Long Clichés Poems
Long Clichés Poems. Below are the most popular long Clichés by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clichés poems by poem length and keyword.
What if I told you things aren't
what they used to be.
What if I told you clichés
are not always "for the birds"
That the Clichés cling for
a reason and have clung long.
Show me your truth sandwich;
What ingredients did you use?
Smoked lunch meat and cheese
Did you eat that, digest that?
What if I told you cheese is plastic
And ain't what it used to be?
And chicken feed ain't, flies and grain
But Plastic and GMO corn instead.
Don't feed the pigeons, says the sign.
But we don't eat the pigeons here.
So we feed them, and they eat
bits of truth that we now turn down,
Pigeons fly around downtown,
Without true food, without the truth.
Show me your truth sandwich;
What ingredients did you use?
Peanut butter and Bananas?
Pigeons spread disease in excrement
With bits of nontruth, splattered all over;
Making a point about the truth the whole truth
and nothing but the moot truth “So help you, Hanna"?
Cliché' may be our only reality, because little truths
matter, relevance should never be Obsolete.
Big or small, the truth must massively
Combust into big explosions of honesty.
If you should turn your back on truth
You will be face to face with a lie.
The truth needs to matter again
Or nothing else will.
We call her Oma.
She’s a simple, old, haggard wooden bridge
In my neighbourhood,
On the shaved navel of the forest, heavy and solemn,
With the colour of an aged, wizened python,
Spotted here and there and striped there and then.
So ramshackle, but friendly, cosy to the naked feet,
With that royal smell of wood-cellar combined with
The health of ancient wine.
Nothing more . . . .
Oh, I forgot to announce that her bolts are worn with the disease of rain;
Each log of her timber derelict with the scourge of summer sun;
All her nuts frazzled by mildews and the collection of time;
Her beams drying fast with autumnal leaf-paralysis.
She’s been battered through conflicts and by the many strong-willed feet
That have traversed her, naked and booted, year after year, strife after strife.
But she remains steadfast and bestrides a poor, kind, whistling stream which
Rushes gently with native scents whenever the moon rules over the tides,
As always, when its prime ripens, like the tropical palm fronds.
But Oma, in all her splendid poverty, stands elevated,
Tall and proud, and with the accoutrements of Nimrod’s tower.
And from that creaking, wobbling height,
We observe the moon clearer —in all shapes and nomenclatures —
Full moon, super moon, blood moon. . . .
And the eclipses — partial, full, rounded, lunar, solar —
Sweeter sighting when distant leaves of floating ferns hide
The effulgence little by little, the nearby copses on revelling
Valleys renewing sways from across glimmering horizons.
Hasten not and call her an observatory.
Our neighbourhood repulses clichés and touches them with
The tip of a wand.
She is our dear old bridge —our heritage site —
On whom we stand and stretch our hands and feel the moon.
Your brown eyes compel
Bring out this desire
Wishing to hide in
Your lapel, maybe
Upon a high wire
You touch the bell
Sparks will fly high
From your soft hand
Igniting flames
That only
Death will squelch
But maybe
I will
Love you
More
Contest: A Diminished Hexaverse
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Date: January 16, 2021
1Your brown eyes compel 5
2Bring out this desire 5
3Wishing to hide in 5
4Your lapel, maybe 5
5Upon a high wire 5
6 0
7You touch the bell 4
8Sparks will fly high 4
9From your soft hand 4
10Igniting flames 4
11That only 3
12Death will squelch 3
13But maybe 3
14I will 2
15Love you 2
16More 1
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Chapter 1: The End of the Eastern Gilded Age
'Twas thrice yon 'ere time clichés galore, albeit, one two many times, that fairy tale's opening wouldst hitherto a harp. History, the effects of narratives indulgences of a period, like an opening performance as a harp is being tuned then it's time to play expressively to narratives who hear a fiddle. History emerges to a gridlock, then it lies and waits for its prey tomorrow, to give its due. It forces off and reloads it with narratives for in this approach all is done kosherly being formal and beliefs necessitate reassurance. The earth learns that history never replicates itself, just the hereafter and those that are uncovered. Some inequalities are constant and relatively taxing to the accountants who are toiling the timepiece, sort of speak, it is fate that reprises since narratives are an irritant bent on annihilation ergo it reinvents itself a new chapter hoping that the old will catch up and take part but the past feels it lacks motivation, hence, it too reinvents itself, a better way, an effective outlook, they repeatedly say that the results are quite promising, with that on the table, why change history.
Young Crown Prince Imperial, Alexei, Heir Apparent to the Imperial throne of Russia, has been diagnosed as a hemophiliac, ...
*The opener of My Short Story: A Century Turns: Soviet Union's Life Expectancy
O' cloned creations,
mirroring deceptive diction
scattered in liquified letters,
across android canvases,
here comes the plague of
fabricated foolery,
spiraling in figments of
black and white illusions,
injecting illusive veins
screaming for vanity,
with verses plagiarized
from villainous valleys.
There’s nothing poetic about
the way AI is pickpocketing
rhythmic runes from the
museum of dead poets ~
immortalized on the walls
of glass galleries.
Their sonnets, now imitated,
to adorn artless skies
with stolen synonyms,
weaving soulless symphonies,
to please the apocalyptic algorithm,
unaware of how filtered
procrastinators preying
on pencil-streaked pages
are lonely earthlings starving
for superficial accolades.
I care not for the futuristic
benefits of artificial lies,
yet I see no escape from
these alienated alliterations,
and personified
pathological hypocrisy,
typed behind silver screens,
multiplying metaphors
into robotic ruins,
flowing with
perfectly metered clichés,
coded in complex cadence.
So let me find the inked corpse
of silicon silhouettes,
lost in the labyrinth
of virtual vultures,
flaunting repetitive rhymes
for clueless readers.
