Long Char Poems
Long Char Poems. Below are the most popular long Char by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Char poems by poem length and keyword.
Destroyer, discrepancies.
How to sort them out?
Dismantle, then fire post-freeze.
River, run rue rout.
Destrier, to break mid-stride.
Sacrifice a pawn.
Midnight train, buy ticket, ride.
That will mow the lawn.
Priceless? Quite a prize? Surmise.
In passing? En prise.
Ring? Alchemy. Arcane? Rise.
Stifled cries? No lies.
Falconer, thy widening gyre.
Second coming? Now.
Come and see? Fine funeral pyre.
Live wire, take a bow!
Broil and char? From near to far.
Muskellunge and gar.
Peacocks pretty, poison par.
Dream, seem. Lead. Red star.
Serenity? Stable, sage.
Madness, mycophage.
Roundabout, rill. Rusty cage.
Symptoms mad, thy age.
Ark electric, how you burn.
Tones, burst sonic flame.
Mind cartoons? Ashes in urn.
Same game? Claim the name.
Armies, mechanize and wail.
Never end, our tale.
Weak resistance stale, you fail.
Blaspheme, boil and bail.
Silver, sickles. Red regrets.
Automaton, glean:
He who risks it all once bets.
Wind and wintergreen...
It was a lovely morning and we - that is Marge and me
decided the kids deserved a treat, so off we went.
We live in Barking, so we didn't have far to go.
We did the City and wandered down to Pudding Lane,
where once the king's bakery stood -
before it went up in flames, taking most of London with it.
The king loved his loaves hot.
We saw Wren's masterpiece and whispered in the gallery,
came out and wondered where to go next. Marge said:
"Bill, ask that bobby, he looks the friendly type."
So I went up to him and said:
"Good morning, Constable,
any suggestions for an excursion without frills?"
"I see the good lady's with you,
so it can't be Soho and cheap thrills.
Take 'em down to Hyde Park, Speakers' Corner,
round that way. You can take the Central Line."
That got us to Marble Arch in no time.
"Could do with a cuppa char" - that was Marge, not me
."Why don't we have a look at the speakers,
then go to that corner house for some nice cream buns?"
Marge agreed, so we walked over to the railings.
One guy was a Communist intent on revolution,
another a vegetarian, who said Adam and eve ate figs
until the fall, after which they ate pork pies and beef rolls.
Then there was this West Indian who ..
but then this other geezer caught my eye.
He was standing there on his soap box under a banner:
"The End is at Hand. Prepare to meet thy Doom."
His suit was black, hardly surprising, his shirt white,
but his face wore a dirty smirk.
All else fitted but the grin.
Was he savouring the memory of some naughtiness or sin?
Strange happiness amid prophecies dire of gloom.
"Uranium comes from Heaven,
and Plutonium from Hell.
And the two is gettin' married.
Jingle, jangle does the bell.
If you're good, you'll go to Heaven.
If not, you know the place.
Either way, be gettin' ready.
Thin's is moving at a pace."
So I said to Marge:
"Marge, get the kids.
Let's have a cuppa while we can.."
"Silly," said Marge, "it's hours before closing time."
"Not according to what he says, it ain't," I said.
Your intelligence, as good as driving amazing cars,
You dole out goodness, generously to all your pals,
Your wisdom, unassailably perches on the highest bar,
While foolish people, buried their's in a maar.
Your smiles burn sadness to a char,
Your beauty invites love to a chair,
Your kindness takes friendship a distance far,
The love you share is without a fear.
Your greatness, noone can ever dare,
In your heart, God's love is already there,
In the eyes of your enemies are rains of tears,
Meanwhile, to your prayers, God has his listening ears.
To your successes, God is always giving you cheers,
In divine blessings, God gave you the largest shares,
The toga of celestial favours, God made you a nice one to wear,
Heavenly salvation, God turns it into your special ware.
Like a daydream of red and black,
I see two faces in your smile.
