Long Hoaxes Poems
Long Hoaxes Poems. Below are the most popular long Hoaxes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hoaxes poems by poem length and keyword.
Within a night, a simple crop field has been transformed into a magnificent work of art, the overnight cryptic formations capture the attention of all as the large section of the crop has been tamped into marvellous morphic designs of art, rings and other intricate accomplished geometric patterns.
Edges so neat, it appears that they have been crafted meticulously with most advanced gadgets, with such precision that even though the stalks are bent, they are not damaged at all.
One scientific theory explains the spinning columns force a burst of air down to the ground, which flattens the crops, yet the myth remains how can a few seconds works of spinning air creates such intricate and absolutely perfect circles, sometimes plain, sometimes circles within the circles with myriads of meticulous patterns within patterns? Some says aliens hands behind, some negates them as man-made hoaxes.
Wonder! People close to those rings of crops, encounter strange physical and emotional reactions as the circles rotate clockwise and anti-clockwise as unseen hands or remote controls are controlling them from unknown realms.
From Hollywood magic to spirits of secret weapons, from evidences of UFOs to erudite explanations, there is something hypnotic in their architectures, in their cryptic presences, in their aesthetic textures for inquisitive minds to continue further quests to unravel their enigmatic riddles.
© Silpika Kalita
Pride is a motivator, a stimulator of scarlet soul
an accelerator to the next glorious goal
generator of newcoming awakening
cultivator out cunning the unkind
cutting away all the doubts and flouts, leaving the babel and rabble behind,
a slayer of beasts and witches,
pulverizer of all that threatens my wishes,
Pride is an educator, a teacher whom need not flatter
or conspire to push passion higher,
a preacher promisin that you can be better than you thought you were,
transformer from the mediocre to a raw reformer
makin my heart the perfect love performer
romanticizer of the love battles that my Lady and I thunder
reinforcer of our durable dreams, encourager for our beautiful hunger,
Pride has weather, moving me to smile at the wind and bear the barbs of error,
an innovator of my instincts, reflector of bleeding color
It compells me to be a competitor, a finisher, and a star runner,
my blessings won't bow to humble hoaxes
my talent cannot tolerate the tamming of tragedies
my courage will not cower with the false virtue of humble hypnotism
ain't no way a honkeytonk humbler gonna wear away my sway,
my faith will not stumble upon the stones of humble wastelands,
I wasn't born to walk with humble eyes,
I'm alive to thrive with a sacred strive,
in pride I hear the voice of my Creator say, be great or die!
J.A.B.
let me be a wanderlust vixen in the vortex ~
a voltage liquified to the upbeat vibrato,
versing vehemently in venom-glazed grief,
and rehearsing your criminalism
like a serial liar ~
because I am too voiceless
to command the Monarch of mercury
to vindict the sojourners
that lure me to their blind holes,
and vandalise the chromatic criticisms
that clench me in their cyanide claws,
through the cracks
branching in the demonised billboard …
Oh scorching serpent,
slithering with velvet-tongued torment,
never leave me tethered
between the lips of loneliness ~
like a leaflet tucked on
the seaglass screen,
screaming for those stygian seashells
to lock my secrets behind
the bars of misplaced passwords,
because, this pulse of paranoia
is too pure to palpitate
in the pixels of poisoned prayers ~
and there is no anecdote
that annihilates the anxious
acronyms of abandonment,
streaming through the realms
of disposed dimensions.
There are no strings attached
that hum in hexed hoaxes
through the violin vendetta
strumming an acapella ~
through the lusty noise
of monsters longing for
the loss of my sacred insanity …
perhaps, the voice in my head
is an ode to the orchestrating shadows,
too mindless to manipulate ~
scripted in secluse
replaying the ruins,
paused in the prison
a sketch of sleep in splitting senses …
as bipolar ballads
tame their schizophrenic strokes ~
when the Maestro of moon
mediates a megalomaniac
sonnet of venting slaves,
in the muted matriarchy of mantras
that keep repenting rage,
in the impulsive incandescence
of my icy azure ink ~
refusing the warmth
of vulnerable sagas
that ache to heal me
and release the
insomniac coldness ~
blanketed with the sparks
of murky mermaid stars …
I own this label ~
the name of a lunar lunatic,
and this is a war,
between the sphinx of sabotage
and the never-ending nocturns ,
as, I remain weapon-less
like a cardinal iris,
rewriting the rules
of unshakable madness
in your maniac meanderings,
ineffable ~ invisible ~ incurable
an impostrous
i n v a d e r …
Written: April 1st, 2025 for contest sponsored by Brian Strand
********************
esoteric lines are etched
with antique ink
as wise men dither to think
euphoria blazes
as fresh perspectives bear flight
If wisdom tracks the dimming light
a solitary ember remains:
the elixir of life.
