Long Custom Poems
Long Custom Poems. Below are the most popular long Custom by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Custom poems by poem length and keyword.
See you soon, I will meet you in the rose garden at noon, we have some details to go over and all the directions of how you will cross over.
I know that you are full to the brim and your diary is laden with “sins”, you have ten appointments today and you must fulfill them before you go away.
You have a meeting with Ambassador Pork and a luncheon with Dr. Session.You have a conference call with professor Gut and a schedule visit with King Tuft.
The old lark is sitting in the dark and you have to get to the airport before the dogs' barks. Someone is waiting at the boarding with an important message about the arrangement for the journey.
Keep your eyes on the prize and weigh the pros and cons before the day is done take a cold shower if you can to purge yourself from the heat and the sun.
The butterfly is flying around the blooming flowers and this is my most splendid hour, I can feel the adrenalin running in my vein and paradise embroiled in a terrible feud beneath the sky.
The bees are there too making honey for me and you. They have made the hive deep inside the ground so be careful how you play around.
Take a look at the old rules book and recall the moment when you had to cook, you remember the contract that you made with some foreigner and the reservations that you made with the engineers?
Something significant happen during that time, the cables that were laid were not mine, they came all the way from Asia and the Middle East and they have a timing to rise up with the breeze.
They were custom made; Go back to the book of old there is a significant story to be told. Everything is set at a particular time when the rapture will be divine. Map out your evacuation path before you go wandering in the dark.
See you soon,I will be waiting for you at noon and if you are late just meet me at the big gate, I will help you with your luggage and elevate your courage there is more to say but I will conclude for the rest of the day.
vi. etching, detailing (ala fresco),
vii. plus trimming living room ceiling,
viii. shingling (while fiddling) on the roof,
ix. tiling the kitchen floor,
x. building a cistern for brethren,
xi. wood paneling many rooms,
xii. building custom made toy chest,
xiii. stringing up lights to increase visibility
driveway lit like Christmas tree after dark,
xiv. partly assembled a kayak,
xv. retooling - enhancing porch
(formerly slate covered),
where Morris dancers performed
at wedding for eldest sister.
xvi. Helping, née completing
homework/school assignments.
Unlike him who did beget me
I experienced cognitive challenges
that beset one painfully shy
and severely introverted male
more to the point
as a lad and mediocre student to boot
promotion to next highest grade
occurred just by the skin of my teeth,
which may help to explain
why I wear dentures,
oh... these choppers worn for about
one sixth of mein kampf livingsocial.
A sense of inadequacy prevailed,
when absolute zero self esteem
strikingly and suddenly manifested
in tandem when parents moved
their young tender family within
Lower Providence School District,
but into a larger house
(initial summer estate constituted
about one hundred acres of woodland -
named Glen Elm
think Winnie the Pooh -
house at Pooh corner -).
Not quite two score plus ten years
spent livingsocial at 324 Level Road
(above mentioned abode alluded),
and twas there majority
mine existential highs and lows,
where nadir of mein kampf transpired,
I emotionally hit rock bottom
upon onset of prepubescence
yet major event triggering
mine major depression
set in motion,
when parents chose February 28th, 1968
to move out of shoddily constructed domicile
located on Lantern Lane.
Halloween night is supposed to be scary
Peopled by spooks and goblins, most of them hairy
But where I come from it's quite festive and merry
Sugarplums dancing, accompanied by faeries
Then there's the time-honored custom of trick-or-treating
'Course, as any trick-or-treater will tell you, it's all in the eating
But where I'm from we dispense with the preliminaries
Just one thing on our itinerary -- confectioneries
Now as to the matter of witches on broomsticks, cackling high overhead
And the spirits and ghosts that allegedly rise up from the dead
We don't subcribe to that spooky nonsense
What we do is burn incense and sniff frankincense
Not to leave out the garish jack-o-lanterns' macabre grins
The eerie haunted houses with their swinging skeletons
Sorry to disappoint you, but we simply dispense with that stuff
~ In our nudist colony, where tradition's remade in the buff
October 23, 2018
Tell them we are working hard
They will soon afford to buy rice
Show them our graphic evidence
Of rice pyramids. We are self-sufficient.
When they complain of hardship
Give them rice!
When there is rising unemployment
Add some more rice, I say
There's plenty of cassava too to eat.
If they plan to protest
And the workers want to strike
Pacify them with mudus of rice, right away
I know my people, they will shelve it.
All subsidies are gone forever
Taxes all around have come to stay
And when those rabble begin to grumble
Let the Custom open their stores
Of foreign rice to them. It tastes good!
My people are understanding
I have instructed them to tighten their belts
But if they questioned my extravagance
Give them state-sponsored rice
Sold at a subsidized rate.
Let them know we are truly empathic.
Not our fault about climate change
God knows why! We inherited banditry
Herders-farmers' clash, from our predecessors
But be assured when disaster strikes
Our response shall be swift
To distribute rice in camps of the IDPs!
Homeless I lived,
without even a marked territory
to claim as my own!
How I wished I had access
to a mattress to lay my weary body
or a ceiling under my head!
But I had no place to be in
I have slept in roach infested tunnels,
under bridges and doorways,
walked alone through city streets-
a shadow lost in the absence of light.
In the night I have walked through empty streets
where feral cats and dogs, stalked.
During day, people would walk past me
Looking away as if I were a plague
Amid the crowd, I searched for a kind face
But I could see none.
Sometimes, a hand would occasionally toss
a coin or two into the begging bowl by my side.
In the absence of a marked territory,
I kept walking from place to place,
until my muscles ached and my legs
refused to budge an inch or take another step.
I lived poor, so poor, a lost soul in every way.
