Long Ee Poems
Long Ee Poems. Below are the most popular long Ee by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ee poems by poem length and keyword.
Let’s Eat Something New This Christmas
(Parody of Have a Holly Jolly Christmas)
I can make some spicy tacos
better than the ones down south.
Please though know to eat them slow
or they may burn your mouth.
Try my sauciest lasagna
better than a Christmas ham.
Cheese galore – I like that more
than even roasted lamb.
Some get hung up on foods
so traditional.
My foods you cannot call
repetitional.
For dessert, there’s tiramisu.
I’m so sick of pumpkin pie.
Cookies crumble
so I grumble: why not new foods to try?
Christmas Balls,
(Parody of Jingle Bells)
Christmas balls, Christmas balls on my Christmas tree.
I’ve got a cat that’s such a rat beneath the tree he’ll pee -ee.
Christmas balls, Christmas balls, flying through the air.
When both cats get hold of them, they scatter everywhere.
One night I took a pause because I’d heard a crash.
Hoped it might be Claus bringing me some cash.
I saw my big dog’s face. She looked up guiltily.
To those darn cats she’d given chase destroying our tree! Oh!
Repeat refrain:
Christmas balls, Christmas balls on my Christmas tree.
I’ve got a cat that’s such a rat beneath the tree he’ll pee -ee.
Christmas balls, Christmas balls, flying through the air.
When both cats get hold of them, they scatter everywhere.
Two oldies:
I Heard Mother (to tune of "I Saw Mother Kissing Santa Clause")
I heard Mother scolding Santa's elf
As I prowled the house on Christmas Eve.
He'd hid in St. Nick's sleigh And then sneaked out to play
After having waited for his boss to fly away.
Mother caught him gobbling all our snacks
After he tore open every gift.
Oh, when she glared down at his face,
He went scrambling from our place
Screaming, "Santa, stop the sleigh-
I need a lift!"
New Body
Parody of the Xmas Song: White Christmas
I'm dreaming of a new body
with every chocolate I unwrap.
But I can't stop eating, I can't stop cheating.
There's just too many Christmas snacks.
My nightmare is a pot belly -with every Christmas treat I take.
But I can't stop feasting, my size increasing;
when I stand on the scales they'll break.
Yes, I'm dreaming of a trim waistline,
so take that Chex mix from my face.
May my buns be smaller and flat,
and may all my body lose its fat!
(I no longer make Chex Mix. It’s just too tempting)
It is like a drunk
or addict reaching that 'so called' stopping off point. That point
where one can't imagine life with or without the fix. Writing is like that.
Obsessive, progressive, addictive. A fix. Scribes need it to 'feed the rat.'
Recently I have felt
overwhelmed reading all of the BFAs and MFAs out there, being at most an
amateur ham and egger myself. Writers all strive arduously to organize words
into some form or message that people enjoy. That touches them. That they
identify with.
I've dreamt of hearing,
"Ahh, your words meant so much to me!" And, immediately I fall into
delusional dreams of people swooning. This helplessly addicted novice would
be left to wallow, pro tempore, in the juices of their nouveau riche, yet
auspicious skills? It is simply not like that though, people!
Most of the time
writing is line by line, meter by meter, and word beside word. Then edit,
clip, and rewrite. And all of that to be a novice 'ham and egger.'
Look at
E.E. Cummings, James Agee, Carl Sandburg, Ernest Dowson, Gana Gioia.
All of them capable of writing something complete, abiding, and significant
in less than sixty words.
So significant that
one can return to read and reflect upon the words all the years of a life.
No chance of my ever
writing something compelling like one of those guys? Maybe, I could channel
an inner Dylan Thomas? Perhaps, if I touched the oxfords of Dr. Seuss?
Now, there is a good plan! That Sam I Am, That Sam I Am,
I do not like that Sam..............E-I-E-I-O!
