Long Antic Poems
Long Antic Poems. Below are the most popular long Antic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Antic poems by poem length and keyword.
Tony Abbot ex minister prime you came on the net
To spoke at length, to good friends of mine. Graham
And Jhonny ‘a real friendly talk’ about
How you as a part-time fiery walked some hot
Walk. In 2018 when you helped
And that’s all good..' Where so many did lose their lives
And Homes possessions as the blazes grew' as they
Never should Brian Naylor and his wife died now he was
An anchor!! That was a man! he
Spoke true. Not a zak a dozen his thoughts
And style. And you know that too! He’d beat this drainstream
Media, by fifty country miles. And Graham
And Jhonny well i give all respect! Yet they trod sorta
Easy with you Tony.' In style But me?? Well, now i'm
Different.. I ain’t done (you bet!) yet!
Cause you know ( the story ) and the tipans
That roam, that old bush city, that satan calls
Home! Once you were destined for much better
Things yet you joined ‘that circus you ran in
The rings’ you know the skulduggery the
W e f plan. The noble reasons? I.e. genocide
Deception and even the scam, on lesser humans? Women children
And men, the old and vulnerable, just inspect your inner
Soul And see if there remains anything the devils not
Stole? Why not interview Bosi?
Adam Antic too. Turn to Malcom Roberts and the country
That nurtured the beginning of you!! Turn to the
Ringers to the cockys and such' to truckies
And Doctors. To the police who resigned
And all those WHO STOOD TOUGH! Just like Graham
And Jhonny' 'they gave about all that they
Had. (Yet couldn’t really confront you). And that’s real sad
They were concerned
At any backlash.. I reckon that now? Yet I
Will not stand on ceremony. I will push you
And how!! I ask you Tony will you
Put your cattle in the yards? Will you give out some fruit?
Shake the limbs by each bough . eat and drink out of silver
it’s not really that hard! What value gold
Against honour? Turn from the murder' about now!
Raise up a standard, for that’s by far
Your best shout!
Seek out Babet and Pauline Neil Patterson
Rod Culleton they're still about.'
And they are just a few. A whole country is willing wanting leadership
That will do.!
(it just needs more people to stand, who are – really, true blue!).
©Joe Maverick 23rd May 2024
Woke up (September 6th, 2020)...
Got outta bed boot
did not drag comb against head
of beetle browed foo fighter,
he did not arise
bright eyed (by George), nor bushy tailed
to bucket flush toilet.
After attending her asinine
morning toiletries, the missus
lovingly nudged me awake
quickly urging me to betake
sleepyhead husband pronto to bathroom,
(no matter I got bowled over from behind plus
additionally getting flush while hurriedly
caught up with current movement),
nevertheless despite being anointed
de facto proxy plumber,
crowned emergency attendant
incorporating obligatory undertones
yours truly summoned
one man bucket brigade
to block and tackle
messy task at hand,
cuz jack (ass) of all trades
and master of none
immediately got jibberjobber
self into action.
Accessible bathtub and shower linkedin
as washing facilities,
hence after pouring voluminous hot water
into maw majesty,
viz Ms porcelain goddess,
she gurgled and gushed with delight,
thus avoiding the need
to call maintenance man,
whose availability of sundays
(September 6th, 2020
no exception to rule)
more difficult than
finding needle in haystack.
Once morning dirty deed
done dirt cheap duty completely done,
cuz sudden necessity to evacuate arose,
strong bodily need,
to excrete I could not ignore, but only heed
lest aging garden variety
long haired pencil neck geek,
would figuratively experience
a posteriori his bottom dropping out
subsequently with dog speed
donned in Scottish tartan
and Harris tweed
pink frilly ("I hate boys")
nonetheless monogrammed underwear
adorned with precious venerable bead
hmm... methinks hyperbole
token heterosexual doth exceed.
Ass side resorting to poetic dramatization, eh
generic guy relishes word play touché
so please pardon me this literary antic okay
a non believer regarding conformity
also atheist, which confession he will pray
fly high wherein realm harboring soul of
Antoine Marie Jean-Baptiste Roger,
comte de Saint-Exupéry.
