Long Cull Poems
Long Cull Poems. Below are the most popular long Cull by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cull poems by poem length and keyword.
11/18/22
Heart is
Cold like the Arctic
They bark quick
Gosh darn this
You wanted to start it
Now you're wrapped up in carpet
Walking barefoot across hot coals
Soul cold like the North Pole
A bunch of trolls
Full of the same ole'
Moving on nearby gulls
Continually I cull
The proof is null
With or without me having to mull
Much unknown like Pluto
These fools don't
Have a chance even in a duo
Softer than proscuitto
Focused on too much that is pesudo
From here to way beyond Juneau
Onto something bigger than Sumo
The masses flock onto the next trend
Leading down to a dead end
The message clear even written in red pen
My help often asked for not always extended
As they vented
So easily people are offended
Falsely or accurately reported journalism
Many fast to form opinions
It all was up to the courts decision
I made yet another step closer toward wisdom
"All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
And I intend to end up there." Rumi
In search of my beloved,
my supernova soul was born,
floating among gardens of glistening galaxies,
adoring heavenly hues of sapphire,
amethyst and emerald constellations,
where efflorescence butterflies,
fluttered among elysian scents.
Yet I still yearned for her forbidden fragrance.
Cultivating the art of transcendental romance,
euphoric emotions wrote an amaranthine aubade,
hoping the universe would hear my call,
as my love is a timeless lunar lullaby,
lingering like a flute echoing moonstone melodies,
where passion travels with each
nocturnal note composing a cosmic chorus,
ordained from an orchestra of galactic halos.
At twilight, in a playground of primrose promises,
millions of pulsar pearls appeared.
Silent and still, sentimental stars shimmering,
listening to the desires of my heart,
but at dawn they were always forgotten.
In my hallucination of loneliness,
fatigued from evanescent entities,
I awaited to hear her halcyon harmony,
until echoes vibrated from the moon,
so I became a slave to moonlight -
but it too, abandoned me at daylight.
Must I forever be the victim of selfish sunrise?
Upon the elegance of an ethereal eternal eclipse.
the last star wept sacred stardust on autumn leaves,
which glowed as they withered from scarlet to saffron.
In Nebula's November cull of death,
I fell like a comet in a meteor shower,
betrayed, falling into a quasar black hole -
lost forever.
Without interstellar lyrics,
I no longer illuminate,
maybe some light is too bright.
But, I know there is a rustic rose,
blossoming upon vintage shores,
so, every night I look up to the sky,
wondering where you are?
In these realms, within which I roam,
I watch each star suffocate
from the suppression of affection.
Seems no spectral spirit is selfless enough
to ignite this symphony of silence.
Maybe I was born a cosmic Casanova.
Maybe I'm just an intergalactic Romeo.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
From a trillion miles afar -
Your rays penetrate the night
And avail of your delight.
Through the curvatures in space
Where the moments are erased
You forge onward in your course
To the sun and to the earth,
Both a photon and a wave -
Both a master and a slave -
Matter, energy and speed -
Both fulfilment and the need -
Self and space-disturbing force
Charting journey from its source.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star
Shimmer as you fling ajar
Door between the mind and heart -
Tear the manacles apart -
Make it shatter; make it bleed -
Water flowers; cull the weed;
Burn outside and burn within
Till the mind begins to spin
And avails of Northern Pole
To attain into the soul -
There to manifest as light
And achieve unending might
That can burn, and warm, and heal -
Universal truth reveal -
And allow it to break free
Like volcano in the sea,
There to reach into the clouds
And to exorcise the doubts
Of what's lovely - of what's good -
And what, if it only could -
If it only had the force -
Would make paradise of Earth.
Twinkle, twinkle, little soul,
Be my journey, be my goal
,Be my transcendental truth
And don't fall into misuse
But remain, all woes despite,
To give solace, courage, might -
To inspire the ones beneath
And direct them into bliss:
Burn and shine, and from my mind
Wipe false thoughts that make me blind
And replace myopic eyes
With the true, the good, the wise.
And as you reach in my bone,
Make it shatter like a stone,
Tear it, shake it, mold it, burn
From the sundown till the morn.