When I died, my body was wheeled in a hearse,
with a few following me, with hesitant steps,
more as a custom than a gesture true.
The open gates of the walled cemetery,
allowed a glimpse of the newly dug grave.
In a remote corner it stood,
close to an overgrown hedge,
among many a mound that bore no name on it.
Oh, the indigent and the lonely
are destined to huddle together
in death under the sod
with their identities merged
into a single clan!
My body when swiftly lowered to the pit
and as everyone left to join the rage of life,
I pondered, how on this Earth
the distinctions of rank
extend down unto dust
and follow one like a faithful mongrel
While the rich lie in mausoleums
and in tombs with their names engraved on marble slabs,
think of the many, mere chaff in other’s eyes
who, in life or death, are never fated to be in marked territory!
A torn page from life’s tome!
A story ended and deleted forever!
Two dwellings in one single block
(the peasants at the back).
One market garden, orchard, flock:
No asphalt road. Just track.
The men were in the bottom field
to get the barley in.
“It’s looking like a bumper yield:
don’t lose it. That’s a sin.”
The Master’s doing ‘market day’ –
four bottles. Pinot noir.
The peasants joke: “He’s making hay!
He’ll wreck another car!”
Maria looked up from her paste –
that pasta needs a tweak –
it’s never good, if done in haste –
no meat or fish this week.
She felt the window drawing her:
Where’s Salva? On the grass?
The Lady, in her Sunday fur!
Tomorrow’s Martinmas!
This was the day, with harvest picked,
when bosses, ‘cleaning house’,
by ancient custom could evict,
could tell their staff, “Heraus!”
But Salva wasn’t in the sand,
or playing near the cellar:
the Lady, clutching by the hand
her daughter, Arabella,
called out “Maria! Come to me!
And don’t you dare refuse!
This yard is filthy. Can’t you see
what’s happened to my shoes?
Your boy was playing ‘gallows bird’
with Bella, in this mess!
And what if something had occurred
to Bella’s yellow dress?
The first thought in Maria’s head
was, “So – we’re not evicted!”
The second, “That girl’s overfed –
her midriff is constricted.”
Signora, with her other arm,
held Salva by the scruff.
“You peasants,” sneered the farmyard marm,
“are naturally rough.”
“They’re getting to a certain age,
and well, I mean to say …”
Maria swallowed down her rage.
“Fine. Far apart they’ll stay.”
This is the real world
expressed in the form of several days
worth or ghost writing.
Kowloon: The Walled City of Imagination; cosmetic dentistry;
REASONS TO STOP THUMB SUCKING;
New York's most iconic photograph; container shipping;
How are pets handled in divorce?
Medical cannabis and kids; plumbing and drainage inspections;
immigration counseling lawyer in Chicago;
Metal fabrication in Chuckey, Tenessee; How home security alarm monitoring works; How to make an HDR Photograph;
toxic torts; audiologists; plumbing and drainage inspections;
Tenth Edition, Calculus Early Transcendentals;
ISEE test preparation in los angeles;
vinyl windows in Beltsville; great printers for Mac computers;
orthopedic doctors in Herndon, Virginia;
container shipping; public adjusters in philadelphia; custom order fulfillment in Golden Valley; Minnesota; land surveys. Ghost writers know the real world better than poets.
I absconded with reader rabbit (Peter), to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day
Ah Sheik Hog - Ho!
One "FAKE" Wingman
think Monty Python's
Flying Circus skittering
on thin ice - Skidamarink
a dink, a dink...
hither and yon, to and fro
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, no spring chicken bro,
nevertheless oz offer friendship in toto
good day to thee with cheerful adieu.
Though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare
naked lady loving bastard oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,
and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held
at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair
tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (cryptic blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%
grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware
shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, cus the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
The black-as-widow’s-weeds night of endless stars
was so cold...
cruel as temperature
plunged its frigid fingers feeling through my being
fondling my heart and soul without mercy
molesting me - taunting my will to live
and just when I thought
the ice water in my shivering veins would kill me
there she was
she came shyly at first
demurely spreading
her pinkening skirts over the horizon
while her blushing complexion
deftly gelded the darkness
I prayed-I pleaded-I made deals
(with who? you don’t want to know..)
that her warming smile would be my saving grace…
It began to slowly dawn on me
as she flexed her sinewy heat waves
flaunting her solar power
that I was caught
between false hope and no deliverance
for the desert sunrise-to-sunset
now faced-off and challenged me
with barren bone-dry intensity
sucking dry the new dew
and any life
containing moisture
weathered granular remains
of ancient feldspar and quartz
with eons of sifting and shifting boredom
took on a hell-raising life of their own
as the fire-breathing celestial sorceress casted spells
of smoke and mirror mirages
and magically made ridges of rippling blond sands
glisten like scales of a million skimming sidewinders
writhing in joy at my agony—
it’s amazing
how cold I feel when I have been so burned
again I face a desolate night
— deserted —
without a blanket
Susan Ashley
April 29, 2018
Widow’s Weeds: For women of 19th century England, a custom of mourning that involved wearing heavy, concealing, black clothing and the use of heavy veils of black crepe. The entire ensemble was colloquially known as ‘widow’s weeds’.
Mourning - Wikipedia
It's easy for the things we want to just be put aside.
The things we've always dreamed of put on hold and left to ride,
Until some time, some future date we hope will come to pass,
And the dream becomes reality not just a dream at last;
But time slips by and other things can over cloud our dreams,
And slowly they just slip away, become forgotten schemes.
But dreams can give us purpose, the power to start improving.
A dream can give us energy, the will to get things moving.
Don't lose the power of the dream.
It helps you to accrue,
The things to make things happen,
And it's custom made for you.