Long Fillers Poems
Long Fillers Poems. Below are the most popular long Fillers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fillers poems by poem length and keyword.
My Favorite Teacher
It might have felt lost,
In the big world of old age pillars;
once those tiny hands slipped away,
from being her fathers fillers.
From afar came Her ,
Assuring him Of me;
and hers was I to take care of.
With Her had my father shared;
my falls and winter cold silences.
In Amongst the marks of excellence
she applauded my bits of writings,
In amongst whole classes neglect
she approved my ideas considerate of
some `relevance`.
Upheld were all those who didn’t even try;
I sat silently,
while she upheld My work `well described `
while, My falling drawbacks were in well disguise.
It might have felt lost ,
If I didn’t have the direction
to turn my shortcomings ;
to learn a skill
Beautifully to soak myself in.
In whole of the chaotic chaos
Set up around Me,
there was one escape to fresh start
with her reading of the stories ;
From those each lesson she read
in English literature;
Her each pause and flawless dialect,
gave words to my frozen picture.
Now Hers are the words I speak
Hers is this world I have meet;
Made Me look beyond Restrictions
and become this Person
who Breathes this fresh air of Fiction.
Time, that old saying, about
a watched kettle and how it
never boils: nothing longer
than Time, if Time alone
is all one has, excluding
the fillers of Right and Wrong,
Love and Hate –
I can see why God, owner
of Time, would choose most
anything, not to be alone –
even chance mankind and man
unkind...
(though immersed with His
failures, in fires He has deemed
eternal: for one cannot entirely
alienate himself, from his
creations)
Countless poems have been
written, exploring the subject
of Time – so many words
anticipating a tea that has
yet to come to steep – for
the pen, mightier than the
sword as said to be, is yet
another Watcher
if not lived also at the
cutting edge –
not simply
enamored
of glitter....
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun.
Her skin's mahogany, not regal white.
She slaps on paints and fillers by the ton,
and has the dress sense of an anchorite.
Fastidious? Only in her brand of beer.
Brash burger joints are where she likes to dine.
She'd rather look at Fonzie than Vermeer:
thinks maybe vampires dwell in Wittgenstein.
It's Oprah Winfrey over Orson Welles,
and Justin Bieber beats Thelonius Monk:
she'll read "Hello!" before the Book of Kells,
and Chateau Margaux's just for getting drunk.
A fiery, funny, perky popinjay?
I wouldn't have her any other way.
I find myself foraging, basket in hand
among the cocoa harvests of distant lands.
You ask patiently: what do you need?
As you speak a shaft of light crashes
like a Chinese paratrooper
through the store’s skylight.
The ray pieces high-stacked shelves,
beams upon a huddle of overweight shoppers,
flashes briefly, illuminating brimful spandex,
The light dances over that look you have,
and I suddenly understand
that while our bodies don’t so often
pound love into speaking flames –
nevertheless, I still want only you,
not cut-price plastic hole fillers,
nor anything blue, green or yellow
seen on a T.V. in aisle 3,
not even toffee.
Here in this warehouse of hope
we have again blundered into our reality
the way Adam and Eve must have
in that other overstocked Eden,
and how like Adam ever since,
I sometimes blow you off
to pursue a pack of beer
on sale in aisle twenty-two.
Covering your face with strokes of color and gold/, but as Hatshepsut your inside is dead, cold/
Likes or dislikes thats all that pops up/, yeah your soul disappeared, went cloud up/
Contouring overdone, below a crop top there is an illusion of abs/, not a sight of slack/, just to get some more egoboosting feedback/ and some more ads/
Obsessive fullness to creat that perfect look/, defections all fixed, viewers conclusion, yeah a milliondollar look/, everything done just to keep them followers hooked/
Meaningless ink confirms that you are one of the many copies in this gallery/ seductive nudity to provide for what you call a salary/
Like an addict/ you possess an unpleasant habit/, you use needles to poke a flat empty space out, just to get some more views at it/
Yeah instead of woman up/, you fillers up/, being so fake that you are getting true at it/
In a 6 inch cell case your life is locked/, charged with only a lense of glass, shouts out, blocked/
Constant tapping will crack that screen, your protection/, leaving your storebought curves slowly oxidizing, no more public acception/
Soon too post for the present, forgotten, as your time has lined out/, yeah this exhibition is over and you're out/
Repristination: to restore to an original state
A humble home of yore
Caught the flames ablaze,
Burned down to ash-floor
Razed to a smoky haze.
Only if we could
Line up the pillars
Renew the floorings
And set up new fillers,
We could dust the cinders
Paint the charred walls
Hang tapestries of trust
Place daisies in the halls,
Foundation of love and lenience
Rebuilt on cleaned ground
As it once was before
With felicity roaming around.
In such wise, we could regain
The seats on veranda at gloam,
Look at the dying embers in sky
And restore the pristine home.
20th March 2023
Pick-A-Title Vol.35 Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Rock paper scissors,
popular events have seat fillers;
seven minutes in heaven,
a bingo call of legs eleven.
Sweet and sour,
rising dough needs flour;
popcorn watching a movie,
forty years celebrated with ruby.
Smiles and sorrows with nostalgia,
a new year’s resolution mantra;
feeling outside and forever looking in,
hearing that theme alongside shark’s fin.
Prophecies predict fate,
women are told to fear being late;
wolves howl at the moon,
humming just one bar of a tune.
Opposites really do attract,
cliches mock the abstract;
digestion and enzyme,
but do poems have to rhyme?
A rhyme in time
Should surely not be full
of fillers
Otherwise what's the point
Of bringing up the very point
in the first place
Might as well just talk to the wall
And call a cab
Without ever knowing where
you are going
Or searching again for something
sought yet well knowing it
was long last lost
Like drinking Cognac from an
old stained tea cup with cracked
handled waiting for it to break
Or a second hand on sale wedding
cake whom the baker forgot to
include the marzipan
For is not life nothing short of
reducing the cost of all our
stupid mistakes
Before they drive us crazy
Thinking
What the hell we're we thinking
Makes no sense
Rhyme or reason
Our freezer must always have ice cream.
A low supply sends an alert
But my husband’s last trip to the market
Brought home something called “frozen dessert.”
The packaging looked just like always.
We missed the distinction at first
So we ate it, but knowing the difference,
I thought we should have been reimbursed.
For a “frozen dessert” needs no dairy –
Just some fillers and sugars and oil
As compared to what’s used to make ice cream;
Well, the thought makes my blood start to boil.
Now I’ve learned to read all of the labels
Since dessert-wise, my number 1 goal
Is to know that my favorite flavor
Of ICE CREAM gets put in my bowl.
My soul hears the cries of children,
their tears tethered to the whims of fate.
Children shackled to poverty,
without a future and bereft of love,
struggle to survive in a world of plenty.
And we exploit their plight,
pretending to care if they live or die
by sponsoring phony, predatory charities.
But the fact is, we care little for them;
they're mere propaganda fillers for partisan news.
We go to church, bend our knees, and pray
to God to forgive our sins.
But we believe we've found a loophole
in God's unconditional love;
how can He fault us for testing our free will?
But God commanded us to love our neighbor;
that choice was never left to us.
Humans are hypocrites and charlatans
who claim to be compassionate beings.
For we allow hungry children to starve to death,
without feeling any remorse or guilt.
We view their world as somehow make-believe,
convincing ourselves their suffering can't be real.