Long Blurting Poems
Long Blurting Poems. Below are the most popular long Blurting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blurting poems by poem length and keyword.
Gallimaufry of linkedin words appeal,
(particularly spoken by renown orator)
'cept when unnamed poetaster afflicted
with chatterbox syndrome,
nonetheless deliberate effected
muzzle restraint imposed
suppressing groundswell analogous
to swollen dam bursting at seams
tongue kickstarts controlled regulator
tripping baffling babbling brook,
sans (cheesy) mouth trap
conscious effort required
maintaining exhausting mental vigilance
attention oriented toward "active listening"
chiming into conversation
when casually addressed
quasi Uber tracking,
sustaining, rendering...
pondering dialogue deliberating,
mustering, aiming, firing...
apropos response adhering
to utmost strictures de rigor,
versus loosing (in the sky)
scattershot poppycock
offbase blatherskite, asper
topic under discussion
synchronicity satisfies peculiar
personal logical paradigm,
despite senseless compulsive predilection
condemning premature ejaculation
plus crosstalk as penultimate transgression
pertaining to papa blurting
asynchronous interjection
consigning tight lipped penance
penile solitude condoned
should predicated persistent plague
prevail attributing penuriousness
lame excuse pardoning yours truly
remote possibility, threatening
spurious spontaneous splendiferous
albeit ill timed unspeakable retort
with hot sealing wax - most wicked
verbal utterance arrogantly
perforating, piercing, protruding,
puckering... two lips
escaping out mouth
more rapid than witnessing
the quick brown fox
jumps over the lazy dog.
“Simon, do you love me more than all these?”
“Yes Lord,” he replied while sensing a tease,
“You know that I love you.”
“Feed my lambs if you do.”
Peter then began to feel ill at ease.
“Simon, can you be sure that you love me?”
“You know that I love you, won't you agree?”
“If you will be my friend,
then to my sheep attend.”
Peter was wincing but could not foresee –
a third time Jesus would lower the bar.
“So do you like me. Can you go that far?”
Now Peter was hurting
and suddenly blurting,
“You know I love you, to ask seems bizarre.”
Again Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.
Now truly I tell you, once you could leap,
but when you are older
you'll lean on the shoulder
of someone who'll take you into the deep.”
John 21.15-18
(unsettled conscience beckons expunging)
Upon espying aesthetically pleasing lass
(considerably younger than me),
middle aged ma'am, or classy older woman
impetuousness overtakes rationality
courting acquaintanceship constituting
aforementioned type female
these premature ejaculations
blindside yours truly
upon comfort level
of unfamiliar lady recipient,
(especially years gone by
with then young daughters in tow)
oft times lacked conscientious wherewithal,
how embarrassing offspring felt
at their buffoon papa appearing,
intimating, kickstarting... rapport
at first blush evincing politesse,
yet keen eldest progeny
adept to discern in apropos overture,
despite being well mannered
couched foray, an unconscious insinuation
discerned, hinted, leveraged...
unspoken ulterior motive,
yet honest to dog overt blurting
complement toward veritable stranger
essentially, intrepidly, overtly...
stated genuine pleasantry
attempting to recoup losses
from utterly abysmal
socially withdrawn adolescence
could easily be interpreted
as sexual innuendo
(particularly witnessed by
acutely perceptive first born),
whose reverence, asper in this dada
plummeted, especially cuz
similar instances occurred,
where ambiguity
to formulate unfavorable conclusion
tacked on her growing
list of gripes against dada
loosely analogous to Martin Luther,
whereby his “95 Theses,”
which propounded two central beliefs -
the Bible and central religious authority -
humans may reach salvation only
by their faith and not by their deeds -
was to spark Protestant Reformation,
which essentially kindled
figurative fuel to the fire
incrementally cleaving paternal dotage
undesirable, no matter Pedophilia
never goaded what in mine mind
amounted proving daring do,
since suppressed infatuations
decades past, this then
extremely reclusive knew
nothing about powder milk biscuits
to give shy people the strength
they need to get up and
do what needs to be done.
Thus, an apologia without exception,
whether or not these words seen to deux
darling daughters, plus
other gals who experienced discomfort
at innocuous attempt
to get linkedin with
whirling wide webbing of women.
Say What
[Verse 1]
Con tend to the consequences, no pretense,
Stepping up like a contender, ready to commence,
Dodging lenders, yeah, I am broke but have no shame,
Sneaking around the loop holes, some treat it like a game.
Holding tight to the gems, living free and rude,
Life is a twisted lesson, even if it is crude.
[Chorus]
Freedom isn’t free, but I am ready for the fight,
Nothing to prove, yet I stand in the light,
From the dirt to the heights, with my machete I make a path,
My name is G3, the Spaghetti Monster would laugh,
When I fall on my ass.
