Long Bachelor Poems
Long Bachelor Poems. Below are the most popular long Bachelor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bachelor poems by poem length and keyword.
Raw bits of heavenly tasty healing power...
Sown by Norwegian bachelor farmer
in tandem with baked powder milk biscuits
courtesy your guardian angel
(otherwise known as Matthew Scott)
Writes to his dearly beloved precious offspring
(today March 25th, 2021)
in summer re: a shayne maydel darling daughter
prostrated by grief evincing figurative bite marks
indicative being smitten (now unrequited love).
Ever since her young heartthrob
unexpectedly rent asunder
fledgling relationship,
his heart felt initial zeal squelched,
when prized progeny voiced ecstasy
toward him, an attractive lad
regarding company hungrily sought
once breached a bond
subsequently rent asunder
impossible mission
to bridge formidable chasm.
Aeons of sorrowful tears shed,
wherein our hereditary blood and flesh
weeps profuse grievousness
whereby papa
(feeling helpless thousands of miles away)
wonders how much more time will elapse
before aforementioned lass
exhibits freedom from melancholic affliction.
Scant amount of time
actually constitutes
longevity of amorousness
between Shana Punim
and he who caught fancy
of same quite sensitive
twenty two year old young woman,
nevertheless an ordinarily
indomitable female spirit
reduced to inconsolable grief
similar to when Zayda
(her paternal grandfather)
passed away inching up on six months ago.
The width, depth, and breadth amidst
every cell comprising
one generic body well nigh
manifested as yours truly (me)
doth also plaintively cry
nsync with sad mood
(analogous to when
said loved one didst die),
cuz filial linkedin connection
automatically triggers chain reaction,
who helped beget
referenced youngest adult child of mine.
Naivete and innocence
pitched hither and yon
to and fro, where male testosterone won
out against moral scruples
(read marital covenant I violated),
where temptation appropriated from son
of the Boyce Brandon
and later Harriet Harris,
who willingly and wantonly
surrendered himself to concupiscence
thus receiving just desserts
being privy forced to experience hurt,
(albeit vicariously)
heaped upon Shana without question.
So polite. Wearing gloves. And hats. Hair in Easter colors.
Church ladies; prissy, smiling, crackling in their perfumes.
Flowered dresses, sitting primly on the hard wooden pews,
Singing in loud overtones songs they have known for decades.
Smiling at the Easter bonnets, and the tiny white lace gloves
Worn only by them and the toddlers now, everyone else in
Blue jeans, plaids, regular street clothes,
Sunday best no longer applies
Still they come, in their lavender hair, wearing their Bibles
In sheaves and satchels, letting their slips hang a bit in back.
Not as lively as before, but still with sparks they throw the
Way of Old Bill, the only bachelor over eighty, the reason some still come.
Bully me, yours truly
never ordained, gifted, or blessed
with mien mean characteristic
evoking, jump/kickstarting,
representing, nor zapping
friend or foe courtesy fiery intimidation
if anything aura, charisma, dogma, and karma
emanating, issuing, and oozing out
body electric of one heretofore bookish fellow
immediately facilitates characterization
hashtagged lucubration and manifestation of quietude.
Though true agitation transparent to passersby
soul asylum of sexagenarian beleaguered
with invisible mailer daemons
that hound the psyche
of this doggone muttering bonafide wordsmith.
In argot of polymath author of these words,
(the modestly noteworthy
opportunistic, poetic Matthew Scott Harris)
essentially he describes himself
as a generic simple Simon,
who never met a pieman
his mellow outward demeanor
belies, harbors, and represses
a quaking, raging bull, and seething
tempestuous storm beneath the calm,
which faux placidity
shields a woke monster
(donned in Harris tweed and Scottish tartan)
mashing everything in his wake
courtesy huge feet
resembling puff daddy bear paws.
Though found out later in life
than most muggles
aforementioned humble
human like bipedal hominid
discovered extraordinary ability
to morph from dimwitted dork dweeb
into grim faced, frightful,
albeit gentle unassuming
pygmy up by the petard giant extraordinaire,
which latent superpower
never served him in good stead
to ward off cruel classmates and peers
tormenting teasing taxing
terrorizing treatment til tears
trickled down my cheeks.
Every now and again,
when some nasty brutish beastly lout
dares to utter colorful invectives,
a gradual transformation
slowly but surely occurs
within every baited cell
(automatically summoned, triggered,
and unveiled courtesy a bitterly
deadly force to be reckoned with
deep within these lovely bones)
witnessing sudden bravado and daring do
additionally helped along after I discretely
chomp on powder milk biscuits
(the secret recipe only known
to forbidding Norwegian bachelor farmers)
giving an unexpected
judicious Hawaiian punch
to the loathsome miscreant
(never knowing what hit him)
knocking said thug out in cold blood.
