Long Demonstrative Poems
Long Demonstrative Poems. Below are the most popular long Demonstrative by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Demonstrative poems by poem length and keyword.
You are a soligaster of the highest order, held in pristine favor by your court. A wordsmith after Satan’s own heart.
Champion of Doublespeak, a demonstrative firebrand with a MAGA-phone. An artful dodger, complete with chaotic DOGE.
Delusions more grandiose than Bonaparte, crowned King of Deception you be a celebrated charlatan who follies in the scam.
Hats off to the Misleader of the Free World, ‘Trumping’ reality in monolith farce filled fallacies, fabulously flaunting fake.
Protagonists of propaganda. Promoter of pandemonium. You thrive in ‘Mythomania’ unraveling truths with charismatic flare.
Purveyor of provocation.
Pestilence peddling Prince of Calamity. May you find solace amongst the shameless.
Raging Red nailed by reason to controlled anger
Shaded disappointment lies deceit corroding grey
White like the bathroom cleaner You swallowed
The smell of empty boundaries transgressed
Rusty razorblades oozing blood and manipulation
Distasteful taste of rotting matter mottled flesh
Colouring outside a medley of confused emotions
A striking demonstrative match incinerating
Abusing trust respect compassion care and shooting
Salvos like a paint ball onto pained grave canvas
Surely a polychromatic cry for helping with the
‘What’ the ‘Self’ the self-destructive saturation
But mind you this is a chance now one opportunity
To link from dot to dot your bleeding droplets
Yours to own disown your brush to break or stroke
31st 2018
I love you to pieces, unconditionally, the mama says to Peter.
She says this in actions, not in words. In her family you did not say it ever.
Pete’s father is demonstrative – I love you flows out of his mouth generously.
He lavishes “love you” on loving neighbors, friends, a hitchhiker he has met once.
Do you have a minute? Pete asks him.
His father assures him he does, but then he must rush off.
A friend needs a lift to work. On his return he is summoned to the phone.
“I never get to talk to him,” Pete complains to his mother.
“He is a rescuer,” she assures Pete. “He is busy being himself. No worries.”
By the time his father decides to sit down to listen, Pete has left home.
His mother has gone to heaven, and there is no one left for Dad to help.
Who will he listen to now?
I've always had a sense or feeling of being exiled, not only from the world throughout my life but even from my family members when I was a child. There was no sense of demonstrative love from anyone.
Not from my mother or brothers and sisters even. No one has ever been kind.
Then, if I write about love, as a poet, I handle an object that is in every way an alien phenomenon; that the proverbial heart and Christianity's "Garden Exile" are the inescapable "Darkness" within which I live but my unique perspective as a 'Neutral Analyst' is a blindness which allows me to see further.
That's a good thing.
In silence I can feel my soul
& hear the echo of
its voice
Thoughts trickle from
the ether into this vessel
until it overflows
like a well
Moist words trespass
into my mind
expressing feelings that well
until expression is divine
I have no choice in the matter
& find peace in surrendering
until what's surrounding
doesn't matter
In this overflowing state
there's no time to be clocked
while I'm being guided by
sublime hands taking stock
I watch in silence surrounded
by darkness
oblivious to its loud
monotonous nature
Rocked by mountainous
sensations I go deeper
into myself
touching the surface
of elation
This internal demonstration
is so demonstrative
in nature that one
can see it with eyes
closed
Allow the pupils to shed
their robes for a blink
to receive the light
for a drink
It's darker than the darkest
night within
until epiphanies
shine so bright that you're
never blind again
Inside is where you'll find
everything worth seeking
& discover the words
worth speaking
Drink from that well
until you're so full
that you're able to pull
treasure from the deep
like anchors from the sea
Here you can move
freely through rancorous
waters that have long
bubbled under
surface
The most pleasurable
things in life are
simple & free yet
deeply indwelled by
a purpose
Simply sit in silence
& darkness until truth
illuminates the path
that awaits you
See where that takes you
& keep going deeper still
until the abyss overtakes
you
Book cause I spend an inordinate amount of time reading...
out loud.
