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.
I’m having a garage sale
Though I don’t have a garage.
Come check out all my offerings –
You’ll see a strange montage.
I have similes and metaphors
So old that they’re clichés.
There are sentences and verses
Budding writers can rephrase.
From a stack of nouns quite towering
Are so many you can choose;
Mix and match with all my adjectives –
You simply cannot lose.
There’s a vat of verbs just waiting,
Some with adverbs still attached;
And a box of prepositions,
With its lock no longer latched.
There might be a spare conjunction
Hiding underneath the rhymes;
As for interjections – Ha!
They’re rare as Mercury-head dimes.
Yet if you pay me a visit,
You might find the words you need;
I’ve been cleaning up my clutter
And there’s good stuff, guaranteed.
So come pick through my possessions
‘Cause I’m lightening my load.
Then feel free to write a sonnet
Or a limerick or ode.
For garage sales held by poets
Are, to me, the most inviting,
Since your purchases may point you
To the pathway paved with writing.
Ilene Bauer
September 6, 2012
(this was accidentally deleted from my poems list, so i wanted to reenter it)
it's autumn where have,
all the butterflies have flown;
fall is here crisp cool-
~
is the air where have
all the butterflies flown, gone
in falls crisp cool aire
10/23/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
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Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 5 7 5 0 5 7 5
Total # Syllables: 34
Total # Lines: 7 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 30
Results
Grammar Mistakes
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Spelling Errors
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Clichés
No clichés found.
Word Choice
No Poor Word Choices Found.
The old poets haunt me
they taunt me from the shadows
following every keystroke I type -
they’re critical of phrases,
they demand narrower themes
and mock the very clichés they invented.
I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous
life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences,
how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase
the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love.
I try and explain this Internet thing, how the more copious
my writings, the more people it says are following me.
How I really don’t want to sound paranoid
but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone.
.
.
Song for this:
Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx
Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan
as the rosemary rain
soaks
pensive petals,
leaving an aroma
of lovers’ betrayal
the succulent scent
of
his
petrichor skin
caresses the midnight
crevices of this
meticulous mind,
urging my soul to purge
tears and ink
long mimicked
by April’s sunlit rays
synchronizing
a symphony of robins
a rhapsody
of wild blooms
a chorus of dragonflies
a sprinkle
of swirling sakura
painting a panorama
of spring meadows
dancing to
the diamond glows
of stellar streaks...
and without the moon
I am an echo
of rhymeless clichés,
an abandoned prose
breathing amidst
porcelain pages
of mourning metaphors
aching to savor
confessions
of clemency....
for heart feels numb
to the
b u r n
of being forgotten
as storms taste
softer than sunrise~
and in
s i l e n c e,
I rise....
not like a Christian, but like a victim.
I prayed like a woman afraid,
afraid I was the sacrifice to his vice.
I would lie awake then. I lie awake now
as my heartbeat hammers
my breastbone like a blacksmith,
I remember… I remember
in a pale cringe, I sniffled. My blood polka-dotted
a white floor that smeared an inkblot of me.
A split lip, half-wit tamed by the maim of his fist.
His madman’s magma buried me,
a lingual lava flow that hardened as it cooled.
My sense of self turned to obsidian. I fractured.
Tears slashed like shards. I bled self-esteem.
He preyed on me
as I prayed to him like he was a god.
Please forgive me! It’s all my fault! On my knees
I was dead to myself.
He split my skin. Stripped me to my bones.
His vulture needs I remember.
My emotional remains he savored,
flavored with backhands and vodka bottle bottoms.
I seethed in sour juices of moonshine abuses.
I counted moons and contusions. I counted
each stitch needled through my skin.
My heart quilted with clichés;
I love you. I'm sorry. It'll never happen again.
I seized my breath so's not to moan or implode.
As I exhale I remember
I fantasized of blasting him to the belly of Hell
when I’d usher vengeance inside our back door.
Reaper’s reckoning when this battered forget-me-not
shattered his bones with buck-shot scatter. Damn!
I’d have paid the devil for a jail cell to be free.
A candlelight-night bruised by cruiser lights:
I remember I prayed like a victim to 911.
Oh God! Please God! Help me! He's gonna kill me!
I pressed bleeding heart flowers between diary pages,
diary pages without words cried to be heard.
Concussion dreams panic my pulse, dilate my eyes!
Oh, dreamless sleep, grant me deceased peace.
Until night hags of nightmares die
I will remember...
Always unexpected, spring arrives.
Water and warm spring air raises grass
On hills before the sheep and llamas graze.
Rain falls and tries to glaze fields of yellow hay
Stippled by the husbanded animals and deer
With their round mouthed chewing into cud.
Now, farmers can stop trips to buy extra hay
In town, pickup trucks with rolled hay bales
Jostling down the washboard country roads.
Spring calving and planting
Easiest of clichés:
Renewal, and I watch the fields green.
Queued up around the edge of the nearest one,
A stand of bushes and though there is no wind,
One quakes and shivers as if it’s cold.
I inspect beneath its outer leaves
To see two birds fluttering feathers
And jumping from branch to branch
Picking dark berries off,
Pecking them out of shape
And with broken neck gestures
Shake their heads from side to side
And eat them one by one. (4/9/21)
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.
It's raining cats and dogs on a dark and stormy night -
with such a stroke of genius, a poet starts to write.
Inane clichés he's banging out to beat the band,
a booby trap as big as life to bite the poet's hand.
It opens up a can of worms to catch the early birds
but with no bird in hand he'll have to eat his words.
The tropes are fresh as daisies, with infinite supplies
of broken-hearted lovers, and rainbow butterflies.
Garbage in and garbage out, it's fun and games for all,
to sell you down the river and drive you up the wall.
For if it's true a pen is more mighty than a sword,
then we're as good as dead, for to death we will be bored.
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?
Written: June 23, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
*******************
Growling, arguing, cursing, and screams,
They nod to chase after a dollar, a dream.
Trapped in clichés, similar to urban swine,
Lost residents of the suburbs stand in line.
The city of brotherhood and sisterhood,
Racially diverse cultures and schools stood.
Philly cheese-steaks, hoagies, and homicides,
Cocaine vampires succumb side by side.
On filthy streets, zombies and dogs coexist,
In Fishtown, hunt for meat to eat or a twist.
They need medicine and shoes for their feet.
Litter chokes Kensington Ave replete street.
They say Oxy and fentanyl are to blame.
Perhaps it's genetics, wrapped in shame.
Predisposed to a life completely polluted—
From the moment of birth, deeply rooted.
Some were once rich, now penniless,
With only a rat and their mute distress.
A raw middle-class suburbia faces bruise,
Zombies cradle meth and crack misuse.
They nod, dip, freeze, and sway—
Defying gravity, they struggle to stay.
Despite its fame, the land has failed,
A monolithic trial, where hopes derailed?
Former star-spangled grandeur has faded.
Betsy Ross famed flag thread is jaded.
A horrible scene for a tourist to behold,
A ghostly flat-backed female zombie, cold.
Kensington Ave in the city's northeast—
Zombies, dogs, and lost souls feast.
Two-legged canines in an endless sludge.
Life is grim in this dope-fueled grudge.