Long Cliches Poems
Long Cliches Poems. Below are the most popular long Cliches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cliches poems by poem length and keyword.
Who are you?
God
Passion
Forbearance
Whom strides with glory
Mended each fragment of me
Never a button undone
That’s an understatement
That time,
Your good light
Returned with silence by society
Society hasn’t met you have they
No wonder they don’t have manners
Who weaved the universe?
The reason to live
The meaning of life
Such cliches
It’d take 10 generations
Perpetual writing
To fully classify you entirely,
That’s an understatement
This time,
Let me be the one to mend your broken fragments,
Let me be the one to thank you unlike society,
Let me be the one to write perpetually for you,
My Aiden
Attention:
This one is the problem child.
Mom and dad deny autonomy
take authority over a diary
supervised at all times; no privacy
door hinge wide open
so why are the walls closing in?
This home is an emotion free zone
Mom says save it for therapy
but stops taking me
says my borderline personality is burdening this family’s budget
believes I’ll be cured if she just burns enough cliches into my brain
“Just be happy with what you have,
what have you crafted in your head that is such a tragedy?"
I got pills to pop and prices to pay
I got emotions but I keep 'em oceans away
beyond the combination lock on a black box
Warning:
This medication may make it worse.
Unbearable.
And ain’t that just ironic?
peace of mind partners with possibilities
of seeming more psychotic
but it’s better this way.
Right?
Anticipate a thirty day delay
and lag like yesterday on your last leg
It’s better this way.
burrow into bed and brand yourself braindead
Just pretend, society says, suffer silently!
act as if any abnormality is absent
accept that it’s actually an act
learn to lock down your breakdowns
let them drown to the box’s rock bottom
Growing sick of cloaking conflicts
in courtesy of concealing others' comfort
so sorry if you choke
I will not spoon feed what you can’t swallow
I will scream my anxieties
annunciate every aspect of agony
trapping me where serotonin's lacking
Lab rat crawling its way back
taste-testing chill pills
forgetting how to feel real
sleepwalking through a social setting
so sick, yeah, I’m real ill
Everyone tends to forget,
the tension doesn’t rest when the poem ends.
as i obsess over you,
mr. love
and even as i have this love for you
mr. love
simply knowing I belong with you
mr. love
and I wont ask for too many favors
mr love
so hopefully you can handle me
mr. love
oh and by the way
mr. love
i don't see myself living without you
mr. love
for a man so complex as you
mr. love
our theorized love proven true
mr. love
and yet you've made me fight for my life
mr. love
leaving me on my last breath
mr. love
without you
mr. love
and now my mind and conscious antagonize
mr. love
so you just can't walk out the door
mr. love
now that my soul rests within you
mr. love
it is just me and my broken being
mr. love
but nevertheless
mr. love
i still need you
mr. love
you still expect me to survive
mr. love
in this thing called life
mr. love
i use stupid cliches to describe you now
mr. love
you are now my world
mr. love
in how many more ways should I say I love you
mr. love
i cannot cope with lonely
mr. love
denial lays with me now
mr. love
the obsession
mr. love
the longing
mr. love
the desire
mr. love
i resent you
mr. love
you betrayed me
mr. love
but still to this day
mr. love
i love you dearly
mr. love
and i love you sincerely
mr. love
and can you tell me one more thing
mr. love
what is love
mr. love
Poetry is like opera to me.
It brings some, to your very soul’s gate!
Some poets only pen for a witty, rude
fast laugh.
I don’t think life is a bowl of chuckling human
guffaws and gaffes!
Some will never comment to you.
So what?
Make this not a popularity zoo, poetry is not akin to showing off
brand new shoes!
True friends are not like a bag of apocryphal popcorn!
Spitting philosophical gems like a dunce, all over a college dorm,
All kinds of varied, creative poets here!
Some write way too long, some too short.
Then, there are also, humble deep philosophers.
Find a few who make you purr.
Those that make your heart, stir!
**Read well known poets each day.
This is a must, a learning foray.**
These are just things I learned
since being here.
Beautiful poetry brings me to tears.
Cliches as comments should be
banned.
Empty and cold in this poet’s heart and
hands.
03-8-2022
Written 11/2021
UC Davis Hospital
They say "money makes the world go round" I really don't understand
I thought it was a magnetic field not something made by man
They say "don't count your chickens before they begin to hatch"
but what if my eggs came........... from a totally different batch?
They say "what goes around comes around" I'm just a little bit confused
How can I use the same fire cracker when I already lit the fuse?
They say "what goes up must come down" but what if its in outer-space??
Does Newton's law of gravity come back and smack us in the face??
They say "a way to a man's heart is through his stomach"
This seems like a very hard task, and isn't it true to reach the stomach
the heart at first you must pass???
They say "beauty is only skin deep" what does that really mean?
Is it because we bathe with soap that our pores are really clean?
All these quotes and cliches and the all around play on words
got me all confused I think its just absurd
But I can't blame anyone I can only blame myself
I should of picked up the thesaurus thats been sitting on my shelf
The Wonder Boys
by Michael R. Burch
(for Leslie Mellichamp, the late editor of The Lyric,
who was a friend and mentor to many poets, and
a fine poet in his own right)
The stars were always there, too-bright cliches:
scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew
as baffled poets winged keyed kites?amazed,
in dream of shocks that suddenly came true . . .
but came almost as static?background noise,
a song out of the cosmos no one hears,
or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys,
lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared.
