Long Dabble Poems
Long Dabble Poems. Below are the most popular long Dabble by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dabble poems by poem length and keyword.
Doors
How fitting that the band’s name derived from Aldous Huxleys’ treatise
‘The Doors of Perception’ that purely aesthetic philosophical story of
life through the window and door I suppose of psychedelia and drugs
In a marriage of heaven and hell ‘Baby light my Fire’ perilously casts
a shadow of what became when he hatched through the final portal
unhinged wasted high as an angel the one and only Jimmy Morrison
‘This is the End’ the final curtain which Jimmy painted in words when
brilliance and despair talent and all those voices in his head were laid
to a final resting place and conclusion of a life pruned and cut so short
The end underlined the movie ‘Apocalypse Now’ in its brutal reality
in a world that does not need reality shows to distract from evil in
which Vietnam and the Holocaust are forgotten and history repeated
Jimmy’s father had been an Admiral in the forces and my father a
General had thought that years on the Russian front could be expunged
by joining NATO’s Cold War delusions fighting for Peace with ready guns
My own rebellion has been quite mild rather mellow but I wonder
how close I have sailed to the wind resisted the calls of Baader and
Meinhof have not bowed to the needle avoided full blown opposition
No comparison in talent for sure and I believe that Jimmy suffered
psychosis and I got away with depression but nevertheless in truth
it is the world that suffers from schizophrenia seems to dabble with
Mescaline induced decomposed compositions when true colours are black
‘This is the End’ and ‘Light my Fire’ misunderstood when genocide beckons
Rushed me into
Relations
A full detication
You something
Else
, I just wanted
You to know
You've got my
Attention
Hey should I mention
There are some
Exotic places we
Still can go
Bikini beaches
Far fetched reaches
There is one thing
I wish you to know
I really like you
Thought you should
Know
We skip dolly dew
And pause see mally
My dew
We ooh we dobble
May feel
Retreat to say
What we feel
We ooh ah dobble
Mc reel
We dance to the
Repeal
We applaud and we
Dance
We, opp to the chance
Of love..... We ooh we
Dobble appeal
We act like fiction is
Real
We dabble in love
We speak it till
It's right
We call it ah night
We fucc like
We're in love
Photography
I used to have a dark room.
Trigonometry.
No reference, the word causes anxiety though.
Anthropology
I used to live for this subject, imagining myself in Egypt on a dig.
Art.
I dabble, four hundred paintings later, I have no idea what I am doing.
English.
Worst 7th grade teacher ever, but I like it in spite of that ridiculous time.
PreAlgebra
No memory of this whatsoever, and glad of it.
Homemaking.
The only parts I liked were the sewing and the eating after the cooking.
Reading.
I can sit in a treehouse all day long, devouring a stack of books happily while
Choking down my favorite sandwich – peanut butter, Miracle Whip and lettuce.
Poetry.
Love the cadence of it. Never have understood it. Apparently I do not have to.
This is not a poem; this is a piece of my soul.--by writer
Yes, I string words into poems--
At least that’s what I think they are,
In this language I was not born with but acquired.
Every word and phrase is a labor on my part.
You may say I’m too ambitious
To dabble in versification when I don’t even know rhyme.
Forgive me--I just enjoy seeing pieces of my soul
Inked on a page. Thus, if you find any imperfection
Know that they are just as I am;
And just as I am, they
Are all I have to offer. So when you read
A poem of mine you are actually partaking of myself--
My innermost thoughts, my most guarded
Emotions, my dreams--all displayed at your mercy.
8th Place
My Truths Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
I dabble poetic in occasional rhyme
but remain obtuse and dull witted in haiku,
prone to my mistakes in cadence and lyrical crimes.
I fight iambic pentameter
and laugh at doggerels and limericks,
steering clear of epics and fixed formed teeter teasers.
Perhaps burlesque or lampoons should be my write
as I pen the words and phrases of heroic couplet
or narrative ballad best record of the knight.
Didactic, elegies, dirge and epigrams are a gain
still, I take a chance at each form to myself teach
but free verse flows readily and easily in my veins.
Alas, I write and take a whirling spin
at reading, writing poetry and poems each day
imagining the ah ha of poetry to begin.
You hear it all the time these days,
people talk of communities,
but then when you heard what they say
you can’t help but think it’s funny,
they don’t talk of where people live,
or of neighbors getting along,
it’s obvious that the lefties
are getting ‘community’ wrong.
They speak of the ‘black’ community,
and rail about it all the time,
as if somehow your skin pigment
means you all have a common mind,
That if two people with dark tints
are seen out walking down the street,
that they must have something in common,
how else could it be ‘community?’
But that one guy is a doctor,
grew up middle class in a suburb,
and is quite obsessed with Star Wars,
and other stuff favored by nerds.
The other one’s a drug addict,
a sob-story clipped from the news,
he grew up without a father,
he grew up beaten and abused.
Do they go to secret meetings
with other people of dark shades?
Do they agree on what to believe,
or even live in the same state?
I think they are just two people,
different as two people can be,
the fact that their skin tones are close
doesn’t make them ‘community.’
