Long Astronomically Poems
Long Astronomically Poems. Below are the most popular long Astronomically by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Astronomically poems by poem length and keyword.
Basing opinions on exceptions to the rule
then turning it into a fist pumping mantra
is for architects of anarchy and dangerous fools-
mostly white precincts aren't the devil's brigade
as the media would lead you to believe
the media want us to kiss their two-sided face
because mayhem and disharmony
bring in the highest of ratings.
Harmony between the races
is a disaster for ratings and ad revenue
and this is what they obsess over
nothing more and nothing less
they could care less about any of us.....
That is why white cop killing black man
is played over and over and over again...
(though police brutality is never to be accepted
it is the exception to the rule)...
Now a white man being killed by a cop
though much more prevalent
just will not get the playing time
not enough of a train wreck to generate interest
but it happens more often to white folks than you think..
yes the death rate for blacks, by percentage is higher
but blacks have many-many-many more conflicts with police
and black crime rates are astronomically higher than whites.
Now these facts are hard to swallow
and this is where dialogue bogs down in the slop
where the blame game clowns come in
start to spin our heads around...
then send in the
screaming clowns-
burn it down to the ground clowns-
looting clowns
beat a different color into the ground clown
I'm done listening to reason clowns
I hate looking in the mirror clowns
all these clowns skip around
the discomfort of the truth crown.
I believe that harmony in any community
starts with God and family
distancing from faith
disintegrates families
that tend to become fodder
for the beast called
disharmony...
Some cold hard questions for the clowns:
Why is your good book collecting cobwebs
What have you done for your community
Are you an asset or just a snake in the grass
Who have you let into your heart and why
Who have you exiled from your heart and why
Who's dining with you at your table tonight
is there an empty chair or two.. and why
where is your ROCK sleeping tonight and why?
fine isn't a road traffic fine....it is a fine of a finest fin favour flashing feverishly
FINE
Fine?
Fine is a shrine,
Not a mortified prawn,
Fine is a tail,
Of a cloud wisp at dawn,
But a fortified wine could build a fortress tunnel,
With undergrowth measuring the radius of ten thousand American stadiums,
The ocean dimension span of the world,
And space itself,
Wise to swim and not to dim as the only thing to remove is the undergrowth,
Like underwear,
Or a patio that has grown tall weeds,
Nevertheless it is wise not to sink or sail around aimlessly,
When the simple carrying of a plain shopping basket will bring home the eggs, bacon and squashed pudding ingredients,
Wow
Yawning on legs wins awards for dogs and guinea pigs,
But not for cats as they are too busy saying "chicken" and running around,
So that is that and that is this and this is that,
A hat on a seal is looking through the windows of many a coastal cottage,
And peering properly is bound to give the correct annunciation to excite even the towel rails, bowls, and cups of lemon carbonated tea with milk,
Oh looming looking leering liking leaping laughing lemurs,
Amazing aren't they?
They certainly think so!
But an automated switch of an automated atomic cake combustible could halt the proceedings in a flash of circling clouds,
And that would be very hazardous for the fishes as they are all dressed up and walking down the roads to the celebrations and beats of the finest fin,
Fine is a nine,
A numeral,
Fine is an emotional of innumerable activities of synchronous sliding shapes,
Fine is an archived peel of a fruit from an Astronaughts claps,
Drapes driving down daring dramatic drives,
Diving,
Delivering dreams,
Fare not a fork of flame that enjoys plunging into a cross crystalized chrysalis,
And take no tail from a beast in a tube of chamber in rubber casing,
Now all dress appropriately and sing la la la to the carpet cleaners
Z Astronomically Z at 3 fine bees passing 10 finesse of fin flash.
X
Form:
Waldorf warbling wa wo we wa
Glows from hidden archetypes are not architects nor are they archetypical in construction. In fact it is the translucent bud of a tropospheric triangle that timely counts one two three and is recognised by algorithms who arrive in boats..............................and often the marginalized margins marry made matrons. Similar to a test tube station. Ideas of ignorant into itemised innocents. And blemishes of bulls are considered as patriotic as a left key bulletin. But only if shown in a block but blocks can rock and rock is taken to create a sturdy successful monument to endure the tomorrows. Take then one baby tyrannosaurus cell, a tubular squirt from fossilised tree, a serpents tooth dipped in sacrificial sacrament and infant blood, draw then the power circle and square and wait. Yes wait. Wait whilst the concoction reaches eleven percent displayed in digital dials on the big machine. Do stand outside the glass please. Great euphoria will be arriving so no need to add more mix. Oh what is that creature bursting into scales and shape. With huge bug eyes and clawed fists. Hunched. Oh feed it a hen through the hatch then watch as the insides explode with feather, bile and blood broil. Now get the little tables in to admire the spectacular creation. It has grown. Good job the ceiling goes up like a cylinder in there. The top was covered eons ago by signing and astronomically placed was the top which peeks over Pluto's rim. Adequate proportionate space for creature's growth. Charming chatting charging creations. And a lovely dose of mucus on a semi baked bean. Yum. Now to post a few jam slices slowly through the post boxes. Good and good night. Disproportionate donkeys don't dance. Xxxxxx ten cents plus nine dimes multiplied by fifty yuan and a pound of euro equals?????? Combinational z z z zbz zbzb btu xbz question not the plankton crystalized in a jar z
Form:
Men cannot be trusted
emotionless and hardened,
They tend to be aggressive
Then thoughtlessly are pardoned.