They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks
electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke
of words poured from their overheated hearts.
The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope . . .
You will not find them here; they blew away?
in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung
by fingertips to satellites. They strayed
too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young,
their words are with us still. Devout and fey,
they wink at us whenever skies are gray.
The Singer
by Michael R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp
The sun that swoons at dusk
and seems a vanished grace
breaks over distant shores
as a child’s uplifted face
takes up a song like yours.
We listen, and embrace
its warmth with dawning trust.
Dawn, to the Singer
by Michael R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp
“O singer, sing to me—
I know the world’s awry—
I know how piteously
the hungry children cry.”
We hear you even now—
your voice is with us yet.
Your song did not desert us,
nor can our hearts forget.
“But I bleed warm and near,
And come another dawn
The world will still be here
When home and hearth are gone.”
Although the world seems colder,
your words will warm it yet.
Lie untroubled, still its compass
and guiding instrument.
Two A.M. mother nature's alarm clock goes off
Quickly to the nursery to see that diapers soft
Touch his little bottom that is very clean
This little baby would never be treated mean
Five A.M. to the kitchen to prepare a breakfast feast
Hoping they will enjoy eggs, biscuits, and chopped beef
Six A.M. bath time for the baby boy
He will enjoy playing with his rubber toy
Seven A.M. arrange fresh flowers
Give instructions to the maid, figure hours
She is paid, write her check and letters
While listening to the intercom for any tiny stirs
Time to play with baby and take him for a stroll
Back in time to freshen up for lunch is baked sole
But little baby boy back into his bed
He will need a nap to rest his little head
The house needs some extra touches
For tonight we entertain guests the Cliches
Hope that our homes is a perfect place
Our rooms will enough space
The baby boy is now awake I need to play
With him for heavens sake
Go away cobbwebbs, Go away
For baby boys don't have time to wait
** Nigh Another Birthday **
I’ve passed so many birthdays,
That a few dozen of those special days
Fall away in a gray haze,
With too many forgotten by everyone (then or lately),
And were spent like most of my other days,
Which I don’t really mind — without presents, singing,
Cards, and other kinds of celebratory cliches.
It’s really a destined plan
God made before my birth, that He has completely in hand.
Beyond these many decades of years after many passed,
I now greet each birthday with profound gratitude,
Because when illness first hit me at age eight,
This length of my time living NO one had forecast.
Still, now I never want to be
Too old to ask for a kiss, or for a story
Filled with twists and adventure, told to me
At bedtime, as I fall off to dream,
While hearing your voice, my darling,
Which I love so dearly.
I never want to age so much
To be too old for a starlight’s wish;
Or to outgrow the truths of Christmas.
Always may I stay in awe of God’s mysteries
And omnipotent, miraculous ways; and to see
The marvel in every sunrise, every sunset I breathe.
Lord God, may I never be too old for poetry!
To find all its words and lines within me leap
Over many pages, along with the verses of others I read;
Or to hear the sung lyrics of great arias,
And know the well-recited stage soliloquies.
The notes of support and love I receive,
Like treasure, I will also keep.
I never want to age beyond the end
Of Hope; or my meaning’s journeying; or delighting
In Nature as a friend;
Or enjoying, like a child, long hours of play and pretend.
May I never age too old to allow
My heart its freedom…To feel. To grow. To enfold
All, dear Lord, your graced splendors
In this on-going here and now.
———————————————————————————————————————————————-
*** The coming of Christmas makes me think of my birthday, which comes ten days after Christmas on January 4th. Thus, this poem
had its provoked thought into being.
(c) sally young eslinger 12/18/2022
Glory to God — and Merry Christmas. God bless us, every one!
O’ Pat Pattison, you, my brilliant teacher,
I would shower in praises, had you not
taught me better! for cliches void of thought
are as worthwhile as a couch surfin’ moocher!
O’ masterful and deepest sort of creature,
shocked then, in the thrall of churning wounds, distraught
I found your grace—and for my breaking clot
you gave me poetry, this soothing suture.
Trochees and iambs, blank verse, Shakespear’s form—
you illuminated a path obscure
to my sight. The subtle rhythms and rhymes
you used as guideposts through a ruthless storm
are now the tools that fix me fast,—secure.
I’d take your class again a million times.
When I was young, I fantasized of the girl I’d like to find:
A certain look, a sense of style, enlightened education,
Alluring eyes, a charming smile, and some sophistication.
But over time I realized she was only in my mind.
Lonely years passed, I compromised, and left my dream behind.
Met some with looks, others with style—even sophistication.
But I never could find, through error and trial, just the right combination.
Just existing, I felt demoralized, in a sorry state of mind.
One day by chance, I met this girl…sort of what I had in mind.
The way she looked, I realized, just fit my illustration—
As if the dream I’d idolized was brought into creation.
What could I say, to meet the girl that I’d always hoped to find?
Pardon the clichés, but I have to say
“Where have you been all my life?”
I know we’ve just met, and you don’t know me yet,
But what are you doing the rest of your life?
She rolled her eyes, but then she smiled, as she seemed to see the light.
We talked a while, then talked some more; got her address and her phone.
Since then I’ve seen her a whole lot more. I no longer felt alone.
When I proposed, she said with a smile “I think I’ve found my ‘Mister Right’ .
Pardon the clichés, but I have to say
“Where have you been all my life?”
I know we’ve just met, and you don’t know me yet,
But what are you doing the rest of your life?