Long Jacketed Poems
Long Jacketed Poems. Below are the most popular long Jacketed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Jacketed poems by poem length and keyword.
The American Library Association
implores cognoscenti tubby alert
impersonators, who
call themselves Ernie and Bert
took a page from Sesame Street Playbook
oft times accompanied
by a Soundcloud of dirt,
boot none other then Pigpen,
(who worked for Peanuts),
and pay-dirt, though
dismissed, cuz he did not exert
true grit, plus more seriously scandalous
sordid details suppressed kept from press,
(which scurrilous breach of conduct
involved said scallywag
violating more than flirt
discovered in prurient compromised activity,
where his skin flute encircled,
with an ambrosia girt
transgressions possibly affected
public television station benefactors,
and sterling reputation of bottom line, nor hurt
locker talk (albeit via exaggerated mainly
to make a profit sounding proper
sanctimonious Cliff (hanging) notes,
asper faux expected by
a "FAKE" trumping prophet,
sans motley crue comic
stripped of more'n
motion picture PG ratings,
hence future lurid, graphic,
banal, ampersand
(&) dressing room banter
muted, disallowed, and banned
so storied characters birthed by Charles Shulz,
(who passed away prior to near canned
aforementioned indiscretion debacle)
returning amidst fanfare hoopla
much as possible grand
jour "Making Peanuts Great Again" hand
diddly restoring full metal paperback jacketed
glory and apple pie order land
ding rebirth of cherished popular iconic
easy to digest bookworm feed
which unexpectedly, inadvertently,
and horrifyingly
brewed ferocious breed
on par with the Alaskan Bull Worm,
whereat armed guards
strategically stationed
at libraries entrances indeed
aware voracious young readers,
would pay no heed
to any obstacle, and such unstoppable
ravishing knowledge
hungry kids did exceed
capacity security details dashed away,
faster then Clifford
the big red dog speed!
The American Library Association
implores cognoscenti tubby alert
for impersonators, who
call themselves Ernie and Bert
took a page from Sesame Street Playbook
oft times accompanied
by a Soundcloud of dirt,
boot none other then Pigpen,
(who worked for Peanuts),
and pay-dirt, though
dismissed, cuz he did not exert
true grit, plus more seriously scandalous
sordid details suppressed kept from press,
(which scurrilous breach of conduct)
involved said scallywag
violating more than flirt
discovered in prurient compromised activity,
where his skin flute encircled,
with an ambrosia girt
transgressions possibly affected
public television station benefactors,
and sterling reputation of bottom line, nor hurt
locker talk (albeit via exaggerated mainly
to make a profit) sounding proper
sanctimonious Cliff (hanging) notes,
asper faux expected by
a "FAKE" trumpeting prophet,
sans motley crue comic
stripped of more'n
motion picture PG ratings,
hence future lurid, graphic,
banal, ampersand
(&) dressing room banter
muted, disallowed, and banned
so storied characters birthed by Charles Shulz,
(who passed away prior to near canned
aforementioned indiscretion debacle)
returning amidst fanfare hoopla
much as possible grand
jour "Making Peanuts Great Again" hand
diddly restoring full metal paperback jacketed
glory and apple pie order land
ding rebirth of cherished popular iconic
easy to digest bookworm feed
which unexpectedly, inadvertently,
and horrifyingly
brewed ferocious breed
on par with the Alaskan Bull Worm,
whereat armed guards
strategically stationed
at libraries entrances indeed
aware voracious young readers,
would pay no heed
to any obstacle, and such unstoppable
ravishing knowledge
hungry kids did exceed
capacity security details dashed away,
faster then Clifford
the big red dog re: oh speed
wagon in toto (oz suppose)
to escape paginated bound woes,
but especially to flee bozos
not tubby confused with Bezos -
(the richest cat on planet Earth),
whose cashiered spigot flows
née gushes without any need to faucet.
I toss fire down your throat
pour you your bullet, goblet to gullet
glass-jacketed explosions
line my wall like church organ flues
ablution for absolution from desperation
libation-liberations for exaggerated exhilarations
bottled fevers for believers
kneel your mind
choose your raptures
you’ve come to my altar
now your blood I’ll alter
shaken, stirred, swirled, singed with little bonfires
as potent a potion as you like
each percent speeds your ascent or descent
your thirst it’ll wet and abet
I have spirits to lift yours
a cure in every liqueur
bubbly for the lively
painkillers for loners
oh, I’ll hear your confessions too
earshot with your liquor shot, on the house
no judgement nor penance
just a warped sense of time to let you unparch your soul
salvage the day
and get ready to face the next one
I’m your friendly mercenary-priest
enforcing a restraining order against reality
one more?
I learned to let people have a convo
With their self, on the road to riches so to speak leave em alone in their own vault, our with their own thoughts so when things crumble before them it can be their own fault. There's an art form to communicate efficiently that most people over 25 still haven't learned evidently. Don't mind me I'm just calling it how I see it, seeing is believing and best believe I seen it so I believe it, but everything isn't what it seems so I guess I too have been deceived.
I learned most of what I learned was a misconception, I know now in amerikkka an educated black man is a deadly weapon and not many have been able to withstand the recoil of that hammer, the truth is a hard pill to swallow especially because in that chamber it's filled with jacketed hallows...
Gold- looks like drops of yellow sunshine,
that mesmerize the eye.
Gold- sounds like high healed celebrities,
tinkling down a red carpet.
Gold- smells of money and power,
mingled with the odor of white diamonds.
Gold- tastes metallic, yet unlike brass,
doesn’t linger on the tongue.
Gold- feels smooth and cool to the touch,
not as unyielding as bronze.
A gold nugget looks like a pebble of sunshine,
jacketed in the purest yellow.