Promiscuously driven
With ego swelling large,
They're loud, endowed and over proud
And in your life they'll barge!
They see vastly different
They see a girl- a prize,
Their honesty is always great
Until they just tell lies.
They'll blame you for everything
They'll treat you as a game,
They're really not so interesting
Predictable and lame.
Hence before you run away
To whatever you have lusted,
Take heed of what I say...
For men should not be trusted.
Now, I could back this poem up
With proof of evidence,
As damages that most men do
Is astronomically immense.
Though I’m sure when they do read this
They’ll hate and much resent
The honesty and forthrightness
From a poetess unbent.
Yes we need to put them in their place
Before problems rise again
Wars and violence amongst our silence
All due to stupid men.
Though I wonder Joe and all that know
Andy and Big Randy
So I’ll admit just a bit
Men can be soooo handy !
And I’m fortunate to know
Good mans’ integrity
The ones who care a very rare
And voice this literally.
Though I’ve generalised and chastised
The ones not up to speed
I’ll be fair and I’ll share
Men…I know we need.
They’re great when they are good
Respectable and kind
They can be the bestest friends
And ease our worried mind.
Baby boys so wonderful
And innocence impart
Uplifting me, will always be
Forever in my heart.
The he whose not corrupted
It’s him I do commend
And loyal I will always be
To a good true friend.
How brothers I have missed you
Through the push and shove
And I am grateful never hateful
For platonic love…
Here here I’m not so sexist
Indifferent, a goner,
As I think of he who strengthens me
'tis he, I love and honour.
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXXII
for Carlos Bousoño, the eminent Spanish critic, poet and professor
who maintained that if you don't like the "humorist",
you're not likely to find much to laugh at in/with his (sense of) "humour"
IF ever I had a country, a country where every TOM-Cat, Dirty-DICK and Royal HARRY wrote what his fellows called POESY
And if ever I were the only SON of a GUNny Sack-Bag incapable of pouting lines to an astronomically non-sensical degree
And as punishment thereof - sans appeal - if I were to be appointed by the Supreme Inter-Galactico-Cosmo-IL-logical Council of the Arbiters of Tyrannic Taste the one and only ARBITER and JURY
And should my fellow-poets ever so much as utter or let escape a squeak on, relating to or about what they cook-up as stew or porridge of
un-hermeneutical ETERNAL VERITIES which they print publish post (ne’er you mind: plagiarize) and/or pander to their pridefully painted images potpourri
I would first and foremost issue an EDICT - nay, even a DECREE - to CONFINE each and every one of my bumble-bee constantly buzzing comrade BARDS, purveyors and promotors of mutually unintelligible verse within their own ivory PENTHOUSES of phantasmagorical (a)musings
under pain of summary banishment - should they ever so much as "peine in poiein » - to the GREAT ATTRACTOR WALL of GALAXIES and so be it, I pray thee
And this, even if I were to be confined to my very own solitary dungeon and be condemned to listen to - against my will, day and night, for ever and ever - the ethereally soul-uplifting poutings of the Poetasters of Isphahan in their wordy giddy swirls of SUFI
And even if I never ever had no country where POETRY had need of mutually EGO-BOOSTING commentary
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, April 5, 2020
When the State said she needed a home
and would I help her out with her meds
I said yes
though I had some grave doubts
and they never mentioned a life sentence.
When the doctor said she had fetal alcohol
our life was paused to grow grim.
I said wait,
need to check with spouse
and three boys we already claimed to love and protect,
so they never mentioned a life sentence.
When I told the State they should find a better home
that would grow with her aggressive game coming up
they said wait,
we’ll start her again
in another place not prepared for defiance,
for food thrown down,
for breaking hard glass hearts
worn out like empty fragile chairs,
still they never mentioned a life sentence.
So we eventually said yes
and her courage to test that yes
grows astronomically oppressive
while the State closes homes
and residential options
for families like ours
who never signed on for a 24/7/52 week
perennial life sentence.
Now State says no,
no other place for her to go,
so sorry you’re sore and tired and old,
too bad she has no one to talk to all day and night
now that we can hear what she means
to deliver when you signed up for hell
in your mutually dysfunctional life sentence.
So we sure try,
except for her,
who had no choice
about those exotic substances
welcoming her still warm enwombed
with empty therapeutic promises
throwing a love defiant trauma
drama party life sentence.