Autumn In The Air - Hooray
Respite from punishing
heat wave - yay
which above line,
could "speak" volumes,
and be a stand alone poem
offering readers
a reprieve nsync
whence roasting, sultry,
and torpid unpleasant
weather since yesterday
boot such brevity,
would disallow
me to extemporize,
but more importantly today
this intrepid word
smith doth "say,"
he would never
wanna miss trodding,
the formerly (golden
in their heyday now sketchy),
sections of said roadway,
now where digital electronic
rustily hinged, abandoned,
and gated haunting quay
a throwback, when
private manned schooners
(shaped like a beer stein),
perhaps headed to Uruguay
could ply outlying
waters of cyberspace,
why... just yesterday
when my troubles
did not seem so far away
versus this present opportunity
to risk live and limb
(and Kong like wrath
of my reed ding fans)
while getting way
laid "traveling as
Wilburys soul survivor
foreign ancient groupie,"
the dangerous, derelict, and dicey
dubiously dotting dilapidated,
dark corners information
super high way,
thus yours truly
doth not heed,
but flaunts like some cray
zee (NOT RICH, NOR ASIAN),
but rather some gray
beard (grizzled), curmudgeon
figuratively gnarled, toothless,
and weatherbeaten lackaday
lay about good for nothing
mellow flew wuss depraved
('cept mebbe "robbing"
precious and special time
of some bachelor
farmer from Norway)
all the above
essentially wrote for naught
merely (as diversion) to comment,
how this September day wrought
ascent o' fought
(a scent oh aught) tum caught
me wear'n a corduroy
long sleeve shirt since...aye taut
a "FAKE" hungry
Grimm gimlet eyed trumpeting lout,
germane Don apprenticed
how to become cannibalizing
(without accountability) fuhrer,
(and lastly rendering enemies
into sweet tasting sauerkraut),
this while learning das dialect
(tickle) Matt speak,
(which took me a lifetime),
this preceding the
quirky invention of the umlaut!
An old corndog and a Diet Dr. Pepper
as the lunch of a bachelor king
An old corndog and I'm looking for the mustard
what more could happiness bring
I can live in my underwear on the weekends
don't need to shower or shave till Monday morning
No worries about stinking reek'n
with enough beer, no day is ever boring
Watch sports on television
play poker with old pals anytime
Life could not be more like heaven
living the bachelor life so divine
Leftover spaghetti for breakfast is a given
pour beer on my cornflakes
No fussing about how I'm live'n
doing as little as it takes
An old corndog and a Diet Dr. Pepper
is lunch but not fine cuisine
An old corndog and I finally found the mustard
a pretty face makes me clean and change my scene
From the eyes of the beholder
You cannot hide reality;
They reflect not the mirror
About illusion and fantasy.
From the ears of the listener
Some secrets you cannot keep;
Once they hear every bit of them,
There are nights you cannot sleep.
Into the nose of the sniffer
Fragrant scent or foul smell may enter;
It either carries freshness
Or brings pollution to the air.
In the tongue of the taster
It's salty, sour, bitter and sweet;
Whatever you do, say and write
Lets him put his remarks in a sheet.
In the touch of the holder
It feels soft, hard, warm and cold;
Sensing your happy or merry mood,
He smiles, extending his hand to hold.
In the heart of a bachelor
Dwells a beat he cannot control;
With no eyes, ears and other senses,
Falling for one mate of his soul.
Into the mind of the thinker
Millions of ideas are assimilated;
But wisdom from heaven above
Must not be taken for granted.
Five powers of receiving information,
Plus two emotions of awareness;
No one can deny the truth
In the sense of seven senses.
Jiska
Sweetened, mommy, on beat, authentic.
Sister of my lionized brothers, the lionized for radio and business.
Daughter of idolized by some and for being a hero in keeping safety in towns. And the other to be an one man can control governments statecrafts. Idea inside of them is people can rule the world vs people are obeying the world, all to deliver a job. And now they are battle-scarred.
Power-driven and veteran driven, but in the end, life is life and it has been done to them. They are themselves within the environment. And that makes me environmental psychologist consultant.
Mommy of two great kids, which were abused a lot by their environment in the schools and in the dutch system. Kids have a horrific life in Holland at the moment. I never had such childhood. But they study high-level 3rd bachelor degree on young age. They did well despite the environment around them which is full with frauds and abuse by grown people that should protect them.
it makes being a mommy a tough job. But I always love them and feel how all ancestors always survived between wars, and faults of the government.
