Long Funnily Poems
Long Funnily Poems. Below are the most popular long Funnily by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Funnily poems by poem length and keyword.
The storm comes at midnight
It will be quite a sight if I’m right
Preceding it barely a sight will make many angry and scared
The sight could be anything
…
Ha! Yes, even to those prepared
… You seem confused, let me explain
Lightning will flash in the sky
Which likely will be the revealing of a terrible lie
But truly it will all start with a single voice
Then everyone will have a choice
With the crack of thunder
Every person will choose which side to try to drive asunder
…
Hmm?
…
Now you see I’ve been thinking about this quite a lot
I know being saved will not be bought
You see in an ironic way it is kind funny
What’s coming will be beyond money
…
Ah yes! I’m glad you asked
After the horrible thundering
Worse will come
The storm will hit
As broiling black clouds roll over
Rain will strike the faces already damp
As the angry clouds weep in furious pity
Ribbons of red will wave in every city
… Do you fear?
…
I’m dearly sorry
But here comes a worse part
See the beginning was merely an inevitable start
In comes more lightning and thunder
Each striking with sorry fury
No one away will scurry
…
Because they don’t want to
…
(Sad sigh) Yes… yes… we are all just sorry little fools
…
Ask me more than just “Why?” Elaborate
…
Ah, yes
See the lightning is the light to see
But the thunder is the response
Funnily enough the reveal is destruction’s key
The light does nothing but begins what will come
…
Yes this is the storm
You might wonder how could this have so much damage
Surely the world isn’t in such an unprepared form?
Fools!
Not just you! Look around! Why is it you think we’re so perfectly steady?!?
Not only are we ready with no preparation
It’s been that way so long I can see the clouds already!
Dusk is already past!
Midnight is just an hour off!
…
What?
…
Is it too late?
… No
No it is not
So what are you going to do?
Or, more importantly, is it worth saving?
I still remember mama's cooking.
It is said that one never forgets , no matter what age, now matter what stage, mama's cooking always remains,etched in my memory.
I remember her famous fried chicken, her stewed peas( hold any Jamaican man) and rice the aroma of succulent pork, not often ,but a taste to die for.
I remember her Sunday special, it was always special, as it was that time of the week for bonding, I looked forward to that, Sunday matinee on then JBC ,Sunday family chit chat.
Tales of what happened at the hospital, the gruesome,detailed tales,lol, but somewhat riveting,almost as interesting as the movies.
I remember mama's cooking. Come to think it she was always there to cook Sunday dinner, even now that I think about it, she must have been exhausted, after a long ,arduous day at the hospital, but never failing ,she was always there to cook Sunday dinner.
I remember mama's cooking.
Mama always seem to have the touch, that special touch to make everything taste delectable, anything ,Calaloo, greens of some sort, which I guess most children hated at some point,curried goat,dumplus, and her chicken soup,hmmm!!!, THAT!! I have fond memories, the cure for any and all ailments ,whatever it was ,it was just right, after all ,its my mama's cooking.
I remember mama's cooking.
She taught me how to help myself, as in the future, believe me came in very handy " A man must learn how to help himself in the kitchen," she always said.
I remember mama's cooking.
Even when at play one knew that ,by the fragrance from the kitchen that dinner was nearly ready .Funnily enough her cooking was the bench mark ,all others are judged , wifey, girlfriend, if its not up to mama's standard ,you better learn and learn quick.
She doesn't cook anymore , ( sigh ) but wherever I go ,I still remember her cooking ,my mama's cooking.
Oh spite, oh hell – to the Hell in my own name too!
The hell in love, the hell in romance, the hell of all men!
He being in my name as well of course… as if I’m made of men!
Do they control me? Na… funnily enough the sound of
my name’s conclusion… and what (no doubt) a modern man
would say at my fawning
Aside: What Demetrius feels about me without love’s potion.
for them. My name; partly made up of them all -
Hel e na.
He created me.
Created my name.
This man who shook history, shakes the
vast fields of stages still: created language,
created insults and idioms, created footlickers
and scullions and loons.