So I still cry,
but not only for her
who had no choice
confined to age in this echoing silo
dancing with demons
signing her up for my unenlightened
disempowering trauma sentence
after sentence
after ruminating sentence...
Like trying to live peacefully
and mindfully
with an under-medicated RightWing narcissist
searching for weapons
in my Other unfree bedroom.
Degree work again! With Aberdeen University,
Long distance, so not in strange surroundings,
This time in the subject of my choice and tenacity,
For posterity, so as to keep above the drownings.
It’s Christian Studies, or I say theology or religion,
And psychosomatic is the word to deflect and bat,
Which loudly venerates in the divinity selection,
Where divinity scholars attempt that requested slat.
Psycho-so-matic, or “the mind” “by” “motor action”:
“the mentality” “using” “cognitive brain structures”;
“the mental” “through” “neurological muscular motion”,
The psyche so as to do with events, people and cultures.
But why don't theologians see psychosomatic analysis,
As astronomically colliding with that transcendental verb,
In which god apologises for that divine interference,
When anytime, god changes your clarity into a muddy blurb.
As a disabled child in physio, for sure I truly understood,
The word “psychosomatic”, ‘cos my bible-loving dad,
Thought the word was academic trash, not white nude,
Because it validates contextual sociology as the comrade.
So did my arm and legs movements all depend on god?
Or on psychosomatics - if my parents had sent me out full?
On happiness, psychology, mood, highers and fine kin squad,
On settings, sociology and environment, and not on bull.
Surely the discussion in theology class should entertain,
Really straight, whether the bible fits into the normal tap,
Where you march, join, journey boldly through the terrain,
Of a richly humanly authored character splayed literary trap.
War is ghastly,
And astronomically costly.
Trillions of US dollars to fund it.
Yes, that costly.
The cost of injuries sustained,
The cost of human lives,
The cost of weapons,
The cost of grief felt
By families of soldiers
Coming home in closed caskets.
Peace, on the other hand,
Costs nothing.
Zero, zip, zilch price tag!
So why don't we try
To live and let live instead?
Humanity shines
As bright as
A summer afternoon sun
When we peacefully co-exist
In this vale of tears.
It's better to sit down
And brainstorm a solution
To resolve our differences,
As opposed to waging war
Against one another.
Let's bridge the divide between us
Instead of exchanging gunfire.
Let's shake hands,
Smile, and wish each other well.
Let's simply live and let live.
Your Peace Message To The Whole World Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Date written: 04/07/2022
Jung coined the term ‘synchronicity’,
Never really thought it applied to me.
Somebody crazy, maybe? Not me!
Coincidence they’ll have you believe.
Each segment is a memory
Brought through the veil by synchronicity.
Disparate pieces woven in this tapestry
To summon forth my destiny.
There was this time I spent in the navy
When an old mariner with hands like bark
Took me to the planks of the Victory.
While the blue moon watched, Horatio talked
And we sang with the angels to be free.
How did I remember? How could I have known?
Two fore-guns brought the flagship down.
The sniper flash, the Admiral’s gone!
Wrapped in secret song,
The synchronicity song.
Cosby and a cosmic message, 200 miles per hour,
Over carpet under couch vinyl would appear,
Proof of my predictive powers
In the story told just minutes before
And we sang astronomically!
The number two revealed the past,
Natal chart already cast,
A voyageur to life, at last,
I sang a French River song,
The synchronicity song.
Eighteenth century New France,
Two young lovers in the throes of romance
Separated by the Montreal fire
Never consummated their burning desire.
Three hundred years later, two souls found,
Lives all twisted, love turned around,
Four people caught by destiny
The signs were all clear in astrology
All hearts witness tragedy
To sing the saddest songs,
This synchronicity song.
incessant talkers bother me.
I leave the room upon their arrival,
not caring if I hurt their feelings, for I know they
do not notice, it always being about them, they
do not see others.
I do not enter the room if they are pre-there.
no sense in it, as whatever you say they can top,
and will. It happened to them sixteen times
more often, and harder, they were pulled out
of their car by two jaws of life.
it is irritating to me when I am almost finished
with a story, and one plunks down, interrupting
the punchline, with a banality that exasperates.
maybe worse, it annoys me that no one asks
me what the punchline was, so it is not like
anyone else cared any way.
I love the ones who share their money woes,
and their family woes, and their woe-woe-woes.
teaching us not to share any information with
them, possibly this is why the room clams
shut upon their arrival.
the last one never has rent money, or groceries.
always begging for money or a check, perpetually
pleading with anyone on social media to bring her
something. she always carries in a sixteen dollar
lunch from Uber, there is a five dollar upcharge.
i wish I was talking weekly.
I am talking daily.
I wonder if her grandmother who is still working at age 71,
and sending her check has any idea about these
astronomically expensive lunches?