Perhaps, if I had voted for Barack Obama I would be
more sensitive and artistic? All muses, artists, and
sensitive people vote Democratic, don't they? ---
Yes, that's it! If I change my voter registration I'll suddenly
awake one day with all of the angst and existentialist ardor
of Sartre or Dostoyevsky!...........................****, not a chance.
A better strategy might be
to write poetry for all of the right reasons. It is very much worthwhile
expression and communication in our age. It is an accomplishment if
even a handful of people every read the words. Poetry is still important
today. Its benefits enable the author to 'dig the well' of their life experience
deeper with every topic completed.
The words are there. All one has to do is gather them fearlessly!
When I enrolled in magical school
Ma said good luck
Dad called me a fool
He always thought with my IQ
I’d fix people up,
Not saw them in two.
But I had a vision
And my self esteem
Hung on the balance
Of this simple dream
So I packed my bag
Gave Ma a hug
Reached out to pop
Who said with a shrug
Watch each one of your steps
Cause each one of them matters
When you walk without looking
You’re sure to splatter
So take my advice
It may save your life
You can’t step twice
On thin ice.
I’ll show that man who I can be
With a B.A.
In alchemy
I have no doubt that he’ll be glad
Because my plan
Was ironclad
I bought all my books
Most second hand
I was so ready
To beat the band
But where was my room
Did it disappear?
I’m such a buffoon
Then dad’s words appeared.
If you can’t find your way
Don’t lose your nerve
It’s all a small part
Of the learning curve
So take my advice
It may save your life
Rolling the dice
Is a vice
I tried running down the empty halls
But all the doors
Turned into walls
I shouted a chant, before weeping
‘Allah-Kazow-ee’
To get me sleeping
I dreamed about A’s
The prodigal son
The star of my class
Magic 101
But soon my visions
Became nightmares
I woke and screamed
And if pop was there
He’d say, when in a jam
Take an afternoon nap
Cause a grumpy head
Ain’t worth a crap
So take my advice
It may save your life
To make nice
Sleep twice
At last, I made it to classes
But that first day
I lost my glasses
Teacher assumed I was a jerk
Rewarding me
A week of homework
Then my trick cards turned red
The hare’s sick in bed
The bouquet looked dead
So I called home, and said,
“I’m failing Hocus Pocus
Gotta D in smoke in mirrors
It’s so hard to focus
When all I make is errors
Then dad said with much calm
First give yourself a hand
Before counting on others
And soon you’ll understand
So take my advice
It may save your life
Give yourself a high-five
To survive
So I practiced day and night
‘Till each ‘Abra’
Came out right
And my Presto-Digi-ture
Was more than
Amateur
Then all those D’s
Turned into A’s
Without tricks
I was amazed
Hard work after all
Was a giant step for me
But with dad’s advice
I learned the mystery
Each day is irreplaceable
And comes with a caveat
If you waste its offerings
You deserve just what you get
So take my advice
It may save your life
Being wise
Is the prize
My grandfather Hymie
spent his entire life at sea
his thick calloused hands
and ruddy complexion re
enforced non verbal body language
voluminous tomes as testimony
to countless years
(spilling into decades)
exposed to salty spittled
spumed raw elements que
sin art finest artisanal blended, crafted,
dredged by mother nature pre
pared within each trough and crest only
for thy fiercely weatherbeaten nee,
tough as rawhide, leathery,
chafed skin to me
not surprising, since
this mariner born, bred and near lee
schooled within
briny deep ever since knee
high (or so he claimed truth
to swirling rumor), jovialy
pleased that his purportedly
learnin' myth writ tik ne'r included
NEVER settn' foot in formal classroom,
his knowledge icy
anecdotes aced, surpassed,
and trounced that of what he
referred to as grenadier landlubbers
green behind the ears – glee
fully jabbing with his
unsheathed scabbard play flea
actually downplaying any exploits,
that didst educate him, prith ee
teaching him survival skills asper
getn' taut via eddy fied tests frequently de
siding a life or death outcome,
yet our Dickensian mutual friend
shared exploits while
he dressed not in tatters,
but self made clothes from cree
chores comfortable furs, and though
a striking appearance cut, ne'r
did this ole codger (fit as a fiddle
with tall slender build),
said middle aged man appeared quite be
coming. An aura, charisma, dogma
amazingly graced stalwart, gestalt,
deportment aie
found added an air of charming debonair,
esteeming flair, genteel heir
which tasked guessing years old,
aye presumed him to exit the uterine lair
at least a few score tours round oblate sphere
as aspect of youthfulness played across his eyes
one colored green like a spring day in the country,
the other jetblue sans burnin'
four pearl jam oyster cult year.
