Long Gaudy Poems
Long Gaudy Poems. Below are the most popular long Gaudy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gaudy poems by poem length and keyword.
Opaque opal- like white Moon
showing pallid face at noon.
Nascent crescent descent Moon
peeps at dusk reflecting reveries.
Maroon Half-Moon rises
arousing ripples of romance
Clouds at platoon trying
to put astral veil of mist.
Giant gorgeous gibbous Moon glazes
to enrapture night.
Abloom Full Moon in spoon full charm
makes lovers frantic lunatic.
Soon smiling couple is hypnotized
in gaudy glare and about to swoon.
Ensnared in eclipse Full Moon
slips through shadow of Earth
leaving behind sullen silhouette
sunken in starry sky
Blue Blood Moon in scarlet glow
winks in frolic flare to mesmerize.
What is this flower perched like bird on stem
With tiny feathery florets in pews
Aligned along rows on cylinder heads?
Tis Banksia, native of Australia.
Named after botanist Sir Joseph Banks,
Who sailed on "Endeavour" with Captain Cook
To unearth Australia, the Great South Land
With shores bedecked with Banksia flowers.
Not a rose with its gaudy petal flush
Nor a daffodil or iris pendants
Nor ring of daisy petals stuck to sun
But hundreds of small flowers pinned on heads
Plethora of colors, earthy and rare
Red, yellow, brown, cream, white and orange hues
The colors of dawn and dusk and the moon
The colors of soil in the dry parched land.
Flower candles on candelabra bush
Arise like flames from sharp serrated leaves
Lighting the Australian bush with color
A pleasure, joy, delight to see in bloom
Enjoy Banksia flowers in gardens
As picked in vase they look so out of place.
Better still, see them in their native scrub
Outback of Dwellingup and way beyond.
I feel it in the morning dim,
when I head out to drive to work,
a bite of chill that saps the vim,
tough now it seems just a flirt.
Again, when I drive home later,
auburn fringe of a maple tree,
soon to attract the spectators,
from the dull steel of the city.
I spot it in a gaudy sign
that advertises back-to-school,
weighs heavily in children’s minds,
all bemoaning a fate so ‘cruel.’
Next, in the light of our great sun,
more slanted than it was before,
the light feels like it’s tired, done,
ever retreating, more and more.
At dusk I hear the geese fleeing,
they are making for the south too,
their constant honks sound like bragging,
“We’re out of here, sucks to be you.”
And on the roads more deer will go,
the rut is only weeks away,
cars must avoid scrambling does
chased by bucks looking for play.
Most will bemoan the summer’s end,
but I think I am fine with it,
never fond of heat that offends,
or insects…I always get bit.
Soon I can go out for a walk
without having to sweat at all,
no mosquitoes or chiggers stalk,
I welcome these first hints of fall.
My Kind Of Woman
Now," Lavish" is expensive
'Cause she loves to wine and dine
And going out with "Showy"
Sure won't save me any dimes
"Adorned", is always stunning
But She always wants to shop
Like "Pretentious and Ornate"
They'll spend my money 'til they drop
Now "Leisure" likes her comfort
But it's me that pays the bill
And " Ostentatious " in a second
Can make me promise that you will
"Gaudy", she's amusing
But I'll tell, she's no joke
In the morning when she leaves you
She'll surely leave me broke
Elaborate and Embellished
Will spend my savings with both hands
And when they're through with me
They will find another man
But there's one kind of woman
That I'm sure was made for me
She calls herself just "Fancy"
And we all know, "Fancy's Free".
I’ve got a little change
rattling in me pockets.
Before I go, I do bequeath
A little wisdom from my keep.
So close now, I must bestow
There’s so little left of what I know
But what I knows is worth more than gold
Some lost treasure from deep below
Hold on, let me pull out this syringe
And suck out my soul, fill the tube,
Inject the world with a little spew
Of good gaudy divine truth
This man’s one last dying wish:
Know this ... The Dreamer never dies.
Change still rattles in me pockets,
a lot less pennies, a lot less rockets.
