Long Cued Poems
Long Cued Poems. Below are the most popular long Cued by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cued poems by poem length and keyword.
Scrambling tooth and nail for a patterned fate
I approached the lofty mansion of Learning's Gate.
All cued up for a slip of paper - the one they call Degree,
halfway convinced that I hallucinated humanity.
For who under their own free will would venture
into this spiraling sameness:
this illustriously-in-debt, this Regal Club
of the Nameless?
I bellowed my voice into the air
(This great atrocity!).
But not a single student seemed to care:
So well fashioned they were,
adorned in their prized medals of mediocrity.
Along with their unwillingness to ever stray,
all too content to be but rainbows dreaming of gray.
I hung my head in such morose emptiness.
As I fashioned myself: the uniquely ubiquitous.
And what a fool I was to join the crowd - and yet so halfheartedly.
Striving for the cirrus clouds, the silver moon, and then the galaxy.
For my actions didn't match my cerebral creativity
I was statue still cursed with a meandering mind
(and other such extremities).
Exploding with hopes large enough for two
I sat clearly convinced languid leaps would do.
But one cannot daintily decide to dream the Dream
for it is merely the seed, another earthly deed.
You're not allowed to walk away, gandering as it grows,
for we are likened as the summer sun - keeping the rivers a'flow.
"Picturing profits in your hands
do not till the all too ready land"
explained the elderly gent with leathered palms,
"Someday soon you will understand."
And though we aim to be ourselves
gravity inevitably
brings us to the grid.
Imagination like a heavy rain;
we the paper people
so helplessly hid.
But fear not ye denizens
of the cherished cubbyhole:
where you keep under lock and key
your dust-laden soul.
If one burgeoning blunder
tore it all asunder
surely one single spirited spark
could heal even the most
dormant of hearts.
So fare thee well oh Cookie Cutter Coop -
Another day on that wretched plain, and I'd surely die.
I'm glad just to sever sameness in one fell swoop
by hanging on a star in the midnight sky.
NOTE: I always enjoyed using alliteration when I could... and with this particular one I went a little bit nutty... but I think it turned out okay.
My son is getting older, and he just went back to College, the other day.
But he had enjoyed the summer, by adding a new game to his daily play.
He called it Troll Tipping as daily he targeted another, and wore him out.
By dinner, the Troll would fall asleep, as my son claimed his dessert, so devout.
But wearing out a Troll, is not such an easy thing, so many a night, a Troll got his.
What a shame! But as a resourceful college man, at devising plans he was a whiz.
He offered them a Fun Filled Tip, yes, a way to get others, to do their daily chores.
The cost to each individual Troll, was their sweet dessert, that night, nothing more.
He was doing great, as he ran thru many a Troll, but then our suspicions did unfold.
You see, this bred unrest, as a number of fights started, amongst our beloved Trolls.
Scheming isn’t sharing, so Grandpa Troll had a TALK, life changing, or so it’s told.
But Boys are boys, and desserts were to be had, so he made a new plan, quite bold.
You might say he invented Granny Tipping, yes, now it was MY dessert, on the line.
Now this would be quite simple, for at my age, I can easily, become tiredly inclined.
But the one thing he’d forgot: is how crafty age had made this old one, in her efforts.
As dinner wound down, I cued Grandpa Troll, to help deliver, those delicious desserts.
I told my son, that they were made to be his favorite, simply in honor, of his behalf.
Then I pretended to fall asleep, and he quickly took my dessert, with a joyous laugh.
Then suddenly his eyes grew big! And I awoke, looking him quite clearly, in the eye.
I lied that, I added laxatives and terrible cod liver oil, to my dessert nightly, yes, so sly.
Making them easier to swallow, but if he wanted more dessert, he only had to ASK.
He quickly sped away, to wash that terrible taste, out of his mouth, a daunting task!
And we all had our chance to laugh at him… as the joke was finally on him, at last.