In the sky and in the eye
In the place where shadows fly
Disincarnate, free at last -
Free from future, free from past -
And existing anyhow
Living in eternal now:
Through the evening, through the dark,
Like a condor, like a shark,
Like a laughter, like a tear -
Through the moody atmosphere -
Little star! Twinkle and shine!
Burn me, scorn me, and be mine!
"The Real Disclosure"
1st world goes 3rd world
nightmares under a blue sky
grey rocked while birds fly by
a hole
in the heart
of their world
fentanyl dreams, hunger, bullets cull
the homeless numbers,
trimming apathetic anthropy
the real disclosure revealed
a bird’s eye view
America is dying
an alien world
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
reality.
truth.
America.
“Truth is not what you want it to be; it is what it is.
And you must bend to its power or live a lie.”
(Miyamoto Musashi)
“Our evolution depends on our memory.
If we keep forgetting the mistakes of the past,
only to keep repeating them, then we will never change.
Humanity will never move forward,
spiritually or morally, to become superior beings.”
(Suzy Kassem)
“Ugly truths are the biggest source of indigestion in humans.”
(Raheel Farooq)
“Truth will keep on telling the truth
Lies will lie to be more uncouth
No more rainbow after the storm
Nowhere to escape leaving the norm”
(Munia Khan)
trijan refrain
The heart half full means something’s wrong -
the Spirit’s oil runs low.
When emptied, broken, we are strong
refilled, and ready so -
God’s strength can fix a heart gone dull
our selfish contents He can cull.
God’s strength restores
God’s strength restores
each day to keep our mark on full.
The heart half full means needs may go
unmet by God’s own grace.
We’re called to let our fellows know
that they can win this race.
God’s Word abounds with help each day,
it must be read to find the Way.
God’s Word abounds
God’s Word abounds
to fill the empty hearts who stray.
The heart half full calls us to prayer,
it’s time to take a break.
Engaged with work, no time to spare
another’s thirst to slake?
God’s love pours forth when we look up
and ask for wisdom in our cup.
God’s love pours forth
God’s love pours forth
enough to share, our neighbors sup.
posted September 19, 2014
**I realize this is a combination of iambic verse in tetrameter, trimeter, and dimeter but that is the requirement for a trijan refrain, a variable line length. If it does not meet the rules of your contest, I will understand.
Everything I've touched has turned to gold,
A feeling that never gets too worn or old,
I savor every moment, every win,
With my opponents stuck in their unsightly bin.
The more they shout and flail their arms,
The more my inner soul it calms,
Their din is music to my ears,
It gives me pep; it takes off years.
My aims are clear, my skills well-honed,
As to their mob, they seem half stoned,
Supporting goals that folks don't like,
Wishing they would all just take a hike.
I've only started, the road is long
To fix our country, make it strong,
Instill a sense of pride and worth,
A gleaming beacon for this Earth.
Some complain I act the King,
With subjects kissing my eternal ring.
Do I care, not in a word,
But I do find the concept touchingly absurd.
Kings don't have the power I do,
Most don't even have the slightest thought or clue,
I instead can say and act,
Forgoing any nod to grace and tact.
I get things done, stir up the pot,
Turn detractors’ faces crimson hot,
Hire my friends, cull the wokes,
With a flourish of the pen and practiced strokes.
Next to Putin, now that's a blast
To try and make a peace that lasts.
Get it done with strength and charm,
End this war, curtail the harm.
Then who knows - that Gaza thing,
What a headache with a sting.
Two thousand years of pain and strife,
Where constant bickering is rife.
But if a deal is to be done
I'm the go to, I’m the man.
The Nobel thing will be my prize
This will cut Obama down to size.
And after that may you well ask,
What shall be my next enticing task?
Greenland’s there, Panama for sure,
Forget the catch, it’s the chase that’s the allure.