Ineptitude reigns in this arena for the faint-hearted.
We traverse this tiny land-
Going from one trap on to the next.
As if waking from some nightmare,
I see my life shredded like flesh beneath scalpel.
Picking up pieces that cannot be put back,
we bend to pick them just the same.
Like soldiers marching on to some great battle,
word has not yet reached, the war’s been lost.
Take with you a piece of cloth torn,
as if remembrance would keep your life intact.
But dreams forsaken are just that;
And that is nothing to be retrieved.
Broken spirits and hair in your eyes,
those curls always tell the same story.
A lullaby for the babes held swathed,
and danced to and fro.
In red and black we drape our walls;
Dare not let the moon light shine in.
Beams that char your flesh
and burn your swollen eyes.
Encouraging decomposition
as stagnation has since set in.
How many faces do you see in my eyes,
how many fates are entertained?
We dream in sacred rooms,
we expire only in public forums.
Tears I lent to you are left to spoil,
when not fresh there is no impact.
Just like the black conceals our blood.
Fever dreams are our lives,
our lives are but fever dreams.
THE CLEANER . . .
When I was younger, I just wanted to be a cleaner
After watching all the espionage films, I did gleaner
But, saying this all they did, was hand me a brush
Thinking to myself, you have got it all wrong mush
I swept the floors, thought this isn’t getting me far
When I said cleaner, I meant cleaner & not the char
I grew to regret my remarks, as more brooms I got
Until one day I thought, I’ve just had my flipping lot
Did 007 or Charles Bronson - start at the same level
If so, did they have the pleasure of a auto dust devil
Sucking in all the bad guys into their strong vacuums
While alas I’m still stood here holding all the brooms
So I thought just maybe, there is not a real difference
Just a different way in the art - of the hit deliverance
Sweeping away the cob webs, as if they are bad guys
As each bit of dust hit the dust, one of bad guys dies
Power of thought, is quite amazing, all said and done
But hiding in the bushes, sounds a little bit, more fun
Indiana Shaw . . . : )
Gloriously "FAKE" Early Boyhood
Yah, ma brew their,
and American sister golden hair -
afar and away
book as aye ken ream hem bar,
yea when yar whiz jist a bay
bee, hun me
verily hoppy goo
loo key lil boy whar 'r each day
o'r flowed with giddiness oot nar the
secluded Harris estuary
frolicked amidst muscled shoals
gnome hatter sky turned
f'ty shades o' gray
hawk cool when
barf heat squished sand
hall lung pristine beach hooray
ah...those memories (hmm...oh...well)
wii ch war newt mine,
boot bar rowed fur room Jay
son and argonauts cave his Oh kay
seance ah waz tip poor
tuff ford me own may
mar ease, noon thee lass nay
var tha lease, aye fain tis eyes hub boat
hoof "FAKE" sea
yuck rat passageway
along tha loon lee coo west
hove yar hug quay
thee pass sea if 'ick Ou shin sum
moo with as ray
dee aunt gull lass oon lake now win me
daughter ring auld age aye
wharf heal moss elf ill eagle
red dee tug hoe bye
bye, cuz hive eel
emotionally frenzied, harried,
and jangled as if
o'er dost hay'n reedy to die
on barb bit char writs eye
lichen to a class five
Saffir-Simpson Hurricane, no...no...no...
methinks oh pen hee van
thar iz a big oop stares "guy"
seen 'm once, when we booth said "Hi"
aye whiz juiced up t'har - me no lie,
what, a stripling lad,
(thus jist man hedge gin my
flat hand outstretched wheel nigh
fin gars call loess tug getter try
tou pet yar palm awk
coo pull hove feet
fur him tha floor),
now (NOT FAKE) chalk
wii ch hide id hawk
daring ma prime er skool daze
didst slip smooth white
totally tubular woo din
lock (like) thin small
round joint long stalk
con vein y'ant lee a'signed
tuck clap 'race ears oot side den maze
wen axed bite t'eat char, me Noah talk!
