Long Bores Poems
Long Bores Poems. Below are the most popular long Bores by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bores poems by poem length and keyword.
Rainy Monday
The weekend's done, we had our fun;
wake up to Monday, work once more.
Raised up the shade, where is the Sun?
A rainy workday now in store!
A Monday means to get in gear;
to work a job, or do house chores.
Whichever one, away or near,
without sunshine, it surely bores.
A rainy Monday lets us down
no reason to get out of bed.
Clouds paint the sky in grayish brown
that keeps us sleepy, feet to head.
Bad way to start the week with rain;
need Sun to boost our energy.
With rain it goes right down the drain;
and Sun next day, no guarantee.
But must go on, 'cause rain or shine,
we need to do what we must do.
Think happy smiles, give thumbs-up sign;
sometimes from Sun, we need rest too!
Sandra M. Haight
~2nd Place~
Contest: Rainy Days and Monday
Sponsor: Silent One
Judged: 02/23/2018
The Thinker
These are precarious times we’re living in
That shakes our fancy but bores us to a whim.
When the right hand doesn’t know the other,
And as the left leg steps forward, the right one falters.
And everywhere, here and there, is laughing,
But that isn’t all that’s happening.
I thought about it afterwards and felt chagrined.
I knew somebody, somewhere, was suffering.
And as my brain bounces away from poking at the fat,
I look this way and that, while others look distract.
Ergo, I surmise following deliberation of fact:
There’s no difference between the intellectuals and the mass.
And as inspiration flows from my head to feet.
I think I’m smarter than what I appear to be.
Friggity friggity!
MacRaith and O’ Tuama:
poets incessant and
blabbering bores.
Publican served insults –
flibbertigibbeting.
Rhetoric ingrained dull;
flyting supreme!
________________________________________________________
The limerick is an English comedic five-line poem. The form could be found in England as far back as the early part of the 18th-century. It is thought to be derived from the Maigue Poets of Croom, County Limerick (depicted here). When the two erstwhile friends, Sean O’ Tuama and Andrias MacRaith, had a falling out they started trading insults (in rhyme format), ie flyting.
LEXICON
flibbertigibbeting: frivolous, flighty, or excessively talk.
Flyting or fliting is a contest consisting of the exchange of insults between two parties, often conducted in verse.
The Raven by The Alan Parsons Project
https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=170&v=mfBpxfRAPo4
through my sleeping
a bit of napping
I kissed the glimpse
of a wrapper tapping...
countless creations
of ever lasting
flipped the switch
in tricks of timing
t’is only this...
at pebbles shore
the silken lips
of evermore
whispering in mist
of wishes lore
then into heaven
raven soars
and to amazement
said “once more!”
the very quoth
as heard before
“this nameless... evermore"
a heart of hope
no burden bores
as raven sights
“the Jovian shore”
and so upon
a starlight twinkling
lines of rhyme
by way of thinking
"called the raven"
linked and syncing
into a maddening
demons dream
" Welcome...
to The Screen"
Tell those little sh*ts to get their grubby mitts off our adored BBC
Applaud our global player & noble naysayer slayer lobal pedigree
Proof sleuth with facts truth acts & fights spoofs aloof uncouth pacts
Boorish bores banging on more doors scores culture wars at all hours
Sod off you toff …from the off this creation belongs to the nation is ours
Beacons lights..Aunty's moreish delights & rights wrongs for you & me..
The BBC
Want views on that ruse which skews slews media does confuse
Paul & Ian with their peers spurn amuse burn abuse turn the screws
Politicians churn flee the crew on their pews glee at taking the pee
Cheers for 30 years of you know who.. Have I got News for You
The BBC
The tally of trail blazing skits..wits rally with amazing gambits & hits
Us all gladder for the traitors creators or scribes jibes of Blackadder
Del boy joy rapscallion with medallion rules..only fools & horses
BBC our greatest cultural forces can be racy & pacy going doolally
Partridge in a flair tree or nothing can scare her..Sarah in Happy Valley
Or might reckon Barry does marry Essex should beckon.. Gavin & Stacey
The BBC
A fix of the world’s best radio mix…our choice the alternative voice of 6
Caress finesse of TMS ..best way to end Saturday bless Match of the Day
All the classical Pom aplomb from a night at the Proms in the Albert Hall
London realms cover to cover from that other older brother Robert Elms
Our plea she must be free to bewitch so don't bit*h & ditch the licence fee
The BBC
Which is why especially today I say Aunty…our everlasting British Broadcasting corporation
Ignore twits & gits & with the rest of the nation..thanks for casting our cultural celebration
I lean on you..critics in a tizz hither thither we dithers it "Withers" lean on me...love u to bits!