[Verse 2}
Cruella in this jungle, watch the rich folks pout,
Every challenge met like I am ready for a bout,
Fat stacks of courage, laid up high in my mind,
Sipping on Jonny Blue, leaving pain behind.
Cuddle buddy left me, but I still rise again,
With that V8 type of growl, I am my own best friend.
[Chorus]
[Outro]
Lessons, they were learned, through the storm and the strife
In this ed up two faced mirrored matches, I own my own life.
Confinement
The Monkey Jumped 0ff of My Mack
Lyrics:
[Verse 1]
Baby, baby!
I am almost fading,
Got a Dade Murphy “Zero Cool,”
Detention appointment after school,
I could crash and burn, yet, I just might learn, the twists and turns,
That people just want to seem to talk about, how I took another route...
I might walk the line sometimes,
Still, I do it even in my work-shirt, sarong, kilt, or skirt,
I am NOT Wayne but still NOT worthy,
I am NOT the only one that got left behind hurting,
What the heck am I even blurting? Maybe I am just nerdy,
Yet, there is NO need to worry,
I wore a cross but as a crossdresser it got stolen,
Wondering for who, what, why.... I am still holding...
To embolden, it is an embarrassment, who cares where our parents went,
This right here you are talking to, had to really vent, it is another stint,
NOT stunt, to be so blunt, take a hint, I fought, to share this and forsake God,
I will rot, but I sought you, from the very start, just brush it off, be tough, bluff, take your stuff,
Because after all it is just some art.
You have my heart.
Blessed with common sense confidence
and combine the two incompetence
I've sense too scared too assert
or am dense uncared and blurting
individually both work well and shine
but when put together the circuit dies
I need to configure the controls for
my common sense and confidence
as combining their roles triggers
a can’t compute incompetence
thinking clearly working out the way
yet undoubtedly out to hide
or fearless energetic waves
spraying senseless as to why
with unconfigured controls
which conflict and dissolve
the power I hold
on their roles
I can’t think stay calm
and be active in command
without feeling bamboozled
producing confusion to use
I choose this stanza most unusefully confuse-ald
to leave you more bamboozled than usual
as I'm reduced to invent-use-and boozled-out
while you's all wonder what's this fuse-ald he's forged about?
and those last lines I have confidence in
though the common sense is missing
as I say this confidence shrinks
common sense presses suggestion
thinks I should go back address
but I'll keep lines confident they express
what I stress is my mess up to now lessen
Blessed with common sense confidence
and combine the two incompetence
The Christmas Pies
His manner was crusty and grouchy, hunched over, he looked very slouchy
Instead of good cheer he was happy when someone would cry
He hated each time it was snowing and some chubby elf ho ho hoing
And wished that the reindeer he owned never learned how to fly
No tinsel and light for adoring, he found it incredibly boring
And presents with ribbons and bows he would just never buy
Then one day when he was out walking, complaining inside, steady squawking
Up there on a window sill something real sweet he did spy
He figured it would be quite funny, and that’s where this poem gets punny
He reached up and ran off with some little kid’s Christmas pie
He ate till his stomach was hurting and all that he ate came out blurting
Now rolling in pain he cried out that he wished he could die
When up strolled the little kid playing and seeing what he was displaying
He wanted to help him he knew that he just had to try
He helped him up, showed he was caring, the old man just constantly staring
He couldn’t believe that a tear slowly formed in his eye
“I know that you heard I was yelping, but I can’t believe you are helping
A man who has stolen a treat that you’ve come to rely”
He answered his voice was so mellow, to this quite unfortunate fellow
That lending a hand to the needy, the season was nigh
So off to the bakery strolling, while church bells in steeples were tolling
He pointed and picked every flavor that he could surmise
Then to this young boy he delivered, a smile on his face it now quivered
A dozen or more wrapped in bows, freshly baked Christmas pies
Written for Michelle Faulkner’s Punny Holiday Pies Poetry Contest.
The title I chose was "The Pie who stole Christmas"
However, I could not keep it in the confines of the 20 line limit in the contest.
So, I thought I’d share it with you anyway. No sense wasting a poem.
Make for the corner, Fresno-Whittier
(there’s neighborhoods a whole lot prettier):
it’s probably ten-ninety-six,
but don’t draw weapons – that’s a Nix.
The man before you’s not a “perp”,
so don’t come on like Wyatt Earp.
Latina (claims she’s J-Lo’s cousin)
talking nineteen to the dozen
says she almost bought the farm,
but totally (we think) unharmed.
Find the pale-blue shotgun shack:
he’s out front, and she’s out back.
Ten-zero, boys. Proceed with caution.
Blame’s not something we apportion.
They love each other – had a fight,
same as any couple might.