I secretly do these things to my neighbor
make fun of her walk, her talk, her arrogant ways
draw her as a cartoon buffoon with a giant large ugly toothy mouth
paint her wearing gaudy neon colors that she would despise
wash her hairsprayed up hair in my toilet bowl in my mind’s eye
write her into poems that are less than flattering
yell despicable things to her while I am in the shower
throw rusty hatches at her in my dreams
devour her in my oatmeal, eating her head first
dance the watusi in her face, watching her back away in horror
envision her being eaten by a big cat who breaks her back first
ignore her arrogance and try to like her……..sorry. This was a lie.
He desired nothing but a tiny sliver of a hole
Where he could tuck himself up inside
Away from the others
Because he did not understand their need for attention
Their pursuits or their opinions.
He was a shy boy, who was used to apologizing since birth
First to his mother, who chastised him for causing her such pain
and disappointment, as she was a showing off gaudy gadabout sort.
Whereas, he was quiet, reticent, sedate, and shy.
He silently apologized to others who sought him out,
Which was not easy, for he usually was successful
Finding a corner, a hole, or a tree, away from the others.
Because he had no voice except a stammering one
That infuriated and caused embarrassment to his dear mother.
Written: November 20, 2025,
***************
The future is not a place—
It is a quidnunc calyx,
a capacious chalice
for those who dare to drink
the elixir of their own becoming.
Dreamers do not sleep.
They careen through cloudscapes,
gamboling past the gaudy gates
of flapdoodle and fear,
flaneurs of the ineluctable.
Their thoughts are canorous,
etched in hieroglyph and hex,
diaphanous as sky skims,
yet fierce as a hoyden’s howl.
They do not dissemble.
They rake through the rubble
of dismal days,
threadbare but unbroken,
writhe into catharsis
and call it art.
Their hearts are fipple-fluted,
gargling with garrulous grace,
eloquence stitched into
the petiole of every breath.
They wear tiaras woven
from wisteria’s bloom,
not crowned with the weight of hubris—
and gently lighten the heavy load.
Borne by the forgotten and the lost.
They are fetching,
felicitous,
iconoclasts of the somber.
They do not fear the gaseous unknown,
nor the egregious elision of comfort.
They are the herons of Elysium,
gamboled and glorious,
Each dream is a byzantine map
to a future
Only they can read.
So believe—
not in the desultory hush
of what was,
But in the foison of what could be.
The future is yours
at the behest of beauty.
Rose petals plated on caste mold
Savory patent impressed on manifold
From Nature's palate sweet oils doled
Essence of extracted beauty flowed
Into fashioned vial tinged with gold
Nature's, vintage aphrodisiac bankrolled
Mysterious guise, transparent, yet stunningly bold
Onto suave cheeks the charming potion scrolled
Distilled love massaged into every, ivory fold
Enamoring scent suitor's, impulsive glands to hold
With intoxicating fumes, ephemeral beauty sold
To the salivating nasal ducts of every, unwitting cuckold
Delilah's gaudy folio modern women have deigned old
But with the rose's alluring, timeless scent still cajoled
Unpainted, unmarked mask; devious designs unforetold
Emitting translucent vapors that mind's eye does behold
President Olusegun Obasanjo- Atiku Abubakar
Promises of pardoned traitors
Reek like ancient regrets.
Exhibitions,
Steeped in rapacity.
Inured to light, they
Dominate blindly
Evoking the same air of oppression
Noteworthy of the days of yore.
Traitors in transit, trampling as they go.
Over us, they bellow.
Lording it, they rule
Under the guise of foreign dogmas,
Silence all demanding.
Egocentric beasts with rotund bellies
Gloats with our reserves.
Unaffected by the groaning of a people
Nestled in penury.
Our Overseers,
Behemoths, disguised,
Assiduously make us the
Shame of the whole world while
At perfect ease with themselves.
Neglecting the many sufferers about, they
Jostle for private vaults in Zurich as
Our poverty became their riches.
And the bespectacled gargoyle
Trenched in the prison called Rock.
Impervious to all wisdom,
Kept an unholy vigil as
Undertakers beckoned suddenly.
Archetypical simpletons, they
Bask in gaudy wealth
Untouched by the miseries surrounding them
Building high walls to keep prying eyes away.
Atop Hills, perched like Vultures,
Kleptocrat searching for new honour.
Aglow in oily garbs, they
Regale themselves, as the world looks on in amazement!