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
How I wish to be a flame
To enlighten those in the dark
To grow to a fire to char -
The evil designers on earth
But I am just a man among the wolves
I succumb to their rules
And they spit fire on my face
To blind and slave my self to their side.
How I wish to be a stream
Quenching the thirsty
To grow to a flood and-
To drown those covetous planners.
But I am just a man among the wolves
Those who bottles even the rivers
And serve venom in lovely wraps
And we succumb to their deals.
How I wish to be a morning breeze
To cool the broken hearts
And to grow to a storm
To wipe away those rape mother earth.
But I am just a man among the wolves
Jailed with burdens of an existence
Almost bent with heavy shoulders
With weight of budget they brought.
I know my wishes are futile
I would go to the earth where I belong
To nestle in her womb again
As the gentle peace ascends.
Genuine Fecklessness Exemplifies Despondent Creature Because...
Lackluster life lived
as each subsequent day,
a carbon copy
of the one before,
though far from
being clinically depressed, this boar
ring guilt ridden Capitalist decries
mass consumerist paradigm
satiating the whore
rub bull Lady Liberty, where more
disinclination arises, per
crossing upcoming birthdays corridor
January 13th finds
increased repugnance being part
of materialistic culture club
as hellacious tore
char, implied societal behavior
expects blind submission
subjected to glore
re: us lee spouting
hallelujah nauseating your
every five senses to accept
point blank, Nee pay adore
ration, asper goyish gaiety bon jure
blared, foisted, and
lobbed upon every
man, woman, and child of society,
which imposition, this
outlier doth deplore
as an avowed antiestablishmentarian
to thee very core,
of my being, who
experiences continuous ab hoar
rent theoretical strings
of disappointments pour
ring down (like confetti)
from on high, viz directly
linkedin as nonconformist eyesore
from cradle to... when,
me cremated ashes get scattered,
though right now... still technically
alive, at least... I think so
(despite not yet),
being gratefully dead...
nearing three score
years, yet upon
my demise wherefore
welcoming relief against
(feeling like the oddball),
shares his glumness
weighing me down, where
every step an arduous chore
his compunction being open to explore
living off the grid, or
alternatively joining thee dacor
oven intentional community,
cuz he seems severely mismatched,
where vast material consumption,
especially accentuated with
holiday season heavily pitched
to spend every
last red cent, (and beg
borrow, max out on credit, or steal)
to splurge for
expectation to endure
the helter skelter frenetic
Black Friday and Cyber Monday
fire sales kindling
a bonanza galore!
Plucking the Poisonous Parrot
Antonia had been a happy go lucky flamingo until her wings cracked
Now cascades of monotonous voices extracted venomous bickering
The parrot she took on as a charity case to quell her sadness now pecked
And would not shut up until the cage engulfed both vicious black souls
In her black box of contempt and too tired to shine life plucked away
Her coat tarred and feathered hanging from a thread of Munch’s scream
She attempted to touch away the poisonous croaking until she hung
Upside down from the swing with her head drowning in char coaled paint
Which oozed into her every pore morose and devoid of harmony’s rainbow
She became so void that all chakras burned in toxic cantankerous fire
Beatings of her life parroted a cacophonous mind pierced and exploding
Until everything shattered even her deafening malignant resentment
When the clock struck midnight and there was nothing more to vanish
But her Self and the stained melancholy sheet of dysphonic dysphoria
She remembered Oscar of the novel The Tin Drum shouting so loudly
That her crystal dysmorphic mirror imploded and bars bent under the strain
With her last resolve she plucked the parrot and An-Tonia was free
Colours shone brightly once again and the voices were good
She buried the bird under an olive tree with a song of epitaph’s prayer
And kept one single feather to remind her just in case it was not yet dead
20th January 2019
Contest entered: Free style poetry contest sponsored by Emily Pinet