Won’t lie will tell us why.. the objective high vis collective “WE” …that is and could only be
The BBC
He races aggressively from task to task,
churning through projects and products and pay.
Optimize, order, overdeliver.
Improve! For fast fades the day ...
You'd think he bores easy and can't sit still,
can't admire slow pleasures of life.
And you know it's pride or fear that drives him,
though he claims most of it's for a wife.
But you're wrong ... in his heart -
hooked up to adrenaline drips -
he fights for a dream of utter tranquility:
holding her, kissing her eager lips.
Slow love in a garden of beauty sublime.
No more pain. No progress of matter.
Just two hearts caught up in excelsior spirals,
while soul-bursting tears freely spatter ...
18 September 2023
Startled, I woke up in a fright.
The silhouette in the mirror is there again tonight.
Peering closer, the form is ghastly;
Pinching myself, covering my head, and lastly
Counting to ten and peeking through my fingers,
It must be a ghost as his skeleton hands linger
On the latch of the bottom drawer.
His long bony fingers fling my clothes on the floor.
I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again—what a nightmare!
His reflection bores into me as he decides what to wear.
The oval mirror is home to this spooky creep;
At his feet, my clothes are still in a heap.
Eerily, I watched as he pulled shirt after shirt over his skeleton head.
Shivers ran down my arms and I screamed “You are not real; you are dead!”
He turned around; his bony finger shook.
I gasped as he pointed and said, “How do I look?”
God, I am but
a mere poet.
Heaven knows,
I show it.
Not here to wash
poets in the grand
waves of the Sea of
Thesaurus.
Speaking for myself
and others,it really
bores many of us.
Nor in imagery so
grandiose there are
too many of those!
Like an uncontrollable,
garden hose.
I just try to be honest
and clear!
No tricks, no zaniness
like a runaway, deer.
I keep my poems short
I do respect your time.
You will find truth, I do
promise.
No falsehoods of any
kind!
4/15/2021
In the atmospherev of love, a paradox reigns
Where women chase the tumult, the heart's pains
A nice guy's gentle touch, a soothing breeze
Bores them, and they yearn for the stormy seas
Peace, a virtue men pursue, is a curse
To women, who crave the whirlwind's traverse
A man will flee the drama, the emotional strife
But women cling to the rollercoaster of life
The sweet-bitter thrill, a potent aphrodisiac
Lures them, and they succumb to its toxic charm
Even in calm waters, they'll stir up the deep
And conjure dramas, their souls to keep
A nice guy's kindness, they'll exploit and use
But a bad boy's edge, they'll crave and refuse
To let him change, for in his rough terrain
Lies the excitement, the thrill of the unknown game
If he yields, she'll scorn him, her attraction lost
For the bad boy's mystique, she cannot be crossed
But if he resists, she'll stay, her passions aflame
Tethered to the chase, the emotional game
So, men, beware, the earlier you know
The better for you, to traverse this woe
Nice guys don't win, their hearts laid bare
For women's hearts beat for instability's snare
Treat them as they wish, with a measured hand
Don't overdo, don't try to understand
For in the tumult, they'll find their delight
And in the peace, a dull, unending night.
Lady Melanie with silver locks
Loved her bonbons, bagels, and graved lox.
Curmudgeon geezers viewed her a fox,
But she loved them less than chicken pox.
Melanie kept free as best she could.
She allowed no time for coquetry
Or Penelope-style stitchery.
But three bores persistence understood.
Trini, a jet jockey CEO
Lived his life allegro con brio.
As his lovely red Lamborghini,
His love raced too fast for Melanie.
Claude, a failed nebulous maunderer,
Gossip, post-modern philosopher
Believed everything in life was free,
Which made sweet Mellie his property.
Her third paramour drove flat-bed trucks.
When Bo misspoke, he would say “Aw shucks!”
And then, hands on, wordlessly switch gears.
She cast him off leaving him in tears.
Single she may wait until too late,
For a blissful bridal altar state.
Should her three bores e'er face a hot date
At least she shall stand at heaven’s gate.