Unbreakable, this soul and I —
like a lake's unique fingerprint
inked to the ocean
striving for the stars to blaze
we will never falter;
heaven is a resplendent elysium
on this solid ground;
when thunder is the only sound
seraphic hosts remain unaware —
unsure of how to serenade me
Poetry transcends the words I penned
and verses left unspoken, unpenned
I cradled her heart as a cherished secret
too precious to reveal to the world
she embodies the essence
of the poem I aspire to write in my life
she adorned herself with my words
akin to celestial orbs
gently luminous, faintly shimmering —
crimson, cyan, citrine, spectrum, magenta —
a map leading to the starry nights
from which she emerged
unscathed from the storm
I draped summer
over her wintry sky
and portrayed love
over her hate and hoaxes
imagining tomorrow
over the anguish of yesterday
and when invited to paint the tapestry of my life
I engraved her name
on silken pastels
of breeze-kissed sand
bathed in nymph-like shimmer
hues of spectral mystique
sea glass encapsulated —
a choral rhapsody
weathered charms of jade, emerald
a frosted sheen
shaped by the ocean—
each jewel whispers to me
that even the broken can be reshaped
into timeless marvels
My name is Joe Biden and I…
Made The Taliban Great Again
Made War Great Again
Made Taxes Great Again
Made DEI & CRT Great Again
Made Lawfare Great Again
Made Crime Great Again
Made Illegals Great Again
Made Inflation Great Again
Made Debt Great Again
Made Censorship Great Again
Made Transgender Great Again
Made Mandates Great Again
Made Fauci Great Again
Made Elites Great Again
Made Hypocrisy Great Again
Made Dementia Great Again
Made Hoaxes Great Again
Made Babbling Great Again
Made Lying Great Again
Made Conspiracies Great Again
Made Teleprompters Great Again
Made Corruption Great Again
Made Falling Great Again
Made China Great Again
Made BLM Great Again
Made Putin Great Again
Made Gaslighting Great Again
Made Voter Fraud Great Again
Made Hamas Great Again
Made Racism Great Again
Made Hate Great Again
Made Woke Great Again
Make Debates Great Again
Made Anti-Semitism Great Again
But best of all…
Made TRUMP Great Again!
Our suffering merits the celestial, gentle waves bearing the message of love.
I venture not to fall sleep, and keep absorbing nature's enchanting spell, enough mourning in anguish, and revive!
"The old world keep unfolding in your soul, need a new garment." I pay generous attention to abnormalities. In my oceanside inn, nobody inquires about the pandemic, though they prefer to mingle with the seagulls than the crowd. Have we stemmed the tide of the plague at last? The patients go on dying, an obese lady brags she was healed, I sense a quiet uprising against the quarantine here, rich in confidence the hounds of pandemic have lost their tracks. We're thrown in this world for self-concealment. In all the hoaxes we use, paramount is our eternal hope, lost in its boundlessness. But, through my open window, the gentle waves loudly challenge us to new living, at night a meteor nurses the sky with its flame, an errant voyager from alien destinations. Sky remains the untouched domain, like a castle above calmly holding its own.
"A star's gaze, now that would be a sight," I murmur, let the thought boldly snatch the moment like a shrewd brigand.
"Who's profiting from this gruesome horror? And who's the wicked in the guise of benevolence?" Ah the aroma of beachside fire, and a tiny bird floating in the air, obviously pleased to hear the tongue of ocean splattering on the rocks. The moon's sacred dim rays add to the cozy aura, nimbly moving into darkness. I'm expecting to run into a survivor of Poseidon adventure tonight. A timeless flood of images and then the question: What do you make of survival? An irkesome sport, imagining it was worthwhile. Death is at our back, its treacherous stratagem is to frown at its intrusion, has this scent of never approaching too near before its time. But I have built an impregnable bastion, a lion's citadal, that will never succumb. And don't give me the baloney of illusion. A man has the right to deceive himself. Stubbornly besieged by sleep, I surrend to the Queen of Comfort and its stately limitless inner, infernal ocean. "Save yourself in dreams."
The group you are in did not win
Now your mind begins to unwind
Fear grows for "They" are different
Dangerous and a threat akin
To a fascist re-emergence
The things you hate about the winner
Are the things you fear lie within
So you project onto others
The motives you've repressed as sin
Feeling powerless and ashamed
You lash out hiding from inner pain
Seeking momentary solace
Attacking a man whom you disdain
Truth too difficult to accept
They are the haters, it's not us
Evidence abounds on the grounds
That hateful acts are all around
Fake Russian collusion hoaxes
Laptop lies, lawfare convictions
Two assassination attempts
Maxine Waters shouts in the streets
Nancy Pelosi rips up speech
The news knowingly speaks untruth
How many can now see the pattern
Can you not see where hate happens
NEW YORK NEW YORK AGAIN
When I go to the Service as soon as I get up
I listen to Frank Sinatra's song
“New York New York”
The city that never sleeps, as me
And I with pleasure, like Liza Minnelli
Making a profane cabaret
Where could win an Oscar.
I so much and good
How do they say they did it
Persian and Apuleius.
If it's hard for me to do it
Immediately burst into a thousand dicteries
ting on the mother who gave birth to me
How do the new parturients
Let them stop without an epidural, bareback
Shouting at the husband:
-You could be here giving birth, damn.
The comes out to the beat of the song
(Unparalleled daring is to say that I ):
"I'm going to New York
Could be Chicago (Yeah )
I want to be part of them.
My desire to as a bum
It has had an effect.
I want to wake up in the city that never sleeps
Blaring the toilet bowl
I wanna be king of the hill on top of
Like the kings of Madrid
In the Palace of Aranjuez.
So many farts contain our asses!
How long have I been ting here
You have seen and heard it.
When I pull the chain
The will be gone
Like the sins in the giant censer
From the Church of Santiago, in Compostela.
I'll fix it:
If I can here in New York or Chicago
I can do it anywhere
Up on the rooftops
As the ancient fables of the Greeks tell
What did the gods do, demigods
And all the fine mob.
The water from the cistern will transport me
As the famous Nile did
To the lies and hoaxes
That daily life contains
Until they incite me, again, to
Virgil and Ovid
Two big jerks, as me.