Aside: What Demetrius calls me, no doubt.
What if though, we were thrown into modern day -
we four tangled lovers? Our forest now a cobbled
city street, our names a hashtag or blend or
portmanteau of #Demena or #Hermander…
Aside: or #paintedmaypolegetsherman
…how my old Bard would laugh and
we would be his self-coined ‘laughing stock’.
I’ve been in ink and upon folio paper. Aloft a stage
and before groundlings: photographed on set, reviewed in
magazines, photoshopped
Aside: False imitation! Spurious image!
for internet trolls - a word
with a very different meaning to the faeries I’ve met.
How language adapts! But what, pray tell, stays?
Intrigue. Love. Summer seasons and shows,
his words, his characters - us and you and your
interest in him: a roundel we return to even
in his words we unknowingly use…
I should know of course… He made me after all…
Hel e na…
and you, in your hands and seats and voices,
still make me feel that same love and spite and Hell.
Neither of us are likely to be forgotten soon…
na.
When your dancing without care of being caught
that smile when you think of something that you
and the inner you find F------------------Y spelled funnily
---------------------------------U- -----------L
----------------------------------- -N------E
----------------------------------- -----N
When you stop the tears when none are there to know
when a rolling mist is ushered by an open door
when you stop talking
and listen for breath
that forgotten name of long dead stars
that decay in digital pixels
that squirrel of feathered scrawls
before sun slips
its balding head
above
When the darkness doesn't scare
but gives an alibi
i wanna build a robot that's got to turn itself on
U
--n
---U
--n ravelling
Where the simpered simp of words never oft spoke
Adjectifying squirrels
The held back chuckle as right is proved wrong
tell them to be quite quiet but quietly
if i could slow d
--------------------o
--------------------w
---------------------n my thoughts about myths of oughts
would bees have frisbees or frizzing bees beeing bees beginning the
beings that don;t deserve to be
Excuse as i accuse cue of not being queue
couldn't catch up if i gave you a misspelt paws
pause take a breadth a light year buzz
sorry worng answer
wrongly wrote the wrong worng
When caramel toffee nights offers breath
that icicle kisses the edges of your inner edges
When words of well worn song leaves your lips
as you fondly sing along
Where the box thinks inside the human
People should be treated
First as humans
Before anything else.
I take you as you are
But first as human.
For we were first humans
Before we became all-what-not
That we have become today.
So I would be glad
To be treated first
As human before anything else.
As human I enter with my wife
Into my room at night
And after our natural duties,
We gossip over many things.
We laugh about many funny things
That were said and done
During the day by our neighbours
And friends and all.
We mimic them funnily
When we are out of gossips,
She tells me to hush
While she places her ear
Quietly on the wall to hear
What our neighbours were doing
And she removes it abruptly
Again in shock
Not believing her ears.
Hush… Hush
She signals me to put my ear
To the wall.
When I did,
I heard my neighbours
Mimicking us; gossiping us.
So on a rainy Sunday
All dressed up in white,
We are going to church.
And we greet you loudly
From across the road.
As if to show our
White apparels to you.
Then a speeding automobile
From the blues splashes
Mud-water all over us.
Inside you laugh
In spite of your outward
“Sorry o sorry!”
And in the morning of the next day,
Like the humans we are,
We yet exchange warm greetings
The neighbours, you and us.
It's funny,
when we are asked questions and we don't seem to get it. we end up only to find out that the
answer lies within the alphabet of A-Z.
It's funny,
how often we wonder how much is in our bank account or how much you dream of owing
only to descover the answer is within the figure range.
It's funny,
how easy it is to make choices when it comes to the things we want, be it material or non
material but we find it pretty difficult choosing an answer to an objective question.
It's funny,
how time flies when we bother ourselves asking ourselves when this year would end only to
look back and smile that it was just yesterday.
It's funny,
how our choices vary with age forgetting the fact that when it gets to an age, we become
choiceless and we take things the way it is either good or bad.
It's funny,
how people learn. shared self experience sounds crappy but learning the hard way is a
better option.
