Long League Poems
Long League Poems. Below are the most popular long League by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long League poems by poem length and keyword.
SUDDENLY SOMETHING
Have you ever spent a night in a six by ten foot cell?
Well that’s where my FESTERING fears dwell
And no one with a prescription pad will write for a junkie born and bred
Did you ever wish more earth dwellers would all suddenly be dead
Look, there’s a pretty little miss, oh it’s daddy’s little girl
She dances on my feet when she starts to whirl
I told her to hold down her pleated skirt when she begins to twirl
My little girl with a smile and every tooth a perfect pearl
In silent supplication I’d sneak up to hear her prayer for that eve
I just wanted to hear daddy’s little girl pray and then I would leave
First she blessed the Almighty, his spirit and his soul
Making prayers come true was her sole and only goal
It could be a league of angels advising her on the right thing to do
Or sprites to make all things look like new
It might be little singing stars, from above came they for you
So your daughter can ignore an errant and off key dove pleased not to coo
She looks completely comfortable in a cloak and coat of cashmere
S**t, I’d trade an arm for her body no matter what she may wear
Whatever happens next is only though fate to be willed
And if you listen closely one can hear the breeze being stilled
Alas she grows nigh with hips swinging and lips moving
And then those loquacious lips emitted “would you care to have a tea”
I knew she could hear by heart from across the table
And then it was only silence, lovely her and me
“Look, me and that lady over there are wearing the same dress”
And so whatever she was going to do it may have to be under duress
“that lady has the a copy of my original,” and she was enraged
Something tells me your friends have never been caged
I’ve been penned up with a pen, pen pals and ten pencils, but only one isn’t too dull
You’d think out of all those pencils there’d be one sharp one to cull
So you’re daddy’s little girl no longer my sweet
But I’ll let y’all know when next we can meet
So when I first talked about being caged in a cell
if asked for the truth my story would be difficult to tell
Because each eye a gem, each tooth a pearl
So tell me sweetheart, are you still daddy’s little girl
© 2011.……free cee!
And s.b.---if you are gonna ask me, so where’s the nexus from one thing to another I
say go have another glass of vintage brandy.
(note: The site restrictions don't allow long epic poems, so I have split this into 6 segments, each should run straight on from the previous one.)
THE EYE OF THE SEA
Or
The Rime of the Ancient Kubla Kahn on the Road to Mandalay
There washed ashore a devil’s whore
Who claimed he’d never been paid,
Near dead from Sin, or weatherin’
Yet feared to loose his blade.
We did our best to ease his rest,
But our experts all were vexed:
The Old Wives College exhausted their knowledge;
The doctors cursed their texts.
Wracked with pain his life had waned
His eyes were growing dim,
His final words were barely heard:
Everything looked grim.
With chicken pills we cured his chills,
For strength we gave him broth,
His brow was mopped, his temperature watched,
We swaddled him in sailcloth.
Then from afar with strengthened heart
As if ‘twere heaven’s game
His mien changed, he had regained
The pilot to his flame.
In heartened mood we gave him food,
And bade his tale be told;
And so he spoke for the price of a toke
And a butcher’s bag of gold.
“ ‘Twas in the port of Herringford,
Where all the cows lie down,
A skipper talked, he claimed he sought
A crew of great renown.
The wind was high in a sunless sky,
The waves were barreling in,
And word got round of men to be found
That night at The Mortal’s inn.
At eight o’clock the bolts were shot
And all were locked within,
With muttered words of rumours heard
And lubricant of Gin.
The Captain coughed and glanced around
For conversations shed,
With laser gaze and aged malaise,
In a darkened voice he said:
‘Into the storm at the crack of dawn
We sail on the morning tide,
Let no man here betray his fear,
His passion or his pride!’
The aim of the endeavour was legend’ry treasure,
The fabled crystal ship of the Prince,
Lost years before off the Straits of Nepal,
And famously quested for since.
Our boat, ‘The Eye,’ was a Barquentine,
Just a quarter league in length,
She sailed as sweet as a sackful of eight,
With grace and speed and strength.
Twelve good men without pretence
Agreed to the journey ahead,
But the cheery tales of places sailed
Belied their inner dread.
