Long Dullard Poems
Long Dullard Poems. Below are the most popular long Dullard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dullard poems by poem length and keyword.
When I was a toddler Father was brilliant
Taught me many things and with the wonder
But as I got older and the passing
Father grew slower until fifteen when..........
He eventually became a dullard
Told me my friends would bring me down
Punished me and locked my mind away
But no locks could hold me and my genius
The years passed until I reached twenty one
I realized that he must have studied while I was sleeping
I received the key when I was twenty five
And looked at those blue eyes which held me
They studied everything I did and loving
Longing to be free I watched the first steps
Brilliance
Studying into the night and prayer
Letting go and giving him my key
I was born for this with my love
Tried with his little hands to turn the lock but the key
Frustrated
I filed till his key fit snug
My prayer was blessed and I thanked
Father
Come unto her not with pious words from a pulpit’s herd of unsure-footed sheep. Rather, come unto her with deeds that her lamb needs, your bloody knee spurs speak to hers.
Come unto her not with raw, self-inflicted wounds that you claim, in bitter blame, are the fault of another. Rather, come unto her healed from your past tangled trauma.
Come unto her when your bleeding has stopped…not dripping a drop. She will only suture her own; done nurturing the needy.
Come unto her not with an ego of eggshells, nor a simmering swankpot’s cherry-flavored charm. Rather, come unto her with the simple pride of a stable hand whose steed is always a ribbon winner.
Come unto her not as a sinner in fancy finery, bearing bestowals from far shores roamed. Rather, come unto her with threads of a thrasher boy who has traveled from home to crop, and chanced to stop to pick her a pretty pansy.
Come unto her not like a dreary dullard, nor burdened by the pseudoscience of stately scholars. Rather, come unto her with savoir faire; humble hat-tipping to those of both high flair and famine.
Come unto her not with sunny, invasive color of a dandelion’s deception; a weed that poses as a posy. Rather, come unto her with word spoken truths as ferocious as a lion’s tooth.
Come unto her not like a weak-kneed weed that sways and spreads seeds like dried nettle. Rather, come unto her with admired mettle; the fortitude of an oak whose rings can no longer be counted.
Come unto her stronger than the man that you think you could be. She will soon see that you are much more than your best possibility.
Cliches drive me totally crazy.
They make my thinking more than hazy.
Two words in particular, you are already familiar with.
When a dullard uses,"they say", I want to scream, forthwith!
.
Look you now at the way, some respond in emails!
One, or two words, elementary childish verbiage,with a paucity of details.
The overly adored internet, the master killer of communication.
Not only between each other, but a plague fallen on all nations.
The other that drives be balmy is, "Oh, well. There's nothing we can do."
What are we, passive cows who can only say, moo?
Remember that when a planned, tyrannical government takes over!
You'll regret not having a gigantic German Shepherd, named Rover.
December 30, 2019
December 28, 2019
Save Yourself
My soul they took for all it was worth,
These demons of the underworld
Who inflicted rules I shouldn’t have shunned.
But I dismissed their advice and chose fun,
And jeered at their jest and mocked their pun.
The elements fade the tombstone’s name.
Some ask, “Who there lies in that grave?”
And I yell from the depths of hell,
“Unhappy are they who come closer;
Run away from impending disaster!”
There is no hope of ever turning back.
There is no joy to partake in, just punishment,
Obstinate fool that I was, brash and relaxed.
And now I suffer in the aftermath of my acts.
“Save yourself from such a fate!”
The stranger drew near like a vacuous dullard,
Fresh as June, without a care in the world.
If only the prying dolt realized the stakes in play
And would heed the warning I’m giving
To avoid the misfortune of dire straits,
Rather than to embark on an immutable journey
To go up there, just to be sent down here.
Horror, my friend, your eyes will see,
Irrelevant as your name will be.
I tried to escape but lost the race.
I dream of magic lines but they elude me.
Chapbook on acrylic tube palette, janus-faced cave in
at the crack of dawn,
crescent moonlight awnings turn to circus of the soul,
images that colour dullard pages leave furrow on my
hayrick haggard brow.
Backwater sonnet form leaning towards some meadow compost rot.
Ghost written silhouettes, shatter fragile eggs on
loop pile Berber carpets,
yolk stain and pale brown chicken hash tags.
Tight rope knot escarpment found in tripod camera verse,
cliff edge heart-stop paen is just another
blue-sky canon over billed by birds of prey.
Poetic licence pointer to a learner permit doggerel,
aspiring metre patchwork but a tapered column
lost in grey day whimper.
Guangdong province text in lychee pink for window glaze.
Fleeting notions dangle at the sparrow hawk crossroads,
while grazing skinny red ballon formations overhead.
Mother of invention please shine your convex beam
upon this wellspring drought abandonment I swim in.
Sudden brain cell drafts a Jack-o’-lantern of disjointed phases,
stretcher bear the legless phrases that leave me
wheelchaired and infirmed in woolly states.
Timeline mainstream woofer whose lagging jacket hemline falls apart,
areole reduced branch slowly bleeds its cactus juice of inspiration.
