Long Likewise Poems
Long Likewise Poems. Below are the most popular long Likewise by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Likewise poems by poem length and keyword.
Attempted paint by numbers, but it cheats with letters
that mix in unexplainable hues, distorting, desecrating -
I’m complaining. Not at all lavender in the sky, but peach.
It bobs at eye-level. I try to slather it
with a more acceptable color, then swim underwater.
That color, likewise betrays, lies, cannot sway
me to keep this set of paints nor its decrepit cardboard.
So I have no idea how to paint with instructions - it ain’t
but a distraction, a muse gone wrong - brush doesn’t belong
in my hand. Perhaps I will pull yarn through a loom
and let a flower or such bloom; or poesy a catastrophe…
In her grand fantasy’s territory
Freely emerges beauteous Twinkle Fairy
Opening great provisions' granary ---
Gifts* for her wondrous birthday flurry
As a good girl, giving home no worry.
Twinkle Fairy grants her food-dowry:
Sweet delights flavored with strawberry
Midst pies whipped by apple and cheery
There’s also veggie meat, indeed savory
Likewise nutritious chips of zero calorie.
Basking under her dream’s victory
She’s awakened, hearing Mom’s “Hurry!”
In her room, vibrant and glittery
Are loved ones, singing; oh, how merry
With their presents wrapped by prayer’s glory.
Thanking God, she winks at Twinkle Fairy:
That's Mom along her virtuous story
Miracle-filled; sometimes, a mystery
Strengthening her faith, despite fatal injury
This blessed feast in the infirmary.
*Romans 11:29 For the gifts and calling of God are without repentance.
November 1, 2019
Honorable Mention, "STRAND no 650 any theme any form" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 1/19/2020.
I want a house that’s built from Pennsylvania fieldstone
On a farm that’s far away from all this noise.
I want a lane that’s lined with clutches of day lilies.
We’ll live on simple gifts and ordinary joys.
I want a trail where we’ll go hiking with our children,
Where they can learn the trees and follow nature’s way.
I want to sit around a fire and tell them stories
That make them laugh enough to scare their fears away.
I want a woman I can trust will always love me,
And who wants my lovin’ likewise in return.
I want the happily ever after happily here and now.
We’ll meet at rainbow’s end and spend the gold we’ve earned.
It’s been corrupted,
Even the learning systems in normality altered
The Innocence of examinations
Has swerved
Into Guilt of examinations
Exam malpractices everywhere!
Many students have sown the seed of levity
Which has grown into complacency
They, being carefree,
Are shamefully confident
They would cheat to the bull!
Assured their money could in qualms set them free.
Examiners have likewise injured the education routines of our country,
Even WAEC as a body
Of these –
In charge of its structures
They, like an engine that sucks tanks of oil,
So do they take bribes for scripts exchange
And manipulation of grades imputation.
Parents and guardians are fans of students and teachers:
Supporting their children,
And moderating tricks with teachers and examiners.
These exam malfeasances are done throughout:
From the class to external exams offices.
Tonight I will not write
of stars, nor moon,
seeds of wisdom--
just mind flattering
bloom--
Nor will I write of love--
neither here nor above;
though our dearest
sentimentality, the heart,
too often foolishly enacts
its own fatality;
and if I decide to write
(which I have not yet)
it will not be the common
dark vs light--
No, not this, low, literary-fruit
will I harvest, arm and lather;
pick high and low to gather--
likewise, I will divest of
good angels vs evil counterparts--
my rules, my pen; therefore, for me,
some spades can be clubs,
and all pointed diamonds I declare
are now well-rounded, suitable, hearts--
Nor will my Poetic-theme
be of great, vast seas;
nor smaller phrases
of streams—the writer’s
usual surge to roar
that calms to a sleepy bore….
and certainly not
will I write about depth
of self esteem--
the shallow image of self
often incapable of
of deep, worthy gleam;
though seldom do others
see us mere puddles
as we to ourselves
are wrong to deem
(though never approaching
the great-self,
alas, most of us
will only let dream)--
so, tonight, self for me will rest...
and if brought to theme
it will only be for rhyme, my easy best;
Oh! That Poetic Shopping-cart:
shelves of prose! Aisles of mesmeric gleams!
like Poe’s mystic schemes--
clouds feeding voraciously off headless peaks—
those fantastical shoulders we desperate writers
must climb if to find our lofty seeks--
all creative mind’s begging for such volcanic leaks—
No! I will not pontificate on these, for the best programmers
many do still believe are little more than
Charlatans or geeks--
Nor as subject will I attempt the Divine;
our soul’s hope to progress, as wine,
to some vintage state--though, without tasting,
when compared to life’s offered new...
such abstaining, perhaps, not worth
the spirit's residue--
Nor will I attempt metaphors yet more mysterious--
maybe, even delirious; though often told
such intoxicating views, like the morning dews
can be practical lifesaving for both greens and blues--
sadly, such pasture-valleys thoughtless men
have turned to breathless, rat-infested alleys;
No! Tonight
should I decide to write
I will write of other things…
I will write...hum….
