Long Inventiveness Poems
Long Inventiveness Poems. Below are the most popular long Inventiveness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inventiveness poems by poem length and keyword.
The Shed
...was Granddad's before he died.
And now its loneliness reached out to the boy
from the shaded, shuffling shadows
that shushed the sheltered garden.
They pulled, they tugged at his guilt-filled absence
until he slink-slunked through the greenery,
standing to attention outside its wooded frame.
It had been Grandad’s domain, his citadel,
built from leftover bits of wood and insulation
collected, or purloined, from…wherever.. whenever.
Slowly, respectively, the boy sneak-peaked the door ajar,
slipping inside, stepping into the window’s filtered light
but he was unprepared for the shock that shook him!
Memories of Grandad unfolded themselves everywhere
his tools: ruler, chisel, plane, saw and his Swedish workbench,
the unfinished projects and most of all…..Grandad’s flat cap;
it angled from a hook like an ageing photograph.
The boy sensed his skin tighten, his breath narrow
as precious memories skipped into his head;
the alchemy of playfulness, tomfoolery, inventiveness
that forged and built those ‘togetherness’ wooden creations.
Then Grandad’s voice resounded inside the boy’s head,
“Aye well I’m a little bit different lad.
I like to imagine left-handed bars of chocolate
and he’d touch his nose and add, “The nose knows, you know!”
The boy folded up with emotion as he remembered
how his words were shy around others … never Grandad.
He encouraged, praised, sparkled a smile that polished you up
like a warming pat on the back, adding a phrase like,
“We’re two forks sharing the same plate, mate!”
And then all was well.
The boy now left the shed with a rucksack of renewed memories
and a resolve to undertake a new project in Grandad’s shed.
He touched his nose whispering, “The nose knows, you know!”
then remembered Grandad’s favourite saying,
“What do great minds do?” He could hear Grandad ask.
And this time the boy replied, “They think…… for themselves!”
And he smiled himself all the way down the garden;
Grandad’s creative essence would live forever in his thoughts.
Ian Souter April, 25
My "FAKE" Genealogical Knighthood
Unbeknownst to me if royal
gilded crests comprised
my rusty dust caked coat of arms
hence, I take liberty successfully farms
productive crop to contrive fictitious
Medieval Age forebears
with favorable charms
strong agile hands
hurling crude accouterments
centuries prior to invention of firearms,
which weapons (of mass sieve construction)
privy to proto gendarmes,
this inventiveness of mine conjures
courageous knights in shining armor,
perhaps monogrammed,
hammered chain metal,
nonetheless such endeavor quite a chore
where love's labors not lost,
viz hub bully accepting, condoning,
and employing embellishments extempore,
whereby solar rays alight,
flickr, and glint glore
re: us astral motifs, the stellar
craftsmanship one (even a poor,
indigent destitute beggar
like yours truly)
could not ignore
exquisite baldric, exotic, and heraldic
trappings incorporating magical lore
aesthetically pleasing
fascinating, and appealing to one poor
uneducated disheveled rhapsodic bohemian
incumbent jibber jabbering, hallucinating,
and fancying deplorable basket case to restore
himself, the legitimate true heir,
who could double as
courtly jesting troubadour,
whose slain grand papa Aaron Harris
violently ousted during Uber Vodafone War
constitutes dreamy gotcha your
attention fabricated and
facilitated to Zoar,
an actual ancient city
anachronistically inserted here
thanks to Lot, whose Biblical reference
Google made me aware,
which ye probably care
nary a fig about, but
placename linkedin mere
to allow, enable and provide bare,
lee tenuous appeal dare
ring me to trump
poetic formality near
rolly returning full circle (one tough Job)
manufacturing prevarication
recounting "FAKE" heir
essentially envisioning, imagining,
and jimmying gallant
high in the saddle career
timeless lifeline chess piece
of centuries gone by
enshrouded with reverence by this air
rent considerably less provocative
then missives by Baudelaire.
A little boy and an ant became great friends one day.
But how to live drew them apart, and this is how they ran astray:
In the Ant’s heart was strict authority and constant work to rule the day.
Why wasn’t the boy toting behind someone, collecting for the food array?
The ant would always build everything in exactly the same proven way.
The anthill, underground, protected them perfectly as shown, every day.
Not adding to the hive was a horrible crime, none would ever display.
The ant knew all would be perfect, if everyone did their job, and obeyed.
But the boy wanted to build bridges and trestles, just like his Dad, each day.
All of them out in the open, none of them under ground or hidden away.
Inventiveness came with the notice, of new and exciting things in daily play.
His life was really cool, not boring, as standing in a line would convey.
He’d invent, ponder, and build in exciting, new ways, to fit each new byway.
Quick minded, resilient he’d build, many fascinating and unique causeways.
The boy and the ant eventually went away, not happy with how the other lived.
They thought the other shortsighted and scorned, at what the other could give.