I call this, Bad Behavior Tipping, and from that day to this, he asks for more, at last!
The game seemed to lose its luster that day, yes, manners did a BIG, comeback.
The moral is to politely ask… Playing clever little games… is NEVER for the best!
At the local bar one friday night, we were shootin' pool and getting tight,
Just havin' fun in the neon light, yea, everything was cool, out a sight!
Now I've played pool for years on end, my stick play is cool, sometimes I win,
With 2 balls down, I still played the same, I'd bought the last round and hadn't won a game,
Yea, this luck of mine sure seemed strange, Ol' Biggin' shot fine, as the eight ball remained,
As he walked to the table to shoot the eight ball, his win was probable, as he made his call:
"Eight ball in the side chump!!"...Ol' Biggin' did say,
While my throat became a lump, as he cued his play,
Then the shot went to pocket the eight, and I couldn't believe what I saw,
Ol' Biggin' blocked his scratch on the eight, yea, didn't let the cue ball fall,
So I told him: "That sure is Jive!" as he stood and stared at me,
His eyes looked like he was fried, and Ol' Biggin' stood 6 foot 3,
Then he called me a geek! so I called him a goon! and so to speak......a Big baboon!
When he called me a fool! I called him a twerp! and that snatched his cool! so he snatched
my shirt,
What happened next was my surprise! Ole Biggin' landed left, right between my eyes!
And I hit the floor so hard, no slack! Yea! Biggin' tore the shirt right off my back!
And I felt the swellin' layin' on the floor, with Ol' Biggin' yellin' and wantin' more!
So as I was getting up and could hardly see! I swung an upper cut, you know where that
might be?
Uh! Huh! you're right...but is it cruel? when he turned out my light and snatched my cool,
So should the moral of the story go like this?: "Don't play pool if it' pool like his" Or:
"If you play pool....It's just another game of: Don't snatch that, cool!"
A kite flies a fair-weather bird,
Whenever wind wants would it fly,
In adverse wind to go wayward.
Some that come with a heavy spine,
No matter what tricks you might try,
They never once fall in fair line.
Unless bent be their rigid spine,
Reluctant they fly but scarce high,
O to dive back from the skyline.
Some are like Indian holy cow,
You coax and cajole them to fly,
Biased, they tilt same side somehow.
You guide or goad them to your side,
But built so, they bend and defy,
Haughty heads, straighter never stride.
Broken thread, kites would scratch others:
‘I’ll die but not alone well nigh—
It’s my way to flare my feathers’!
Very few, on reaching tall height,
Stay firm, high in heavenly sky,
Exalted, they make a rare sight.
These kites are cued in their own bliss,
They wish with no others to vie,
Not keen to scuffle, live in peace.
Steady one gets nigh late in life—
On struggling long reaches space high—
Earn fruits ripe on suffering strife.
Kites tell us: life is just like that,
Slow and steady rise, girl or guy,
Life’s journey’s never set in a jet.
___________________________________
Musings (on a kite-flying day) |16.01.2024| life, kite
Poet’s note: 14th January, called Uttarayana or Makar Sankranti, is celebrated in Gujarat as a kite flying day. This poem’s set as a tercet— a three-line poem. Haiku and Villanelle also are a kind of tercet. This one has its middle line of each stanza taking the same rhyme throughout. Life is like a kite. It is tied to the thread called Fate. Wind leads it to its Destiny. But man, the flyer, has the will to lead it to go where he wishes.
Prologue
Abandoned and in disrepair the mansion
Is dark now; a story behind every stanchion.
An unwitting monument to a way of life,
Since foreclosed through bloody civil strife.
Antebellum
The hush of summer evenings cued the trilling
(Fiddled on hind legs accompanied by warty pouches)
Chorus; pierced only by the discordant creaking
Of unseen stairs rising to the house slave's quarters
Portending the disquiet of antebellum martyrs.
