Long Ennui Poems
Long Ennui Poems. Below are the most popular long Ennui by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ennui poems by poem length and keyword.
His taste seems avant-garde although he’s naught
but a mere dilettante. He’ll say to you,
“I have elan.” (It’s ennui he’s got!)
He’s every woman’s nightmare deja vu -
the one you give carte blanche over your heart.
He’ll play you like a baroque melody
(like every other guy has from the start).
It ends on bona fide cacophony!
He’s no anomaly, and I don’t jest.
A man is he – no better than the rest.
(Sorry it's against men, but the ten words just steered me this way!!)
Jan. 23, 2018 for Silent One's "Ten words ten lines 2" Contest
Note: In American English "naught" rhymes with "got" Not sure in British.
As a certified, bona fide woman of a grown-up sixteen,
she light-stepped with grace thru the baroque castle.
She wanted to tell her Father of the déjà vu she gleaned
at last night’s élan party scene with a man who dazzled.
She gave her fantasies carte blanche to freely travel
for she was but a love dilettante, still romance green
and unsure what her anomaly feelings could mean.
She found the King, Father, leaning on an avant-garde mantel,
his manner ennui, despite the cacophony of swords at cavil.
Knowing her, he said, "No talk of new suiters, many already battle."
... CayCay Jennings
January 25, 2018
Sittin' in the shadows, waitin' for the dawn.
Looking for a glimpse of hope to help you carry on.
Unspoken words, unanswered calls.
Empty souls in empty rooms bouncing off the walls.
Winters chill has made you ill, just sittin' there just sittin' still.
Spring fever's the only cure in a drop of rain that falls so pure.
Solemn silence, lonely peace.
The destiny of a sacred heart that don't know how to cease.
The day after tomorrow is calling out your name.
But yesterday just wont let you get back in the game.
The ennui swells in your eye and causes you to yawn.
As the writing on the wall says your just about gone.
Muted sentiment within a hallowed grave.
Never to be heard by those that it could save.
Omni present knowledge that's never to be shared.
Leaves the solemn soul to wonder if anybody cared.
Being back home, in my childhood room is like climbing into a time capsule. I left for college quickly, back in ‘21 and I’ve only been back here once, briefly.
My closets are still full of my old high school clothes and there are shelves that line the upper walls of my room with maybe a hundred “Disney Princess” collectable statues (my favorite is Ariel).
I have one wall space behind my bathroom door that has a hundred yellow stickies on it - reminders of old assignments and quotes like, “Do you hate drama or create drama?” and “Imagine your future.”
Everything seems carbon dated. It gives me an impeccable, knife-like sense of ennui. I want to cherish it all or burn it all, depending on the time of day. I went to take down my old Humphry Bogart and Billie Eilish posters yesterday and Kim said “Noo,” in such a sad way that I stopped.
Hold on, let’s overthink this.
I had a hard conversation today. I broke the news to my cats (Belichick and Tom Brady) that school starts at the end of the month, and I have to go back.
They took it well, I think. You know how cats are. I’ll know in a day or two, if their good will has turned to sour offense - they'll claw something up.
Belichick seems to be watching me extra closely though.
.
.
Songs for this:
Lava by Still Woozy
Can't Hardly Wait by The Replacements
"Ennui Sets In”
Whenever pen is placed
Between purloined phalanges,
When my mind unfolds and tears along the seams,
I know it’s time to move my thoughts,
Through the underground;
That dark crusty void
Of dreary dreams diminished,
Where loose hell raisers floss and shine,
Comb and spray,
As drowning voices backwash yesterday’s histrionics,
Dark-eyed winches peek through the
Centers of dead doughnuts;
Bleacher seats rust and wallow
In half-moon emancipation,
Ennui sets in…
My bow tie knows all the answers.
I cry and beseech for all those tomorrows
To resurrect, to pontificate, to loose
The bowels of screaming sunsets, yet sutured.
I flinch. I sigh.
Force majeure got in the way.
Polka dot panacea,
Wretched weasels in the underbrush,
Prufrock is the metaphor to mangle, impugn, vivify,
And otherwise squeeze until the cows come home.
I’m a poet without a message.
My heart pumps vexations of vaseline,
I am dry and empty
Like the musty moans of sweet madness,
Emanating elusively
From the hollow of ancient days,
Amidst unanswered questions,
At the fork in the road,
Two blocks northwest of my last dying breath,
I am the last sunset!
Ennui sets in.
Twilight vivisection holds the door open this time.
There is no respite,
From Raphael’s regurgitated Renaissance.
He jumps backward,
Through the darkening dissonance,
Dissolved, dismayed, dumbfounded.
Skipper Frank lies dead in the glittering gutter.
The Pancake Man melts into the waxworks.
Madame Tussaud wonders why.