I established a rapport
with the Sacred Cow
and it stepped all over my toes
the oil of anointment in my crankcase
I was limping worthy of an asterisk
an army of monks couldn't keep me pure
laughing all the way to the blank
Hell has its saints too
my food chain has a dog on one end
pet my good luck hump if you must
or my scarred and bleeding shins
the Siberian delegate exhales belligerently
after exterminating the wooly mammoth
humanity is the only species
counting the days
badly trained by fire ants and monkey uncles
I've contacted the hunchback sperm banks
for a below zero safe deposit box
hmm that won't grip the road either
separated at birth by a faulty wall socket
while descending through the atmospherics
with a license to lounge
upon the mules of creation
like butter through hunger
only in your head holy man
expletives erupted from his throat
making antic come here gestures
while camping under Bigfoot's foot
a sea of irritants sending messages
through my lawyers Rugburn & Nosebleed
you vampires should be in bed at this hour
if only because monotony generates subtlety
we played 'em right into the net
sent the boys off on a Nanking holiday
to animate something foul and oafish
that's now clogging the sewers
kill the spankers slit their throats
like the moon through a windy fog
one thing blending into another
fueling up with ignorance again
but I don't see how we could wreak hell
any more than the universe
already buggering ahead does
even with bear claws over our hands
for protection or decor
like a hotel banquet ice carver
in an encounter with the Dancing Strumpets
anti-inert at least
his frozen uncertainty runneth over
in a renunciation of befuddlement
by the often pillaged soul
living a farcical incoherent nightmare
slammed through the one chance swinging gate
and went clomping into showbiz
with a gypsy clan of Yiddish fiddlers
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
for the third class life is surrounded by, not a single affirmative element but utter negativity, it may be a condemned one, yet is still worthwhile living the life because in the total negativity one can disavow everything just like an absolute authority
for the third-rater is always treated by those around one with contempt, the life may be miserable, yet is enjoyable because the anger i swallowed in every moment of my life and kept in the depth of my heart with tears can be spewed out at any time, in anywhere, just like a most powerful tyrant
to impress others, may be impossible, i flapped the wings that actually i didn’t possess; the beauty of life was then however, it doesn’t matter if i was a performer of first class theatre or of third. even with those inexistent wings, i was able to fly boastfully in the spotlight dazzling colorful air though for a little while
although i searched for a way to wonderland and went after a good and ripened time for harvest, the soul rent with grief and mortified, alas, i was always wound-up to standing in the damned same starting point because no matter
how hard i searched, the way to wonderland was nowhere on earth it never
existed for me, no matter how eagerly i went after it, the ripened good time was never there for me to harvest; nonetheless, even with deeply wounded heart, i was able to find the moment of peace at the point where i started off was, may be my numbed sensitivity, caused from the debt too great for me to pay off, caused from the destitution never be filled to flee from it
“why don’t you laugh at this ludicrous fool’s tears?” the fool being ousted from even this filthy third class theatre which was filled with rowdy audiences! “why don’t you cry for this helpless buffoon’s laughter?” mimicking Caesar with antic,
‘et tu, Brute!’*
even in this crucial moment
of losing my one and only vocation the buffoon ever had
*William Shakespeare. Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene 1. ‘You too, Brutus!’
Bare skull and cross bones
existence on the peripheral
outskirts of poker flats
lives a slip of a man,
whereat he never felt deserving
accolades linkedin
with appeasement,
sans pat on back congrats,
asper bringing peace,
and tranquility to the
kingdom taken over
by trumpeting democrats,
without any armed
populace resorting,
(nor police present)
affecting a coup d'etat
(carried out
by military expats),
no...amazingly enough,
non violent government
takeover won by votes
during midterm elections,
who rendered
the equivalent outcome
(actually a stunt
more difficult)
than analogously bringing
rabbits out of hats,
which predominant number
of socially progressive winners
shared the sir name "Katz"
ironic since such
ethical congressional
"Freshman" hoped to scare
out all the corrupt rats
and, thus hit upon,
(or one newly elected
acolyte dreamt) master bait,
which involved one participant
to experience potentially
a stormy Dane yell'n date,
thus unnamed
wizard (specializing
in far out, and groovy
grandiose high jinks fate
hood did don an outfit
resembling the Great
Tony the Tiger, no matter,
he reputedly happened
tubby a serial killer,
yet said Grand
Poobah did integrate
each puzzle piece
of his Khanate
with a combination of
bluster, gimcrackery
cheap tricks deceit,
"FAKE" hate
as to snatch the checkered mate,
(essentially a hie
bred Matted Scottish
tartan Harris tweed
couture rib banned jester,
who didst orchestrate)
so much tom foolery, his
basic winning technique
quite antic quate
head, nonetheless
far more ingenious than
latest technological state
of the art revolutionary
trappings, thus never
outmoded ways underrate!
Social Divide
Same age, same era, same time
Meeting of spiritual and intellectual
Meeting of ancient antic and new
The ancient principles are forever principles
Created by and given by God to humanity
To you, to them, to us. The Living Plan of Life
This was the beginning. The original, authentic
People lived normally in nature. Family, kids
Grandparents, parents, and the new generation together
This was a great family model. The Rule. Created by God.
Humanity has grown and developed. Shaped nicely
Okay. There were problems. But here it is important that the family
The family
The love
The stability
God’s Nest!
And then the intellectual science burst into the human world
Aggressively. This was a planned attack against love
This science is Western psychology. To kill the Eastern traditions
(I met only one Western-style psychologist. All. English. I'm talking about that.)
Psychology
Psychologist
Hmm
Same brand
I was persecuted because I like reading the Bible
I was persecuted because I didn't accept men’s friendship…
I was persecuted because I like women
I was persecuted because I am a European
I was persecuted by this Western-style psychology.
I was persecuted
Because I am monogamous
This psychology created a chaotic split consciousness in my life
This kind of psychology created a chaotic split consciousness in life
Of Humanity
This kind of psychology is very active
This kind of psychology consciously affects to world
Morality is dying
Abortion is fashionable
Children are being killed
before their birth
Men are afraid of women
Me too
I don’t want English psychology
In my life
Never!
