Long Hackneyed Poems
Long Hackneyed Poems. Below are the most popular long Hackneyed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hackneyed poems by poem length and keyword.
No matter the subject, poetry,
somehow, is all about love --
Love, a poet's bread and butter.
Staple stapled to the writing
tip of his forever pen, and the backside
of his often used pencil. Falling in and out of.
Were it not for Love's addictive nature,
a poet's heart's habitual affliction...there would be no poetry.
No poet. Period.
Hallmark rhymes are far from my
heart's loses and finds, no paper beaters
in said repertoire -- torrid bliss, or totally disappointed,
pissed!~ has always been my hotly repeated refrain! --
Poetry oscillates, lively. A charged, bare wire!
Makes for hyper passionality (made that word up).
Rises, a Sky-rocket -- bottoms~ a clogged bowel!
Too much overeating of non-tenderized fowl
reflects and epitomizes, self induced, masochistic
relationships, that lead to, autogenous, butchered,
my own mental scalpel, seeming lobotomies. A medical wonder I can yet write.
The poet consumes drama~ discharges incessantly!
Both sustenance and waste, same confounded paste
he spreads on toast and his own body roast --
Adds and subtracts vociferously, voluminously, deeply,
depth-fully~ each work, in some way, an extension
of presupposed, paramount, though egoistic, core matters. His many
Pointillism, mixed with mere, random, ill conceived
uninspiring hackneyed splatters.
Feels so deeply,
that what he cannot create for himself, from emotional
others he will beg, steal and borrow -- absence of
love, for the poet~ there is no
yesterday! Nor today...nor future desire though potentially a richly composite
tomorrow.
You’ve given me a quilt, a pen, some inks, papers
You’ve given me a lonely night
You’ve given me a piece of silent on moonlight
You’ve given me a dark of alone owl
You’ve given me dawn of crow flying
You’ve given me a morning of a shining sun
You’ve given me a busy urbane life
You’ve given me a tiresome afternoon
You’ve given me dusty dusk with cattle of back to home
You’ve given me a lamp in the incessant sound of crickets
You’ve given me a radio with hackneyed news of politics, economics….etc
You’ve given me your graceful face
You’ve given me your full
You’ve given me my loneliness
Oh no! Yet; I’ve missed something!
I’ve missed something more than you!
As if I’ve missed everything!
Because you’ve not given me my poem
-March 24, 2019 Chattogram
Its wet and drear in London dear, the pomp in on full trope
Though hope is gone, not dead for Jesus is the only hope!
Its foolish to trust in others; dopes.' In robes and words
In fear and force, its hackneyed ethos, solid dross of course
One hundred mill, so bums can sit.' and ears listen to
Waffle and some titter, and scraps and traps such slippery
Tounges we'll no doubt hear, yet will we sum? A throne of
Gold in a nation sold, to the w e f, just same old same old.'
The crowds are thin, not much the din' dis-enchantment is
Setting in.' geriatrics in phylactics gather and throng how
Can such traversitys continue on? Food in piles is stored
Away, as childen are hungered, its the British way.' Some
Vassels also, it seems agree although; their people need
To be set free.! Free to thrive to grow and prosper, yet to no
Reason i now return, to the parody of vanitys and a useless
Crown ' thats just the head though, i'll make this clear on
A British day of pomp and drear, might he take a little trip?
Before the throne..As ascends he it.' Twould be indicative of
The wider nation, that needs a real King not this Abberation.'
What is the gain to have a humble maid
As a dweller of this heart adventurous?
That every moment fondly craves to raid
Untrodden meadows of her mind and trespass.
The meagre passion, tell I thee, then bores
The lovers’ journey to the newer states,
As everything beforehand to the cores,
Seems known and hackneyed to these closest mates.
The blessing is that sweetest ire of thine,
For, stately love proves not the clear essence
With which true love can make the hearts to shine;
Two different treatments hail the coalescence.
The greater the hatred, greater the love seems be,
No sham resides so between thee and me.
Written: September 09, 2025, for contest by Edward Ebah
**********
She was born beneath a waning moon,
a beautuous whisper in the tohubohu—
intertwined with chaos,
yet lithe as a zeugma in a poet’s breath.
Her name lost to the fog of forgetfulness,
her kismet sealed in a miraculous pact
with Fortune’s flexible fist.
The stars, agog, offered a panoply:
a pavonine tapestry of beauty and danger
a palimpsest of pulchritude and peril.
She danced through the swarm of youth,
filled with forgetfulness,
her lungs a stertorous hymn to breathing,
her heart a riparian ravel of love and myth.
Fortune, affable yet fiendish,
bestowed a dubious crown—
spurious laurels woven from flapdoodle and fard.
The world, a compilation of excessive praise,
sang stories in hackneyed tongues,
while she, a rebel of her own ilk,
resiled from the solace of admiration.
She grasped the gadzookery of glorification,
It's tarantism of desire
It's ischemic hush beneath the applause.
Each accolade is a hollow victory,
each smile a jussive mask
in the penumbra of reality.
Then came the cacophony years—
dyspnea in the soul,
ergophobia in the bones.
