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.
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.
Poetry is moving as an opera to me.
It brings some, to your very soul’s gate!
Some poets only pen for a witty fast laugh.
I don’t think life is a bowl of chuckling human 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!
That is called “egotitistical blues!”
True friends are not like a bag of apocalyptic popcorn!
Spitting philosophical gems like a freshman, all over a college dorm.
All kinds of poets show poetical talent here!
Some write way too long, some only write short.
Then, there are also, humble deep philosophers.
Find those few who make your heart purr.
Those that make your heat in your blood 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 really brings me to tears.
Cliches as comments, meaningless, should be
banned, sounding like empty tin cans...roll both
Empty and cold in this poet’s heart and hands.
Be specific in comments or comment not.
Don’t reply as “ I am in a hurry” snot!
Comments are surely not homework, that’s a sin.
Reply with your soul,this is not a children’s game to win!
“Oh, but they won’t read me, if I don’t comment?”
Then become a sincere soul, a dazzling, artistic grommet!
11/2/2021
Ideas form while looking around
fueling thoughts into my Headfire
making words out of the visions found
all over the page, floods, my desire
Filling the blank space in many ways
maybe a sonnet to a loved one
or a free verse with many cliches
no matter, I'll leave nothing undone
Through poetry, my soul can now breathe
and will be cherished till I'm no more
I'll write daily to prevent its death
Restoring my soul with new vigor
Poetry feeds on what's held inside
as images and feelings coincide
7/15/2017
Inspired by:
`````You will not find poetry anywhere unless you bring some of it with you ~ Joseph Joubert
In the lowest of your moments,
When bitter trials are fought,
Platitudes blare like loud trumpets,
Most are sincere but ill-taught
It’s not folks pity that you plead,
Empathy they may not sense,
It’s presence that you truly need,
In your time of deepest grievance.
In the lowest of your moments,
Cliches can blare like brass,
And cause angst and discomfort,
Pious words of hope don’t last.
There are some trials so profound,
They must be faced at all costs,
Though sadness and woe abound,
Not doing so deepens the loss.
You’re not the only one to cry,
In this pit of suffering,
It will take time for it to by,
For your soul to find true healing.
By God’s grace and abiding love,
With family and friends near,
Between life here and that above,
You couldn’t be in better care.
All say avoid cliches
Don't call tears, tears
I search for alternative
All forms of water already used
I give up
I am writing to pen down
my inner most feelings
My thoughts come from within
Why should I change them?
I am not out here to impress others
I will not break my head to win a prize
My happiness is more important than my ego
I will always write in simple clear language
Try to motivate others or leave them with an
afterthought.
Maybe take them on a beautiful journey with me
I will ensure my poems are easily understood by all
Profound thoughts are best expressed in simple words
If message doesn't reach out to readers,
poetry looses its value
Poetry is a art, a joyous, blissful, exhilarating passion
It should not become a means to prove we are the best.
29.09.2021
The name
mistakenly saintly,
the other one
a rite-of-life,
a gauche passage
for some, for most
the contract costly,
imprints its meaning
post firey baptismal dive
to rise again somehow
from each our own
calamities, the personal
cataclysm we confront
or shun in a parallel life
of optimism, there each one
observes what was and lingers
to kiss the font of the child
within every one, each their own
version of the meaning
of catechism,
forgotten by most,
yet a lingering malaise
swims in their waking,
a sense of de je vu,
these are the incorrigible
pushing the envelope,
the timestamp licked
and mailed off
to other voices
that do not speak,
that do not arrive
through lips, yet
open sleeping minds
and hold the eyelids
to peer directly into
and through to meet
that thing that powers
the brain within,
to shine its glistening
luminescence, one
senses that thing
which is forgotten within,
is commissioned
to win the race of life,
and lose and then,
win again -
the losses mailed off
in worldly corrupted
creative ways, didactic,
where one revisits
as a dark shadow,
standing with all
those other
dark shadows,
frankly contemplating
conversion, and the
salt-strewn stinging
many paths of logic
through those
illogical clues
breadcrumbed
by all those
other shadows,
the eternal puzzle
of understanding
the life viewed standing
under lamplight;
in the disillusioned
poetic world,
we must forever
cultivate our garden,
that never-ending dream;
all is for the best, romantic
cliches and adventures,
falls and risings;
for those who think
they are normal
and above it all,
above the others -
all is never normal,
all is as it should be,
all is for the best,
we stumble and we fall,
some stay where they are,
others get up again and again;
all is as it should be,
all is for the best,
ou l'Optimisme,
Candide
a muse
amused
Candide,
all is as it should be
all is for the best
Candide Diderot. ‘24
We’re all in the same boat, but fools make it sink:
I see their dreams translate to a sea of red ink
I felt I couldn’t take the sham any more
So I flew to Rhode Island and drove to the shore.