The crew we got were a hardy lot,
Experienced one and all,
But none were fools and caution ruled
When it came to signing aboard.
Continued on The Eye of the Sea part 2
Deep within Earthen bowels
immensely distant from sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked
rocky claws pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits
comprising soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked,
via weathered tomb stones)
hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber.
One among their number
included a misanthrope
who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shield
ding cold eyes of steel
straggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet, a severely
hunchbacked cretin
Within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds
mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons, trolling trojan horses
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
The Beastie Boys, Culture Club
The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring
indeed joyus minions
exalting piety good and plenti.
Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent 10,000 maniacs screaming
sinister semblance to banshees
slithering across escarpment.
Echoing one end of universe to the other
putting to shame initial big bang
ranking as a mere whimper
that original primordial blast
which cosmological exploits
generated heavenly sphere instantaneously
comparison viz Krakatoa times Googleplex
essentially reduced to insignificance
albeit on the analogous tinker toy
premised conjectures of brilliant minds
could gander feeble educated guesses
asper extraordinary natural phenomena
mortal mankind could never approximate
as belligerent threats punctuated,
via nuclear warfare
merely rates as a flickr
amidst uber kindle snap chat ting
tinder blinks, extinguishes,
snuffs out one lowly
Beatle browed bipedal simian.
Myrtle Parker
Myrtle Parker lived on the Riviera,
That’s the English one not the French.
Her favourite tipple is Red Currant Cider,
Only beverage her thirst would quench.
Never did she marry no husband,
Preference for life single and free,
Though kept two doggy companions,
Twin Westies, Florence and Zebedee.
Miss Parker was a gatherer and hoarder,
Antiques, curios, lots of impractical tat.
Her catchphrase was somewhat familiar,
“I‘ll find a good use for that.”
Tumbledown Cottage name on the gate,
Aptly called for badly required repair.
The man from Devonshire Council,
Shakes his head in anguished despair.
Oh, dear Myrtle what are we to do,
I cannot see the wood for the trees,
Environment Officer is calling today,
He doesn’t like cockroach and fleas.
Myrtle lives close to Muscle shell beach,
Small cove of shingle and coarse sand,
Opposite the Cat protection league,
Where she buys new clothes second hand.
One summer had a house full of Kittens,
That grew into fully grown cats.
They left her in search of new comforts,
Plagued by visits of large rodent rats.
Myrtle decided on a radical clear out,
To make way for a new feather bed,
But could not let go of her treasures,
So continued sleeping on the sofa instead.
Seventy years old, obstinate and proud,
Devon Council man returned to her door.
“This house is making you poorly my dear,
Regretfully you cannot live here anymore.
Oh, dear Myrtle here’s what we’ll do,
Move you into a comfy town flat,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Condemn your cottage, so sorry about that.
Myrtle Parker was born in this house,
Her father he worked on the boats,
Mother stayed home baking bread,
From freshly ground buckwheat groats.
Tumbledown cottage is full of memories,
Though can’t find many for the clutter.
Diminutive rooms two up two down,
Walls dampened by broken pipe gutter.
If I have to go then take me in a box,
She chained herself to the newel post.
I’ll defend my rights for all I’m worth,
Then haunt Council man as his ghost.
Council man arrives excited with keys,
For Miss Parkers new urban home,
But Myrtle had been true to her word,
and perished on the staircase all alone.
Oh, dear Myrtle what have you done,
Your new flat was shiny and clean,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Demolition boss with bulldozer team.
Regardless of which field of endeavor you happen to be in, never say never, and never say, "It's over'' until it's over. I was in my garage during chores better known as this, that, and the other, but I don't remember what.
Two outs, bottom of the 9th, and the home team was down one run. Being announced by one of the greatest announcers in Major League Baseball, it was the first game of the 1988 World Series between two California rivals, one representing Northern and the other Southern California.
That 9th inning, especially the last at-bat, was being played as if it was a game to end all games and certainly among the greatest that I ever witnessed, but I don't remember why I was listening to the game over
the radio and not watching it on TV.
