Long Inordinate Poems
Long Inordinate Poems. Below are the most popular long Inordinate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inordinate poems by poem length and keyword.
Do you know
Where the wind blows
How do you go
To where the wind blows
On accompany bound
North Carolina found
Down the coast
Out the window of a greyhound
Day dreams
Just won’t let me sleep sound
“Life’s a gamble
At terrible odds
If it were a bet
How would you take it”
Up at the lighthouse
Lake Superior, I’m here
Skating across the ice
Minnesota’s lovely winter song
Downtown Duluth
Across the red bridge on my own
It was a five card draw
Cocaine in an empty mans straw
Little blind short
It was big blinds bluff
Inordinate of a pack of Newport’s
Fell in love waving goodbye at the airport
Welcome back home
Were you lost or alone
Because you’re no one
Just as were when you left
Did you find your fun
Hitchhiking all by yourself
I made it back to peace
On a coarse to no where
Fresh out of Love Joy, Georgia
Do you know
Where the wind blows
How do you go
To where the wind blows
THE ART NUDE REALITY
Stained with the acrilic and emotive,
Pour us a drip of creativity,
Paint us colors of the rainbow
But still less appreciated
By the prioritizing inordinate ambitious
and flesh-conscious world.
Purchased with hard-earned money,
the brush, the pen and crayons.
Sketch us our hopes and dreams,
Paint us our now and future
And erase our rough past on canvases.
Even though your art states purpose,
style, size, color, character, and effect,
Our yawning yields lust, nude-addiction,
naked-body, physique & attention-seeking.
The world isn't on the same page with you;
Flip yours while we swipe ours
after our eyes has been well fed.
What's the fuss about this whole weird thing
associated with being unclothed?
Stripped images gets our muscles ripped up
as if we don't strip down for complete naked shower.
Why spend so much time idolising bodies,
divestment of draped attire?
Why's fragility hidden behind pointless social constructions
about what sells and drives society crazy,
about these lack of raiment vogues
conniving with carnal voices in our heads?
Why so much tempting and complete exhibitions
meant to be the private trek of someone else,
now openly played out in public square,
without remorse, except to honor certitude.
Social media empowers those who flaunt physique
imbued by deity, by desperate willingness to express,
the expression of beauty's form.
We term blessing by the display of skin's gamut.
So then I inquire of you: who is blessed?
The artist or the nudist???
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© 5th November, 2021
Crystallized red, gold, green nocuous clang
of vertigo, bird-toons tweeting, knees on the rocks,
rolling eyes, coverlet-lids closing, discovered
in fetal position, cocooned in butterfly net.
“Don’t you have to go to work?”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“Shouldn’t you use the bathroom?”
“Your coffee’s gone cold.”
Vortex of colors inside chromatic coma, schmoozing muse -
her elixir mixed with vibrancy, deliciousness, chamomile.
Rippling sounds of waterfalls, crooning creeks, sentient sleep.
Lips murmuring as if in meditation, rambling in fevered state,
alliterative, rhyming, tossing crumbs and cookies, tasting
death and birth - primordial sampling, inordinate linguistics.
Rip Van Winkle at your side. He’s been kryptonized,
espoused likewise - in dreams and nightmares, terrorized
and raptured by a sea of imagery of red, gold and green—
might awaken in twenty years…twenty years that disappear.
9/21/2021
My epitaph writ large...
courtesy third person singular.
Mise en scène pour décès
pardon his feeble attempt at French,
a unilingual English language
quibbling, and scribbling mensch
strongly advises applying
left handed monkey wrench,
which custom designed tool
assigned impossible mission
to discern sense and sensibility
regarding following poetic thread
subject of a fool's errand.
Mein kampf witnessed, punctuated,
and evinced courtesy final breath
automatically triggering (tumblr
to activate) final curtain call
and unremarkable death.
As stipulated in the living will
cremation of his lifeless body
cremated into soft gray powder.
A prerecorded hashtagged obituary
downloaded to individual smartphones
and simultaneously appeared on
the following poetry websites:
COSMOFUNNEL, Hello Poetry,
Neopoet, My Poetic Side, Poetry Soup,
PoetryNook, PoetryVibe, Prose|
A community of readers and writers,
and All Poetry.
