed
and treat it
with the swipe of energy
that only comes
when arms react
to smite the one
that would threaten them.
2
All things come to those who wait,
the adage goes
and so we do
as we are told
and hope there is trust
in the world.
But as we
twiddle thumbs
and scratch our names in wood
that never was a tree
we are the silent ones:
the kids of parents
who imagined
that what they'd heard
and spoken and done--
the slap, the strap--
would do the trick
in place of hearts
that never cared to beat.
3
“Mental Illness”
is the phrase they use
for ignorance; not knowing
what to do
or how to do it.
“I did all I could”, they say
in the face of ruin
and imagine they are right
because the cannot know
responsibility or competence
or caring.
Art is colors on a wall.
Music is notes pounded
on some keys.
God died the day
he was invented
and the children of the living
must now wander
as the spawn of negligence.
We can only hope
that somewhere souls remember
and that through the years
they grow to be an army
to claim what bodies have survived.
4
“F**k you”, I say to beauty
or anything else that passes
for conviction
or truth
or hearts we tell ourselves
that we possess.
Beauty is masturbation.
Love is the perversion
we ejaculate in darkness.
I would be glad
for one true voice
that says that heaven
is at hand
and mean the painted streets
as gray as any dawn
we'll ever see
is all we can expect.
Tell me one good cup of coffee
is Nirvana
and I'll drink it
and be thankful
to be free
of chains that bound me
to the rock of longing.
Walking through the corridores at Atascaderos State Hospital
Here to speak to a certain confined patient....
Within the walls of the criminally insanes, incarcerated
Thinking to myself a moment ago as I checked in my arms
How thin are the lines that I have seen throughout time!?
Between sanity and sanes, fragile crossings....
To look upon the former would seldom reveal, the true psychosis deep inside?!
These tainted minds, lying within their dormancies and waiting to be born....
Often only within hindsights and retrospects can many find
What was but the dawning of a brewing and soon to be arriving, storm!
The sweetest man; the loveliest lady; most of the time?
Borderlines telltale signs, often overlooked and missed by most
Until one day the barrier breaks, and the blood curdlings tide comes rushing through
Insanities birth; as it freefalls to the earth....
From the foreshadowed incubator of, darkness' mold!
Now staring into their hollowed eyes, and somberly reflecting upon
The innocent and precious lives, of which they so viciously stole
Wanting to know anything and everything, which may prevent someday
Such a tragedy from perhaps, ever happening once again?
But I have lived long enough and seen more than my desired share
Of reality, within these distorted views; among a world wherein they thrive
Embracing them bred; as if they were their own child....
And the truth is, so ironically sadly, these, they are!
Welcome to the times of the shadowed sublimes, cocoons, waiting to burst
Their offsprings, of the mangled and manged
Hideously grinning as they make their way
To the misfortunates future graves
Afore the countless loved ones, shattering hearts!
Smiling at myself as I now ask them---Who? Why? What? Where?
Thinking of an old adage...."A book by its cover?"
Borderline bound, in blood red lace; retrospected, no more!
The telltale signs, of the criminally insane
How? When? He said? She said? To a world, they wed....
....Welcome, to the final floor!?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Atascadero
Form:
Visiting the Home Place
By Elton Camp
I went back to see the old home place this year
For no location on earth is, to me, nearly so dear
My grandfather built the house with his own hands
Despite the passing years, I have heard it still stands
Its grounds he tended and trimmed with loving care
I hope that his shrubbery and flowers are still there
That it wasn’t the finest around I now understand
But in my memory, it was roomy and quite grand
The wide front porch where the family sat at night
The day’s work done, all seemed calm and right
Parlor with stuffed chairs, piano against the wall
How fondly, and with such detail, I recall them all
Baking prizes my grandmother won at the state fair
Now in my house and preserved with greatest care
My mother’s bedroom when she was a child
It’s where she slept, played, read and smiled
Master bedroom where my grandparents slept
All these years, their carved bed I have kept
Then the dining room with its massive table
To seat family and many friends it was able
Its shiny marigold carnival glass bowl
Was by my mother trusted to my control
I protect it on display in my house still
And, if possible, hope that we always will
The country kitchen, of treats a treasure trove
I can vaguely remember a black wood stove
The people I so loved are no longer alive
By my visit, to honor them, I will strive
The once-familiar road I drive with care
Knowing that very soon we will be there
Perhaps the ones who reside there now
Will allow us to tour the house somehow
Then, in the distance, its outline I can see
Coming closer I cry, “This surely cannot be.”
For the place that I once had loved so well
Is now an abandoned, collapsing empty shell
Where are all the flowers and shrubbery gone?
A massive oak, slowing dying, stands alone
The fine old barn where, as a child, I’d play
Has, long ago, fallen into ruin & rotted away
An old adage springs into my mind right then
One now seen true, “You can’t go home again.”
So I drive slowly on by with the greatest regret
Yet, for the memories, I remain forever in debt