Ennui sets in.
Dead meat saliva feeding
The roses of Robespierre.
Little Lord Fauntleroy is mixing martinis, and
A dozen dainty dames are dancing
Past the midnight of my time.
A blue trumpet, buzzing in the steamy shadows.
Lapping corpses line the phosphoric hillsides;
It’s not what it appears to be.
Truth and beauty perceived in the morning mirror.
Ennui sets in.
Sunday cockcrow nascent
aural essays reveal
laissez-faire raptures.
Enigmatic silken piece compost ushered in by
trenchant trademark tremulous signature.
Doe-eyed instrumentalist’s strident brass ensemble,
wakey wakey for the pier gazing loiterer whose blasé
sashay amble’s out of kilter.
Maverick antennae on a radio safari,
hawking hourglass heritage lodestone.
Closet Peter Pan’s astride transistor, literati goggle eyed and glued.
Silhouettes of wistful mint leaf tract,
navigating hoarse throat shellback allegory.
Earnest weekend welcome mat to madcap jester, laureate, bohemian.
Religiously the listener’s transported
from a humble tepee sanctum
to alluring levee inundation area,
far flung folly edifice,
nomad siren hymn sheet to mount Half Dome.
Long wave bounder in my dreams,
I limb skip oe’r fiction world simulcast entanglement,
snoop beneath rogallo-wing parachute in a Middle East plot,
“twin peaks” would be awestruck by this labyrinthine concourse.
One can flit invisibly round medieval black market cobblestone arcades,
ghost novelist’s ethereal penchant for pinch and pilfer retro-fit infringement.
Melting pot cinnamon dispenser, whiff stick fix antidote to kettledrum ennui
the blight of urban jungle setting and rural folklore.
Otherworld contortion with a shard of drama for magic carpet flight of fancy broadcast
Lineage derived from ancient epochs now assumed but for an inkling, icons I become with card shark sly booth legerdemain.
Maybe I’m that fictile clueless hiker, destitute, indigent
Some pondered ways
to pep-up the pulpit and pew,
but disinterest and ennui won the day.
The clergy went away to get help
and never came back.
Eventually, thunder and sleet
cracked stone, spire, and gable;
neglect, and the cold winds of time
nibbled at arch and buttress.
Where once was a stained-glass light,
weeds and mildew weathered to a moldy rot.
Where once the hems of cassocks swept
now mice and spiders rest or nest,
and baby bats roost in the rectory.
There In a dusty belfry
owls hoot and solemnly perch.
Walls crumbling to niche and cranny.
Amid all this spacy ruin
jackdaws lay their speckled eggs,
while in the misty moonlight
homeless angels dance
upon feather-light, slinky legs.
Speckled attention flowing through time
Flitting from moment to moment
Sifts the grime, from pulsations sublime
Choosing as of hearts sentiment
Free will choice, presupposes options
We imbibe but one frequency
Our bondage is this limitation
Feeling incomplete, in ennui
Delusion that we are feeble form
Externalised; everything sized
Spiralling thoughts, manifesting storms
Judgmental eye, each pulse apprised
Discernment for now, serves our purpose
Though propelled by our hearts desire
Thus, if conscience be not our compass
We self-block light, our soul aspires
27-May-2021
I suffer in poverty for lack of baroque emotions;
glimmers to decorate my eyes would be an anomaly
as deja vu smiles blend the grays of going through the motions~
I am poor but for the rich ennui now my life’s homily.
Once, I had danced with rhythmic elan embellished with passion
in dilettante days of hedonistic ways for amusement,
carte blanche in disco nights of sexuality in fashion,
cacophony jaded my being to lack of attunement.
Youth was lost, soul sold in lustful lifestyle with wild avant-garde,
bankrupting bona fide animation - sabotaged and scarred.
Susan Ashley
January 21, 2017
~ Honorable Mention ~
Contest: Your Choice 5, Any Form, Any Theme
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ First Place ~
Contest: Ten Words Ten Lines 2
Sponsor: Silent One
*required words: anomaly, avant-garde, baroque,
bona fide, cacophony, carte blanche, deja vu, dilettante,
elan, ennui*
~ Poem Of The Day ~
January 23, 2018
Bona fide baroque melodies resonated concert halls in Italy
Reigning Western Europe with elan more than a century
Until new composers innovated into avant-garde music
As ennui artists soon after wrote romantic modern beats.
Cacophony of sounds emerged after advent of modernity
As talent won carte-blanche to write popular harmonies.
Feeling of deja vu echoed sounds in modern-day music halls
When baroque compositions reignited latent fond-memories.
Dilettante musicians did not succeed except as an anomaly
For the musical world crowns only the best of its creativity.
January 18, 2018
Ten words, ten lines contest by Silent One