I will write… simply, Goodnight….
.
az thuh burst uv
fridge light
privy
edvard'z kitchen
pitch
hern beam'd
visage
gleefully
mind yuh
find'n naykid
edvard
5 in thuh a.m.
'lone
who'duh thunk'it
likewise
amber morn'nin
deliver'n
eggz
in thuh pellucid frock
boon
")
*warning: this is only mine 3rd
"royal dip"...they've all taken me
over 3hourz tuh complete (each!) {this one 4plus; timeout make'n noah'z
yet, they're fun az all tuh think breakfast likewise hiz lunch for werk} (he luvz hiz pops ')
up...such thuh edification yet.. <]:)
*by-thuh-by; 'bout this "royal dip",
'tiz how it be when yuh live in
an appalachian zone (village '),
my deepest apologiez president
trump; i'm king in them thar hillz...much love ")
.
I hear nothing but the
Cold wind
Whizzing past my
Ears
Likewise
It's brush against your
Visage's curtain
Exposing voluptuous
Your lips
I see the cold's effect
Upon your breast's
Titillating raiment
I see the wind hath
Caused the scatter of
Every your
Gold and sand
Tresses
Aye
Cloak and dagger
Left at your billet's
Entry
I taste
Beyond my
Express
Desperate ours
Enhancing your boudoir
Drapes retracted
Opened panes
The biting wind
Upon your settee
Rolls with ours
* rrrr, no, this ain't no "AI"
'tiz 'fore edvard'z dabble
into cant///that be, tuh
spell it's speak...'tiz alwayz
been mine babble...well,
until mine 2nd wife learn'd
me how tuh speak y'all..lol
much love ")
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.
In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.
A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined windmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand, having liberated a vine.
The stone looked like a bleached out mini-monolith, square-rectangular,
able to be stood on end, leaning back and swollen at its center
like a pulled cork.
What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to discover, except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.
Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock for sugar works buildings.
The drop at arms swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.
A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.
Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.
So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
unhoused in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa
before freshwater rainsqualls came. And there
Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright, with its three
centering star points in rational line, as if
Hope could have flung such a rope anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.
Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half in knowing I was in no dream.
I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
Ten-year Randi Clay
Just moved into town -
The town of Fear Street,
Where horror pulls you down.
Enormous, gigantic calendars
She sees, hung on her street
On October 10th is marked
In red - ‘The Birth of Pete.’
She makes new friends at school,
And likewise - enemies too,
Who seemed to keep on saying,
‘Beware – He’ll get you! ’
Whenever asked “Who’s Pete?”
The children turned too pale,
But at last, quite surprisingly,
They began to tell the tale:-
"There was a boy called Pete,
A normal 12 – year old,
Until one day he fell so ill,
And caught a horrid cold.
Alas! One day he died,
And was buried in his grave,
They thought it was the end of Pete,
Grumpy, dull, but brave.
But right from that very year,
Pete gets up on the tenth,
And enters into other kids,
For using up their strength.
It is now an annual tradition
Of playing Hide and Shriek -
Whoever Pete makes ‘IT’
Is the new one from that week.
Randi, the risk for you is
Too real - Heaven forbid.
You’re new to Town Fear Street -
AND PETE DOES LIKE A NEW KID."
---------------------------------------------------------
Based off the idea from an R.L Stine book
Sometimes love is not enough…
when its evidence defies its essence
while hypocrisy thrives
midst selfishness-dominance.
When love is not enough…
What more could I give;
oh, it pains me if I fall short of its demand:
since genuine, verily true is all
that I want to share.
I thank God Who is indeed the Author
and Source of love…
offering it to me for my completeness
granting it for my fulfillment
so I can likewise exercise its grace, goodness, generosity
exemplifying its potency and performance…
loving to the best with my utmost
showing real compassion*
making a difference
because I’m a fruit, a living proof
of love, wondrously blessed ---
more than enough.
*Jude 1:22 And of some have compassion, making a difference.
September 11, 2019
2nd place, "Sometimes Love Is Not Enough" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One; judged on 9/14/2019.