Long Comprise Poems
Long Comprise Poems. Below are the most popular long Comprise by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Comprise poems by poem length and keyword.
finds yours truly groveling along
February third 2022,
never linkedin - analogous to stray animal
without being befriended,
thus I don't belong
survival instincts taught yours truly
the necessity acting
courageous and headstrong
even if necessary
to stare down King Kong,
who actually shows me respect
such that every now and again
we play a game of ping pong
and on a crisp night
roast marshmallows kindle campfire
and sing Kumbaya song.
This tramp (which stereotyped
caricature familiarly epitomized
in countless Chaplinesque productions,
Dickensian tales,
oil paintings from
artistic hands of great masters
and others anonymous
exquisite painters, et cetera)
remembers practically nothing
of me nine-month stay in utero
birth, childhood nor early adulthood.
My amorphous gauzy,
hazy fractal memories
solely comprise fractured,
fragmented and splintered collection
of miserable experiences,
which characterize living
a hellacious hand to mouth
hard scrapple existence.
Past wispy vestiges of wretchedness
and now present woebegone existence
seems a worse fate than death.
The overpowering urge to survive
and summon up one barely audible
l’chaim utterance against the depredations
of the grim reaper only found
nothing but defeat.
That daily dismal
grinding away of last shreds
of a purpose driven life fending off real
and imagined threats sought salvation
in a vividly encased jammed
preserve of mine imagination
an existence awash with ample
trappings of comfort.
The species “*****sapiens” was overwhelmed by greed.
He was a creature who consumed more than he would need.
In the fabric of the world, man definitely earned his place.
They built skyscrapers and bridges, and sent rockets into space.
These beings possessed a major flaw of distinction:
Their self-destructive tendencies drove them to extinction.
That is why none of them today can be found.
Have you noticed that humans are no longer around?
To you future intelligent beings who on this planet exist:
The errors man made comprise a very long list.
Share and distribute evenly before it is too late.
Otherwise, you will also suffer man’s inevitable fate.
Fourteen lines limit a poet. But
One line can say it all.
Two lines may seem like too few. While
Thirteen lines is playing it rather safe; wouldn't you think...
Twelve lines are commonplace, not to mention a fair share.
Four lines typically conform and tend to rhyme, here and there.
Five lines don't occur very often. But
Eleven lines; now that's unique.
Ten lines of long length, often comprise a short poetry prose.
Six lines may simply form two stanzas of three. Only
Seven lines end the poem by adding a one-liner conclusion.
Three lines without a place enjoy mixing things up a bit. Prompting
Eight lines to worry about it; it being not a thing at all. Getting a good laugh out of watching
Nine lines cling onto every word, knowing the end is near; but the poet continues to write to the limits of fourteen lines.
-END
11-7-16
Contest 235, 14 line max
Errant hounds capriciously bustle in an exceptional position near some forsaken backwatered millpond during some quietude noontime dismal conclusion concerning the game,
Per some dense overgrowth forward furnishes an exquisite refuge over the stalked moreover the superfluous breathing of one well-earned evanescent freedom comprise paid via the pursuers prevailing pattern during this auspicious consequence,
Preeminent preyed scampers incessantly before optimism regarding its autonomy of a choice pursuit that endures stirringly as an affirmed conclusion achieves its goal amidst a unique resonance due upon by a fatal singular blast.
In the end, the right to life and the right to survive is the name of the game.
Date: 08/27/2019
Aging baby boomer
no longer fit as a fiddle
accumulating extra adipose tissue
around the middle
ain't no impossible mission
whence thumbs I twiddle
to shed unwanted
weight methinks exorcise to unriddle.
Call to action necessitates
yours truly to acclimatize,
calling fitness trainer
whereby honed toned physique
(tubby synonymous with Adonis – ha)
benefits begetting courtesy to aerobicize,
nsync dumbbells compliment exercise,
whereby brutal daily grueling
regimen will also comprise
boot camp rigorous discipline
strength to pilot (minus paunches)
shouldering, managing, hoisting crucifix sunrise
to sundown will non verbally advertize,
verily intolerant to chastise,
hence no bully best better mess
mine mean mien guise
will enjoyably capitalize
zing might equals right to authorize
self defense without need to apologize.