ah...them tha many decades past
since the merchant
from Neptune to mast
to nether world, though his parting seems
like it hapt last
year, noot nay twas scores o' full moons ago,
that grim reaper came swift and fast.
Rocking in the by in by sweet baby
be not afraid for dreams enter in here
EE-SCHEEW Hush away the darkness
singing of truth starts Jesus angels send
the heart beat of God in the silence hear
baby it is true that love has no end
Rocking in the by in by sweet baby
be not afraid for dreams enter in here
EE-SCHEEW Hush away the darkness
for they are watching baby until dawn
wings are fluttering over baby’s rest
under his feather’s cuddle like a swan
Rocking in the by in by sweet baby
be not afraid for dreams enter in here
EE-SCHEEW Hush away the darkness
Here sweetie dreams of his kingdom to be
caressing little one’s sleep be blessed
fear not hear for such are his my baby
be not afraid for dreams enter in here
EE-SCHEEW Hush away the darkness
Rocking in the by in by sweet baby
UPROOTED
“The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.”--------------------Rumi
listen not to the vagrant zephyr
seeking only sustenance of its kind
idol thinkers lolling in innocence
swayed by every whispering sigh
unaware – that secrets lie.
“We put the urn aboard ship.”---------------------------------------Sappho
Single struggling sapling
scented with the longings of leaving,
kissed by the roots of a family’s tree
adrift on a sea of doubt
holding true to its native soil.
“Wherever I am, the world comes to me.”-----------------------Mary Oliver
An ocean lapping at the shores of time’s fleeting gusts
enticing us to come aboard, sail her winds
dance the song of the gentle rains
shelter in her wooded arms and cliffs
wait as her horizon’s greet my welcome.
“the moon is a curving flower of gold.”---------------------------Sara Teasdale
grinning in the pilfered beauty of sunlight
stolen from beyond earth’s curving crust
hanging its crescent hook for lover’s
to ponder in the midst of loving’s lust
petals falling in the path of daybreaks rush.
“I like my body when it is with your”…memory-------------------e.e. cummings
tingling with the cold salt spray of
breakers overpowering the sand
softly kissing the edges ……frothily spent
bubbling beneath the screech of gulls
nestled into the arms of home
“the apparition of these faces in the crowd”-------------------------Ezra Pound
vague faces of unknown forebears
yellowing in time’s smoky rooms
stern faces seeking a future
young faces – now grown old
dancing on the branches of a tree.
“The tree is here, still, in pure stone” ----------------------------------Pablo Neruda
troubled roots strengthened by hardship
searching life’s invisible pathways
meeting pressure with practiced patience
offering shade, and presence
touching granite’s hardened heart.