Anyway, the visiting team, most-favored to win the series, was ahead 4 to 3 with the best closer in ML Baseball. However, He was matched against one of the game's greatest clutch-hitters. Moreover, the home team had a great base stealer on first base which was critical to the game because the great clutcher, not in the lineup and not expecting to play, could barely walk, much less run, which meant that he had to hit a long ball for a single or hit a home run.
With the clutcher at-bat, the base runner stole second base which was a great boost, and it also meant that a long single would tie the game and take it into extra innings, or a home run would win the game for the home team which is what happened. 8 pitches were thrown at this at-bat: two strikes, three balls, three fowl balls; 2-run homer, and the home team won 5 to 4. I tell you, it was one amazing one-third inning.
040620PoSpCtest, Strand Pick 6, Brain Strand
Has a tear of joy ever escaped from the window of your soul? A moment of realization that fell out of your control? Have you grown up with someone who is way out of your league? One whose presence could effect the way you breathe? Is there something you believe that changed the way you see? Or have you ever fell in love with one that was expected to never be? Imagine a lover who speaks to God about you, one who sees a truth you don't think is there, what if this is how I see you when I say your name in prayer? Though our memories are few, somehow they feel more true, for time is non-existent when it comes to you. Your the most difficult poem I've always wanted to write because no words exist to express such love at every sight. I gaze into our history for a clue as to "why?", amidst a maze of a dozen conflicting stimuli, no language could explain yet you deserve for me to try, but all I can offer is a crude illustration of a truth beyond imagination... You've always felt like more than just a crush, like a reflection of my trust, like fate flirting with a dream only love could create. The way we conversate is the melody of my song, your hypnotic sense of humor splashes the colors of a pretty pinkish dawn, the way you beautify your personality stretches beyond. Those eyes an invitation to some unknown adventure, that smile begs the question I'd spend this life to answer, almost feels like the beginning of some kind of forever. Then something else crept into my heart as well, a chemistry evolving in a way only nature would tell, every grain of knowledge gathered like an oyster in its shell, until my love for you was no longer in control, a rare precious pearl embedded within my soul. WAIT! I have to stop, language has failed me again, but how was I suppose to hold all this in? At the risk of you never looking into my eyes again, I couldn't continue to pretend that your just a friend. What happened to me is I began to see you as we will be when our love is complete, a chemistry mixed with a mystery betwixt pretty and sweet, the heart utterly eclipsed by a beauty beyond any comprehension of art. Now that it's said that leaves just one more task, it's so out of character for me to ask: if a feeling of bliss deeper than any oceanic abyss could be forged without a first kiss, how many wonderful probabilities could we possibly miss?
Form:
© Ben Burton 2-20-2015
If I were Edgar Allan Poe
I'd been dead many years ago
Two score, no more, the poet bore
Before rejoining his Lenore
Reflections now, from sixty-five
I'm wondering how I have survived
For, having shared his mental state
Induced abuse which bordered crazed
In looking back it seems most strange
The lucid fundamental change
Created in a child of eight
Whose kinship must have been innate
With one long dead, a hundred years
Before that smack upon my rear
I learned his poems, all were gems
And thought that rhyme was named for him
Read "Gold Bug" and "The Telltale Heart"
Thence, for some time I feared the dark
And as I read, I knew that I
Had, even then, the skills to write
Though modesty forbade the act
Far less than the assured attack
For none dare read foul poetry
In place of chase or hide and seek
When unassigned, a travesty
I wrote in fits, but just for me