He hesitated and lost out
on game of life big time
even fumbling crafting reasonable rhyme
noshing, spending, and whiling
inordinate amount of hours
squirreled away in his bedroom
surrounding himself with reading material.
He amassed fountainhead of knowledge
quietly engorging cerebral gray matter
whereat noggin swelled up
rivaling globe, but Atlas shrugged
at him, whose head
resembled the first Chinese brother
who swallowed the sea.
Odd his voracious appetite
to buzzfeed with one
after another binary byte
zealous precocity to engross himself
with storied reading material
that does extremely excite
(at the expense of healthy socialization)
where his imagination took flight,
nevertheless myopic eyes of his
did glean insight
keeping his cute button nose
between pages of choice morsels
to appease hunger
keeping himself awake
drinking high test coffee
during darkness aided by jacklight
processing meaty material with might
experiencing abundant, exultant,
intoxicant, over-extravagant
joie de vivre day or night,
a balm, elixir, inebriate... quite
the panacea to abet emotional incapacitation
which entails crafting poems
oftimes spending efforts
with efforts undertaking rewrite
unwittingly garnering a fanbase
courtesy ideology doth unite.
Music makes our spirit rejoice in sonorous numbers for sure,
a true proposition, lucid and irresistible to endure.
Another dress in destinies wardrobe confined,
inordinate mysteries of creation what cannot be denied.
Vapors of memories through so many cultures perceived,
plunging into state of fervent pleasure by the beat conceived.
Transparent flow and move to the instant open of musical eternity,
active texture of melodies with certainty.
It opens the substance of the sound of fabulous antiquity,
accepting the resonance of supreme formidable gravity.
Recreating worlds in worlds in fragile states,
communicating with the invisible by joy declared.
Timeless moments at the threshold of beatitude,
sensuous mental recaptured art in debt of gratitude.
Dancing circles of light proceeding from heart of the self release,
when the light turns from silver to gold as sense of deepening peace.
The peace that surpasses all understanding with the pulse of energy,
where in the center all opposites reconcile and genius is the key.
Camus-Pieces
by Odin Roark
Might it be…
Lives are merely spent
Putting fragments of one’s picture
Into place?
Is it random
We seek as children
Blocks placed to spell a word
In order to garner a smile
From Dada
Mama?
We seek a fit
By adolescence
Specific images dominate
Opposite sex
Same sex
Extreme sports
Identity sports
The journey is complex
Foreboding midlife
Roars onto the puzzle board
The making sense
Of love
Career
Images
Enigmas
The jigsaw no longer entertains
Inordinate curves
Corners
Subtleties
Don’t want to fit
Yet
Innate persistence
Shuffles old with the new
Determinate-sense the mission
Just like we were asked to believe
Our pieces were made exclusively for us
After all
We’re told
The puzzle maker is omniscient
He designed it all
He created this image
In a likeness
So…
How come the last piece
Always remains a ***** to fit
Track One, Side Two
by Odin Roark
It was time.
He knew it.
Like the cuts on so many of his albums,
As he passed through the “got your attention” of side one,
He’d often considered the “time to acknowledge some chancier-experiments” of side two.
Yeah…
Back then, even though he was only thirteen,
His father had been prophetic.
After all, how many fathers would think to give some philosophy
As a birthday gift.
But that was long ago,
And now it was time he finally rejected society’s pre-ordained lifetime marketing blitz on how to live
And allow the oft times sleeper-ideas to maybe awaken discovery.
Just like his career of producing long-playing albums
Creating the safer decisions for side one was only rewarding
When there was risk mixed in, usually on side two.
Today…
He was going to welcome the task of searching,
Go beyond the choices he had been living,
Gamble on the unexpected,
Travel down the multitier-senses
Where less familiar ideas
Might muster appreciation for more of a being’s tempo,
Rhythm,
And harmony.
When he thought about it…
How enticing that flip side of the so-called normal existence must be
Finding out what one’s unknown appreciations are all about
That discovery of a finger-snapping epiphany
Ready to produce surprises for the future.
Lest he forget
Passing time was becoming more precarious
Making life’s tomorrow a hit
Would require risk of another kind.