It's funny,
how this is funny that someone greatly concerned funnily wrote this unfunny talk in a
humurous way. YIKES!!!
P.S Don't forget the lesson with the humor... thats if you think its funny.lOl !!!
I thought only in free verse many write confusing poems,
But, by rhyming also many confuse with verbosity,
That description may be liked by all the great poets,
But, layman may gain nothing as he won't grasp at all,
I mean even fellow poets will find it damn cumbersome,
A poem must have clarity and in a way not complicated,
When tough words are deployed, it loses its purpose,
It is like wearing a very costly makeup by spending
And then covering the face with full mask funnily,
If Shakespeare now is present, he will be baffled,
As thousands of words have been added to English,
It is left to the choice of the poet to choose words,
But, simplicity is like praying to God with deep faith
And it can be done without any ostentatious acts,
I have given it as a poem and never as a comment,
Commenting like this is wrong as it is immoral,
We mustn't even advice to give bitter feelings,
As Henry David Thoreau clearly said long back,
All are marching for the drums that they hear,
So, may God bless all with freedom to write
As per their choice and feel greatly hilarious!
>The sea and me
By Stanley Russell Harris
Poetry soup honorable mentioned.
(The new mad author)
I like to be beside the sea.
Calm or rough a delight to see.
If calm, I’ll paddle in the sea.
But swimming, no you won’t find me.
I never really learnt to swim.
Was no sea where I was living.
There was no river nearby.
Nearest swimming pool, 5 miles away, I sigh.
The only water that covered me.
Was in the bath tub funnily.
And in the bath tub, you can’t swim.
The only tide mark I really did see.
Was the watermark in the bath, you see?
When I pulled out the plug just so.
Bath water out then did flow.
Back to the sea, you swim in you know.
But I do like to be, beside the sea.
Calm or rough a delight to see.
But swimming!
No you won’t find me.
As that is Father Neptune’s home.
And he I do not wish to see.
Now this is the lot you’ll get from me.
Of what I call, my poetry!
The above poem was posted on the BBC news page. Today which as I have a memory thingy I thought was Tuesday. But then every day could be a Tuesday couldn't it ?<
Form:
Boko haram terrorists
Times without number
A neighbourhood unsettling with a bomber,
Their grabbed territories
Zones of a thousand worries!
A people in panic
Piteously plan their escapes route,
Their pursuers, a manic,
Who must them funnily shoot!
It’s a horizon of unthinkable sleep
And the digging of graves not decently deep:
It’s a constant brandishing of a superior weapon
That precious lives make a lottery coupon.
North-East Nigeria to forever a story tell
That Borno was once a plain cell,
Each is increasingly a militant
Not convinced that innocent lives are important.
Excellent kidnappers they’ve got
And Suicide Bombers a lot:
It’s a pant welcoming an explosive,
Whose impact is a monster:
It’s wearer, an unbelievable youngster,
Obsessed with destructions, extensive.
Crazily, every Boko Haram
Takes non-adherent for a ram,
To readily his daughter
Slaughter and quarter
For a voiced and heard “Blood of Jesus”
What an Islamization of Nigeria
That should True Muslims anger in Algeria …
A mediocre mealworm was sat on a hill eating a sandwich and drinking some tea when along came an elongated machine with a red face and elastic eel ears which pinged and ponged. The mealworm was confused. Surely not here he thought. It only occurs elsewhere. But elsewhere is neither even, exact or existential. It is to be said that the tunnel the meal worm then dug spread out under ground for several acres. No screws were needed. Just dig dig dig. In fog in sun in snow in hail basically all weathers. Now safe to sip homemade barcadi which had steeped in preparation for this day. Turboprop opera drowned out the booming from above. And the little dove sang sweetly as he supped his well deserved beverage. Feral fragrance frankly feels funnily fished. And after such a hard days work of sitting on that hill the mealworm could laugh and laugh at the chaos above safe in his chambers and surrounded by female earthworms in their bikinis. No ha no x and no z. Representational
Form: