Long Littles Poems
Long Littles Poems. Below are the most popular long Littles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Littles poems by poem length and keyword.
What stone should be thrown,
To disown a system I'm shown,
I know I'm not alone,
Life feels like a big loan,
A load I own and pay for,
Really I don't want it anymore,
Sick of seeing the poor and miserable,
Life divisible by what's in the bank,
Worried about gas in their tank,
Thankful for the littles things,
My capabilities can bring,
It's hard to sing scraping the floor,
Hoping to find a little more,
A quarter, A dime,
How much can I find this time,
Priming myself for the best,
Knowing I'll have enough for the quest,
Second guessing my choices,
Inner voices start screaming,
Little demons scheming,
A seemingly impossible task,
Asks to be acknowledged,
Dredged up from their beds,
I'm tired of what's in my head,
I'd feel better off dead,
I've said it over and over,
The boulder on my shoulder,
Is growing older everyday,
What stone Should I throw today?
Is it only coincidental
that pigs have litters
and those who carelessly litter
are Earth-trashing pigs?
Not pigs, dear;
people.
Just not mindful people,
without mature eco-consciousness,
with militaristic habits
of throwing paper and plastic and metallic missiles
out onto our EarthMother Commons,
for all to see and smell and feel badly about,
to suffer tragic loss and deep sorrow.
Like pigs, right?
Well, I suppose
a pig would not distinguish
between ego- and eco-consciousness.
But why would you stigmatize pigs
as opposed to other quasi-domesticated animals
like horses or cows
or sheep
or chicken littles
not the least worried that the climate is failing?
Because those you mentioned don't have litters.
Yes, but dogs and cats might have litters
Yes,
and you know how much fighting fun it is
to step in their stinky pooh.
I see your point.
Yet still I feel
this must remain a literal coincidence
of LeftBrain literary language.
Poet will use all it takes
To travel our works all over the world
Meeting poet celebrities with handshakes
The ones figurative words twirled
Monsters of us flowing lakes
Our works will run connections in water
Illuminating the littles fishes, escape route
From sharped eyes shark hunting freshwater
Calmly steady in its hangry pursuit
But, for grace, we set in as an arbiter
To quench the supposed fruitful fire
Burning to capture the sweet corn
And fry in belle's pot off any release desire
Hosting bile duct(s) at morn
Now, left with no choice than to retire
Poets transcend above anointing
Of been referred to pastors
For the unction is beyond appointing
One a specific role of facing disasters
But our pens touch lives pastors keep avoiding
With or without money
Time knows hatred
How sweet is honey
Whenever bliss coexisted
To keep blood runny
And avoid the sand
To bury all living dreams
We paint our future's brand
Of lasting awesome themes
Test of time will certainly withstand
Even making her some teases in irony
Birthed out of culture to check her paraliepsis
And lay her presence low to my scrutiny
To balance the unexpected result; an equation of antithesis
Her waist shall turn me around in hyperbole
Like no other would cooking up imagery
My soul's eyes view colossally
To dwell in her secretive aerie
Gladly will I toast words
The day I put on the way to the altar
And put off the doubt of timing birds
Which could rent my pen to halter
Then find in my pieces buzzwords
Oh! When she shall finally accept
Our loves been one, may err
And we shall not be affected
Then poet's love for her
Till the end of time will never be defeated
Imagine if the only non-destroyed manuscript in a thousand years are emojis and
text shorthands?
The only printed missive left is what we write to each other on a social media site,
and a Thesaurus.
Space invaders would have this to say
"What a lovely society; always using kind words."
"Perpetually saying nice things to each other about their writing."
"And look how darling they were. Look at their sweet tiny selves."
"They were less tall than a speck on the speck of a speck."
"What a great job they did using such sweet words."
"This must have been the kindest, loveliest most upbeat society."
"Whatever took them down?"
"What could have possibly eliminated them?"
"Are they still around, hiding in a crevice of an oak tree or a flower?"
"Let us all spread out and find them. They can teach us love."
"They can teach us respect, they can teach us niceness."
"We could learn much from these uplifting, upbeat, positive littles."
And they would look for days, while the terrible Bigs misunderstood,
trying to hunt them down, and hurt them, due to their fear of anything
different or unusual.
But they would keep looking, not detoured in any way, understanding the reason to find, figure out, and emulate a society like this where everyone built up and applauded for everyone else.
When you placed your hands on the littles ones thigh,
When they saw your shadow in stead of theirs,
When they glanced up at you, adoration and want radiating from their eyes,
There goes your rotten mind misinterpreting that,
Oh how could the little one know that your heart rested a lewd demon,
When you offered them a place to seat,
Your laps feel like steel,
But the little one doesn't complain,
You have the kindest heart for bearing their weight,
When your hot breath behind their neck make them shudder,
Your eyes crinkled, the game just got easier,
The little one felt a bulge underneath her skirt,
Did the kind man have a rock in his pocket? She wondered,
Oh if she could see how lust filled your gaze, she would flee,
Your evil hands ventured far deep, beyond her thighs you were destined to be,
The little one gasped,
Her little head turning so her innocent eyes could see yours,
You saw as tears welled up in her eyes,
Her quivering lips and face full of plea made you retreat,
"Ruin her, ruin her, the devil's murmur you began to hear"
Your face turned dark,
Your evil hands on her supple skin groped all it could feel,
The little one trembled and plead,
The burns she felt were too much for one being,
All she wanted was a seat at the beginning,
Your grunts and groans were like a thousand stones pounding her ear drums,
You made the loudest moan and it came to an end,
Oh how you ruined God's beloved.