Back in the day, I
presented pitiful sight
self worth equated on
par with botanical blight
buffeted along boulevard
of broken dreams
depressed body language
bespoke head to foot
encompassing enfeebled edifice complex
scrawny measly gumby,
hokey pokey height
how I presented such sorry spectacle
courtesy excellent twenty/twenty hindsight
analogous to an emotional black hole,
never exhibiting courage to fight,
rather yours truly immediately took flight
and/or stood dumbfoundedly
in imitation of deaf mute wishing to alight
bajillion miles away, versus
active stance to fight
preferring the incognito
guise pitch dark vested gentry
donning luxury invisible
accouterment shade o' midnight
proffered, though natural camouflage
infrared crosshairs nonetheless did sight,
when scaredy cat sacrificial scapegoat
experienced his sealed fate, a heavy smite
upon me noggin scrambled outlook
seeing stars courtesy topflight -
(bare in) strong arms hoodlums
brandishing razor sharp dagger
type like fangs able, eager,
(think) bloodthirsty 10,000
homicidal maniacs
ready and willing to bite
simultaneously trumpeting
hate speech to excite
curious madding crowd
glomming to render airtight
any possible safe escape,
yours truly turned white
as a sheet.
I have a fondness for the polar bear,
hunting seals on a frozen ice-packed sea.
For camouflaged by white-snow everywhere,
like ghosts, they're impossible to see.
Cerulean waters freckled with white
patches of ice and snow comprise their home.
And all the northern creatures fear their might,
keeping a safe distance from where they roam.
An Arctic summer sun that never sets
lets them hunt in twenty-four hours of light.
And they survive on guile without regrets
when winter slips into an endless night.
In the wild, polar bears fascinate me,
thriving in solitude and living free.
(Sonnet)
5/7/2018
Everyone has a family, except for me
My happenstance of a cruel reality
Everyone is here for a reason, but why are you?
Your problems seem far away, I don't even have a clue
Bundled up inside I keep my feelings
That make up my entire state of being
The years of abuse that comprise my past
Will they ever be one day released at last?
The people who call me the incorrect names
The monster inside of me, never to be tamed
Demons I faced to be where I am today
No promised neverland for me to lay
Like every alpha woman, I fight alone
For none of the acts against me can ever be atoned
Abandoned by all, I run without a pack
Free from all others, but nothing I lack
But all are lucky that I choose to restrain
From making them feel every ounce of my pain
That never ends, or ceases for a moment
Afflicting my heart and soul like a monument
Harassed for things that are not my fault
Secrets that are locked up inside the vault
Of those who know the truth of what took place
One day in the future, the judgement they'll face
But silently I keep it all hidden inside
Brokenness hiding behind blue-green eyes
I hold back my tongue, and clench up my fists
And hide from the scars on my arms, legs and wrists
Several weeks ago, I passed a church
that had a special sign. There was
nothing said about COVID-19, but COVID was clearly there.
COVID was there because
COVID had left its mark, its atmospheric debris.
Such debris was not visible,
but the psychic permeation was everywhere.
On a large print posting for any and all to see, it said,
Grand Reopening. My vision isn't any better than
most, but I tend to see more than most.
I tend to see and sense what is presented
as well as what isn't obvious. So I think to myself, "One can only reopen something that has been
opened before, and closed".
Our beautiful English language can be very tolerant with multi-meaning words. i.e., A word such as the
noun house( pronounced haus)-a building for human habitation;
and a word such as the verb house( pronounced hauz)-to provide
with or take shelter. If I do not know the difference, therein lies a dilemma that could change everything.
