Long Improper Poems
Long Improper Poems. Below are the most popular long Improper by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Improper poems by poem length and keyword.
Don’t the minutes seem like hours as we run the office maze?
Then we wonder where the time went; time seduces, time betrays,
Till we’ve got to pause between midnight and dawn
To recover from the strain. We hear the same drop of rain.
You can sense the knotted tension neatly coiled around my gut;
All those squeaky apprehensions swinging open, swinging shut.
Need to oil that hinge with a scotch on the rocks,
Or whatever dulls the pain. We hear the same drop of rain.
And it’s pounding on the darkness, and it’s pounding on the heat,
And it’s pounding on the silence so hard,
Like the taunting of The Raven, and The Tell-tale Heart combined,
Or some oriental torture – diabolic, yet refined.
I can sense your desperation when a deadline’s drawing near.
And your maddening frustration is reflected in the mirror.
And you’d like to scream, but the rules clearly state:
It’s improper to complain. We hear the same drop of rain.
Can ya catch the sweet distraction glimmer coyly through this mess?
Can ya taste the shy desire? I’ve been tempted to confess
What I fantasize when I’m thinking of you
Isn’t easy to contain. We hear the same drop of rain.
We’ve been running at the power, we’ve been running at the glory,
We’ve been running at the money so hard.
I don’t know if I should tell what I imagine we might do
On a stormy night together when the working day is through.
When the minutes seem like hours and the hours seem like days,
I’ll be waiting there to court you with a sly, flirtatious gaze.
And it takes my breath, should our eyes chance to meet –
It’s both sacred and profane. We hear the same drop of rain.
He’s what we call a trouble
And often not just one but double!
A hyperactive kid with label,
That reads he’s restless and unstable.
Be patient, give him needed space,
Though fast, he doesn’t win the race.
Shrewd and brave, a daredevil,
With low concentration level.
His frazzled mind needs to express
But often ordered to suppress.
Those random words he has to say
Will choose improper time and way.
Show your love and understanding,
What he does wrong is rather random.
It’s not you but him, who’s bothered,
Being brushed away by others.
Don’t get angry in frustration,
Offer extra stimulation,
Let brilliant fast spinning mind
Have territory to unwind.
You will achieve the best result-
Praise, compromise but don’t insult.
If reprimand - in decent terms,
Wondering eyes calm after storm.
Give him another chance to win,
Wish to be 1st – his biggest sin.
Your great reward – his happy smile
Stays in your heart, it is worth trying.
What doctors promised, all came true
Efforts paid off, your son outgrew.
Not long ago his worn-out label
Turned into well-behaved, and stable.
To bear with aplomb an existential
need to grieve unpurposed loss is unkind.
Enmesh in secret space and tragic thrall,
silver threads of death's hairsbreadth, small in mind...
So much improper placement now needed
to board up hidden pain's implosive thuds-
Footfalls on heart's walls now go unheeded.
And a slippery slope's where emotion's mud
drowns and buries sorrow's shuddered spats.
Feelings embalmed in cold- hearted reasons,
Tears' release now has no welcoming mat.
"For the best." Covers death in all seasons.
And yet grief's instinctive power to heal
becomes more powerful with freedom to feel...
20/09/2017
Goodbye is a feast finished
The last morsel down the hatch
Improper to ask for seconds
No aperitif to this lonely hunger
For every goodbye must be a hello
Even if no one arrives home
Welcome your darkness, don't go
My mistrusted companion
I forgive your cloying reach
Can you recreate human touch?