But they went away without realizing, how very similar were their lives.
For each would spend their time endeavoring to help others with their drive.
But understanding is a harder concept than building a bridge or storing food.
It takes a true gift to see the world as others do…
The moral to this story is really quite easy for all to see:
You can’t expect others to live lives, how you want them to be.
Each was adding to their different worlds, only they could see.
One building for a smaller, singular hive, the other the hive of mankind, you see.
Each in their own way: truly cast a long shadow to fill… an important need.
“METROPOLIS BLUES”
The elemental wind
curls in from the north east,
sublime salon creations in
disarray, in grimy profusion
inventiveness subsides.
The town clock strikes out,
within ear shot, a bench seat plays
host to a cast of thousands.
Soon! succulent rotting form to be
replaced by concrete.
“A dental job needed
for those poor little mites?”
Corrugated iron
picturesque in shades of autumn,
rattling in regimental disorder,
a haunting requisition
for regeneration.
Rogue waves spill over the
quay, reducing feathered messengers
to squatters alms.
Honking horn for the many that
miss “Cross now.” Hot profanity
escapes in sheer frustration,
diamond studded ladies,
gents in pin stripe suits
reduced to gutter sniping,
intellectual street wise gnomes
aroused by verbal definition.
Skywards, elevated glass menageries, a
product of inner city germination casts out
buoyant clouds, plays
yo-yo with minute window cleaners,
perched precarious in prefabricated
isolation.
One does get lost in
Duty Free! Polyglots
strutting between glass cabinets,
exemplification of
exaggerated personification!
No English! Here, yet many tongues
in resonant sounds, reverberating
throughout the confused clamour.
Idiot in pearly white
“BMW” Snookered
in “Victoria Street”
came in “Off the black” Seven
points away, no consolation for
the hot “Mini Cooper”
all concerned carried away
under flashing lights.
“Cardless head banger” In
aggressive mood, his
four numbered digits he
had forgot, so the machine
decided to take the lot!
Shades of the fifties roll on
by, silver wheels impeccable
against an opaque sky.
“Boom boom ‘John Lee Hooker’”
drifts into contention
a competitive participant
within the metropolis;
as aren’t we all!!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
How can I change what has already been changed?
Everything has been tried over a thousands ways,
and there my perplexing question lays...
without a persuasive answer connecting the flow of words
to a revelation that necessity has invoked!
What else can I write when every subject
has already been written about by those illustrious writers?
But there's never a shortage of inventiveness...
that's found in the intellectual cleverness
that's only found in their depth!
How can I possibly replace the gentle pen which flows,
from an imagination so genuine and free?
I'll complete my sentences that wouldn't be an object of envy
of those written in the dreadful eras of restricted liberty;
one must bring more realism to questionable stories!
What new thoughts will be expressed by this mind,
not to imitate or infringe upon those writers' works lauded by society;
and give them proper credentials for their creativity...
one can't help being inspired and transformed by their originality,
great writers or composers wouldn't excel without the precedent!
How can I speak of fairness, if I don't practice it myself?
My human side should be compassionate;
take on that unprejudiced and forgiving look...
I,too, I'm subject to faults and replete with regret;
when my conscience isn't reminded of death!
What can I create from those eight notes
that await the awakening of inspiration from me?
For hours and hours my fingers will pound tirelessly...
on this piano, to write that unforgettable melody
that somebody will hear and play many times!
How can I change what has already been changed?
I'll risk it all by revealing my unfortunate events...
contesting their wills and connoting their faults!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
A little boy and an ant became great friends one day.
But how to live drew them apart, and this is how they ran astray:
In the Ant’s heart was strict authority and constant work each day.
Why wasn’t the boy following someone, collecting for the food array?
The ant would always build everything in exactly the same proven way.
The anthill was underground and protected them perfectly every day.
Not adding to the hive was a crime, no one would ever think to display.
He knew every thing would be perfect, if everyone did their job and obeyed.
But the boy wanted to build bridges and trestles, just like his Dad, each day.
All of them out in the open, none of them under ground or hidden away.
And inventiveness came with the notice, of new and exciting things in daily play.
His life was really cool, not boring, as standing in a line would convey.
He’d invent, and ponder, and build in exciting, new ways, to fit each new byway.
Quick minded, and resilient he’d build, many fascinating and unique causeways.
The boy and the ant eventually went away, not happy with how the other lived.
They thought the other shortsighted and scorned, at what the other could give.
But they went away without realizing, how very similar were their lives.
For each would spend their time endeavoring to help others with their drive.
But understanding is a harder concept than building a bridge or storing food.
It takes a true gift to see the world as others do…
The moral to this story is really quite easy for all to see…
You can’t expect others to live their lives the way you want them to be.
Here, each was adding to their different world, only they could see.
While one was building for a smaller, singular hive…
The other was building for the hive of mankind.
Salutations!
Are we all just a footnote in God’s mental thoughts?