I chartered a vessel in an ocean inlet
For miles between Newport and Narragansett
The captain suggested a Calamari run
But squids are slimy and I was paying for fun.
The water was greased, smooth as a lake
And ten minutes out, I felt my reel take
I caught a “barn door”: a large fish with a pull:
I needed help, I had my hands full.
(bridge)
The “drags screamed” as other reels zoomed out
So I had to let my fish go, ashamed of my shout.
But I will tell my grandkids about the day:
a big bass almost yanked me into the bay.
Seagulls, like thieves, hovered over our wake.
White sails on silver; it made my heart ache.
I felt the beat of wavelets on fiberglass.
I smelled cedar and pine, sea air and sea grass
The sun got low, and the light danced like raves
Gold and violet hues met the islands and waves.
There were stars on the water when we tied to the dock
I sighed to myself; I must return to the flock.
Now I'm back in the scrum, some think I'm the threat.
It's sad how folks are caught in the net:
Some are hooked on politics, even dox your name.
As the vortex, the whirlpool, pulls us all down the drain.
Activists tell us that we're either victims or oppress
Misguided cliches weigh on my chest
They hook us with promises, I despair and yet,
They can't take away my Narragansett sunset.
I remember the islands, and Rhode Island main:
When the "bite was on fire," and I threw off the chain.
Hear the music from a gentle rain
As it taps upon the windowpane
Listen to the soothing beat
That gives recourse to day's defeat
The bird that whispers just to you
While it sings the world a sweet adieu
Telling of a secret place
Where birds can die without a trace
The darkness at the edge of light
Terror in a moonless night
Buried deep within the days
The ashes left from life's cliches
Tales of romance, risk, and wonder
Memories made from chance and blunder
Living through life's raucous raves
While dead dreams lie in open graves
Written Dec. 16, 2016
Imaginations fun and free
From simple things to really fancy
Your mind escapes somewhere new
Like when pigs are flying over you
Wings spread out sharing the sky
With large elephants way up high
An umbrella you will need
It will get messy yes indeed
When it's raining cats and dogs
Look out for the falling "logs"
It's hard to tell or really know
If its hot or frigid cold
A coat or not upon your shoulder
Visiting a hell that might freeze over
You earned a penny and can save
Till you turn over in your grave
A bull causes chaos and drops
All the china in the shops
A chip on your shoulder can be
A way to show your vanity
A baby apples too young to see
He hasn't fallen far from the tree
Only coming out at night
Worms won't be the early birds delight
Behold all around is the beauty
That your eyes can finally see
That's all cliches my mind can bring
It's over, let the fat lady sing.
Some cold forge words to make metal musings,
hammering, stammering then scribblings.
Pounding prose, forming phrases in viscous verse,
many manner of makers, none for the worse.
Some lift language right from the curb,
well-slung slang meant not to disturb.
Writers sling collected cliches on their backs,
kept rhymes for later times tucked in their sacks.
Some grand gaggles group in an overture -
symphonic notes capture the rapture.
Songs strung with wind, lilting lines of wit,
warm woods, sound shards sung from the poet's pit.
Some syllables strewn along paths in rows,
spent images cast aside where wisdom grows.
In ruffled rubble a glean glints in tones -
missed stars settled amidst sparkling stones.
3/24/2020