He recalled his father’s birthday message at thirteen,
“Embrace the unexpected,
Indulge the inordinate,
Find the willingness to try track one, side two of your days,
It’s waiting.”
timid, meek, and demure (effeminate) me,
essentially ruled the roost
regarding Harris household
sole son characterized vis a vis
presented passive resistant
outward nonestablishmentarian mold
worst case scenario
would witness Matthew Scott Harris
spending longevity old and feeble minded
at 324 Level Road
outliving parents, pets
(comprising inordinate
number of dust bunnies) and siblings
(an older and younger sister),
the latter whose globetrotting exploits I envied,
nevertheless outlived anyone polled
even Methuselah, where mein kampf
blissful, fanciful, nouveau poet
nearly long forgotten boyhood charade,
facade inlaid masquerade
crumbled like broken scaffold
attaining centenarian years old -
faintly maintaining umbilical stronghold
considerably surpassing mommy dearest,
born November 13th, nineteen thirty five,
yet moments before her passing
she barely audibly apologized
for occasions she did reprimand and scold
retaliated against grim reaper,
he whisked her diseased riddled body away
after completing seventy plus orbits, all told.
I experienced interminable
relentlessly psyche burning acrid
tormenting, teasing, and talking funny
bullying vulnerability compounded amid
courtesy of split uvula set me apart
alien as a Druid livingsocial
during latter half of twentieth
and first two decades of twenty first century
rather a speech pathologist
informed legal biological guardians
regarding Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic
minor congenital defect when
attending sixth grade at
Henry Kline Boyer Elementary
i.e., submucous cleft palate, aforesaid
whereby every day akin getting scorched
by some "NON FAKE" ironclad grid
me, this twangy nasal kid
my undersized and socially
withdrawn demeanor contributing
to existence tumultuous and turbid.
BE MY VALENTINE
When you whisper into my ears,
It praises my heart
When you tell me ‘I love you’,
My heart smiles
When your nose touches mine,
Your breath heals the wound inside
When I look into your eyes,
I see myself in my world(your eye balls)
When the wind blows,
Your hair communicates with my mind’s eye
When it becomes blustery,
It makes me weak
That feelings melt me
My cells begin to sweat
Making my entire body wet
When you get closer,
Your lips dry my body off
Don’t let me speak,
Emotions sound louder
My love has an inordinate taste for yours
Please don’t let me starve,give me keys to your heart doors
My room is decorated with rose flowers
I have set a table full of strawberry and red wine
I am awaiting you to dine
Please be my valentine
Tonight is ours
In deep waters we will be for hours
Book cause I spend an inordinate amount of time reading...
out loud.
As a hypothetical argument
yours truly doth not aim
to be unfortunate recipient
of misguided, misjudged, and mislaid blame,
nevertheless I make dubious claim
and baldly recede (ha – hair ye, here ye)
from heady assertion
to make bold statement
such that literacy supersedes numeracy,
between said measurable
ambiguous, exiguous, and irriguous
confusing, perplexing, puzzling pillars
of cognitive, demonstrative, emotive,
facilitative, generative... intelligence,
hence not consonant
far from the madding crowd,
until the return of the native
and perchance ludicrous
to some above average dame,
who might be prone to exclaim
contrariwise, and squarely frame
mathematics more powerfully
(id est - greater than)
basically versus stringing words together
yielding cogent, decent,
effulgent, fluent... result
(that may not add up to a hill of beans)
crafting supreme unequaled poem
predicated upon cockamamie scribe,
(one whose unexcusable
laughable puerile mien
modestly trumpeting his outstanding talent,
hence he expects and deserves
posthumous lettered fame),
née, he already
appropriated, leveraged, wielded
volumes of his speculated worthless material
synchronized to be broadcast
immediately upon his demise
(after the grim reaper
steals dem lovely bones
to avoid self embarrassment)
avast treasure trove awaiting
distribution across webbed wide world
(including all manner
of social media platforms)
after discover re:
visa vis artificial intelligence
courtesy agency of smart machine
to custom make similar
facsimile thereof brilliant literature
where good things come to life
to emulate and evoke
mental landscape and thought processes
of one humble human
Matthew Scott Harris
while supremely, soundlessly, seamlessly,
echoing beloved refrains
from computer generated verses
that would be indistinguishable
from Joni Mitchell's
original song titled the circle game.