A rush, a fever, quotidian fever,
no greater longing can us writers have.
Why am I born in this world? I ask myself.
Am I not a part of His creation? Why so to me?
They strike me hard that I’m out of self.
But I look at things as they look at, do they know?
Nothing is different to me as they think so.
I watch the world go, nothing different from others.
Whatever emotions they have I do have the same.
I do walk on stage, but they say I’m a puppet.
I do breathe the same air as they do, and no money paid,
But they doubt my breath, and stamp me as a dullard.
They don’t feed on what I don’t feed on;
Yet why they make me alien I know not why.
I too dream as they dream, and no dream may be real.
I too have my own world with new fantasies
As they wander in their own world of fancy.
Am I not in the image of God? Let them read themselves.
They say my mind can read nothing;
But they are poor to read my mind,
For my thinking is not their thinking.
Am I to be blamed? Am I to be neglected?
Who is neglected in His sight?
None dares to say that I’m neglected.
I believe that I am better than them,
For what I can do they cannot do
For my ways are innocent and child-like.
Then why am I born so, they raise their doubt.
Let me bring to light that Father’s Glory is in me
And will have its own way to outshine the creation.
Till then, my request to you, let not your words be indifferent
Against my silent world, for your words are accountable to HIM.
Try to enter my world and learn silence and meaning of life.
'All work and no play
may make a dullard out of Jack'
or so someone
was heard to crack
but all talk an no work
will not get the job done
yet world leaders fly round the globe
to discuss the environment
but forget their carbon footprints
and simply write it off
as merely entertainment
such discussions could be held
via the Internet web of intrigue
why they won't is beyond my ken
altho' I pay their way
they must be out of my league
'Every man for himself'
is more than a selfish diatribe
but 'One for all and all for one'
thanks to Mr. Dumas
(1802 – 1870)
is a phrase to which I can subscribe
A starlingly, stunning woman, she!
Who, like a slinky cat, came silently
into a smoky room.
The wide-men took notice and loudly
gasped....."vava-xoom"!
I honestly don't know, what was so
special about her.
But those big floppy hats, shades and
thighs caused set mens' hearts aflutter!
I was ravenouslly jealous of her in my dull,
righteous gear.
What and why were men were forever
whispering things in her ear?
We women became utterly invisible to
our mates.
Who succumbed to her large,gold, gypsy
exotic, earrings-fate.
She was our nemesis, and created quite a
magic spell.
We murmured like jealous hens,that this
woman burn in h_ll!
CHerie Flambe married an airline pilot, has three
homes and how happy, she!
We dullard, righteous women,so happy
for Cherie Flambé.
As we were rid of her, eternally free!
Edited title originally said Kitty Jolie.
August 22, 2020
11 am PST
Apples in orchards
Apples in orchards crashing like snowflakes to the ground,
They fall into the baskets to be eaten now.
They have ripened and at last we can taste their juices;
This fruit of the loom brings pleasure to our mouths.
Vineyards drunk dry by drunken Mediterranean’s,
Create a wine so divine, you would swear it was a God send.
There is no end of pleasure to be found in this land of ours;
Sip the wine and spit it out and then while away the hours.
Summer shines upon us, as we are drunk in love;
We have tasted her, we are with her and she is the one.
The one who brings us happiness when all else is dark.
She brings us the warmth we crave; she is euphoria for the heart.
Dance for your lover and take off your clothes
And you will see the smile on their face.
Love each other truly and who knows,
You could grow apples in your orchard and savour the taste.
Love is your apple and your life is your orchard;
It takes two to grow an apple, so come on now don’t be a dullard.
Smother them in love and your orchard will grow
And at last you will have a place you can feel at home.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
The Fifties were really and truly not all that square
Though that dullard Dwight D. sat in the Executive Chair
And his frumpy wife Mamie had really bad hair
Matching those dowdy, plain dresses she'd wear ...
While husbands toiled in obscurity for large corporations
The "Ugly Americans," reviled by most other nations
Their stay-at-home wives feeling mostly frustration
Downing "happing pills" daily instead of real medication
Their sons sporting letter sweaters, obedient jocks,
Their daughters in plaid skirts and white bobby socks
Penny loafers and saddle shoes were in for ten years
Along with white levis and coca-cola -- never rum, never beer
Yet how about Krushchev's dust-ups with Tricky Dick Nixon
What about Sputnik 1 and the panic it put us in
And remember George Wallace and old Lester Maddux
Hosing down *******, echoes of Crispus Attucks ...
The rise of brutal pro football threatened apple pie and baseball
Heralding the next decade's premiere spectator sport, i.e., 'spaceball'
Joe McCarthy dug up the dirt of a "red scare's" nitty gritty
In the work of the House un-American Activities Committee
Then there was Rosa Parks refusing to sit in the back of the bus
Championing the yearning for justice in so many of us
And the music, the music, so outrageously wild
Chuck Berry, Richie Valens, the Big Bopper -- that overgrown child
Yes, the Fifties were really and truly not all that square
Though we shan't heed the call of those who'd return us to there