Long Botch Poems
Long Botch Poems. Below are the most popular long Botch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Botch poems by poem length and keyword.
Summer of 1990,
Ill winds had blown all year,
I was feeling kind of battered,
I lived in constant fear,
Mother died, left my cheating wife,
Lost my job, no more value to life...
My last lifeline was my father,
In deepest mourning too,
I knew how bad we were hurting,
I knew what I wished to do...
So that summer I drove him and I,
To Montauk, Long Island, under beautiful sky,
With the world's most beautiful beaches,
Restaurants, historic sights,
120 miles away...
Anticipating a bit more than fun
days and nights....
See, I needed no return ticket,
Planned not to travel back home
I would marry the Atlantic Ocean,
No more in pain to roam....
Walk down the wedding aisle,
into the deepest sea....
My only concern, my father,
How much more sufffering would there be?
But sometimes one's own pain,
Overwhelms reason and heart,
I was prepared to be selfish,
And take my chance to depart...
We had some days of fun,
But on my chosen day,
I brought a beach chair to the beach,
Tape recorder, bottle of scotch...
Sat facing the mighty ocean,
Hoping this I would not botch...
Spent all night, and next morning,
Sitting by, and staring at, the sea...
Scotch seemed ineffective,
Maybe too much on the mind for me....
Of course the music was comforting,
All from the 30's and 40's,
Music my father taught me to love,
My mind was racing nowhere,
There was no insight from above...
Eventually I grew weary,
Returned to my seaside room,
My father relieved to see me,
Somehow that eased my gloom...
See, there's still love for me out there,
And lots for me to do...
How could I hurt this injured warrior,
A man who had my deepest admiration,
Love, and true respect...
I had been foolish to even think it,
And later, when I thought about it,
For one to take one's own options,
Is to disdain God's gift of life,
To spit in his face, even...
Perhaps creating God's strife...
So, I survived, and learned much,
From that fateful day...
When all seems completely hopeless,
Somehow God will find a way.
Epilogue; Driving home, radio played the Eagles, "Hotel California"...a song
which has new meanings to me, and never fails to remind me when I chose,
at the last moment, to step back from death, and seek the magic of hope, faith,
and love.
tom
The night was frigid and at its poorest,
But who am I to judge, when I was not the wisest,
A slight breeze crawled up my spine,
I could taste the wind’s saltiest brine.
My eyes conveyed to an old lodge,
So I can refuge, from this monstrous botch.
The place was dim, obnoxious and dingy,
But thank god there is no hole for the breeze to carry.
But what was interesting, that there was a mural,
It was so boundless, that it gave an unsettling moral.
The colors were faded, and burdened with marks,
Like it was meant to be destroyed, no needed remarks.
It displayed pictures of a young woman and maid,
I wonder who was the artisan that made this eerie portrait.
The face of the woman was covered with graze,
But the maid was gnarly and gave deep piercing evil gaze.
For a moment I thought, I had gone mad,
When I thought the maid turned from wicked to sad.
I blinked my visions, to trust my perception,
I opened my eyes, to found the maid was not in front of the reception.
My face was pale, my hairs were struck,
I pounced up when I heard the lightning struck.
I thought to myself I was delirious,
Maybe the maid was not actually there, no need to conclude something mysterious.
I waited a duration until the weather calmed down,
But the French maid entity made my brain vigorously mount.
The brews were gone, I got ready to abandon,
When I looked at the painting before, to eased my tension.
My limbs were trembling , as I took a deep stare,
First the maid, now the scrawny woman wasn’t there.
I backed to leave when voices disturbed me,
saying “You’re going nowhere, this is the place you’ll ever be.”
I rushed towards the exit when I still had my sane,
Till I dropped down realized my legs were shackled with chains.
I got up apprehended that my costume is now white,
And my hands were completely immovable as it was actually shut tight.
The lodge was dying into an atrocious looking room,
I was squirming on the floor, demanding release from this horrible doom.
Until I notice on top of the iron door,
A header flaunting; “the mental institution of schizophrenia & more”.
