Long Killjoy Poems
Long Killjoy Poems. Below are the most popular long Killjoy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Killjoy poems by poem length and keyword.
I've had many heated conversations with . . . myself
over how a circumstance, or life itself, should be perceived.
My best time for self-probing is late at night.
Even now (in my sixties), I lean toward idealism.
Reality--not killjoy, but counselor--reminds me of
my boundaries. Opportunities to balance realism and
idealism have proven successful, warding off pessimism.
Pursuance of goals is still fueled by fire, but the flames
don’t leap so high as when I was young and vigorous.
Effective self-examination can be time-consuming
and painful, sometimes revealing that challenging
changes are required of me. These growing pains, even--
or perhaps especially—at my age, are necessary,
for life is not yet through with me.
I classify myself as the basically satisfied, often joyful
by-product of late-night contemplation.
March 9, 2021
entered in Craig Cornish's Contemplation Poetry Contest
Animistic descent from sanity
Boorish attitude, sense of lost control
Crawl out of your skin, bloody vanity
Darkness claws like a black hole
Eternal uncertainty wreaks mayhem
Freedom not given, glued to midnight
Glutton of attention, cannot condemn
Hungry for life, all bark and no bite
Insanity placed on my sweating forehead
Justification, she’s just sick
Killjoy I may be, the day I dread
Labels in my throat choke me quick
Meaningless apologies, see from my eyes
Nights of liquid lucidity, a dull mind by day
Oh the pain, its thorns shred my heart and thighs
Persistent thoughts, worries carried away
Question my identity, a woman without a face
Remember happiness, a fleeting memorial
Scars on my ribs, my heart’s knives trace
Tears on my face, struggles sensorial
Ugly feelings of hate, daily reprise
Veins of ice or so it feels, words tongue-tie
With echoing sighs my dream dies
Xenolith, smile covered, stifled outcry
Yearning for a hand to hold on to
Zealous recovery, fail and reverse
Wordless worries wander wearily working wayward,
Towards thoughts transgressing truth’s textured tide.
As always acknowledging agnosticism’s appeal,
Essence easily evaporates, exeunt Emile.
Very virtuous violent vowels vociferously validate,
Sanctimonious sessions some subtly sacrosanct.
Is it in incrementally immense ingenious imaginations,
Or ontology’s omniscience overcoming oceanic oratory?
Roughly rallying rage’s recessive righteousness,
Quickly quartered queens quietly quiver qualities quoi.
Under unctuous undeniably Umbrian utterances,
An astute and acute awareness as always arose.
Placing plausibly proverbial prevaricating predications,
Many morose morally myopic manly mighty men,
Eulogize everlasting ephemerally entertaining evocations.
Insinuating incredible implications, insomnia initiates,
Notably nullifying notoriously negligible nihilistic necessities.
Lies lay low, linking lofty linguistic lessons like laws,
Of optional opportunities oscillating on occult overtures
Until underlying unctions unify ubiquitous unknowns.
Joyless Joseph’s joyful Joy just jumped, just jumped!
Killing killjoy knuckle kosher korma koranic krap.
And announce another anonymous anodyne appointment?
(Empiricism’s emphatic emission, enter erotic Eloise).
Having Heidegger helps, hope’s homunculi hunting human.
Get gone ginger guesses, go grope Ginger’s grapes!
Immaculately ironic inquisitions instigate immediate impositions.
Once onto opaque ominous orbs, obey Oracles open orders.
Framing funny fractions, flaming far flung frivolous fictions,
Death defies dollar damnations, deliciously done devaluations.
Usually uncle umpire understands useful underlying ululations,
Also affirming apples avuncular altruistic assumptions.
Creeds crave caves, charms calm cause, come conquerors,
Be belligerently bad, betray birth’s beginning, balance budgets.
Entreating entirely empty, emphatically elusive, existential entelechy,
Is, importantly, incommensurably idiotic, inexplicably impractical indeed.
