Long Copy Poems
Long Copy Poems. Below are the most popular long Copy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Copy poems by poem length and keyword.
11/28/21
I won't but I know some dummy will
Ya'll think it's funny still
Out in the country hills
F*** all these monthly thrills
People think money kills
But its humans that do, leading to bloody bills
It was difficult to be predicted
Often conflicted
Folks heavily addicted
Areas still restricted
Too many wrongfully convicted
Others getting off scot free
I am not Godly
Rocky
Or a zombie
Do you copy?
I can't waste time or be sloppy
Close and far from fields of poppy
There is secrets out there, some of which on a floppy
The masses flocking
All these people gossiping
And mocking
It's gone beyond shocking
As opportunity continues knocking
Near and far from any Christmas stocking
Endless talk in town
Snowflakes fallin' down
All around
They argue due to having no common ground
Careful on who you call a clown
Badly paid
My all I gladly gave
An influx of candy canes
Others calling one another nasty names
Damn these games
A lady and man betrayed
How can we change?
If there always on a witch hunt and crusade
Why is that the way?
Do something about it or just sit in bed
Winter's ahead
The sky a crimson red
On the counter a house made of gingerbread
Nothing special or precious stones on the riverbed
Going to see it through until the bitter end
Regardless of all the unfortunates
On the road an unexpected fork in it
Still got to reach the coordinates
And help hang some ornaments
This poem was written by the human poet Dave Crandall (unafraid to admit it).
"If AI can copy humans, it's only fair that humans copy AI" ~ the poet
My name is Captain Rupert Von Schnell,
and I'm not entirely well.
I'm feeling the moon's pull,
and I ate a caterpillar, whole.
My conscience is effectively nil.
My nurse manages me with a pole.
I'm a spring-loaded contraption and coil,
a pot that's ready to boil.
I'm long past over the hill,
in this sanatorium where I dwell.
Oops, I just ran out of time,
You must insert one more dime.
My name is Colonel Von Schell,
my brother was drowned in a well,
The moon currently lacks the will,
and after it rose up, it fell.
A caterpillar's more elevated than a mole,
and I follow my nurse with my pole,
She always gives me a big thrill,
in this sanitorium, patterned from Hell.
Oops, I'm temporarily out of order.
Can you please insert a quarter.
My name is General Von Schnell.
I'm a robot that's made very well.
In craters, the moon is quite full,
and a caterpillar is trumped by a troll.
I got loaded up to each gill,
and my nurse said she's on the pill,
but as I was chasing her tail,
my heart did suddenly fail,
and this bot you've heard all the while,
made up in the General's style,
is worth only five cents,
and refunds, won't dispense.
The libraries are all down sized
The books are being digitized
They all come with audio feed
So, no need to learn to read
Just log in no extra fee
For all of it is duty free
Til but for dust the shelves are bare
And you can’t read what isn’t there
For print and paper last too long
Outlive the writers now long gone
And there seems no way to beat
The censors cry “delete – delete”
It doesn’t fit the narrative
Therefore, we cannot let it live
And with no copy, soft or hard
No one could truly quote the bard
Whose thoughts and words, double-entendre
Could rock the boat, put us asunder
John G. Lawless
©1/27/2023
An old man in Buffalo
Got toes of unwanted glow
He kicked the banger
On a cliff hanger
Waited for a truck to tow
Antique or dear jalopy
The bloke was on ecstasy
Smoked gum from his tyres
Lit wreck with pliers
Failed his own carbon copy
When rescue came hands on deck
They had no clue who’s the wreck
Chevy was rusty
Owner smelled musty
So they took both by the neck
Pick up onto heart massage
Fogey to a near garage
The crew had a spliff
All had a quick whiff
None wanted more sabotage
12th July 2019
Syllables checked by howmanysyllables.com
Alone with no admirers to receive her,
with posters on the walls of Justin Beiber.
her iPod worked just fine except one hitch,
mp3's uploaded daily by a witch.
To receive her favourite music took some time
the old hag was quite slow on such a climb.
A lift would be ideal, even some stairs
but all for cheapness' sake she used her hair.
These tresses, in their teens and never touched
by scissors, looking after didn't take much.