Let me be the one to say goodbye
Just to feel my forlorn space
Selfishly you take all the oxygen
Leave the left with a hunger for air
There’s no comfort in goodbyes
Better to say hello to re-gen
Goodbye to time with loved ones
Hello my solitary depression
Revolution brings me back to light
Goodbyes are a global constancy
Even without hands that feed
Goodbyes consume me with it all
A constant depression never satisfied
A hunger feeding on memory
Say goodbye to hello for now
Say goodbye from dusk to dawn
Twighlight is the start of a new day
Depression coming to hello's light
Telling "White Lies"
My mother got born November
thirteenth, nineteen hundred thirty five
within poverty stricken household
of Canarsie, Brooklyn, the youngest
(most mollycoddled) of four siblings,
experienced grinding poverty, no
matter maternal grandfather (Moishe
Kuritsky), a tailor he lacked drive
to support his family two parents +
remainder offspring, he helped sire
lacked positive role models, none the
less gumption taught her to strive
at tender age livid with rage to escape
caricature living poor, thus sought
employment when/wherever sheik hood
if necessary fibbed to survive
plus rash of healthy nurturing, and
absolute zero constraints, perhaps five
or thereabout years old attested
much later, suspected her papa did jive
with unspeakable improper behavior
(nobody dare discuss taboo issues),
yet intuition awoke within immoral
conclusion Harriet Kuritsky did arrive,
and perhaps resorted to stretching
the truth (fibbing a "white lie") the only
recourse available plied sweet innocence
knowing little or nothing about birds
feathering their nest, nor little about
buzzfeeding activity in beehive
naivete flirtatious coyness advantage worked,
I bet young thang did connive
and probably never did contemplate,
deliberate, generate and wrongdoing,
where mother of necessity spurred
angelic demureness strategy to contrive
securing bare necessities, hence fast
forward, when unsolicited advice given
to this sole son, or either sibling, (an older
& younger sister) tactics upbringing did deprive
ma mum of positive role models, hence
only blueprint to acquire essential needs
serendipitous series of unfortunate events
before Lemony Snicket did derive
school of hard knocks, (I do believe
formerly called Abraham Lincoln High)
rather than impugn, judge, revile, et cetera
kernels/nuggets of wisdom memory did revive
within my mind for rhyme, nor reason
blunt honesty, not always best policy
despite ten commandments
to husbands with many a wive.
*Authors note: Be prepared for the inappropriate use of a fork. (Shelter your children.) Proper and Improper soup matters and manners are explored. Legal interpretations and fears surrounding the viewing of and consumption of soup are lightly touched on and on display for the shock value, pleasure, entertainment and amusement of all. (The author here is lobbying for the use of spoons...as well he should.)
I Hate Soup
I hate soup!
No I don't
I love soup
Get your story straight
We are going before the judge today
He or she is probably judgmental
If they hate you more than the soup
I don't know what They'll do
If they love soup you can only pray for leniency
Claim insanity
It is only a lost day in court
Stay away from name brands before the law
Keep it simple
It is safer not to say Campbell's
Lipton is forbidden
You are being charged with complicity
Watching a full fledged felony in action
In broad day light is more than a misdemeanor
Someone dared to eat, to slurp their soup in public
Sipping it in plain view is a capital offense
On top of that a fork was used
Why oh why did you dine at the Greasy Spoon
What bad timing… What bad news
Now you have to pay
Soup crimes are severe in the light of day
Penalties for watching are much more graver
Not reporting it is simply crazy
I hate soup
I love soup
It does not matter
I'm being sued
L.A ‘62. English professor George (Colin Firth) is mourning the loss of his gay partner. He's
spent the day reliving memories, but that night meets his student Kenny (Nicholas Hoult),
who secretly admires him, in a bar. The two end up at George’s house after a spontaneous
ocean swim. Kenny has just emerged from the shower,wrapped in a towel. George is making
a fire. When Kenny goes to get a beer, he discovers a nude photo of George’s dead lover in
a drawer. His suspicions about his teacher are confirmed. A beautiful score of stringed
music, nostalgic and tender draws me in to every nuance of Colin's performance.
George, feeling foolish and seeming a bit flushed with anticipation (yet restraining himself
from improper conduct), sits on a chair across from the young man when the boy returns to
the living room. A conversation ensues in which George asks Kenny questions, trying to
discern the young man’s reasons for being there that night. The boy, too, is trying to learn
things about George, but keeps hedging with his responses to George‘s questions, and
nothing completely “telling” is ever said. Meanwhile, their eyes linger on each other. The
young man’s eyes are an enchanting almost gleaming blue; I find it hard myself to look away
from his sweet face. My eyes are also riveted every second to George’s face and to its many
subtle changes of expression.. Finally, the boy asks George something and at that moment,
George’s face blurs. My curiosity is very aroused when suddenly the scene has switched to
George awaking at about 3 a.m. from his bed.. The young man, however, is not in the bed
(as I had hoped he would not be). He is asleep on the sofa, and he clutches in his hands the
gun which George had planned to shoot himself with. Had George revealed his plan to end
his life that day to his student? Was that what happened in those missing hours? Had the
boyish Kenny (while George was sleeping off his drunkenness) found the gun in the same
way he had discovered the picture of George’s partner and now was holding it to prevent
George from carrying out his suicide? I know I am soon going to learn George’s fate. . .