When the party’s over, the rising sun shines, with all eyes squinting
Make-up smeared on face’s, some have slimy snail skin
A woman waiting for a gent to light her cigarette, just hinting
Last thing she remembered the drink in her cup sink’n in
Alas a smoke from the one glaring all night, even his lighter is glinting
That night she lost her balance, her head, and her Gucci slipper
Though in costume, she didn’t feel like Cinderella anymore
Drunk-on champaign they went out to the marina for a dipper
Everyone dancing all night, felt great, with music galore
At the stroke of midnight, on a yacht, a first mate and his skipper
Swirling in gay abandon in her party dress, putting on a show
The first one to leave is deemed a killjoy in this circle fest
They pulled an all-nighter, ‘neith the shroud of the moon’s luscious glow
The first one to leave the event, was weary, in the state of unrest
The sun is setting, the party is ending, a new day calls, a caravan in tow
There are twelve days of Christmas, everybody knows that
But there are only three signs to know, it’s time to start getting fat.
The first sign that Christmas is really getting quite near
Is all the new toy adverts on the telly that suddenly appear
They are on the telly before kids return to school after summer break
There are lots of toys to buy, they tell us, and even some Christmas cake
Never mind the partridge that’s sitting in the pear tree
Or the French Hens and the Five golden rings
The second sign is Cliff Richards' back, selling his songs and things.
'Calendars and tickets, to concerts round and about
I’m here come buy my wears is Cliff Richards only shout.'
The third sign of Christmas is also the television screen
The Coco Cola train runs daily, set in a pretty Christmas scene
Christmas isn’t Christmas without Coco Cola, they have us believe
We can’t have Christmas without it, because everyone would grieve.
Without TV and Cliff Richard, Christmas would not happen at all
No Christmas dinner or gifts and no works Christmas ball
There would be no Turtle doves, or Maids to go a milking.
No cheap deals and cons, for people to go a bilking.
No money spent at this time of year would be a catastrophe
We would just have to carry on with our same routine daily.
Christmas is not what is was, even the dates are a bit of a mis-leader
It was mixed with Roman Saturnalia, to appease the then church leader.
So for all those that celebrate remember you have Cliff to thank for it
Enjoy your time this year, and all those presents that do not fit
Don’t think of me as humbug or even a Christmas killjoy
I wish a happy time for every girl and boy
I wish everyone what they wish for themselves and others
And I hope that your Santa comes, to help all the mothers
Have a good time one and all, at this special time of year
And remember to thank the telly and Cliff, for all this Christmas cheer.
GG 2011
Christmas was never about God for me,
it was memories of warm laughter, rosy cheeked joys
for if God was the point, whose God would it be?
Xmas was about giving to your protégées.
Long, long, lost wishes of long broken boy toys,
Christmas was never about God for me.
Winter’s height held the beauty of childhood set free
of hunting and wrapping and folks overjoyed
for if it was God, we had three, whose God would it be?
This December wonder now past, gone you see,
gone with the cold, I’d not wish despair on July, this killjoy
for Christmas was never about God for me.
Once a year Xmas marks a sad crying spree
with nobody wanting to be home and little joy employed
for if God were the point, my son would be with me?
Perhaps, with grandchildren there be a jubilee
and this hollowed out husk of me will be destroyed
And Christmas will be about God for me
for it could be so, whose god will it be?
3 Rhymed By 3 Unrhymed
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
unearth rough pages
bruise courses inky stages
killjoy taxed ages
surrender perfect
guess abets pallid secret
frivolous elect
corral pique ungrasp
cavernous episode task
flipping volumes masque
~0~ ~0~ ~0~
stupefying sigh
unveil serf seraphic verse
spare high chairs arrest
host climbing its web
a bored keys window set shares
peerless felt heady
surfing tsunami
petted aliens netting
hewn strewn mass consume
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cinderella
Cinderella had no happy end,
not at least in this story now penned.