Silky soft and combed three times a day
was all it took to keep her locks that way.
One morning a voice called in manly tone
up to her window, “Anyone at home?”
She put down her copy of 'Home and garden”
and shouted from the window, “Beg your Pardon?”
Now leaving, he heard her and paused his step
“Good morning”, he cried, “ I'm an Avon Rep”.
“Sorry I didn't answer for so long,
you see, I have no door, so no 'Ding dong'
and from that garish bag I think I see
you have some beauty products just for me? ”
“Why yes” he cried “and if your order's firm,
that would help, 'coz I don't do sale or return”.
No second asking needed, up he winched,
his sales pitch would make this deal a cinch.
And thus the story ends, it came to pass,
he left without the goods but with the lass.
Happy every after, they, since then,
sponsored by Clinique, Batiste, Pantene.
February 2nd, 2016
For contest, 'Once upon a time', sponsor Laura Loo
"A writer must use ink from their heart for their readers." By Poet
Even as a creative "Ghost" writer,
we need "Heart" as we pull an all-nighter.
What will our muse want to "Deliver,"
maybe happy or sad or be a forgiver.
Words can sometimes be very "Tender,"
other times be bold and an offender.
"Erase" is one of our many tools,
no writer wants to be put in a group of fools.
Words are like paint painting the weather,
from days with flowers like pretty heather.
Summers can be really hot and bold,
then we cool off to a winter of "Cold."
They say our blood is really ink,
not red but a pretty pink.
My eyes scan the map of our lives –
lived experiences – etched across my grandma’s face.
And her eyes look right back.
But not the same;
The light that once danced to old jazz tunes,
and bold classic blues, that light that is extinguished by name tags at Christmas
donning the shirts of which she herself bestowed the identity.
‘I am sixteen’ I tell her,
again,
and she nods along, but that light does not quite gleam,
dimmed by the brain that cannot stay clean
and I find myself pointing at faces of which she is the blueprint.
Her fingers follow mine,
shaking,
as she tries to recreate, copy what cannot be faked
and I stifle a sob as I find my head bobs as she asks if I am okay.
Silence strangles my words
the way dementia does hers,
and I want to scratch at the very back of my throat the way she wants to remember the name of her firstborn:
An itch that will not be itched.
Not by her pretences or attempted defences, for she does not
remember
faces or names but her love remains, backed only by the assumption that
she should.
For she does not remember the family secrets that her brain will not
reveal –
not even for the sake of this family appeal.
More Spirit Than Words
The book of love
holds us in store
safe in time place
body mind spirit soul
Not in shop windows
kindle a mere copy
but you and I
life present past future
Pages are not linear
but mingle in space
conjoin hearts and faith
travel on the path
A symphony on sheets
of music dance poetry
circus clowns seriously serene
reading with nimble passion
27th March 2017
Undaunted pains of pleasure cease nothing,
For every stunt formation checks man's faith.
So far the bloods of the veins keep running...
Hope of the best expected will be birth.
As fertilized gametes shape into form;
Fetus more sensitive to aurora,
Good dilemma's moments shall see it come,
To rejoice the start via uterus porta.
Painstaking grace cares for all awful fears.
Perfect copy becomes a guise motive:
Though, tough groaning may come in lovely tears,
Most salvation to earth is combative.
The long awaiting young shall soon arrive,
Great jubilance past agonies revive!
6/8/17
Coming in faster than speed racer
Heart colder than a glacier
Trying to duplicate the flavor
Another clout chaser
With or without a pace maker
And bracers
Soft as a wafer
Yet another copy cat
You're wrong for that
Going to one up you chumps, with or without a hockey mask
For ages I've been at the bottom, reaching for the top
More than a lot
Attempting to plot and stir up the pot
Whether the temperature cold or hot
Like it or not
They'll get caught
And put on the spot
Having to pay the cost
For such foolish talk
Regarding any parameters
Days and nights may or may have not been spectacular
I guess there's always been scavengers
And bandwagoners
As well as opposition and challengers
Whether or not their ambassadors
During any date on the calendar
It was either solved or obscure, by any medical examiner
Above and below any fields with or without lavender