Long Gnat Poems

Long Gnat Poems. Below are the most popular long Gnat by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gnat poems by poem length and keyword.


Premium Member Babel

[REVISED 2024 April 04]

Shinar, some know as Mesopotamia, others as Assyria,
near the Euphrates River, a midday sun cast doubts of 
a weakened shade made idle by the pause of its agile
host, named Nimrod, son of Cush, grandson of Ham,
and Noah's great-grandson. No sign of depletion, hence
the shade returns to motion. 

Nimrod is the soul ruler of the land of Shinar, host to
several ancient cities, one was called, Babel. Scripturally,
Nimrod was said to be a great hunter, and that would be
the length of it. Jewish and Christian texts are not able
to agree whereupon Nimrod's entry into the historical
record books other than what has been escribed in the 
scriptures of the Talmud and the Bible, albeit, elements of 
foreign records have cluttered historical accountabilities
and further strengthened pre-existing ambiguities, thusly, 
a genre of conjectures misleads, and misinterpretations,
have made authenticity and accuracy to remain divided.

There are numerous variances, such as those accounts 
between Jewish and Islamic customs or beliefs from 
generation to generation, concerning Nimrod's and of
Abraham's first encounter, from that of a subliminal 
meeting of minds, to the simplicity of a gnat that had
overwhelmed the mighty forces of Nimrod's army by 
entry into his brain's that affected his abilities.

The accounts of Josephus concerning King Amraphel 
whom Abraham did battle in Genesis, was Nimrod. The 
Tower of Babel was built by the people whom King 
Amraphel, being Nimrod, had ruled, and by that being
such, gave rise to Nimrod ordering the building of the
Tower in Babel. The Christian Bible does naught mention
that other than he, Nimrod, was a great hunter. I 
believe it would have stabilize Josephus' claims.
Form: Narrative


Premium Member Charging Around

A giggle and screech filled pond
on the crushed gravel path 
a sheen of sweat forming 
on my medditeranian nut browned skin;
waylayed was I by a hitch-hiker. 

The gnat maintained a steady oribit
about the circumferance of my head,
wether held there by some unknown power
or the monumental magnetic magnitude of my brain;
none will ever know.

Arms swinging at a frantic pace
it seems impossible to believe my pinwheeling form
was unable to dislodge this bugger, 
keeping a geosynchronous orbit around my noggin.
Yet, the likelihood of a tag team 
of insectoid astronauts seemed slim.

As the silken breeze went weaving amongst 
the pines and rustling withing the pond weeds
armies of these pin pricks of horror swarm
attending summer clad fishermen, beet red two year olds
and there hippopotomus shaped mothers in the drink.

The doldrums of August have begun in earnest,
as the black flies decend, probing their universe,
persistant and provoking as the humans they oribit.
Form: Narrative

Let's rhyme

Laara was a lady of fat,                                                                                    Lived in a lovely flat,                                                                                            She paid the valuable vat,                                                                                
 And over taxed by that,                                                                                          I met her on Monday to chat ,                                                                                                                                   
 I went with the head hat,                                                                 
 And I liked her pet pat,                                                                                     What did I look at?                                                                                                   
 I saw a small rat,                                                                                                And it was chased by a cat,                                                                           which bounced on the below mat,                                
 Dropped it's small scat,                                                                                         I tried to beat with the bat,                                                                                But it escaped like the best brat,                                                                  
 And glided as a tiny gnat,                                                                       
 I went near her sofa and sat,                                                                          And caught by her catchy tat.
Form: Monorhyme

Easily Blamed Week

Am I suppose to look strong?             
I am so weak, insecure of my wrongs
I stumble on obscure words...not exactly sleek 
Suppose I could blame it on the week

All the time I wonder about someone
Jealous thoughts instantly runs through my weary mind

Don't mind me...just don't look back
I'm becoming a monster
Full of damned dreams
That probably won't come back
It won't come to pass

And how could I learn in class?
Am I a weakling or what?
I create a fuss about things I don't own

Oh joy...here comes those groans of yours
Do you see yourself in the mirror?
I should be the one doing that
You bother as if you were some sort of gnat...

Meaningless regrets that I could slightly feel
Like I ate an appetizing meal
Then regret: "I shouldn't have eaten that..."

And then I'm expected to be a slick as an athlete.
And beat
A race of amusement...aggrivating toil
And feed the spoil
It doesn't sound right...so peculiar
There's no use to compare
Ourselves with our own kind

Could I ever find
A way to seep through an energetic
world of lust
And I thrust
To get this journey over with
And done with

Finding a certain solitude to sleep 
And fall into the deep
And stumble upon the annoying habit of weakness

And I assure you
I won't miss
A day that I feel strong

Enough to get on my knees
And enjoy a certain solitude

And find myself praying

And go without playing

This week
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member Should the Levee Ever Break, Act 1, Scene 1, Part 3

