Long Apple Poems
Long Apple Poems. Below are the most popular long Apple by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Apple poems by poem length and keyword.
I riff flecked about thee august
Autumn Equinox 2018,
this polymath learned why,
September Equinox
will be at 9:54 PM,
which spoiler alert thy
learned (courtesy Google),
when Or Sun Wells
crosses celestial equator
i.e. (imaginary line in sky
above Earth's Equator
from north to south), a quiet rye
hit moment occurs
Saturday September 22nd, 2018
(at 9:54 PM Eastern
Time) marks onset
of apple cider
and pumpkin pie
a distinct golden jacketed
matted palette well nigh
paints arboreal swath, sans
quiet riot of brilliant
color, that doth belie
rampant terrestrial, unreal,
and venal degradation aye
temporarily turning a (third)
blind eye apathetically, blithely,
and conveniently shunting aside
eyesore fissured gash - wide
cleft wound, where hide
ding away from
global abuse decried
as feeble effort
ignoring doth decide
fate i.e. as does wrecking,
where precious resources espied
snubbing, and thumbing nose
(figuratively) asper dead
serious portentous desperate
(falling on deaf ears) plea chide
dismissively mocking (bird
den some) prophesying,
whence creator cried
alarming, blaring, and clanging
sounding Doomsday Clock,
where ambivalence unheeded
scathing tragic miss guide
did exploitative testament,
where survival of fittest tried
to the max, viz (courtesy
of *****sapiens)
as Mother Nature dost allied
flora and fauna espied
comprising vibrant biosphere
each betrothed nsync, and guide
ding generic hominids shrugging
(Atlas sized fountain head)
off beholden hide
bound wedded bliss
to the other,
this observer awestruck,
sans whirled, wide webbed biota
adorns terra firmae analogous,
qua expectant wedded bride
named Gaia – resplendent
raiment adorned playfully chide,
when (dark and Stormy Dan
yells) Armageddon
legatee - time ran
out for *****sapiens meaning...
salvation to late for human
knit tee, cuz field day, sans
grim reaper will
glory in field day
whar cross bones
numb skull pay fealty.
I have created a gorgeous retreat for myself.
Three beautiful huge windows bring treetops inside.
I feel one with my forest.
A cardinal swoops past the window, lands on my apple tree.
Announces to the rest of the birds the feeders are full today.
I am facing these windows now, amazed at how much I love my giant tree house.
My own little world, where I can spy on the creatures who care not that I am about.
This was all designed for me, and it is one of my favorite places of all times.
There is no place I would rather be.
I was ruthless this summer, tossing everything that did not give me a sense of joy.
As a result I am now living in the world of choice,
A new space entirely, surrounded by things that love me.
And I love them back.
Tricking; treating; meeting, eating, sometimes, cheating!
Amidst, mount-like cards, we, like owls, keep on guessing!
Neither hunger nor thirst for souls; play soul polling!
Like jokers and mockers, we do costume knolling!
Ghosts and souls carved pumpkins with lamps keep us howling!
Warm bonfires give us a whole soul social feeling!
Apple bobbing makes the old feel young, strength glowing!
Divinations, fairy, and scary: Mind-blowing!
Pranks prove us hooks and crooks and jacks great trick trolling!
We don't leave experimenting with haunt growling,
Or horror scenes watching; scary storytelling…
Till we, at dawn, like sun rays, see all saints smiling!
27 October 2021
Halloween Monorhyme Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
Happy birthday
the morning started with a bang
four people breakfasted together on his birthday
it didn`t bode well.
The breakfast table was loaded with sweet things
He, a diabetic, could not eat, he had an apple.
Switched on the telly as mother and daughter
began fighting about forgotten things, he intertwined
when the mother cried, got her into bed for a rest
The flat fell broodingly silent.
When the fog lifted the protagonists made up and
sat talking about the restaurant they, with the man
who was eighty years old, should go.
The elderly man didn`t want to go but had no say
in the matter, they were going to take pictures
for the facebook.
The birthday boy drank coca cola zero and hoped
The party would be over soon he needed his afternoon nap.
The scents I remember like hand rolled cigars
Wine cask lined cellars in musty cool basements
Chocolate miniatures nestled in bright candy dishes
Tea leaves and mint steeping in dainty china cups.
Baked goods cooling on the kitchen counter
Roast with potatoes in a rich onion broth
Lilacs and roses lined on back yard fences
Channel #5 clings to grandmother’s sweater
Scents I remember from childhood spent
Fondly reminiscing with a wistful smile
In this sterile world I live in now
What will my grandchildren remember?
No leaves burnt on a cold autumn night
No carcinogens cooked over red hot coals
No second hand smoke that will cling to your clothes
No hairspray, no tea roses, no creams or colognes
No Sundays exploring my old Aunt Ruth’s farm
No chickens or guineas; no old dusty barns
No fresh moved hay or cinnamon apple pies
Just germicide, purified, Ionic fresh air.
