Long Alloyed Poems
Long Alloyed Poems. Below are the most popular long Alloyed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Alloyed poems by poem length and keyword.
Shoot! Nothing like killing spree to bookend August 2019!
The latest homicide,
where gunman(men) slew
dirty deed done dirt cheap
half dozen innocent people drew
minimal horrific gasps, now a new
month (September two
thousand nineteen)
where goldenrods yellow
with morning dew
encompassing human zoo
welcomes unsuspecting killer(s) true
to form - predictably
will undertake to fire bullet(s)
setting calibrating counting queue
as month nine allows brisk business
bereaved will final adieu,
whether gentile nor Jew,
perhaps including
child named Caillou
instantaneously slain, who
knew
not what felled them
engrossed amidst social ballyhoo
ex post facto registering grievous hue
pallbearers accentuating somber view
eclipsing most recent prior massacres
similar to previous you
ululations yesterday's sorrows
without handy dandy blue's clue
motive explaining
cold blooded slaughter
unsurprising discovery
firearms Jane/ John Q.
Public kept stashed loaded, deployed...
guns up the kazoo
cocked, gauged, primed...
for unleaded opportunity
to unleash barrage
invariable generating hullabaloo
to curb bloody violence
trumpeting predictable brew
ha ha alloyed against National
Rifle Association almighty
Republican supported lobbyist crew
versus increased uproar
protesters chorus nearly few
tile opposition pitted grand Poobah
despite alarming statistics shew
plus increasing fresh gravesites dug
amidst freshly mowed fescue
attesting to wanton shell shocked
headlines indiscriminate brew
tilly assaulting sensibilities
without rhyme nor reason
yet, yours truly doth boo
leave rampant hatred
directly linkedin to
"FAKE" commander in chief
whose rabid vitriol hue
man fountainhead few
ming and frothing
lathers up right wing supremacists
greenlighting smoldering new
bile radicals hot headed
volatile mindset whereby
self anointed anarchistic Guru
possibly fuels global warming
evidenced by displaced Eskimos
flooding courtesy melting igloo!
Phase:1
I found myself in a market..,
Market of human cattles.,
Trying to get through the situation.,
My wrists were tied with metals..
It was half past seven.,
Neglecting all my requests and prayers.,
Weighing my proper count.,
I was announced for a demon.,
I screamed 'No'..,
And kicked hard over ground.,
But only an injection.,
And my sleep was sound..,
Phase:2
A big giant face against mine.,
I got the intension..,
Yelled 'No., please don't...'
But no mercy or its sign..,
I lost all my rhymes of life .,
Colors were smashed that night.,
Scratches yielded screams.,
Force gave me fatality.,
Bites turned to bellows..
And his pleasure putted sobs..,
Voice was choked and..
My tears were alloyed with sweat.,
The delicate places I reserved for someone special..,
All were now messed and unset..,
My tall neck I dreamt
to be loved by my future husband.
Was now scratched savagely.,
By his rough rigid and ruthless hand.,
Each time I afforded some courage..,
But hands were caught and mouth tied with bandage.,
Lost all my senses.,
But felt each jerk..,
He was pride at..,
each stain he created dark..
Phase:3
My service was over..,
No scream,nomore shriek,or shout..,
Jammed muscles were relaxed now.,
I was plugged out..,
All my world..,
World full of dreams.,
I embroided earlier with my own gilt.,
Was now transformed to this.,
Dirty, filthy and quilty quilt.,
Tears were dried., breath was back.,almost correct now..,but I know ...,
I was turned from a girl to a women in a single go..,
Never I will eye myself again..,
Never will be able to.,
Never I will return to my family..,
Neve will be able to.,
Never I will find that someone special..,
Never will be able to.,
Never I will get healed.,
Never will be able to.,
Never I will dream at night .,
Never will be able to.,
This nightmare digged deep in me.,
And a lifelong terror created by that unknown he.
Why not we all protest?...and get a full stop ...why?. Always LET IT BE.
Just me and mine shadow doth blog
passivity, the path of least resistance oh my dog,
an emphatic YES,
a legitimately valid reason and rhyme to flog
yours truly (figurative emasculation),
thee catchword to hog
immediate attention,
see above named poem title
the best idea to expound upon,
while attempting creative juices to jog
all mein kampf, I felt like a bump on a log
please... don't be hesitant
to identify me as a nog
one aging long haired pencil neck geek
never reached maturity forever a pollywog.