Wittiness trees attest in angles and chains
To the master's grid and shade the lanes
For the surrey whose wheels rutted the gateway
(Become artifacts) en route to soirées of gaiety.
The prairie land, violated by steel and condescension
To the roots of its towering grasses and purple gentian,
Forced to nourish seeds of an alien flora for hempen
Riches, patiently awaits its day of redemption.
Bricks of fertile earth fired over an Osage hearth,
By chattel hands, in mortise and tenons, gave birth
To a mansion at the prelude of a moral sea-change
That would divide the nation and break its chains.
Current Era
Their lives deprived of enslaved labor, the once-lived
Voices ebbed a little as each generation removed.
Shrouded in leaves of time they are a mute bequeath
Indelibly recorded upon the stories that lie beneath.
Dreamer boy speak for them now. Sing for bluestem that switched
Against the sky nourishing the thundering herds that provisioned
Native tribes. Rage for those hobbled to sow but never to reap,
Weep for a Nation gone mad and seeds planted too deep.
Reflections after touring an abandoned antebellum mansion.
Copyright Paul M Thomson September 2011.
It’s been a week - things have been happening - I’m going through it. I’ve become nostalgic for two weeks ago. I got screamed at, I lost my AirPods case, and I cracked my iPhone screen, so I’m several levels worse - I’m a sad human. I’m writing this at the Apple Store while a friendly Apple person renders me whole.
The Ukraine situation has everyone unnerved. Draw a card - Pandemic or WWIII? Please, protect my peace. So there’s a level of “scr3w-it” now.
Friday night, I’m in a bad mood and when someone says “Come-on let's go clubbing!”
I’m - “Let’s GET THIS.” Later, we’re at a club, and it’s INSANELY crowded, like a moshpit. It was ABBA night. It did not escape me that this is exactly the type of milieu I’ve been avoiding for years. Did I mention the WWIII level of “scr3w-it”?
Ok, moshpit, You could hardly move, you definitely couldn’t hear, and Anna dropped her phone - we were sure that it was gone forever but 30 minutes later a hole opens up and there it is - like it’s just been sitting there waiting - so, there ARE miracles.
The list of life’s demands grow by the moment - reading, homework, laundry, dinner, upcoming midterms. I had a rock solid plan for a Saturday night of fun but assignments and necessities destroyed its integrity.
After a heroic effort and completing everything, I felt a fast-metastasizing boredom, so I wandered outside my room, hoping for company and distraction - it was 00:30 AM - and for once - no one else was there! Where was everyone? Hello zombie apocalypse.
So, I did what anyone would do in that beat - I cued-up ”Miraculous,” because Ladybug’s always there for me.
I landed in Kansas, Middle Earth.
I asked the first human I met to show me something about Kansas.
She tried to describe The Wizard of Oz.
It was confusing, so she invited me into her house.
Cued up the TV and we watched a recording of their history.
Apparently Kansas started with a tornado god,
and everything was absent of color.
She gave me a crinkly bag and I sat in on my head.
She laughed, ripped it and made me taste the flat
salty things inside. They were delicious! Chips she called them.
She then ran into another room and came back with something called
Pop. It burned my throat all the way down and was awful,
so I kept my opinion to myself.
I knew she was trying to be nice, not mean.I sensed that about her.
I jumped a few times, in fright, as green men sprang out of flowers,
dancing and singing. She threw her head back and weird sounds came out of her face,
not musical sounds, more like crow sounds.
Laughing is what she told me.
Humans do not all look human. Some are big and hairy with tails,
some are made of metal, and some are small and bark like our
pets. She explained all the stuff to me, but I was so enthralled
with the flying monkeys, that I barely heard her.
The witch looks exactly like our head of state,
Morgabite, so that was fun to see.
I guess some of them do look more like us with green skin.
It was a wonderful afternoon. As I left I walked gingerly,
afraid tiny green men would jump out from under the brush and bite me.