We have special recipes to help our kids out again. But moving away from this country is ideal for many. The abuse is extreme.
I am a lover of real love, monastery style waiting on the one, deep soul which makes a person authentic and able to work better. I love modern type mother Theresa's, but then all original, authentic with personal development and idea, which always comes from the Gods. But we must find that inside, and give ourselves that time. But shouldn't stand still forever, we need a movement to be. But then our personal pace, which can have moments of stillness and higher activity, caused by life.
Who feels good, found the core of myself, and found what to work on.
Who would like to see my one, my dream city, my dream life?
Resident of The Netherlands, on secret address.
Hachmer
My cat never cared,
was never bothered, never scared.
Till that is, when one day,
beside the cats litter tray,
another bowl lay beside,
In big letters labelled 'CYANIDE'.
And what did my old cat do?
Well thankfully he couldn't sue,
for he lapped up the deadly stuff,
and began to feel rather ruff.
He laid down for a quick light nap,
but this was a sadly, fatal mishap.
Well curiosity killed the cat!
No car, no illness, no getting fat.
Just his solemn wish to drink something new,
that in the end made him spew,
across the patio doors like paint,
our cat in life was not a saint.
We had a funeral he and I,
a little way to say goodbye.
For though he didn't like me so,
death makes you fonder, I'm sure you know.
A cheeky cat with so much sass,
a bachelor who purred at every lass.
Well in goes the cat, I grab a shovel,
when out pops his face all a puzzle.
I looked around and saw bowl two
Labelled 'ANTIFREEZE' , coloured bright blue.
Could this be, my brain did wonder -
how my cat survived such a blunder?
And in a move so foul and cruel,
my cat pushed a can of petrol fuel,
and then with a psychotic smile,
did scratch his claws on a nail file.
And in a poof of smoke and spark,
I'm left in only niknaks stark.
He winked at me and strutted inside,
me speechless with a torched backside.
I started to panic, he thinks I'm to blame,
and now my cats gone insane!
It seems he drank both poison and cure,
I guess I'll never know for sure.
But now I have a homicidal cat,
At least a feline sociopath at that.
Who took a pillow to my head,
when I was sound asleep in bed,
and later still left a present,
in my coffee, oh how unpleasant!
So a little warning, this shall serve,
to those of you who have the nerve,
to not treat your cat with respect,
you never know what might happen next.
For in the garden I can see,
a hole scratched out for poor, old me.
07.31.2021
...To Save Strays Deserve Lagniappe
Ruff lee, e'er since
aye waz za lil whippersnapper
watt wit dis awful temper, yet
obedient to a pooch loving Aleut
til present moment, Asian ole mangy coot
this hot day (woof faux pas
dipping into animal shelter
donated water bowl)
filled to the brim with smoothie fruit
flavored slaking, moistening, cooling,
sans lallygagging tongue
doth wipe phlegmy ooze away,
where nearby a kazoo
playing labradoodle
accompanies mum
muttering prettifying self,
via quasi preening snout
when squeezed
automatically issues
honky tonk sound imitating hoot,
where passerine twittering
fly night passersby
toss bone fied token loot
and a Norwegian
bachelor farmer named Knute
Rockne took immediate
liking to yours truly,
who when scratched
itchy fur patches remained mute
imparting unconditional love
to petting man's best friend
hoof right then and there
Isaiah felt as top underdog
momentarily distracted
Fermi n Rico as petsmart necessary fix
reduced to that as newshound junkie
oft times in desperation
shine shoes ala boot lix
usually rewarded with bona fide prolix
about such a docile mix
breed to old for chase sticks
to learn super champing cheap tricks.
sometimes all you need
is simple words for simple truths
you have no need to rhyme
or paint a masterpiece
you can say ...
i love the world
i see the light
her beautiful eyes
her thick shimmering hair; or even
skin so fair and luminescent
as to blind the foolish onlooker.
see how simple and unpretentious
great poetry can be?
no need for long winded imagery painted,
so thick as to require a double shot of insulin.
simplicity
i assure you
is the secret to fine poetry
at least
that's just the way i ride,
simple, unassuming.
you know the theory
"less is more"
why use ten words
when one or two
is all you need to make your poetic point.
i mean there has to come a time when
you've tasted the essence of the simple point you created.
for instance why live in a fifty room mansion
when a lovely country bungalow
a sort of summer cottage
a small quaint beach home
a tiny mountain chalet
an exquisite city apartment
a hotel suite
a bachelor pad
a single room and no more
will do, largely.
that's exactly my point
keep it short and simple
no one is going to appreciate a piece
no matter how lovely it is
that goes on and on for no apparent reason
well ... go figure
my writing hand
i believe has seized up.