John G. Lawless
7/24/2015
“Wherever I am, the world comes to me.” Mary Oliver
“the apparition of these faces in the crowd.” Ezra Pound
”I like my body when it is with your….” e.e. cummings
“The tree is here, still, in pure stone,” Pablo Neruda
“We put the urn aboard ship.” Sappho
“the moon is a curving flower of gold.” Sara Teasdale
“the breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.” Rumi
the combustion of combinations of created
An angle of a candle in a demi flux should not be mistaken for tooth floss, cherry pickers, or ironing boards. For the numerous numbers of numerals note noticeable nuances of a nought. And a nought is not a neem or a norm so always string baubles in appropriate fashion when decorating in a seasonal style. So spoke a smoke who was whirling a spoke about in the air whilst carrying some ordered cuisine. Hiding from the mirrors crept a serious serpent in spectacles askew. The smoke glared at this. It did not like serious serpents for serious serpents were quite often servants to sevens and nines who lived in mines of golden authenticity. Authentication is not a noted occurrence in an attic crease and neither in any upstairs upstream window frame either. It is said that when there is rot then to peel away the dirt could expose many mangled marked layers. Bean curd then? Yes. Faces akin to beaming beans. Collective cans causing chaotic catafalque cat claps. When sailing on a big ship of over three hundred thousand acres always play a game of golf when there is a high wind. Good. Now it is time for the littlest production company of hereditary mice to spin, dance and preform aerodynamics in a nice pink caravan at an elevation of two hundred million feet. Sky then? Yes. Wow. The wobble of a jelly with a trifle is most entertaining to regard. Especially when seated on a rusted stallion or a coating of ironic iron. It is to be said that portions of bread and soup can actually point several pistols at once. Thus giving bread and soup a glow of fame for frightening the tablecloths and causing them to swoop over the breads and soups to cover and to swamp and spillage of secretive secretions of liquid jûs in a turreted hat. But please do not trip over that cat over there. He is being used as a giant doorstop. Ha to it all said large farm gatherings. Hahahahaha they all said in great audio reflective fields of moo baa oink quack neigh ee ore. But collectively sounding like a hahaha and a hahaha is not a hard hat hitting heat and nor is it a large six thousand ton hippo genuflecting in a pond of mud. So whirl away then. Good. Z hypothetical Z at six little worms smiling at twelve cute tablemats. X
Form:
(scoured from dregs of me muss held head)
I shore up a vignette to free
my ("FAKE") grandfather Hymie,
whose scrunched countenanced
evinced beetle that of browed monkey
he spent his entire life at sea
his thick calloused hands
and ruddy complexion re
enforced non verbal body language
voluminous tomes smoothed
nick holed money
to countless years (spilling into decades)
exposed to salty spittle nee
where watery terrain spumed
raw elements piscine
art finest artisanal blended, crafted, nein
mean feet resources dredged reluctantly
relinguished by mother nature mean
craftily pared within each trough and crest
found thee old man with privateer mein
whose skin fiercely weatherbeaten
leathery and lean,
epidermis tanned tough
as rawhide, reptilian, prithee
chafed skin to me
not surprising, since
this mariner born, bred and near lee
schooled within briny deep ever since knee
high (or so he claimed truth
to swirling rumor), jovialy
pleased that his purportedly
learnin' myth writ tik ne'r included
NEVER settn' foot in formal classroom,
his knowledge icy
anecdotes aced, surpassed,
and trounced that of what he
referred to as grenadier landlubbers
green behind the ears – glee
fully jabbing with his
unsheathed scabbard play flea
actually downplaying any exploits,
that didst educate him, 'ee
got taut learn'n survival skills asper
pre ponder hunt via eddy fied tests frequently dee
siding a life or death outcome,
yet our Dickensian
mutually bonding friendship
via shared exploits while
he dressed not in tatters,
but self made clothes from cree
chores comfortable furs, and though
a striking appearance cut, ne'r
did this ole codger (fit as a fiddle
with tall slender build),
said middle aged man
appeared quite becoming.
An aura, charisma, dogma
amazingly graced stalwart, gestalt,
deportment aie
found added an air of charming debonair,
esteeming flair, genteel heir
which tasked guessing years old,
aye presumed him to exit the uterine lair
at least a few score tours round oblate sphere
as aspect of youthfulness played across his eyes
one colored green like a spring day in the country,
the other jetblue sans burnin'
four pearl jam oyster cult year.