"The Raven" and "The Bells" bequeathed
A rhythm beat of hell in me
Too natural to be mere chance
My mind would rhyme through happenstance
With no attempts to join the breed
Through school or university
I, nonetheless, read works aloud
In hopes their authors had been proud
Won competitions far and wide
Unsatisfied, the words weren't mine
And yet, I kept my pen at bay
Years past my graduation day
Jack Daniels opened up my soul
To take me on poetic strolls
Not unlike Poe who oft consumed
Whilst making sojourns to the tomb
I hungered to make words my own
Through blank verse, limerick, or song
Though mostly as a barroom trick
Which oft'times made the pick-up quick
But then, at length, I followed Poe
Officially gave up the ghost
By then I'd fifteen years surpassed
The forty Poe logged for his last
But providence did intervene
Man-made machine, propitiously
Brought back to life that muscle which
Once stilled, rarely renews its tick
My second life was born to write
To spill it all, let nothing slide
And, on ten years my pen creates
Whatever my odd mind dictates
With second chance, I wish to praise
The first man whom within me raised
A passion known as poetry
Though I am light years from his league
We met in El Dorado's dream
Two kindred souls, Edgar and me
THINKING OF YOU MARILYN PELLEGREN OUR PATHS CROSSED AND I CAN'T HELP BUT FEEL SO BLESSED WE MET THE MANY TALKS ABOUT RAISING FAMILIES CHILDREN MARRIAGE FORD MOTOR COMPANIES AND THE GARMENT DISTRICT WOW THE BALANCE OF YOUR LOSS LOSING TWO CHILDREN TO THIS DREADFUL DISEASE SO MANY ON WAITING LIST FOR DONORS OTHERS GOING THROUGH END OF LIFE STAGES IN HOSPICE I AM STILL TOUCHED BY THE CONTRIBUTION IN LIEU SO MANY FLOWERS WONDERFUL CONTRIBUTIONS FROM FORT MYERS THAT CONTINUE TO POUR IN SENT TO THE CHILDRENS LEUKEMIA FOUNDATION IN MICHIGAN IN MEMORY OF YOU SUCH A WONDERFUL BLESSING REST IN PARADISE SWEETIE NO MORE PAIN AND SUFFERING REALIZING JUST CAN'T SAY THE SAME FOR DONALD DANGLING ONTO THE MIDST OF MY PERFUME REEKING HAVOC TOTALLY OBSSESSED WITH MY AMERICAN POETRY IS COMPLETELY STRESSFUL BUT GOD IS GOOD WE MUST BELIEVE THAT SOME DAY HE WILL JOIN YOU AND THE BOYS SUCH A PAINFUL LIFE SUFFERING AN ILLNESS YET FILLED WITH GREED AND MALICE SHOCKING TO FIND HIM HERE IN SOME TWISTED VENDETTA RIGHT AMAZING CAUSE I ACTUALLY THOUGHT HE DIED BEFORE YOU AND THEN I LEARN HE'S STILL AMONG US REEKING HAVOC MUST BE THE ILLNESS BRAIN MATTER CANCER STRICKENED HOW HE'S ABLE TO SEND THREATS IS TRULY IN A LEAGUE OF ITS OWN MY PRAYERS ARE WITH HIM WALKING THIS EARTH SENDING THREATS TARGETING MY AMERICAN POETRY WITH MY IDENTITY THIEVES IMPERSONATING ME ACTUALLY CASHING ANNUITY PAYMENTS ON MY BEHALF DEEP SADNESS I TRULY THOUGHT HE WAS A KIND PERSON OUTSIDE OF BEING A RETIRED HITMAN FROM DETROIT HE SEEMED KIND INTERESTED IN MY GRANDFATHER IN ROME DESPERATE USUNG ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS FROM JAMAICA MEXICO TO MAKE FRAUDULENT IDENTIFICATION CARDS YES DONALD REALLY LOST ALL OF HIS MORAL COMPUS THE THING IS HE CAN NEVER EVER EXTORT MY LIFE MY AMERICAN POETRY SO HE HIDES BEHIND TERRORIST SENDING THREATS SLAMMING ON BREAKS FLIPPING FORD TRUCKS IN FLORIDA I CRING ALMOST AS HE BOAST ON PAST WHY WHY WHY REALLY WHY NOT HE LOST EVERYTHING FAKING HIS DEATH LIVE AMONG VENEZUALAN IMMIGRANTS FUNDING THE WOMANS PRISON WISEGUYS SHOPPING FOR MAIDSTHIS SADDENS ME MOST SIMPLY BECAUSE I AM AN FBI CONFIDENTIAL SOURCE A DOMESTIC VIOLENCE VICTIM BEING EXPOSED BY THIS TERROR WISEGUYS FAKING THEIR DEATHS THREATENING DISABLED POETS IN AMERICA AN YET I FEEL SORRY FOR SUCH AN EMPTY SOUL TRULY ONE THING FOR SURE YOU WERE ABSOLUTLY RIGHT ABOUT HIM GOD BLESS YOU
Elusive pursuit endeavoring to craft a great poem
I (analogous to a rolling stone)
confess, no deliberate intent, yet often wonder
what spurs me to nudge, goad, coax, et cetera
semblance of reasonable poetic rhyme
despite modesty regarding
ably linkedin words for others to ponder
more often than not experiencing nonresponder,
nevertheless share mine writing
with folks cyberspace out yonder
or aliens occupying
beyond the pale of outer limits
amidst the twilight zone,
where dark shadows
looming near the edge of night
hint of spooky forebodings.