Your feelings in a group of touring innocence
travel up North towards trust and sincerity
in sweet submissive care like a carefully rubbed suede.
You put day light into your entrapment
for noontide to go nonstop.
Caress from yonder, massage from under
your skirts make appetite nonchalantly mourn
your legs present so nutraceutical to manly weakness.
If your bones are licked by wild beasts
the jungle would be protected by the ghost of sweet affection.
If the rains fall through the planes of your body
vapours of lust and desires will spring out of the Earth.
Your expensive flare, expresses you as a needed nougat
sliding pleasurably though wet lips in a greasy enjoyment of noodles
with aroma and taste capping up a nouvelle cuissine.
Night is dead from your day-long engaging chemistry
making the aggression of your nubile emission
in ration to any attempted resistance an improper fraction
when the night's light strike your contrasting body
for the creation of a mobile image so dark and graceful,
nature will sit down beauty for a serious interview.
Propriety
belongs to a
society
as dignity
sings my song strong
individuality
Both benign
characteristics
earned right through
win/win wellness statistics
comparing
individualistic
flawed integrity
of Othering patristics.
Improperly colonizing
militarized monoculturing
choosing bitter
unbetter capitalizing
A worn down path
of ZeroSum assumptionizing
improper wealth baptizing baths
of undignified conclusions
unholy rising
Directed by a demonic god
weak and/or promiscuous
slatternly sinful goddesses
Eating Earth's own children
when Her Consort's favorite book
calls for religious recipe looks
of meaty mighty
sacrificial ingredients, cooked
For at least comparatively improper
social climate change
and oppositionally degenerative
personal political
lack of win/win gain
Integral knowledge
of which comes first,
propriety of worshipping Earth's
sacred ecosystemic birth
or healthing dignity
of individual bursts
into enlightening constellations
and empowering corporations
and health wealthing cooperations
for polyculturing climax peace,
resonant rebirth.
Earth health and safety
already pre-supposes sensory
dignified Mother propriety
v patriarchally improper memory
of a nationalistic society
rather bicamerally unbalancing
would-be patriots
of universally viral health integrity
Of and for healing
win/lose ZeroSum fractured stealing
from win/win Futures holistic
not not ZeroZone revealing
appropriately integrative
double negative
holy holistic co-relatives
of individuals socially sensitive
to EarthJust dignity reweaving
propriety redeeming
resonance restoring
Compassion's mind-invested work
and heart-infested
operatic passion play
singing through each reworked day
and nights of silent
holy
misty stay.
Argh, I Ne'er Got Got Bran Did With...
A Muffin Top Before - Why Now!?
Impossible firm he (reed myth self)
to compete with Adonis, no way no chance
asthma gut busts over
waistband of sweatpants,
the choice couture,
asper this poet, who kant's
cease spewing regularly
(quotidian) raves and rants
years ago (another lifetime),
I partook of contra dance
sing, (and most casual suitable
place to find romance)
plus burn calories matter of fact,
a milieu to buff and enhance
physique, while simultaneously
kibitizing with great expanse
of pleasant gals and guys
one must not be afraid to prance
(albeit in accordance
with a caller on stage,
and maintain endurance)
synonymous with aerobic exercise,
and also act flirtatiously amorously glance
sing and/or stealing a French fried
kiss, yup dashing all
the way out to France,
yet returning just in time and proper,
or improper instance
all the while sustaining
the energetic activity over expanse
of a few hours (traditionally
held on Thursday evenings)
and for that block of time held in a trance,
asper...analogous to
spellbinding arrow or lance
suspended part way thru flight,
cuz all troubles troubles
temporarily melt away
which venue mentioned,
which small number of bucks one did pay
to participate among mine weekly highpoint,
where life liberty, and pursuit of happiness
which place this then akin to a cray
zee lee whirling dervish, did pine
to spruced himself up, and ready to hay
for four, thus sped without delay
this bag of lovely bones hapt tubby
more more trim, unlike
less physically fit body of today,
and scant finances find me find
foregoing joyfully
listening to musicians play
and healthily exhausted
with closing waltz,
thence out tummy car
yours truly did sashay!