Sonnet Doubles....
I Love Sweet Tender, Kisses That Beg More
I seek not perfection nor world's bright gold
in my waking, I beg pardon from thee
each new day, across fertile fields I strode
I drink black coffee, add honey from bees
never shall will I cry, nor stoop to beg
race I sun's shadows on my wooden legs.
I found no solace, no peace given free
life failings, have this heart torn asunder
proud the green forest, splendid its oak trees
night's dark bring on its lightning and thunder
never shall this soul, decaying flesh eat
I walk in circles on my two left feet.
I love sweet tender, kisses that beg more.
May hope's gems render, mercy shore to shore.
Robert J. Lindley, presented 7-18-2020
Sonnet,
( What Youth Found In Dawn's Waking And Night's Glow )
**************
Dawn's New Born Rays Woke Us Still In Loving Embrace
I sought sensuality of a princess fair
Night of golden moon and cool winds to make my play
One with beauty and sweetest treasures to then bare
Of spirit, romantic heat not afraid to share.
Youth gave eternal hope, life its deep mystery
Summer sent an angel, her lips soft and divine
She of magnificent grace, Spanish ancestry
Willing to meet under soft moonlight to be mine.
" That love may deepest depths so yield ".
Passion's fruits from Eden's first field.
Life gave, together we partook of its desserts
Dawn's new born rays woke us still in loving embrace
We had yet to face dark world and its many hurts
Rising to meet future, loving smile on each face!
Robert J. Lindley, presented 7-18-2020
Tory Hexatet Sonnet,
( Moonlight, Two Lovers Harvesting Sweetest Of Fruits )
Note:
Tory Hexatet Sonnet
This is a sonnet form created by Victoria Sutton aka PassionsPromise
and name by Larry Eberhart, aka Lawrencealot
Octet + couplet + quatrain
ababcdcd ee ffgg
first eight lines, 12 syllables,
couplet- eight syllables-
last four lines, 12 syllables
14 lines total, rhyme scheme and syllable count showed above.
the couplet, being the “changing point” -makes a direct statement and
could be read by itself-
ex. when the mind becomes a tight rope
heartfelt dreams fall from lack of hope.
Turning point is optional.
"(I carry you with me) where I go you go."
Quote - E.E. Cummings
when mom passed away I was broken, shattered
as she was the most important person in my life
we shared an incredible bond
I lost my best friend, my mom, my anchor and rock
and have been floating and drifting since
and the clock of time has rolled
but as I dreamt of us last night mom came to me
as a vision mystical and spiritual
weeping, I whispered
I have things to tell you mom small and big things
mom, firstly you are a great-grandma
as God has sent us a baby girl
oh, this angel has brought our family so much joy
but, I am haunted mom . . .
I am so sorry I was not the perfect daughter
that our journey was sometimes rocky
in my early years I was always running away
not realizing the love I sought
I had already . . .
your door was always open
you always kept my room ready (lol)
but the years mellowed me
and I planted my roots
I took care of you as your health failed
until your death
and some days my irritation showed up
I am so sorry . . . but I was alone in your illness
and afraid of the end and unsure
I am haunted by what I said, what I should have said
and what I should have done, can you forgive me, please
still, your last words in this life were "I love you"
what I gift I was given . . .
I should have brought you home to die, I didn't
you made me promise to always have a garden
as gardening was your lifetime joy
and I do mom - a beautiful garden in honor of you
I kept your cat mom and she lived into old age
and died a peaceful death in my arms
I cried for days, it was like losing you all over again
she seemed to be my last link to you
perhaps, she is with you in heaven's garden, I hope so
and magically my mom was holding me in her arms
she kissed me and stroked my hair
just like she used to once upon a time
then, she was gone . . .
______________________
September 20, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/I Talked To Mom Last Night
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1489-329-20
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, The Mystical Dream
sponsor, Anoucheka Gangabisson, Judged 10/22/2022
First Place