Tonight the strawberry moon
frowns at the
neon frequencies
of digitalized fakery,
and my onyx heart aches
for the unknown realms,
where originality floats
as a forgotten fantasy,
fogged behind a fictional facade,
while in silence, stained stars
claim phrases snatched
from the
thesaurus of thieves.
So flee from this venom-less virus,
you and I know better than to
lean on spineless cyborgs,
created mindlessly
from financial felonies.
A poet with a pen that
lacks authentic pigment
is the victimized alter ego of
designed trickeries~
masked as midnight musings.
I am the unseen,
resting amongst invisible butterflies,
waning amidst wildflower wishes~
facing watercolor breezes,
drifting between the sun and the sea,
where the wind collaborates
with the salt and skin of waves,
like forbidden lovers engrossed in euphoric zest…
I sing in silence with sanctified verses,
where zephyrs breathe
amongst paralyzed procrastinators,
following a flock of clichés,
amidst the slippery slope of rocky edges,
veiling ripples of rusted rings~
that ache to caress the blushing softness
of crawling clouds in the musky air,
as gilded blades of evergreen greed
feed the fleece of fragility with emptiness,
in the landscape of loneliness~
influencing the clueless
to please the blind stones of bitter lies,
like chameleons of ephemeral mist,
caught in coated curls of jealousy.
Let me be the heartbeat
guiding the rising rays of lustrous gold.
I am both the strayed and the shepherd,
crafting a vessel of virtue~
with floating grace beneath Noah’s Ark,
to steer the spirit of sleepless sheep,
placing trust in ticking terrains…
for I see beyond the silken sins,
that lured you to the fickleness of flora,
while oblivious to the crestfallen thorns,
intoxicating your conscience,
stealing the light of sun-stroked innocence…
There are many who might say, “It’s no big deal.”
Or argue that it’s just what I deserve.
But I’ve tried to come to grips with what I feel
In my attempt to break out of that curve.
There are lessons that I’ve tried hard to avoid.
I’ve found, eventually, they must be learned.
If I stayed where right I was I’d be destroyed
But would my good intentions be returned?
I had found I did not like who I’d become.
I’d hit that point they mention in clichés.
I had worked so hard in trying to stay numb
But I hurt more with every passing day.
Well, it’s easy leaving things the way they are.
We fool ourselves in thinking it won’t change.
And experience is gained with every scar,
The hope that peace of mind can be attained.
I am sorry, all of you I may have wronged.
I will take full responsibility.
I hope, for you, all good things might come along
And that you might forgive eventually.
Now I do my best to keep my head held high
And put the past behind me if I can.
I will live the truth without an alibi
Until I’m called up to the Promised Land.
We are not alone. We don’t do it on our own.
Together we all struggle to be free.
They say, “Take twelve small steps and look back on how you’ve grown.”
But they seemed like twelve giant leaps to me…
And I know that there are those who would agree.
Day one; Katrina arrives and all the rich leave
till the only ones left are the poor and naive.
And sea and air meet in a mass of screaming death
as some of the sick and injured breathe their last breath.
Day two; levees fail and water floods the city
hospital shelters are abandoned to pity.
And those scooped from rooftops are featured on the news
while others wait for rescue and the clean up crews.
Day three; as looting and gang violence disrupt
strangers huddle in the dark when gun shots erupt.
And cops barricade themselves and won’t come out
although suffering and crime fester all about.
Day four; fire and corpses add shame to the scene
while survivors get angry at clichés that demean.
For how long must they suffer how many must die
are we deaf to their pleas do we not hear their cry?
Day five; President Bush tries to deflect the blame
sending food with the army help finally came.
And the people of New Orleans rose to cheer
finally freed from five days of hunger and fear.
Tongue Tied in Clichés: A Blessing in Disguise
A blessing in disguise,
a double-edged sword—
a far cry from peace,
yet all in all,
at the drop of a hat
we reach for a ballpark figure,
beat around the bush,
break new ground,
burn the midnight oil.
By the book we cut to the chase,
play devil’s advocate,
fill the void with food for thought,
start from scratch,
then get cold feet.
Give the green light,
go down in flames,
hit the nail on the head,
find ourselves in over our head,
jump on the bandwagon,
keep something at bay,
leave no stone unturned.
Out of our depth,
past the point of no return,
we read between the lines,
take it with a grain of salt,
see only the tip of the iceberg—
until at last we throw in the towel.
Refusal to Be Bamboozled
Immersed insecurely among the books,
Hides the antichrist naturalist.
The bamboozled crowd awes in unison
And looks impressed (something new to witness).
As members of the mob mentality,
They are unable to comprehend originality,
In the artist’s intentional use of creativity
In the presentation of reality.
“No artist tolerates reality,” says Nietzsche
(His reasoning is impotent; afraid of women).
Horsewhip them with jargonistic clichés;
Transcend them into “Overmen!”
Poor wannabe nihilistic Nietzsche:
Syphilitic, dangerous, and deceptive.
***
Notes:
1 Quote attributed to Friedrich Nietzsche – “The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche”, Vol. 15: “The Will to Power” - Pg. 74:572 “An artist cannot endure reality, he turns away or back from it:…”
2 Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche (1844–1900): Friedrich Nietzsche was a famous and influential German philosopher, writer, poet, philologist, and music composer, and considered an intellectual by many.
3 Übermensch is German for “Overman” or “Superman.”
4 Nihilism is the rejection of all religion and morality, and the belief that life is meaningless; extreme skepticism. Nietzsche’s statement: “Gott ist tot!” (God is dead!) [“The Gay Science” by Friedrich Nietzsche (1882)].
5 Nietzsche’s mental breakdown and death are believed to be attributed to syphilis.