The prince lacked finesse
in bed; thus distress
plagued his wife much too nice to pretend.
Sleeping Beauty
We’ve been told of a hundred-year curse.
Sleeping Beauty endured, but what’s worse -
when a prince broke the spell,
he had such a bad smell
that to wed him, the girl was averse.
Little Red Riding Hood
In the story of Red Riding Hood,
there was not any wolf in the wood.
She had made up that tale
since her life was so stale
and at telling tall tales Red was good!
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
Most good folks know the tale of Snow White.
Well, the stepmom was never her plight.
There was no curse at all.
Snow just liked her men small,
so she hung out with dwarfs! Get it right.
Pinocchio
We all know how this one story goes
of a puppet whose nose always grows.
But it’s Rudolph whose lies
grow his nose as he flies
while the puppet’s the one whose nose glows.
Peter Pan
Peter Pan, what a killjoy is he.
Folks will say he lived in Hangman’s Tree.
The Lost Boys he trapped there
like crazed beasts in a lair.
In a mansion he lived selfishly.
Now regarding the “bad” Captain Hook
and the reason the crocodile took
the one arm of that man:
it was trained to by Pan.
Don’t believe all you read in a book.
Three Sure Signs of Christmas
There are twelve days of Christmas, everybody knows that
But there are only three signs to know it’s time to start getting fat.
The first sign that Christmas is getting really quite near
Is all the new toy adverts on the telly that suddenly appear
They are on the telly before kids return to school after summer break
There are lots of toys to buy, they tell us and even some Christmas cake
Never mind the partridge that’s sitting in the pear tree
Or the French Hens and the five golden rings
The second sign is Cliff Richard back, selling his songs and things.
Calendars and tickets, to concerts around and about
I’m here come buy my wears is Cliff Richards only Christmas shout.
The third sign of Christmas is also the television screen
The Coco Cola train runs daily, set in a pretty Christmas scene
Christmas isn’t Christmas without Coco Cola, they would have us believe
We can’t have Christmas without it, because everyone would grieve.
Without TV and Cliff Richard, Christmas would not happen at all
No Christmas dinner or gifts and no works Christmas ball
There would be no Turtle doves, or Maids to go a milking.
No cheap deals and cons, for people to go a bilking.
No money spent at this time of year would be a catastrophe
We would just have to carry on with our same routine daily.
Christmas is not what is was, even the dates are a bit of a misleader
It was mixed with Roman Saturnalia, to appease the then church leaders.
So for all those that celebrate remember you have Cliff to thank for it
Enjoy your time this year, and all those presents that do not fit
Don’t think of me as humbug or even a Christmas killjoy
I wish everyone what they wish for themselves and others
And I hope that your Santa comes, to help all the mothers
Have a good time one and all, at this special time of year
And remember to thank the telly and Cliff, for all this Christmas cheer.
Have not thee raised thy ugly self
A killjoy upon life's shelf
So much that thou art truly known
By both the young and grown
Thy rays a burden to my face
Which bringeth forth no grace
To raise me up from peaceful rest
Thou inevitable night pest
For so long cease not I to wonder
Why thy twelve seem longer than your brother's
A curse art thou upon my head
To bid me farewell from my comfort bed
Thou bringest forth heavy heat and sweat
A burden to my cold peaceful earth
I like to dream and doth dream big
Of riches joy and peaceful hymn
But dou like a troubling pinkish pig
Crawls up the sky
to incomplete my dream
Grown have I to learn that I must lay
With one eye partially opened
Awaiting the curse that men call day
A mocker of my midnight bliss
Though I wrap me up a thousand times Avoiding me thy yellow shine
Yet ye travel still through countless miles
To disturb these sleepy eyes of mine
I hate thy intruding jealous hands
A splitter of lovers apart
I hate thy burning golden eye
A burning flame that melts my heart
Again I hate thy yellow rays
Bringing me boring endless days
If asked was I why hate me thee
I hate thee for killing my dreams ...