And resonates with the accompanying subtle sounds,
of emeralds and blood red rubies.
A symbol of wealth, a gold nugget smells of success,
and is as indulgent as the finest white wine.
Without the tangy taste of brass,
gold feels as tactile as bronze,
with the added resplendent glitter of gilt.
Written Oct.31, 2015 by Emile for "Color - Poetry Contest".
Three truant scholars spending our sabbaticals
in crisp Colorado, we all re-read Walden,
dared to drink from streams so icy clear
the fish seemed suspended in mid-air.
Our flimsy nylon shelters shielded us
from what weather there was to worry on,
as summer slipped to autumn
and autumn waned winterward.
Four full years past we trekked those trails
through stands of timber frequented by fox,
by birds, by deer -- and by growling grizzlies.
We walked well-wooded hillsides
of mixed conifers and broadleaf.
In deep drafts we breathed the earthy air.
Now, when my son hugs his honey bear,
red-jacketed, black-button eyed,
I see the hellish maw, the bloodied claw,
of the darkish-brown raging beast
that tore off my arm and maimed
two sages, amid the yellow quaking aspen
where, yet, that gory grizzly ages.
Living death ,hotel for hypochondriacs?
Where there are rarely empty beds
But some bodies may soon be.
Bright curtains are there for all
To screen their shame and pain,
Though the final curtain will surely
On some soon fall..
Blue-jacketed staff breezily
Glide about their tasks
Smoothly and swiftly
Until becalmed by a lull
At the nursing station
Before a maelstrom erupts.
Suddenly a sour smell wrinkles noses
And the team sweeps into action.
Soothing and rancourless,
"You're a terrible man!"we hear them say
As they set about erasing
The evidence of soiled humanity.
Yet we see their neurosis
Over death-defiling bugs
In the continued wiping
Of bed rails and curtains of grime
And then there is peace
In our time.
There will be other flurries,
Punctuating regular routine
But, respite gained,they relax.
A question about the time ,
Is met with,"Ten past s***e!"
Cathartic laughter refreshes
Them for the long ,long night .
Regalia awakens upon nightfall
Roused within rules proudly signified
Routine of midnight procedural
Robe wearer draped solemn dignified
Voracious moon grey devil face
Oak double doors crosses engraved
Vestibule commands reverence
Flung open so mortals can be saved
Behaviour carefully monitored
Moonshine in aisle to alter pointing
Father's guidance Penultimate
Spotlight slides jacketed anointing
Pulpit a pillar of scripture's page
Builds focus for lamp stuck fly byers
Formality chapters archaic sage
Impales twisted gargoyles on spires
Stitched into sleeves invisibly
Satin lining sheen hot cardinal flame
Shape of garment disciplining
Secure bounds by pockets contained
15th February
Fitting into Religion
His hair is alive,
serpents writhing, a man Medusa of the tropics,
as if he wore the demons
of colonialism and injustice on his head,
unforgetting,
a dung-brown-and-black hologram of
the ganja-fueled reveries inside,
the broken record of fight and redemption in his ears
masked by an ancient face, all taut leather,
placid with a sheen of absorbed light.
Bloodshot eyes, not insomniac,
but from the weight of things that, once seen,
cannot be unseen,
scleras color-coding history,
the blood of dead slaves on white.
Yet the heat-chilled island calls a daily truce.
In the shade of the commodious palm tree,
the bleach of sun cordoned by a shower of shadows,
even the gluttony of Babylon
and the promise of Zion can share a siesta.
Looking out to the silvering sea beyond the beach,
exchanging a patois-scented greeting
with two passing brethren whose hair hang like roots,
he puts fire to a fat, white-jacketed spliff,
herb smoke curling up,
rising,
rising,
a slow exodus up into the dusty fronds above,
hung with the fruits
of a tender mantra as,
ever,
the spirit of Marley
sings.
I riff flecked about thee august
Autumn Equinox 2018,
this polymath learned why,
September Equinox
will be at 9:54 PM,
which spoiler alert thy
learned (courtesy Google),
when Or Sun Wells
crosses celestial equator
i.e. (imaginary line in sky
above Earth's Equator
from north to south), a quiet rye
hit moment occurs
Saturday September 22nd, 2018
(at 9:54 PM Eastern
Time) marks onset
of apple cider
and pumpkin pie
a distinct golden jacketed
matted palette well nigh
paints arboreal swath, sans
quiet riot of brilliant
color, that doth belie
rampant terrestrial, unreal,
and venal degradation aye
temporarily turning a (third)
blind eye apathetically, blithely,
and conveniently shunting aside
eyesore fissured gash - wide
cleft wound, where hide
ding away from
global abuse decried
as feeble effort
ignoring doth decide
fate i.e. as does wrecking,
where precious resources espied
snubbing, and thumbing nose
(figuratively) asper dead
serious portentous desperate
(falling on deaf ears) plea chide
dismissively mocking (bird
den some) prophesying,
whence creator cried
alarming, blaring, and clanging
sounding Doomsday Clock,
where ambivalence unheeded
scathing tragic miss guide
did exploitative testament,
where survival of fittest tried
to the max, viz (courtesy
of *****sapiens)
as Mother Nature dost allied
flora and fauna espied
comprising vibrant biosphere
each betrothed nsync, and guide
ding generic hominids shrugging
(Atlas sized fountain head)
off beholden hide
bound wedded bliss
to the other,
this observer awestruck,
sans whirled, wide webbed biota
adorns terra firmae analogous,
qua expectant wedded bride
named Gaia – resplendent
raiment adorned playfully chide,
when (dark and Stormy Dan
yells) Armageddon
legatee - time ran
out for *****sapiens meaning...
salvation to late for human
knit tee, cuz field day, sans
grim reaper will
glory in field day
whar cross bones
numb skull pay fealty.