More clearly, plainly and succinctly
one sniveling poor excuse for masculinity,
I continually experience
unrepentant (unforgivable) humility,
hence lame justification
Matthew Scott sought adultery,
which unwise choice attempted
(pun intended) to fill a void
sexual propensity linkedin with precepts
attributed to Sigmund Freud,
though skepticism skirts
barenaked lady hardcore psychoanalysis
downplayed or Oedipus complex
shrugged off (heavier imposition
versus Atlas) fails to bridge any mettle alloyed
within me psyche.
Absent healthy teenage
dating experiences, think tryst
I yearned, trended then
regretted handy dandy wrist
took rat tick antics subsequently,
and compromised spawning prurient dalliances,
hence understandably missed
(until death do me part)
doting upon then young daughters,
rightfully thee eldest one
(born 12/22/1996) still pissed
at primal, gonadal, and brutal predilections
now... finding very little reason to exist
matter of fact I dreamt
(earlier today June twenty seventh
two thousand and twenty), the gist
regarding harming self
How I wish readers miss me...
It has now been one year since he died,
What emptiness the poetic world feels!
His genius as days pass the more reveals,
His memories we hope would new pens guide
And his honest concern would be well billed,
Many a young mind was inspired by him,
All wonder-stuck on his poetic dream,
And his trademark style in this field.
In miles there’s no one to match his rare style,
He straddled tall alone as if on isle.
…And the reality
He sure carried a crazy little crowd,
He, more than crowd, was with his pen so proud.
We’ve oft seen him lost in utter silence,
And struggle, words deserting him at once.
Still, audience oft fell into rapture
Seeing his rambunctious rotund stature.
Fragrance there if at all came from flowers,
Not from blossoms of words upon bowers.
But that is how things go in today’s world,
More than song matter feathers of the bird.
About one year has gone by since he died,
On his pen’s silence few seem to have sighed.
Emptiness, nor is there any a void,
Many a new style have since been alloyed.
Yet, poetry field’s richer in this sense,
Not any worse in his absence.
And his so-called unique poetic style
Most likely might get buried on an isle.
No one flavour has ever ruled the world,
Not once has charmed for long a single bird.
_____________________________________
Musings |03.08.2014| poet
A poet imagines how he would be remembered after his death; what people would say, say after one year. The first stanza deals with this. Reality dawning on him, he then pens down the next.
We are all born
To a world seemingly full of interesting diversity
But why do we slam each other
Instead of accepting and living together
Do we not need each other’s support, sometime?
When we slam others we forget
We slowly shut the door on ourselves
And stop growing except bloating in size
And wasting precious resources
Which are meant to be shared amongst all humanity.
Each one must grow to mature somehow
And learn to endure the adverse
And the idiosyncrasies of things around
That change constantly on ground
In a collective effort to blend human needs with nature.
Is anything permanent except history?
So why not make it memorable
For us and future generations to cherish it
And build newer avenues and rising ever higher
Through cooperation and mutual respect.
We need to knit a grand slam team
Of entire humanity
To go onwards and upwards
Like steel alloyed and put to steam
Whose frames do not corrode easily through time.
Alone we sure fall downwards
And perpetuate the differences
Those obliterate our collective achievements
For creation is difficult to achieve
But easy to fritter away on triviality.
Slam kills the feelings of care and love
Spreads hatred and scares the dove
Warmth of fellow beings brings succour
Allowing unimaginable feats to occur
So let us slam the slam, shall we?
Seven hundred and fifty millimeters between worlds-
Confined on one side,
the enormity of the ocean,
a contradiction to the sand on which it sits;
artificiality’s extravagance encompassed
in a delicate
bubble.
Just as its maker,
Under azure of neon and amongst
the life in its technicolor,
diverse, rare, immigrated;
Its foundation’s fluid is
submerged and alloyed into into the ground
that by itself is too loose for roots of its own.
We don’t look in;
We are.
And in that
what one tends to miss
in the mesmerism of the bubbles’s iridescent surface
is the reflection of an absence of light-
and jagged maw that lurks int it.