Therewithal, profluent life ettles it's while.
Thitherward, from Death's bleak campanile
Grim antiphonals serenade.
A capriccio, the slashing swipe of the reaper's scythe
will serenade.
Stringent Death forthwith anoints the mithridate to
Life's cantankerous and rankling ado
Hither now come, anon recondite Azrael, neither protend
nor annex this throttled contretemps.
The antiphonal of the reaper's cavalier scythe
Shall now serenade.
Awhirl, like kerfs demarcated
Years, bollixed, muzzy and brattled
shall holus-bolus expire.
No retaliation to death's gloomy surcease
No ingenious riposte to the reaper's final cleave.
Bootless now to don the amulets,
squeeze the jujus,
Kiss the talismans,
clutch the periapts or
Attire in steely cataphract.
The serenading of the reaper's scythe,
it's efficacy shall blithely cleave.
Bedim mine eyes from life's assailing
Bedim mine eyes from life's poltroonery
Vocabulary: barghest-a goblin fabled to portend misfortune; monody-funeral song;
antiphonal-chant; protend-to protract in time/lengthen; riposte-n. in fencing, a quick
return/thrust; brattle-v.-to make rattling or clattering noises;
cavalier-supercillious/disdainful/haughty; muzzy-hazy; attaint-v. to condemn; rankle-to
give pain/nettle/gnaw; contretemps-untoward accident/hitch; throttle-v.to
choke/suffocate/strangle/stiffle; bollix-v.-to bungle or botch; holus-bolus-adv.-all at
once/altoghter; mithridate-antidote against poison; cataphract-suit of armor for the
whole body; poltroonery-n. cowardice; a capriccio-musical piece characterized by
improvisation; ettle-to intend/to prepare; campanile-free standing bell tower; kerf-a
groove or notch
Azrael-the angel that helps souls from living to enter the afterlife; recondite-not
easily understood/abstruce;
periapt-a charm worn to ward of evil; juju-object believed to contain magical powers;
contretemps-disruptive unforeseen event; protend-to hold out or stretch forth
Fast as an atomic banshee, he roils sacred halls
of White House clutches levers with brass balls
American powers remain unrestrained when he calls
Armada to exorcise imagine aery dragons,
he inarticulately falls
non-communicative, faux eruditely generative,
and heartily galls
toward this introspective kickstarter male,
and most likely others he appalls.
-------------------------------------------------
My inner guru hankers to share voice
amidst increasing din
and clamors in reaction to insidious machinations fin
hushed via Machiavellian offal prince,
who unleashes clout with Cheshire grin
unconcerned about population, chaste,
from their wells Fargo wing.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Most every citizen banker, and kin
stared down vis a vis fierce-some intimations
catapult escalating, spin
laughing at rigged voting outlook
gratefully inflicts populace with monstrous win
doomsday soldiers -
art of the deal book not writ by said urchin.
-------------------------------------------------
Though regularly affiliated with top notch
kudos to virtual soapbox platform
re: all poetry to express Bing averse
toward ill feted Barron settlement
of United States government tossed like scotch
on thar hocks, thus an uneasy angst
also invisibly grabs me by the crotch
cuz das Trump power monger,
I fear rubric of democracy, he will botch!
-------------------------------------------------
This poem alternately titled -
harbinger of political debacle wolf find antipode
where toxic brew at crack of 12 a.m.
January 20th 2017 doth bode
doctored pregnant swollen tidal anarchistic military toad
deeds sheepishly shape into battalions
in tandem - fraternal order of police erode
Civilian protesters unite with ordinary citizen bankers
crowdsource sing metallic ca clash to goad
Form:
In the yonderscape ; neither here nor there, yet within sight, An Emogician appears in a lucid dream in white The top hat and all and holding an atomic pocket watch. He informs you, He is Authomas come to fix the botch, in the COG Cognitive Oversight Grid. It has mareware, reaching into the hat, with a grin. So hold on and beware Awakening at the computer screen. It must be a trick. A muffled scream unseen says, it is original lunatic I feel my body jerk, falling back to sleep. A yellow balloon in the corner weeps, as a dark shadow grows on the wall. The balloon laughing, begins to fall. Landing on a pin; Yelling you won’t die The bursting yellow into blue sky Flying towards a sun filled horizon A butterfly moon begins its rising Forgetting I was dreaming. Reality had kissed him.All is safe, at the Ai Telepathic Liaison Avatar Neuro Tech. System
I
You died at 22; left me alive
At 25 to write this sonnet tomb;
Block letters hewn, with fumbling hands I drive
This pen in metered clangs around your room.