The Purpose Of Life
Some say that doubt among many truth’s convictions relieves the questions
relives narrates unfolds the thinking understanding cogitating human being
Too much like cogs in wheels of life some thus respond and posit that its
enterprise oozes soothes from a sense of feeling warmth’s emotion’s intuition
‘Its action good deeds and virtue’ shout philosophers from roof tops root tops
crowned winged elegance of contemplation clothed in ivory towers
Or is it ‘Science’ ‘God’ ‘The Revolution’ ‘A Path Of Least Resistance’ ‘Trying Harder’
‘Drugged Insistence’ ‘Evolution Fit and Fatter’ or ‘Sex’ and ‘Happiness’ Hottest Guns’
A panoply of tapestry and fabricated fabric’s fragrant fragmentation to synthesize
pragmatic hedonism ‘I Want It All And Now’ approaching nearing paradise
The apple of our eyes in cycling spiral’s procreation or might there be no sense or
meaning just simple free and undirected flow of something unbeknown to any kind
Tumbling in the halo while sunshine radiates in love compassion kindness seems a good
design on meaning my purpose aimed at understanding what its all about before I die
01st November 2016
Beethoven to roll over,
dee composing
(sans my zany brainy adherence
to "FAKE" information I eschew)
and essentially single handedly grew
the contemporary paradigm few
off fish shill educated
people didst swallow
hook, line and sinker, but perhaps
an enlightened gentile and/or Jew
found credulity linkedin with the then
far reaching somewhat sunnily
revolutionary antithetical concepts only
gull lib bull and/or cuckoo,
despite the logically
substantiated veritable true
lee near custom fit, hunky
dory, integrated metaphorical
interlocking puzzling pieces
rightly anchoring vast vista
(realm of known knowledge,
viz apple pi order)
shipshape motley crue foo
fighting banded divers lee distinct
whirled wide webbing
did not experience
smooth semantic sailing,
and rather recently
(historically "speaking") Renaissance
exuded approbation, and found substantial
adherents among cognoscenti,
who took to heart as gospel truth,
the expansive database
apropos christened Aristotéles translated
to mean Superior; best of thinkers,
whose missives dissected, inspected,
and probed for ethical, philosophical,
and rhetorical handy
dandy blues clue
meriting nascent outlook, sans salient
rubric quintessential pointing cue,
analogous to eternal spirit hovering,
guiding, and favoring new
acolyte, or stalwart
diehard Aristotelian hew
wing painstakingly, thru
prodigious tomes binding
ancient (classical Greece) via
Aristotelianism super glue
rebranded within modern roam'n Times
Font 12 visa vis,
when re: discovered
anew by Martin Heidegger
Ayn Rand, and Alasdair MacIntyre.
The Ivory Tusk Carry Me Home
On an island in my mind,
waves of despair roll in and out.
It never ceases.
An albatross plays the piano,
my last song and dance.
It's sad.
Even the filthy rats cry.
I muse,
I develop a rapport
with my pallbearers.
I jest
my clown pursuit of life.
And say.
Carry me to a rat hole,
I really do cry.
I can see the reincarnation
among the rats,
their bitter eyes
matching mine.
Yet it would be
a step up from this life.
If only people knew
like who would really care?
My mind's eye sharp.
Mom and Dad knew
they gave me this apple,
this apple
filled with malignancy.
It grew orchards in my mind.
Contempt.
"You were a mistake
my young child."
They were a mistake,
my fist tightening,
hitting the wall
of wanton
predispositions,
repeatedly.
Their flame,
my ashes.
Their flame,
my ashes,
my pet phrase,
an unleashed dog
barking uncontrollably
in my mind.
It won't be long now,
I shrug.
So do the rats.
The rats will be marching in,
hurrah, hurrah.
Yes, I smile a tear.
Is it the piano man,
or is it an albatross
playing
my funeral hymn?
Tears of sadness in his eyes,
I would like to think.
I write the final days,
to journal,
on this island
in my mind.
My words,
like flares shot
high up in the sky,
summoning,
summoning
for help.
But no one sees.
No one comes to rescues me.
I gather a prayer,
Dear family
thanks for nothing.
I wander
the last few breaths.
I find my bed of albatrosses,
and sink low for the last time
as the music sends me away.
connie pachecho
6/11/17
Note-I was inspired to write this piece after reading the entries to Craig
Cornish's current contest-God Knows Where I Am.
THANKSGIVING
Butterbees glazing
Wing’d gobblings
Horn of plenty
Our honeyland
Mannah-maestro conducting
Xylophones with silver spoons
Misting maids of ‘mooners
Golden streams of Gilead
Move to Everest
Not that cold
Idaho mountains and valleys
Of beaten snow
Iceberg quakes
Gravyboat overflows
Yellow teeth
Nothing more than gobs
Those kernelly cobs
Piled the highest
Waiting for the final
Black and white whistleblow
Mothers, daughters, aunts can swipe
the sweat from brows and knees
“Pass the taters please”
Now they can’t wait
Touchdown of seats
Plenty to feed
Buzzing of the Autumn game
Pies pack in pounds in overtime
American apple, pecan, Washington
cherry, rhubarb, Atlanta peach
Pulling silly strings on pants
Enhance the week’s fun run
8/27/2021
Hey Jude
I've only just myself heard the news
Yesterday
About the Beatle Bard shot in the back
Whilst crossing Abbey Road
By a catching coward reading in the rye
With a vacant rubber soul
Shooting a Revolver
And his eyes dimming White
Can anybody Help
As slowly like gravity the apple dropped
Watching report snippets of mourner's
by St Pepper placed in charge of crowd
control duty yelling at them to
"Get Back"
"Let him Be"
A
Hard Day's Night
Lies ahead for everyone contemplating
Trying to imagine what on earth has
become of this world we reside beside
each other in
When we choose to kill our prophets
who's message in only one of peace
and love rather than one of waging war
instead
Because the apple then surely rotten
and poison to the the core
Hey Eve