Long Bits Poems
Long Bits Poems. Below are the most popular long Bits by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bits poems by poem length and keyword.
The prism had reflected a crumbling schism of broken glass for far too long
A mosaic with sharp spikes and edges imprinted on a breaking point of shards
Copious cornucopia scattered over a trapdoor of lost fragments in disarray
Is the whole more than the sum of its part when there is a hole at the centre
How does one create a hologram when light has faded all shades of colours
In which the shadows of memories fail to illuminate meaningful anticipation
Tim’s gaze fell on the mantel piece towering over the time worn fireplace
Perched on the crumbling wall of passion surrounded by ash crested tiles
Ornaments collected and surpassed by engraved chinks in the passage of time
He got out a scraper and sand paper to lure wood worm out of the darkened
Grooves and hollow burrows leading from an illusion of truthful misconception
The fire had gone cold no ember just decrepit burns on the disintegrating grid
Tim stared into the chimney searched for an oracle from soot and from sorrow
Yearned for passion and a few bits of ember to alight from hard frozen pain
His focus ascended to a cracked mirror above framed with ivory and marble
Rose petals and ivy adorning a longed-for metaphor on the margins of truth
A whole mirror cabinet exploded in the diaphanous mind full of distortion
Pierced his eyes stroked a few lonely tears once he burnished the pine surface
Inhaled turpentine paint stripper and uncovered a labyrinthine underworld maze
Sand paper was not merely enough and linseed oil would not paper over cracks
He could not let go of the image of parabolic imagination that right there hidden
Under dust and grime was a hidden treasure parchment paper and fountain pen
One last look and Tim realized he did not wish for a mirror image because that
Would be solely a mirage quite fantastical and delirious but fraught just the same
He needed just one more mirror for the mirror to take a close look of himself
26th February 2019
‘Twas close to the day when Buba Claus,
His red nose and Bowie knife shining,
Would be off to fill the manly's hearths,
With bacon for their frying.
The ground was bare of snow or ice,
The sky was clear of reindeer.
But Buba Claus was loading his sleigh,
Real high, with good stout Yule beer?
Buba Claus was out in force,
His NRA cronies in tow,
To fill naughty radicals stockings,
With tiny bits of coal.
Cigars dangled from their lips,
A spittoon he placed by their feet,
And, before the sleigh rose off the ground;
They tossed in another side of beef.
Each carnivore, they laughingly swore;
Would have their fill this year,
And Bambi blanched as He flew by,
While Teddy Bears ran in fear!
Over New Canaan His courses flew,
Past the homes of vegetarians;
And down their chimneys they did toss;
The views of Libertarians!
And when the last haunch was placed,
Upon the spits of the mighty,
His spat his cud of gnarly gum,
Into the spittoon real tidy!
Then he flew off with a Ho, Ho, Ho,
And, not the ones for plowing
Cause Buba Claus had his own ideas
Of all Santa’s sissy endowings!
Merriment winds dapple bouncing
gleeful spots of energetic play
when they joy lift her thru
childhood perfumed leaves of yesterday.
Emotionally puckered steps
kick-slipping thru teenage ground arrays
wore angst sized woodsy shoes
during those years when leaves all smeared gray.
A girl who never said good-bye
disappeared down in sensual lays
when her heart first love sighed
awry in love crunched leaves spiced risque.
With aches not yet adult strong,
she smeared regrets where teared upsets lay -
on leaves that shamed her dreams
while fresh scents hid their bits that betray.
Is there an artist inside each of us? Of this I have no doubt.
It’s just a matter of reaching down… and pulling that artist out….
“Mom…I have something to show you!” Christi said.
Her mom came right away
Christi handed her a piece of paper…”Look what I drew today!”
“Mrs. Smith said draw what we want so I drew a polar bear.”
Her mom intently studied the drawing…scanning it with care.
“Oh, Christi” Her mom said smiling. “I didn’t know how talented you were.
I can honestly say I’ve never seen a bear more beautiful than her.”
“Why she’s not just standing still…you have her moving too.
I love the way you’ve drawn her legs.
and how’d you make the water look so blue?”
“I’ve heard polar bears can be mean but you’ve made yours look nice.
and look how you used little bits of paper and made it look like ice!”
“I love the emotion in her face…why she looks hungry too
and look in the corner you signed you name just like artists do!!
“I can’t believe how beautiful this is…and you were its creator.”
and that picture found a cherished spot on their refrigerator.
Years went by…Christi grew up into a woman proud and tall
and visiting Mom one day she saw her picture framed upon the wall.
It immediately brought back a memory and with it a few tears
“Mom.” she said, “I can’t believe you’ve kept this all these years.”
“Of course I’ve kept it.” Mom smiled “Because I have no doubt…
the day you drew that polar bear
Is the day your artist first came out.”
An', as [music] blowed an' blowed,
I often looked up at the sky
an' assed meself the question--
what is the stars,
what is the stars?
Juno and the Paycock
Sean O'Casey
Our sacred choir
prepares a new anthem
which, in summary, goes:
I have the deep soul blues today,
so Give Me Music.
This troubles me
because Music erupts from within,
more primal than a commodity
to be delivered on command.