Bear in mind one simple thing:
no-one wants a Rodney King.
So, L.A.’s Finest, when you swoop,
he’s sitting on the streetside stoop,
and spouting incoherent crap,
samurai sword across his lap.
Don’t pay no mind to what he’s blurting –
the guy’s okay. He’s simply hurting.
Don’t see a spic from Zapopan,
look at him closely. See the man.
Don’t think, “one of the wetback horde”:
think what it took to make that sword.
Someone tempered, shaped, embossed it.
And Juan’s a man. He simply lost it.
He came up here in eighty-eight,
and settled in the Orange State.
Wielded wrenches, welded axes,
raised his kids and paid his taxes,
and now he’s slowly catching on:
there’s nothing else. His youth is gone.
He mops the floors at Taco Bell,
and Carmencita gives him hell.
He’d wail a horn, like Bobby Prewitt,
but doesn’t have the art to do it.
So let’s forget the “better than”.
Go easy, fellas. See the man.
I was eleven years old
When I watched, from the shag carpeted floor,
Roots – the series proclaiming
Injustice beyond my comprehension
Prejudice that would prevent me
From ever blurting that horrible word
Despite all of my sins
The darkness that drowned out my hopes
Somedays making me feel like I deserved
The worst there is, the cell…
Where prisoners slept – the cross…
Where Jesus met death,
I didn’t say that word, the one starting with “n”
There was one girl in my class that year
She was black and she was my friend
I felt the need to share my heart with her
As we stood in a lunch line,
Waiting for the scoops of mashed potatoes and dumplings
The carton of milk that accompanied them
“I watched Roots…” I hesitated,
Watching her dark eyes fade gray
Before I could tell her that I felt ashamed
Of the whites who had been my ancestors
My forefathers, my relatives…
She turned away and didn’t look back
I never had the opportunity to say anything else
About Roots or my shame or the fact that
I wanted her to know I didn’t claim to understand
How she felt.. No, I wasn’t black
But I knew she was good and kind and I loved her
And, I absolutely wouldn’t ever say that word
The one that started with “n”, the one that taught me
That the darkness inside those called Master
Was a bigger darkness than the black skin of the slave
Hello friends and future friends. I hope my
choice of my poetic form is totally absurd.
I don't even know what an Epithalamium is;
so if you are looking for this form, I'm sorry
to disappoint. I haven't posted in awhile, and
perhaps it may be a bit instead of me just
blurting out my mind through my mouth.
I just got vack from a recent trip to
Cartagena, Colombia and have been
writing a collection.
I am going to title it "poems from a broard";
the broad in this case is mi Musa Melissa.
(Maureen, Melissa said you are beautiful
and kept saying "weeeeee" [your last comment]
Presently I am trying to organize poems that
I wrote on my trip as well as a lot written in the
airport waiting to reluctantly leave Cartagena.
Please por favor keep in mind that I would like
to present this as if a book; but know only 10
poems for a period of 24 hours.; so hang in
there with me and I will start to share.
Thanks to all the folks I have met here,
and the folks I hope to meet. Blessings!!!
(The following vignette barely resists collapsing into raw blurting.)
Ask my priest and he’ll tell you
I have a long-term boyfriend, whom
I’ve loved improperly for years.
He’s the custodian of my sin (my priest).
The church has its own language of fault.
He might not tell you, actually, priests have rules
- there are legalities aplenty - but he’s sure,
I’ve laid it before him (confession).
I outsource my gilt to professionals
- I’ve left my faults behind -
who wants to cary all of THAT around?
I have an unstable and somewhat elastic
belonging to the Holy Roman Catholic church,
but there are tethers of family that hold me
- one of the obligations of inherited identity -
and I find it convenient that my sins can be
formally acknowledged while socially invisible.
“You have an unrecognized attachment,” he’d said,
moral frameworks often expose their own inadequacies.
Alas, my morals sit uncomfortably behind my desires.
In my mind, I momentarily see a triangular road sign that reads,
“Warning: self-exposure: intimate realities may exceed dogmatic frameworks!”
“Say two Our Fathers, three Hail Mary, and one act of contrition - and in the future,” he said wincingly, “use your indoor blasphemy voice.”
Yeah, I frequently leave ‘Our Lady’ with scheduling issues.
I use an Apple Watch app to tally my penances (Counter for Watch - free).
He did complement me on my consistency and how politely I misbehave.
Still, despite my over-caffeinated, theatrical guilt and moral dissonance
- I’m clean. I keep my sins organized
- Heaven, here I come.
.
.
A song for this:
Stoney End by Laura Nyro
.
.
slang…
Priest = my authority figure/witness
Confession = is not absolution, it’s documentation
Our Lady = Notre Dame Cathedral