Bumblebee Babineaux, the younger daughter, has just reached the age when self-confidence makes the most sense. Bumblebee is generally a pleasant, well-mannered girl, with a smile like freshwater pearls, and sparkling emeralds for eyes. However, being a middle child has its disadvantages, to her way of thinking. She is often righteously intolerant of her precocious younger brother, Gnat, who takes every advantage when left unsupervised to rummage through Bumblebee’s dresser drawers, curiously examining all her girly-girl things. Bumblebee is very protective of her girly-girl things, especially her large collection of jazz musician stickers. But more regretfully, she is envious of her beautiful and talented older sister, Labyrinthia, who is currently in Baton Rouge studying to become a yoga instructor. Bumblebee harbors an incipient resentment toward her older sister that will have dire implications in the story about to unfold.
Form: Prose


Premium Member The Last Semblance of Sanity

Paraded endlessly, this spectacle the Elephants know to be degrading,
And their counterparts from the sea , the Orcas, resist in captivity
By refusing to unfurl their proud dorsal fin, stings my eyes like a gnat
Lodged in my cortex, no amount of profit seems to dislodge.

Waking from my dream, I notice the old man waving to the crowd,
Gesturing wildly, as if warning of something no-one has yet seen.
Every evolution of Plybinium Quasar, the spectacle increases, with
Dogs leaping and biting at the air, and Neptunes, of disproportionate
Size, unable (or unwilling) to allow the pain to subside.

The viewing platform, constructed entirely of entitlements, teeters
Vicariously in the breeze, with the prominent attendees smiling, despite
Frostbite, inching up their extended promises.

Utilizing “light-track” technology, the time hoppers applaud
At pre-determined intervals, a strenuous exercise for sure,
Given the time restraints imposed by the counters in the Humbolt Quasar.

In this unfamiliar atmosphere, what clean air there is left to breathe
Smells pretty bad, like a cake frosted with sulfur.



01/10/11
9:46 pm
© All Rights Reserved

When the Old Man Was a Sailor

When the old man was a sailor 

When food was served, before cleaning pots and pans
the old man when young, went out on deck to see the sunset.
A dreamy that is if a tempest wasn`t blowing,
gale in the mighty Pacific reduced the bravest to shivering gnat.
The old man was a cook not the loftiest type of work, whoever
wrote a book titled:” The adventure of a ship`s cook.”
The old man, when he was young, got up early to see the sunrise
before frying eggs and bacon, not forget baking bread; and receive
the insults by frustrated, womenless seamen.
But he was there in all the oceans, their tranquilities and fury,
what was left was serene evenings alone in his cabin read great
novels about audacious voyagers.
© Jan Hansen  Create an image from this poem.

Premium Member Who Is the Ugliest At the Ugly Bug Ball

Who is the ugliest at the ugly bug ball?
Is it the hideous gnat or giraffe so tall?
Could it be that spitting camel with the ugly hump?
Or the orangutan with the butt that makes us jump?

Mayhaps it is the blue-footed boobie, a weird looking fellow
Or that weird looking duckling whose suit is off-color yellow.
Bloody turkey buzzard with mouth full of gore just came in.
He is not only ugly, but his carnivorous ways are an evil twin.

Octopus, penguin, goat, quail, each with an oddity.
Scorpion, wasp, rattlesnake with pattern of a vee….
Who is the ugliest at the ugly bug ball?
Starfish and squirrel get to pick but they went to the mall.

Could it be the mongoose, the peahen or yak?
Let’s choose the winner before they get back.
Sturgeon has a suggestion. It sounds like a wow.
Let’s call it a tie, and give them all a big whack.
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member Up, Up, Up She Goes

she flittered, she flew
taxing her wings, little sputtering things
with each teeny-tiny flap - a sparkle of gold
twinkled her wee little sky

up
    up
        up

she goes

faerie friends laughed at her goal
to see the heavens from Redwood Mount

the tree tickled by her effort
and sparkling breathless
arrayed with golden boots, skirt
then shirt

she lands and sleeps
for awhile dreaming of stars
circling her weary nest

maternal arms gently wrap
around this teeny-tiny force of nature

she yawns and sees the dawn
colors imagined only on the ground
paint the horizon

she waves her wand
and captures specks

her pointy toes will touch the earth
after the sunshine of Summer
the hallelujah winds of Fall
brisk snow of Winter
and in the flowery Spring she lands
as the faerie applause explodes

barely whispering in the ear’s of a gnat

1/5/2019

Premium Member Silent Letters

Django draws his pistol 
and shoots out "D" 
from pronunciation of his name. 
No one hears the "W" 
needed to do real damage 
in "Wreck."
"Island" might as well 
toss its "S" into the shallows. 
No one needs to see it 
if it's as quiet as a mouse.
The "K" in "Knight," 
a Mustang that has galloped
too far into the badlands
no one hears it go..."Neigh!"
The one in "Knife" 
silently slices and dices 
as if through butter.
Not a soul was around 
to hear the audible flush 
that sent "B" in "Plumber"
down the toilet.
The "G" in "Gnat" 
creates no buzz in the air, 
and has no sting.
The one in "Gnaw," 
 broke a jaw attempting to bite.
Did I mention it has...
no teeth? It's all gums.

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