What is wrapped and presented from outside
we may hear only as voices with rhythm
and harmony
and unresolved dissonance--
but all these together
are not yet our enchanting music muse
fully investing
infesting
musing through us.
Choral inside resounded music,
resonate through all four voices,
sharing our deep-rooted muse,
blues soul longing to speak and dance
music of the stars,
To come home again
where we have always shared soul belonged
inducing peace.
Sacred choirs
do not usually demand of matriarchal Earth,
Give Me Music!
More likely we invite experience
of more resilient inside dancing muses
healing like anciently redundant starlight.
I feel angst in soulful mourning
that cannot be healed through commanding
Give Me Music
or anything else, for that matter.
But, loss does invite deeper experience of resonance
and small bits of creatively digestible resolving dissonance
to feel better
about absence of remembering
What is our starlight soul
but well-sung dance
enlightening solidarity?
If we are asking Earth
to heal us with the Muse of starlight mystery,
then, indeed,
Give Us Music's full harvest
blowed an' blowed.
What about trying D’s? I suggested. They have bras.
We have been shopping for four hours.
I want to go to D’s to find a spectacular blouse.
Something colorful and artsy.
I always buy myself one jazzy blouse before school starts.
We drive to Store D’s.
My pal looks at a lacy red and pink bit of fluff.
We laugh at the price.
A turquoise bra with rhinestones is $68.
Red bra with bits of fake fur is $88.
Guess how much this one is? I ask. We laugh.
I find my colorful artsy blouse and leave happy.
My friend laments the closing of Kmart
Where she used to buy bras for the same price
as a box of cracker jacks.
Hotkey is a game played on a keyboard,
All players in click sensation, typing fast
Through elation past even having to see.
Bits of binary pixel grinding trying...
To keep up with the speed of a mind,
Blind by a bliss of the Poet's best.Write.
Right! A duel of light in the keyboard, to mind
1 rhyme just Write! Into the light, never pausing
To see if the keys keep up.
A game I play that I call my puck.of lips
As I send my best kisses to the wind.
A game I named...
Hotkey ;Penned.
And again, stories are flying in the air
Crashing and smashing speeds of light
There, are tales of love both new and old,
Electric fights with bitters told and some fibs,
Notches in rhymes of time, and Acrostics!
Liquid dreams with screams of tomorrow
In the writes of the Fellow. Poets at the
Table, writing fables at the speed of lightening...
Envisioning visioning reason listen listening
Scribbling clicks into pixel lights...
That follow behind. The mind of a Poet.
A duel of light with this keyboard of mine.
~There Is Only~
~The Pen called Fun~
UUUUUHhhhhh!!!!!
I woke up this morning to find I am bald,
Wear glasses and only 5foot 7 tall.
Me bodies out of shape and what is more,
Me bits are all shrivelled, scaly and small.
Who the hell says life begins at forty,
I’m a blind, toothless bald headed shorty.
Which woman is going to throw themselves at me,
She will have to be blond and rely on a dog to see.
I walk up the stairs and stop half way,
Me hearts pumping mad saying “lets call it a day.”
Me **** started making these terrible smelly sounds,
And parts of me body are having a race, the first to touch the ground.
I now need Viagra to turn me into a yup
Or scaffolding under to prop me bits up
Foreplay is leave me teeth in the glass
The climax of me sex life is squeezing a pimple on me ass
Oh youth where art thou,
You left me in a mess.
I look in the mirror and cuss with every breath,
I’ve turned into an obese belch farting sow.
And they say life begins at forty, with a body like this tell me how?
** It has been brought to my attention that I should not have used "blond" so if you are blond please change it in your mind to blind, thank you :-)
My black cat
Blessed with night's camouflage
A midnight prowler
On Allhallows Eve
Cold beauty
Statuesque
Silky movements
Ghoulish approach
Flash of stealth
As alley mice scatter
Battle zone of calisthenics
Fur flecked mayhem
Under a Halloween moon, cloud blurred, quietly grinning
Rodent, lifeless
At my doorstep (like Fed Ex)
"Mission accomplished"
ghostly meows
to summon my appearance
(interrupting my lurch to TV horror
brain freeze fuzzy)
Silent treat - a witching night token
Shovel the corpse to garden peace
A small underworld
plot of bones for mice gone missing
spirits unraveling
under a moon over stuffed with corpses
My black cat
Street savvy
In a Halloween hunt
always lethal
her rag-tag, midnight prowl
in bits and bites
of gore
Composed: October 22, 2020
(Revised April 12, 2021)
The cat didn't give a diddly squat,
she played her fiddle non-stop,
accompanied by her kitten's song
they yowled from dusk till dawn
and the townsfolk never slept!
The fat old cow could not jump
even if she tried (which, of course, she didn't),
she gave no milk, nor cream for butter
so down the road she was sent
to Old Moon's Butchery and Deli.
The little dog is not the laughing sort~
with no sleep and no warm milk
it's no wonder his mood is foul,
he bit the hand that tried to feed him
dried up bits of moldy bread.
The spoon then decided it was all to much,
what with the noise and loss of proper table-setting~
with rules of etiquette in a shambles,
she took her matching dish
and ran away to Once Upon A Time.
The moral of the story is never give a cat a fiddle!