The breaking,
the shaking;apace
my king's fall is rise
my land is anon taken.
The antic,
the discholeric;as
albion her age;as
arras on her skin.
The abstract,
the seas;our compact
heartless disease;
let's decoct,
let's not calm
The beaver,
the savior's hand,
she will for aye crave
for her not a bedlam;
she is sane.
The cautel,
the hidden truth;
Cadent ties;fret
channels in her cheeks
frail less chuff.
The voidness,
the lifeless mess;cloy
there wines of death;
there ciphers;there empty,
shut their tomb.
The wall of wails;
the jews.
the rock that never fails
the doors.
The breaking
the making;apace
enough;her surfeit
her swain eternal
remnant of no transgress.
The maker,
her end;Yeshua,
truimph of her;
light in the cautel,
my messiah;so i break.
Welcome to this grand festive fair
For the benefit of special children’s care
Highlighting their development welfare
With compassion and love’s share…
But oh my, why has it turned as a scare?
The Social worker has been invited to grace the occasion
Fulfilling mission to guard children against rights' violation ...
Thus, midst vigilant observation and discretion
She's ready to solve case on joyous kids showing terrified reaction
In a festival where prevailing spirit must be jubilation!
With clowns’ appearance in the joyous event
Showing quirks they comically invent
Kids vent-out, frightened, nervously fervent...
Thank God, they are pacified; their fears, prayers circumvent
By parents appeasing them so terrible commotions prevent!
Having worked well circumspectly
Proper authorities were called soberly
Affirming knowledge of culprits conscientiously...
It was learned that impostors are not child-friendly
Since they rob peace and order deserved by every child in the family.
The policemen then gently shout: “Don’t panic!
Calm down from being frantic!
Our fault, we didn’t screen every clown’s antic…
Since we think they’re all acts of magic
We belittle children’s mindset on logic!”
The youngsters now beam with delight
When the clowns are nowhere in sight
Having been apprehended by those who saw their plight…
What matters most is, kids are giggling with gladness' height
As clowns-turned police officers tell stories on doing what’s right!
I hate colons,
Semi-colons,
Commas,
All the dots,
The street’s dashed and bold lines
The formal and informal
Business and love letters,
And what worsens my stomach pain,
The civilized patterns,
Motifs,
And jokes and dilemmas.
I hate it all
I hate to list,
Lay down,
Lay out,
All the focused and structured
Feelings,
And etiquettes.
I hate this inventory of
What I like
And what I do not like.
I like to vomit them all;
Like a rusted wood suitcase
Is vomiting its rusted nails.
I do not like to face you
Eileen;
Until I empty
All my guts
From the rust
And the antic puppets,
Heroes, and clowns
I have been storing
Since ancient times,
Since the time my first ancestor
Stood up
And walked through the cold
And warm lands.
I will not promise you
Eileen …
Because, you never did
Or you may not be there
Waiting
For me.
For a fancy commitment.
I hate to be prized,
Competition,
Waiting for a reward,
Fake smiles, and
Boredom
Are my worst enemies.
I like to earn you
with my own sweat.
I have to stay away
Somewhere
On the darkest spot of the sun
Anywhere!
It does not matter!
I have to stay away
From the language you speak,
Your perfect grammar,
Your perfect dress,
Your perfect town,
Your perfect healthy food,
Your compulsive food,
And your anxious thoughts
And mood.
I need to breathe first
So I can
Like you first
And then up…
Up …
Love you again.
When time flies, feelings of euphoria,
spur jaw-dropping habitus within,
vision of nirvana on groundswell earth,
chirping bird amber tone on hedgerow,
cacophony that piercing aural backdrop,
riotry of wild bewitching warble,
golden fronted leaf, black nape oriole,
northern red bishop,
snapshot or sedation, honey dribbled spatula,
that ladles satin eardrums,
as momentary plot unveils its kernel,
fleeting countdown to ecstatic charm,
mesmerising tailspin gust bract swirl,
of diamond stud color burst variety,
time lag is an instinct riven leap,
lustrous spark escape hatch mere sprint,
who could be immune to such splendour,
embellishment or antic flourish,
folly swept aside in brisk stanza,
hyperbole on jewel rim chariot,
passenger in situ juggling spheres,
morning dew mist clad bank enchantment,
divinity in spiral foam waterfall trance,
speckled moon’s transient blind soar,
amid hall of mirror dream cloud etching,
bonfire of imagining without rein,
infant echo chamber left me thunderstruck,
lightning flash recall as I shudder,
with ardent inkling of toddler stopwatch era,
parental caper, boisterous shriek,
blue stain paddle boat capsized,
guffaws at the peak of silver rush,
backscatter on a prior and current bloom,
like a reckless swimmer’s wild swipe,
at a grazed iron metal lifebuoy,
whose toss and turn gyration high jinx,
another symbol for the heaven in one’s palm,
that vanishes as soon as it clocks in.