Without lofty literary ambitions,
more so stream
of consciousness abandonment,
yours truly rests content
to cobble, gamble, noodle... courtesy
swifty tailored stylishly harried element
mild mannered modest gent
bumbling along boulevard of
broken (po' whet) dreams intent
far less superman than Clark Kent
exercising mental cogs and wheels meant
merely to liberate momentary overconfident
zealous spontaneous inspiration,
albeit ordinarily quiescent
ex post facto concluding
equals time most salient
direct object lesson learned
lame, insipid, feeble resultant
effort generates undercurrent
aghast how rapid
(think lightspeed) went.
Yours truly his own worst critic ad aware
how avast mein kampf replete with bare
inducent to tap into latent fledgling clear
propensity to express creatively, I declare
bonafide potential to join pantheon excelsior
reserved for established authors within their
respective canon, genre, league...,
nonetheless an obvious flair
seemed evident perhaps coalesced
when in utero biological gear
yielded wiggly, ugly, scrawny,
quirky Harris heir
(sole son and second of three offspring)
an older and younger sister,
which introverted brother bullies
did constantly jeer
token scapegoat suffered
one after another kingly leer
pushing psychological state near
precipice off into dock side of moon,
who sought
(wharf far art grim reaper) to pier
without naked qualm evincing
one very bony rear
without sympathy for the devil
merely spells severely
pockmarked psyche therefore
impossible mission to set tattered self esteem
tacked toward in opposite direct where
dark shadow of doubt doth not veer
me into apathetic, horrific, pathetic...
suicidal mental state of yesteryear.
Marvelous mitzvah "munchkin" minted
Thy eldest daughter Eden Liat
treasured more'n a pearl
(otherwise known as Rapunzel)...
donated cut hair to charity - you go girl,
ha, whereat your fine brunette locks of love
will be repurposed into wigs for kids,
and perhaps even don kepi
of trumpeting Bullwinkle, his Sciuridae
friend named Rocket J. Squirrel,
and/or his nemesis Natasha Fatale.
Kudos to thee savvy
twenty three plus year old offspring
voluntarily unwittingly hood
amazingly gracefully support
exhausting, flagging, grueling...
stricken young spirits and bring
joie de vivre during
treatment and convalescence
of challenging treatment ailing,
perhaps hoop fully nipping
terminal illness in bud
beaten into remission,
whereby family, friends medical staff sing
ode to joy cherishing
nothing short of a blessing.
Said sensible, smart and
stalwart inadvertent mentor,
a splendidly mirthful and mindful lass
yes, tis biased opinion, quite a
truckload of abilities she did amass
even fending bullies who tried to harass
attractive petite proportionate physique
confident smile shown back
courtesy looking glass
and papa cognizant,
how her art of humbleness
helped her succeed as top class
high achiever at Harriton High School,
especially acing rigorous
International Baccalaureate (IB)
(worldwide, nonprofit education program
plus even when just a little girl
attending Belmont Elementary
promise of success,
my feeble accomplishments
"star student" did quickly surpass
with flying colors earned free pass
concomitantly acquiring invisible
magic ring, and carpet made of brass
the latter powered by
Walt Whitman wrought leaves of grass
at University of Pennsylvania
earning stripes as Ivy League graduate
freelance activist while completing
internship linkedin with
University of Southern California.
Spellbound birth father
internally rejoices ta deum,
we knew e'er since Eden Liat
healthy growing fetus within the womb
whip smart progeny
undoubtedly healthy unbridled maturation,
I vicariously exalt storied accomplishments
accrediting and applauding
every iota offspring earned
blood, sweat and tears
created deafening sonic boom,
and where infinitesimal blazing saddle
burned blinding trajectory
catching eminent potential groom.