This premises is under surveillance.
The sharks muse at the spectacle too.
Glassy stares of dilated slits follow the prospect of prey;
Ignorant onlookers included.
There is no reason to actually follow through with function-
Like everything else in the sphere,
The belly of the beast is too full
to ever consider capability in the drift of their daydreams-
the thought,
in itself,
is empowering enough.
What is an aquarium after all,
But a simulated entrapment
of an interpreted reality?
I bet the sharks don’t have any questions regarding who feeds them.
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XXXIV
For Mickey COTO and his PTS-ed cohorts
IF you pull a long patriotic face
" My Country My God boundup in one alloyed essay
The blood I spill for either in one compounded commonplace
For Mother and Father begot me Soul and Body I let slay "
If you pull a long cramped face
In galactic worlds speeding pell-mell trillion light years away
The Glory of the Nation ancient History pure Superior conquering Race
Will Voyager II blot out from the Carter message the stain in our DNA
If you pull a long arrogant face
Vying with one another your Party's Will to impose in mellée
Loud yet dumb those who'll vain political power embrace
Won't names on plaques and stiff statues with time decay
If you pull a long populist face
Confound callow youths' psychés through geo-political play
The Enemy's the one with the ethnic-God's alien grimace
Won't " Demo-Cracy " make " People-Crazy " Passionarias pray
If you must pull a long pro-patria-mori face
Then breed the orphaned cloned-robot grandes armées
Mediativize the great onslaughts from Sun Tzu & Cong strategies
Won't the Populace then exult betting on their revered contrées
© T. Wignesan, Paris, February 16, 2019
My Will Rogers Poem
Now figure out why I named it that.
Have heard there can be certain degrees
Of what some people may call to appease
And things like paths of least resistance
Coffee and cream combined at a constant consistence.
Substances not pure are considered an alloyed
With an idea while inebriated have often toyed
What would you think should be some sequel
To going on diet after eating many beaks full.
As on you spurred realizing it had occurred
Instead of fine food ended up finding a word
And before word was eaten up and all gone
It for a while you had decided to chew on.
If you tried hard and elected to be energetic
Coming to conclusion poem was pathetic
After shooting and spreading around the dung
Inserted sharp dagger to replace your tongue.
Now out in the meadow when you hear larks
Sounding like they are making cutting remarks
And probably, hopefully with Republican consent
They can allow complainer to run for President.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
You need a category called sarcastic.
Off from formal stage's pageantry
Collisions of pewter play tenor to horn
Vessels filled with mead, wheat-gold,
Foam. Monks trade lines with scops
Who tile a church, swapping agricultural
Know-how. The technics prepare
Bard for a solo harp song in a barn
& there’s to the Caddy’s tune gathering sway
Lost so unquotable. Nightshade, potatoes,
ions, herbs, good gods & the animalistic
Sex. From a source outside chaos:
Terms return thermal bundles,
Predicaments inside time's homophony
From alloyed spinal column. A donkey
Drags a blade through red sea's surface dirt
Meshed in with hay dank from contra-
dictory earth—these testimonies to greater-
Thans. Cyber sectors offer testimonials
As a means of convincing discerning surfers to
Bypass impasse & buy by following the crowd.
Data suggests but there’s this thing in hand:
A cattle-bolt electron split down the
Middle; a steel beam cut by narrow flame;
A diamond-footed tub with fresh extracts.
The first drops of rain, a herald
Of good things to come.
The mix of rain drops and dust
stirs...
The fresh smell of nature revives
the senses.
Natures cycle turns full circle.
The allure of fresh vegetables
Tingled up sensation of past
memories are revived.
It's a new season of fresh fruits
vitamins filled.
Natures cycle turns full circle.
The rustling sound of a mix of
leaves and rain alloyed in the
hushed melee.
How exciting the nature, change
produces.
Natures cycle turns full circle.
Hazy clouds billows spiralling
cloudward.
The sense of rain, sun rays shunted
out.
Hissing winds, swaying trees dancing
to the rhythm of the waves of the
wind.
Nature cycle turns full circle.
As dark clouds touch down mother
earth.
The release of sandy dust pellets a rain
of dust alas!.
At last the rain has announced its
permanence.
Natures cycle has turned full circle.
(Written 17th March 2015)