So swiftly our passage brief,
Our old house looks lonely sad;
Now like a stranger I grief
Upon the place once most glad.
Just way back when we lived here,
Yet now we know sad refrains;
There is a space for lost cheer
That struggles to come again.
New mail keeps trail to old place,
I spy that old window view;
Reminders of that old space
Where birdsong trance fondly cued.
My caretaker friend greets me,
Watch happy nostalgia free;
Coming back makes me cheery
Yet tinged with melancholy.
We chat and he tells me tales,
Updates with sanguine new bites;
Who's doing what as complaints wail,
We laugh upon silly swipes.
So much have changed since your time,
He tells me about his pains;
I hurl old reasons in rhyme,
Take it easy with disdain.
Indifference marks the mood,
Complaints seem mostly petty;
I try to make him see good,
Work to upkeep things calmly.
So from time to time I call,
Check upon his company;
Sit with tea as chat installs,
Fond laughter fits melody.
Here's to you my good old friend,
Who made things yet more breezy,
Then as Nicole Green felt grand
When simple life was easy.
The love we found in that house
Is more than enough for each;
Now here, I sit, stare and browse,
Visualise days wealthy rich.
The places we call home fill,
Linger in sweet memories;
We may leave them but still feel
Fond swirls and twirls tell stories.
Leon Enriquez
18 December 2014
Singapore
Menu A or Menu B ? oh dear! quite a dilemma really. ha
Tadpoles induced symphonies in a bowl of custard cued. But cued is neither curd nor carved caverns catering cafés. Cafés cage craterous carefully created considerate cream crêpes and deepest are the deepest diamond drills whose echoes fall amongst lone sheep and geese and tigers and pilau rice. But it is imperative to catch out the mirrored eel and mirrored eels are neither beaming brilliant beautiful business beans or ordered orchards. X minefields mind minders mingling manicured mania manifesting minks. Fashionable cited curving cue of a diamond backed whale. Arriving. It is imperative to be prompt when arriving at the junction stop. Particularly when travelling with a seventy seven on stilts, a little diner with a giggling fifty foot donut hat, a wiggling cheesecake in a see-through dress, a wand, half an acre of corn, a placemat, a window ledge with eighteen species of flies, and of course the ladle in the trousers. Number that then numerically form a curtain ounce. But ounces Are neither octagonal octagons ordering offers and neither are they otters ogling organically officialised odd obelisks. Ha a worm is catching the person up and is hiding because the person wants to put him on a hook to catch a big fish. Ha the early eating was getting bored and fed up waiting for the machines to cook bread. Xxxxx virtualization of a cubic measure. Z at eleven eagles to thirteen billabongs booming. Z
Form:
Older age
being old is always ten years ahead: meanwhile
I’ve decided to embrace my present age positively
I walk, don’t run, affecting a dignified lumbering;
if I stumble,I welcome kind people’s consternation
glad of extenuation, I don’t mind being patronised,
as when told, after easiest ramble, ‘you’ve done very well’
with a book, I’m allowed a sedentary slip into slumber,
as catnaps or forty winks lead to longer life
at night I sleep in short bursts, but the interruptions
bring comfort, especially of tastiest night-snacks
prickling twinges of bladder or bowel, though frequent,
are a sign that I’m mainly cued for continence
as a nod to Pilates or yoga, for one minute each day,
I gingerly flex, despite protests, my joints’ hinges
for breath and lungs I stretch, to put on socks and shoes,
or pick up items that have dropped to the floor
for hearing, I’ve tried a number of aids
and, whatever the cost, will find one that works eventually
for sight, after treatments I’m still waiting for,
I’ll have glasses for reading not just large print
when I often forget names of things and people,
I forgive my brain, that’s too full of data
if my personality narrows and I’m short
on memory, attention or temper, I’m determined
to broaden outwards, towards all those others
whose condition and attitude is so much less positive than mine