As a hypothetical argument
yours truly doth not aim
to be unfortunate recipient
of misguided, misjudged, and mislaid blame,
nevertheless I make dubious claim
and baldly recede (ha – hair ye, here ye)
from heady assertion
to make bold statement
such that literacy supersedes numeracy,
between said measurable
ambiguous, exiguous, and irriguous
confusing, perplexing, puzzling pillars
of cognitive, demonstrative, emotive,
facilitative, generative... intelligence,
hence not consonant
far from the madding crowd,
until the return of the native
and perchance ludicrous
to some above average dame,
who might be prone to exclaim
contrariwise, and squarely frame
mathematics more powerfully
(id est - greater than)
basically versus stringing words together
yielding cogent, decent,
effulgent, fluent... result
(that may not add up to a hill of beans)
crafting supreme unequaled poem
predicated upon cockamamie scribe,
(one whose unexcusable
laughable puerile mien
modestly trumpeting his outstanding talent,
hence he expects and deserves
posthumous lettered fame),
née, he already
appropriated, leveraged, wielded
volumes of his speculated worthless material
synchronized to be broadcast
immediately upon his demise
(after the grim reaper
steals dem lovely bones
to avoid self embarrassment)
avast treasure trove awaiting
distribution across webbed wide world
(including all manner
of social media platforms)
after discover re:
visa vis artificial intelligence
courtesy agency of smart machine
to custom make similar
facsimile thereof brilliant literature
where good things come to life
to emulate and evoke
mental landscape and thought processes
of one humble human
Matthew Scott Harris
while supremely, soundlessly, seamlessly,
echoing beloved refrains
from computer generated verses
that would be indistinguishable
from Joni Mitchell's
original song titled the circle game.
Villanelle is typically nineteen lines
lines six, twelve and eighteen are one again.
often about love, the romantic kind
You will find sentiment is never mined
from some of your less demonstrative kin
villanelle is typically nineteen lines
But a villanelle is a way to find
the softness within that makes people grin
often about love, the romantic kind
Three is nine, fifteen, and nineteen each time
gloriously rising out of the wind
villanelle is typically nineteen lines
A,B,A pattern of villanelle rhyme
sentimentally points out once again
often about love, the romantic kind
Gently written in a poetic mind
angelic loving words are your best friend
villanelle is typically nineteen lines
often about love, the romantic kind
Written 12-16-2018 Villanelle Contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
From the very depths of my inner being I cherish Poetry Soup,
without the written verse I’d be impoverished as a person,
literary projects spur me on to otherworldy epic peaks,
an open channel with furtherance from lexicons endowed,
golden opportunity for human pathos rich and fair,
stomach-wrenching pain, joyous peals of laughter, mental stimulus,
visions I adhere to have a wider world impetus,
the comity of fellow authors and their honest feedback,
diplomatic goodwill hint at barren lapse within my canon,
and gracious honeyed Bon Mot of peer group kudos on occasions,
that angst-ridden moment before a contest sponsor judgement,
bold gasp of relief at higher placement than expected,
or just as likely glum expression at the baleful NA,
in support a staunch muse Jay A Pallen sheds her light,
loyal and demonstrative sister, whose sparkling eyes ooze warmth,
sagacious councillor supreme, bestowing love on this bard and their ardent stanza,
who brought to my attention bewitching vistas waiting to be captured,
influencer of my first ever piece “Downward Plod,”
where this writer’s magic life-enhancing odyssey began,
how I cherish every moment spent on Poetry Soup
Dorothea, was that truly her name?
Does it matter after all these years
so long passed the heartache of a child's tears?
This tale remembered from a lifetime that unwinds
once forgotten and lost without reason or rhyme
instilled the promise of every gift of God most sublime.
When I was a child, myself, the very gift of God,
the sisters at the children's home
wore floor-length clothes and seemed less people, more like clones;
a parade of habits veiled dark brown and indigo black
swept the floors where footsteps echoed and clacked
and as time passed, we learned parents never come back;
most names of children and nuns alike were not heard or said
by little children hiding beneath the covers of their beds
in dormitories of the orphanage where innocence was often left;
unwanted little faces washed clean in salted tears
shaking each to their bones without dreams and only fears
of the nuns who frowned as they drew closer to the tiny dears;
there was one nun, a sister if you please, who on occasion, maybe two
wore a smile of ease and seemed kind and caring too
knowing that little children need their hopes constantly renewed;
Sister Mary Dorothea, one, singular gift of God giving love to each child
often embracing the small, the meek, the wild and the mild
with words of love, comfort, motherly promises to free them from exile;
she sailed above the wooden floors, lilting to share her soft prayer
angelic in her gliding approach to express her deepest care
and safe and secure, she guided children through all they endured there.
One demonstrative expression of God's gift of everlasting love
for the promise of the future yet to come from heaven above.
Inspired by both memory and Julia Ward's contest for the nun - Dorothea,
names may have been changed to protect the innocent.
I have to get this right! Old Gus settled.
My first essay without Miss Edward’s help.
For a contest; so it wouldn’t be right.
My feet were mammoth, I tried to collect them.
Old Gus’s ears perked up. He was gone.
Raccoon or opossum maybe.
A tribute to my mom I thought,
Remembering her smile, her laugh, her hug.
I was seven when flu took her.
Came home from school to find out.
Dad grieving so hard. Bad time.
He had lost a wife. I had lost my sun.
Dad peeked in. How’s it going, son?
He gave me a nod. Anything I can do?
He was not demonstrative. Not a toucher.
“She was a hugger,” I wrote. “I miss that the most.”
Written 9-30-2019
Contest: Realism Art Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper Photo Selected: #2