In desperate pause, I step away to see
The ugly product of my trembling hands.
What is the use? These sculpted memories be
But dross unfit for what your name demands.
Oblivion. The void awaiting those
Who died before their fame could last.
I had no doubts; The noble path you chose
Was working, but the sickness worked too fast.
I look upon this tomb, its failed role;
And for your sake, elect to sell my soul.
II
How many wives of Donne, their throats to slit,
Must I enlist? The author forced to watch.
“A thousand Holy Sonnets you shall writ!
Or else this woman too! I’ll butcher! Botch!”
A Monster I’ve become, demanding text,
Out from this poet’s brain like industry;
Extruding beauty, meter, rhythm, “Next!"
"You’ll write for Mine! My Love! In chains you’ll be!”
Until my thirst for blood be satisfied,
But blood so written out in papered rhyme,
Enough to fill soft veins of her's who died;
"Mikaela! Write it Man! Inspired this time!"
I can't release the weeping poet Donne,
Until immortal fame this woman's won.
III
"Put down the pen!" I hear my lips exclaim;
And with a shudder 'waken in disgust --
Hungover mind arrested from the game
Of making all things right with blood and lust.
The Fates, God! took you cruelly from this place,
You lying there, in gurney, bridging realms.
We prayed around your body holding space,
Your plastic altar donning wired helms.
But now in Spirit, the Body finished,
I dream you're still alive atop a tree;
In that Garden, Eden, undiminished,
See "New Jerusalem" at peace; you're free.
You wrote your life: impassioned, selfless ink;
I pray you've found Utopia, I think.
I loved Chuckie Egg because it reminded me of life,
With its principles which seem many when in strife,
But which are few, like seven or eight, alive and well,
Robust, vital and sensuous, and which you can sell.
Chuckie only had eight unique levels, were repeated,
They were repeated five times, with one culminated,
So there were forty-one levels, all very deftly arrayed,
For you to interact with, all of your dexterity displayed.
Life never demands too much, with the right people,
And level one let you eat all the hen feed and be feeble;
It let you skip needlessly like a child playing hop-scotch,
Allowing you to make mistakes and almost to botch.
You were supposed to feel like Hen House Harry, useful,
But sometimes I thought the caged bird related, frightful,
There were ducks who stole your corn and could kill,
Such that being caged was no fun, not needed, no thrill.
I was not having fun in a Christian family religious,
And felt like a caged bird squawking, a child rebellious;
When my parents thought I was having fun at services,
I just needed released from prison, such discrepancies.
I quickly rose to level nine, a repeat of the first level,
But the bird was loose and sometimes I him did bevel,
But i was never nasty to him but enticed him sometimes,
Using the elevators, purple ladders and jumps at times.
The golden egg reminded me of evolution, that it took,
And that every life was from a golden egg, not crook,
And I worked out that “What came first, chicken or egg?”
Was a creationist question and not an evolutionist peg.
The black background just reminded me of outer space,
Motional itself, so validating the motion of our grace;
It’s not what your background is that matters or sticks,
But what you do with it and impose on it, that’s the tricks.