They speak of the ‘gay’ community,
and obsess of that three percent,
as if there’s some great unity,
amongst ranks of gents who like gents.
But again the same fact comes up,
when you look at a person gay,
really, do any two of them
ever at or think the same way?
I’ve met gay men so flamboyant
you would think them a stereotype,
and others who love beer and sports,
normal guys, just different at night.
I’ve seen lesbians so masculine
they can out-bro the broest frats,
and fashionable ‘gay’ women
who dabble, then to men go back.
Am I to think all these people
can be rolled up in one lump sum?
That they care more for other gays
then for family, or straight loved ones?
I do not think it works like that,
the whole notion just leaves one vexed,
gayness isn’t a 'community,'
it’s just a fondness for the same sex...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Why do I create?
The simple answer involves
the complex mystery of
creation~ the more knowable answer
is, I am lonely...needing something,
someone outside of myself
to bring back in, to hold close for to cherish
and love.
I would not write a word,
dabble a blotch, were my hunger entirely satisfied
by the works of others; were all my questions
answered and my dreams already portrayed into infinity –
I create because I have a sense of loss, of being
incomplete – I create because
I am dissatisfied with the status quo.
I create not to feel a sheep-driven-reactionary,
and more a green in God's garden of unlimited potential,
salivating for moments of sensed eternal blossoming...
The novice writes a poem,
while the poet writes poetry. The painter only
paints, while the artist creates an image, that lives
immortal in the realms of observation. And I create
for all these reasons – and, most of all~ those
shared joys I have not found outside the process.
Look at you
Oh so fashionably accessorised
In a demi-couture package
In your environmentally conscious style
Playing out ecological homage.
But bright red plastic buttons tinge your dress
iPhone resplendent in its fluoro yellow cover
Television screen sized sunglasses
Your hair infused with streaks of amber.
Revolutionary or is it maybe avant-garde?
Your visionless voice on sustainable ecology.
Little chance dirt would have graced your nails
Nouveau magazines guiding your ideologies.
The empowerment that must come with driving
Urban tractor, fuel efficiency rating and bling
Billowing air-conditioning making it bearable
Jingling bangles as you swap CD’s to sing.
Small pity the organic shop is across town
But the drive is so definitely bearable.
Cling filmed ethical food on polystyrene
The Emperors clothes so plausibly venerable.
You disdain the smog of a wood fuelled fire
Preferring the heat that occurs from a pump
Oblivious appliances are fed by a coal powered station
Comfortable the broken hair dryer goes to the dump.
But I’ll always admire your self-serving tenacity
Because with candid conviction you’re the first to judge me.
* A wee dabble and play
~Spring Love~
Lying on the bank of the river, fingers dabble in the flow
Your head across my stomach, watching the waters go.
Little fluffy ducks abound, and new damsel flies unfurl
The early season brown trout leap, and make a splashing swirl.
Fingers running through your hair, my body satisfied and warm
You trace my lips with your finger, we're hidden from the brewing storm.
The storm we know will hit us, and what will we do then?
But cherish this stolen time together, in our sheltered glen.
Kisses that fall like the spring time rain
We know not when it will happen again?
Spring comes but once a year and we grasp it with both hands
We cherish and watch the buds explode; leaf covers the new born land.
Fingertips that may not touch, in the next seasons rising sun
Time to move on our way, another season begun…
How do we pretend ,that there is no spark of love?
It’s like trying to stop the clouds that form in the heavens above.
Good day my beloved one another spring will come
Perhaps we will share it, under another rising sun.
© 12/09/2102 ~GG~
Who knows whence the measurement
of time came about, though this chap
proposes the following general happen
stance. Perhaps psalm body named Judas
Priest arranged to congregate, but cohorts
restless (sans Quiet Riot), did Accept
a Mercyful Fate asper their Iron Maiden pact,
but needed to reassure doubting Tom us
(a petty detail), how to coordinate self
anointed Black Sabbath. An Idol Billy
Graham proposed a resolution (this
coincidentally enough would be calculated,
figured, and interpolated vis a vis
to happen on New Years Eve circa
unknown when. Some metal-heads
put their Smashface together, and contrived
a crude modus operandi, which in
vol vid each musician to crank up
and amplify to the max his instrument of choice.
No matter distance extant between
closest and farthest member, would be
barely faintly heard. The era re: these
bit players didst dabble with primitive
chronometers comprised hamlets a mere
shouting distance apart. Once a quasi
reliant (and affordable) methodology
evolved, one singer songwriter
upped the (space/time quantum theory)
ante by conniving, fostering (the village
people), inviting live onstage performances.
Quite a bit of fancy free footloose gimcrackery
reckoned to be sale-able to sell at audiences,
thus drawing a Crowded House. None
the less, there remained the confounding,
irksome, pesky quandary sans figuring precision
concerning how to segment morning
to night cycle. Perhaps the town nerd
might own the (get) smarts to tinker
satisfactorily until...PRESTO! The purported
impossible mission solved with refinement
propelling one geek after the other into
the klieg lights if only for a blink of an eye!