He’s gotta BIG BANG Universe to run, does He not?
He’s the most masterful, magical, mystical, mathematical Magician.
He’s the “I” in Inventiveness and the thinking in thoughtfulness.
He can be everywhere, all at once. Anywhere, He wants. Anytime.
He can be anyone, anything, everyone, everything, He wants to be.
PURE THOT POWER!!! Hour after hour ... endlessly ...
For what it’s worth,
There’s no need for discrepancies or any misconceptions.
He doesn’t do fake news or have any precognitive predecessors.
Yet now has come to realize as I’m singing out these words,
How absurd, little bird, He chuckles in surprise
Then bursts out laughing with delight, in delight.
So wise, He sighs. Oh my, time flies ...
The Dreamer never dies.
Are we all just a Word in God’s Big BOOK?
Maybe we’d find out if we gave it a look?
Ingenuity is His middle name, envisioning e v e r y thing
We are all the stuff, He dreams up
There’s no need for questionaries.
We are all the fluff between His guff.
There’s no need for any inquiries.
Soooooo, I’m going to ...
Enjoy the day’s fullest when the Sunshines shining bright
Enjoy it at its highest when I’m down and out
Enjoy my every moment from here on out
Overcome the urge to be absurd and shout
From the top of roofs and mountaintops
And now, and now, I enjoy the NOW
With Full Moonbeams on me right here and how.
Hear me, here on me, adhere on me tonight!
So wise, I sigh. Oh my, time flies ...
The Dreamer never dies.
The soft paint brush delicately strikes
the right spots with uniqueness...
when your pensive glances project
with precision,skill and persistance,
to paint another image of reminiscence
and the colors are so iridiscent!
The features of that woman, so elusive,
are fine,graceful and attractive...
and if they are to come alive:
more trueness and realism
must be assigned to those piercing eyes...
to make this painting a true gem!
Unrealistic painter without guile,
let me enter your insoucient spirit
and teach some good strokes
of my compelling imagination:
to paint a more charming woman
with finer curbs, more sensual lips
and an unforgettable face...
until thought and action bind!
I am a modest poet not seeking fame or riches...
writing words that I engrave on time,
not being repressed or ashamed of reasons;
if honesty is to shine in my works:
my words must flow on each blank line...
for everyone to read, meditate and cherish!
Struggling painter,
executing immortal paintings
for others to criticize or admire...
dare to be different and open;
if a genius is deprived of expression,
his works are limited in inventiveness...
defeating his scope!
Unrealistic painter,
give life to those idling canvasses,
find usefulness in everything...
even in the blue-jays that sing;
inspiration comes from Nature
and individuals who manifest their passions!
As real as our concepts seem,
not one of us is alike in thoughts,
in ways of doing things...
or even creating an impressive masterpiece;
billions of minds shaped by their own inventiveness!
Different missions
demand a greater effort
to be as cunning as an artist;
desirous of knowing the odd,
the obivious or strange
when confronting a poker face,
which we rather dispose of...
or are we able to hit it with our fist?
Our thoughts are similar
to the celestial bodies without lucidity,
shining in our mysterious Universe...
planets revolving about their sun;
and while we navigate further into it,
we discover others in our course!
What force,so powerful, keeps them
from colliding with each other,
and not cause a catastrophe so immeasurable...
enough to arouse our interest in the Divinity!
No mission is too insignificant or worthless,
our different missions accomplish
what the human mind can only imagine:
breaking down barriers, unblocking fear;
renewing an imponderable wish...
to replenish the valor of intentions!
We erect statues and monuments
for our fallen heroes or famous individuals,
but ignore others with different missions:
ordinary people who made a difference;
let's honor them too, and display their rare jewels
that are hidden from everybody's eyes!
Multiple premise
olfactory adventures,
contemplative tactile
sensory ... Clothing
colors, odors, hues,
varnishes ...
Beauty has always done
fashion ... or your own
reason for being...
Fashion is a game
to show the generations
information, transgressions,
transmissions of customs and customs ...
What, or who influences that
and who? references, trends
biased almost always ...
Fashion is all that, it's fashion ...
it's also humanity ...
because it is meant for beings
humans...
The fidelity of fashion exists,
because there is a cult of creativity,
quality, inventiveness:
Chanel 5 is preferred,
for years ... your romance
olfactory endures through life ...
Nina Ricci, Gucci, Prada,
Balenciaga, Armani, Muccia,
O'real, Yves Saint Laurent,
Dior, Lancôme ... are idols
and remain so ...
Fashion in dress, on the floor,
in painting, makeup,
in the perfume ... eternal struggle
against destiny ,,, the fight
against body fatigue,
aging of
mind ... night creams
for skin regeneration,
for strengthening
hair ... softness of hair,
regeneration .... ah! That
youth that passes fast ...!
If you want to have youth in
body, see Helena
Rubinstein ... wants the mind
healthier ... fashion is poetry ...
I recommend