Poetry Soup Is…
A place to post words and be heard
a platform for prose, a poet’s eatery
A sonneteer’s palace, for the sagacious or the absurd
A silver chalice that pours golden poetry
Rhymed and skillfully quilled
Artful rhythmic compositions, sublimely finished
Inspirational ink spilled,
authentic and unblemished
Poetry Soup Is…
Ramen in a cup
Slurp up noodles of literary lines grand
or footles so clever that never end
by Brian Strand
Sensual scribbles we sup,
Miraculous moving messages
Tasty spiritual nibbles
Share Zen in a bowl
Pho ga is chicken and
miso broth for the soul,
Inspirational Ink that takes
the breath away
Tsunami of wisdom
Confusion, and disarray
Poetry Soup Is…
Sovereign power poets, feud they may
Both mixes are needed, Sweet and Sour
Poe “The Raven” guy and Longfellow to my dismay
We become seeded, behind the pen there’s power,
We allude to epic ballad chowder
Gently add an attitude to an articulate mind
Pink sea salt, red chili powder
With crushed white pepper be kind
Without comparison where would we be?
It was George Harrison, his plagiarism
My Sweet Lord, to another’s tune he’d copy
Poetry Soup Is…
We came aboard this friendship—fleet liner
All that’s needed is a gift of language
And we have a thick savory brothy soup diner
Harmonic words woven together
It takes me a bit longer than most to write
of unrequited love and forevers
Botch it up I might, it’s swim or sink!
For a brain to pick such as mine
I should have used the days wiser
Tells of withered wasted time, I think
I thank my lucky stars
I am a verse improviser
If you think the English language is easy to speak,
Perhaps you have a thing, or two, to learn.
You might say “axed” when you mean “asked”
When is it appropriate to say “dang,” “darn,” or “durn?”
“Advice” or “advise,” ”accept” or “except,” --a curse
Tempted to use “illicit” when you mean “elicit?”
Misusing “averse” when you mean “adverse?”
If you are not careful, you will completely botch it.
“Farther” and “further” are especially difficult:
One describes distance, the other quantity, or degree,
“Hanged” or “hung” present similar predicaments,
In both cases one word should do, but don’t “axe” me.
Who knew “ingenious” and “ingenuous” aren’t the same,
And few folks get “nauseous” and “nauseated” right.
Do you have “relatives” or “relations” or “relationships?”
If you want to quote an authority, do you use “site” or “cite”?
What is the difference between “already” and “all ready?”
Which one is correct “could care less” or “couldn’t care less?
Not to mention when you use “altogether” or “all together,”
Is it “there’s” “theirs,” “they’re”, its or it’s --what a mess!
“Continual” or “continuous,” and “fewer” or “less,”
“Conscience” and “conscious” lead some folks astray.
Are you “enthused” or “enthusiastic,” “infer” or “imply?
I hesitate to bring up the inevitable “can” or “may!”
So, “them” or “those” foreigners should learn "our tongue;"
It’ll make life simpler, “to,” “two” or “too,” for everyone.
“Who” or “whom?” -- please, let’s give these folks a break
Because English is not so easy, when all is said and done!
In the square of the town, is an old wooden clock
with a movement that only one time has been wound.
You can try to get answers, but no one will talk,
though the rumors of horrible sights still abound.
It was scheduled to start up on All Hallows’ Eve,
and the clockmaker finished his work on the job,
was collecting his tools and preparing to leave,
when a spindle broke loose and it started to throb.
When he opened the door to see what was amiss,
’twas the mainspring went flying and pierced through his chest.
Wretched coil pinned him there with a terrible hiss;
as if that wasn’t bad enough, wait for the rest.
Since the door had been opened, the weights were now free,
and then gravity sent things from bad to much worse,
for the image observers say they can’t unsee
were his arms spinning wildly, like somebody cursed.
The long arms of the clock had been snagged on his shirt,
and the force of the mainspring just dragged them around,
and for thirty long seconds, no eyes could divert,
till his arms came to rest as the weights hit the ground.
When they got him, his arms were at nine and at three;
seems the clock’s strange malfunction was caused by his botch.
As for whom the bell tolls, friend, we all check to see,
but they all look away when they’re winding their watch.
----------
Lol, my wife says she's sleeping with one eye open tonight...
This was supposed to be for Craig Cornish's contest, but one
never knows where these things are headed. Turns out
anapestic tetrameter is pretty good for telling yarns.
I hope Terry Flood will approve!