The Quandary
Standing high on the mountain side
I take in the first breath of morning
It seems so much more refreshing here
Maybe it is the altitude that we are at
The aroma of my morning brew reaches my nostrils
The steam a reminder of the time of year
As I survey the pristine landscape my thoughts wander to home
Father would be at the farm readying for harvest
He too would be having his first cup of java
I can hear mother in the background reminding him of something
Soon he would be culling the herd for winter meat
Isn’t that what people say I do, cull
Yet for me, gazing down the hillside, it does not feel the same
Sure I do this with my fellow men to survive
But it feels like we are taking them out in their prime
That somehow it is a travesty
Back at some distant headquarters they will remind that others will follow
We are only doing what needs to be done
That much good will come of what we will do today
And in that is my quandary
I see them fall some younger, some older, some not at all
Those few spared to provide seed for new generations
That last gasp is the same regardless of their age
The word “timber” signaling their death knell
That which took decades if not centuries to grow
Will be felled in a matter of minutes
The tree which has lived longer than I now dead
A seedling placed where it once so proudly stood
I am a logger
But you can call me Bob
Andreas Simic©
(alternately titled...
whoops rites of spring
prematurely ejaculated).
This livingsocial mortal opposes
rigor mortis deadened waiver!
Great slabs of ice thrust
from Perkiomen River
competing forces did deliver
contraction and expansion
giving yours truly,
a frightened shiver
hurled with heft of Goliath
smashed into a bajillion pieces,
akin to alms giver
momentarily, sans freeze-
frame (courtesy J. Geils ghost)
suspended, hallucinated
me accursed and destined,
grim fate akin to drunk Mini driver
city, viz frozen blocks buzz
feeding frigid air, a sliver
of Ice Age dam axed
face of Paul R. Vortex
as he launched a
thousand shrieking banshees,
an narrow escape as I did quiver,
hence explaining thunderous crash heavily
argh...no time to mull
battering (ramming analogous to
more'n one angry red bull)
Highland Manor Apartments
little imagination needed
to envision skull
and crossbones harkened full
Nelson deathly hallowed
grip inescapable pull
aghast and petrified to brimfull
(of mine non hull
king manlihood down
to the last drop),
nonetheless didst cull
atavistic adrenaline
laden fight flight, never a dull
moment whirling as
a "FAKE" undercover agent
with an off humorous bent
(what, that might earn me ten cent),
plus considering myself civil gent
(yea, really no time asper hero to invent,
such as the unassuming Clark Kent),
ah...wishful thinking misspent
mere seconds to spare sought
shelter in makeshift tent
deep sea diving into blanketed warmth
this whimpering poet went!
I’m like, “Yo!”,
and he’s like, “Woh!”,
and I’m like, “Good to meet,”
and he’s like, “Yeah, real neat,”
and I’m like, “Jungle sucks,”
and he’s like, “It’s big bucks,”
and I’m like, “It’s the pits,”
and he’s like, “What a ditz!”,
and I’m like, “Where’s the beer?”,
and he’s like, “Why you here?”,
and I’m like, “I got sent,”
and he’s like, “Excellent!”,
and I’m like, “Let’s shoot pool,”
and he’s like, “That’s way cool,”
and he’s like, “You from Alaska?”,
and I’m like, “Nah – Nebraska”,
and he’s like, “Go Huskers!”,
and I’m like, “No tuskers?”
and he’s like, “Had a cull, for food”,
and I’m like, “Radical, dude
Since humans surfaced from the slime,
our art has always turned on time,
on measurement, and not on rhyme –
so Solon says (I’m with him):
the heart of art is rhythm.
You want to waltz? You need three-four.
And verse that’s truly free’s a bore!
The drumkit forms rock music’s core,
and Rhapsody in Blue has
wrought classical anew (jazz).
Our architecture, uninspired,
was looking – feeling – somewhat tired.
Then Frank Lloyd Wright, completely wired,
transformed it, not for profit
– have you seen his soffits?
The painter had become a monkey,
just reproducing portraits (clunky)
and soulless seascapes. Things got funky:
what stirred the stiff Sargasso?
A samba called Picasso!
Those Western movies grew so dull,
the steers were ready for a cull:
Italians dispelled the lull,
while Hollywood said, smugly,
“no-one wants good, bad, ugly!”
So, whether you sculpt or you sing,
you groove to The Beatles or Bing,
you think Nat or Elvis is King,
it don’t mean a thing
if it ain’t got that swing!