So, as I pass that sign, I think to myself again, "A church can clearly be closed, but THE CHURCH cannot". So I asked myself, "Does this location comprise both 'a church and THE CHURCH'? This is problematic if we do
not emerge from the pandemic with a better distinction. To some, this is merely semantics, sounds trivial and simplistic,
but to me, it is rather defining.
071821FBPS
I beg of guilt to riddance my sin,
sincerity mixed pleasure of call deep within.
My mind of haze to idea once preformed,
mascot contribution to my theatrics well formed.
Beauty and a beast to a sickening desire,
my body fuelled with pain from my minds deep transpire.
Berate of my complexion, fabrication and hope,
sacrifice my solitude with hopes of being cleansed deeper than soap.
Cremation from the burning of wait does bring forth,
my stature destined to the mirror now morph.
Soul, hand of pasture ,and faith in the god once named,
all placed in pieces of a figure left to blame.
Waiting on a miracle to work to good deed,
hoof of purest lamb now sentenced to breed.
Thorn and thistle cursed to beauty of rose,
man’s fortune to women with a price of propose.
System segregation from the people born truth,
turn to natures sin in purpose of youth.
Belief met bravery in hand of defeat,
rush to the opening of a church in large fleet.
Memory reconcile with death fortune placed,
sanction granted to power in need of erase.
Intelligence fought sympathy in the war of troubled mind,
am I useless without leadership if my demise meet unkind?
Body built to the soil cursed by I man,
colonies trapped in brutality of gods plan.
Beggar, theif, and humanity at hand,
Are criminals to be punished if future lie in the sand?
Is truth upon belief of a system unpredicted,
the structure a temple yet torture left unrestricted.
Mind place of memory to the mistreatings underway,
if I hold power to speak why should boundaries get a say?
Free speech is a right in the rule book of law,
however issue runs deep with dictatorship to core.
Does a cry of babe not rustle in your mind?
A predator to be freed yet a crook to be fined.
A god of justice is spoken in scripture,
but thy neighbour is thought on suspicion, never close to a sister. Harmony sung in words comprise,
dealings from the devil while society treat to infantilise.
If a body is a right to the owners spoken truth,
why should societal exception meet way to the youth?
For a pasture, a priest, or a saint of country name,
would allow such action to ignight as if flame.
Then action should compromise the wrongdoing upon mass,
the power of performative government is as fragile as glass.
Digits can be numbers, and our numbers mean a lot!
But digits I rate highest are the digits that I’ve got:
those literally a part of me; the five upon each hand
comprise my top ten digits, and here’s what makes them grand:
Without my top ten digits, there’s little I could do.
I couldn’t write, or cook or clean, or even tie a shoe.
Inflexible, I couldn’t use my toes to reach my lips,
And so I’d need somebody’s help to eat my fish and chips!
Each finger serves a purpose and I’ve got it figured out.
The one most useful to me is the one that is most stout.
The thumb, which can be overlooked, is really very strong.
Just try to hold a pen and write. Without it, you will long
to feel that writing instrument guided by your thumb.
But using just the thumb alone can prove quite cumbersome.
Helping guide that pen, you need a finger that is sturdy.
That would be the middle guy, also known as Birdie!
Of course, because I’m so left-brained, my top ten digits are
the ones attached to my right palm, and two I’ve named thus far.
The index (or the pointer finger) I would rate at three.
It’s a useful finger for a teacher just like me.
Ring finger gets a four. Symbolizing love,
it’s lesser value to me than the three discussed above.
My number five on my right hand, and the weakest one,
is Pinky. Little finger is the one that I most shun!
The fingers on my other hand would finish out my list.
The sixth important one, of course, is nearest to the wrist.
My left hand’s middle finger is the next one, naturally,
on my top ten countdown. Number seven it would be.
Eight and nine are index and the ring, respectively.
So the last 1 on my list I‘m sure by now you see
is left hand’s pinky, number ten. And now I’ve named them all:
Ten fingers, for I need both hands to catch a real fast ball!
For the 'The Last 1' Poetry Contest of Anthony Biaanco