She wandered the maelstrom of memory,
a collector of regrets,
her dreams tinged with blood,
Her mornings are packed with petrichor and paucity.
Fear clung to her like fard,
a superstition woven into her identity.
She improvised hope,
but the light grew dim.
Even meliorism, that mellifluous myth,
felt like flapdoodle on the horizon.
Yet still, a spark remained—
a zoetic pulse beneath the shadows.
She started to create new stories,
flexible as a pavonine breeze,
slender as a summary of sorrow.
She found coolness in strangers,
Love in the ductile moments,
and in the petrichor of failure,
a panacea of purpose.
Now she sits beneath an ancient tree,
in harmony with the wind,
her story a palimpsest of ransom and release.
Fortune, that impetuous nemesis,
no longer holds her hostage—
but dances, melodious and mellifluous,
in the ripple of her breath.
She is not free,
But she is no longer bound.
Myopic muddle
as beauty swirls
hues of heaven
yet bypasses
static statues that
pose as sentient
beings beknighted
dawn’s divine dream
seen as bland mirror
on ebbing eyewash
cathartic colour is
a universal uplift
even for low level
lustrous earth dweller
Immersed in skewed slant
I bandy icicled retort
as though taut timing
ever swayed rigid
stone age postures
elysian echo a speck
in azurite caves
to auditory aloofness
allied to blinkered
whim ‘s wanton
plight with dull
and dim twist
dispersed among
trivial terrains
alienation personified
vessel vacuous and void
rehabilitation of
the wayward faculty
a burst balloon blip
outsider ostracised
from gilded gardens
and sumptuous bloom
of ripe recrudescence
still limp laggard
on hackneyed cue
might yet stumble on
the fig of wakening
New Words
Oh, Ye of hackneyed verbiage;
We sometimes love those old Cliches’.
Seems no other words be more befitting
than those repeated in poems of scorn.
Wit and humor marks the points,
made easily, through brevity.
Enhanced by less, and not the more
For a shallow listener, will surly get bored.
Though Hackneyed poems, some will detest;
Repetition, quickly captures the mind at best.!
Let us not disregard those points well made
With an abundance of redundancy throughout.
Words, of worn out repetitious phrases,
graced many, many a poet’s pages.
Some great writers say things that way;
As for knowledge, I must say;
Hackneyed poems may be cliche',
perhaps for some, could be the only way;
To get a message to "stick n Stay"
And to know what you have deduced.
Still suggesting there is a place for some cricketing rhymes in these Testing times?
In the land of lengthy cumulus curiosity amazed by the velocity of the atrocity
The crazed ferocity of ghoulish foolish monstrosity which blazed across the ditch
Where Off his Head did bewitch on the pitch so quick slick should've got a stitch
For what it's worth pithier levity aptly sums up the rum girth of the mirth of Perth
Travis’s temerity, depravity of sporting gravity, severity of brevity of Ashes rebirth
No devil may care, hoping us coping rightful heir not moping at the Gabba, repair
Dare to dream in Aussies’ despair lair ending their frightful mind bending nightmare
Cheers to elite broadsheet peers who it appears our fears, sneers, jeers & nadirs share
Ignore more hackneyed score from seedier bottom feeder media on tour, Go All Square!
Hey children! Listen, I miss your zeal.
The world inside your mobile is surreal.
Look up!
See, I have fixed stronger glasses on my windows,
Get hold of your cricket kit, come back on the street,
I miss watching your games.
I won’t mind, smash all my window panes.
Hackneyed messages,
Dollops of unalloyed twaddle
Tides of trifling emotions!
Baby! You are locked inside your mobile.
Look up!
See, the stadium looks so barren!
Without your mischiefs and fun,
Your irritating jibber- jabber and nonstop run.
I won’t mind, come on burst my eardrum.
Your friends, your pictures, games, tweets and stories
You live in a fantasy world, that’s absolutely unsavoury.
Step back into this beautiful life, create beautiful memories.
Look up!
Don’t waste your time and energy.
Live for a cause, get up and push back your lethargy.
Open the notebook of your life,
Fill it with love, fame and prosperity.
No matter what! You shall thrive.
Don’t be a slave to mobile,
Life isn’t a game!
Dear! You have to survive, mobiles exists just to give a little respite!
11/04/2019
Yesterday cliche of a colored rainbow.
The archaic arc is a banal kitsch, too low.
Poets.... they don't stop using it although.
It's just optical science....no hologram show.
The hackneyed story... 'sun meets rain'.
The 'love' seen for years... again and again.
A tired metaphor.. nothing new to explain.
That pot of gold mocks.... the 'gays' in pain.
The VIBGYOR chroma has had long monopoly.
Poets of tomorrow....please search other simile.
Colors are now cold... don't hold them clammily.
Beautiful?!!..Oh.. Boring, ..Depressing actually.
Let's dig some Ozone holes in the sky.
How does it matter?
We'll see Ultraviolet...
We'll see Infrared...
Who says it's a disaster?
Let's turn, Black and White', the pretty colored laughter.
Don't let that shining visual smile live happily ever after.
31st October ,2018