I am a brown and yellow daisy, called a black-eyed Susan, my name is Daisy
I wake up early every morning and open my velvety petals covered with dew
I dance in the breeze, waiting for the bee boss and crew to feed on my nectar
My little ones are just starting to sprout, I am hoping for a warm sunny day
My hubby was getting old and frail and dropping his petals, wilting over
He then suddenly expired by my owner, she quickly plucked him away
I think the strong, red rose wants his place, he is growing closer to me
He smells so deliciously fragrant and his thorns are magnificently prickly
Oh no, here comes my owner with pruning shears walking this way
Phew, I was almost stepped on, sadly she took my red rose away
Here comes the bees, buzzing around, my owner backs off, afraid
Ahh, a moment of joy, to feel the tickles and kisses from the bees
My littles ones all survived, still sprouting, ready to open up soon
We are mostly ignored and not picked until we are old and wilted
My worst fear is the huge loud green monster that I see weekly
It destroys my friends and sometimes cuts away my flower family
1/24/2021
Contest: Your 2021 N-A Choice' Poetry Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
I continue:
+
Only the Gospel is the goodness to be fulfilled,
By the cross tree with grapes and olives,
The medicine for Adam and Eve, yet teens,
Gold with ruby,
The crown of life in eternity,
Worship before the humblest Redeemer,
On Wind of Creativity,
Who gives to be co-redeemers by co-redemptrix Miriam,
Celestial riches for "the poor in spirit,"
Voice from desert, wilderness,
Regardless of rank, is this dignity,
Else mountains weep,
Cities and villages,
Twins of false paradise - "Sodom and Egypt" from the Apocalypse,
Also Paris, Baghdad, Kiev, Isfahan, skyscrapers of Tel Aviv,
Just at the top of the list,
Like the fallen tower of Siloam,
Capernaum, Bethsaida,
When the albatross is on the scene of history and reality,
His pale armor suscitates the tsunami,
The beast that rises from the bottomless pit,
For the root of the other tree of evil,
And people create the atmosphere and earth for Scylla and Charybdis,
Propagandas without the Gospel of littles,
Without stepping on water like Jesus, nevertheless Peter,
Through the eye of a needle,
Dance on sea that produces earth and vine by inspiration from the ribs,
Like from asleep angel's ribs, Dove takes the virgins of virtues.
I have a fond memory
of days spent on grandpa's farm
and helping grandma
early in the morning we collected eggs
and fed the chickens and other littles
grandpa fed the cows, horses, pigs,
and a donkey and all the bigs
there was a rooster that liked to chase me
and the donkey made the loudest noises
that I had to cover my ears
later, in the morning I helped grandma
in her vegetable garden
we picked vegetables for lunch and supper
how grand that seemed to me
no grocery store just pick it from your garden
and in the afternoon I followed grandpa
as he did his chores asking a thousand questions
often, he would burst out laughing
the most wonderful thing happened
he gave me a pony just new born
and then, it was over as grandpa was
called to Heaven suddenly one day
I stayed with grandma as she mourned
I would stroke her hair
and kiss her cheek and I cried with her
she had to sell the farm
and find homes for all the animals
even my precious pony went to a new home
and I was allowed to visit him
but he was happy and so I let him go
and that part of my life was over
though the memory I will keep
_________________
September 19, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/Lovely Memory Of The Farm
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1389-835-19
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, A Lovely Memory
sponsor, Regina McIntosh, Judged 09/26/2021
Second Place
Mama's skirt was pulled
At the helm by the slightest finger:
The grip was fooled:
For the tip of the shortest lingered.
Mama had waved this off,
And the gentle breeze commemorate her action-
'thout looking back, harder she waved her skirt off,
And their was the birth of a commotion:
The owner of the finger was
Lifted beyond the earth,dashing
Her back at the fiery cooking pot at force:
Then mama looked back- twas her littlest grand daughter burning.
---
Observe well
before take action.
Good deed we tell
by their actions.
18:04:01:22:26
Commentary:
The poem opens on a little finger holding mama's skirt,perhaps because of joy. But the woman would not look back but flung the skirt and little finger looses the grip and was at the cooking pot crashing. She turns back to see her beautiful littles grand daughter burning. It's a moral of: Observe well before taking action.
Stepping into one hundred degrees of morning haze
Wanting the sun to burn it all down in a fiery raze
'Til all the corn stalks are set to a glowing blaze
Then, rains can come across the plains; turning it to a syrupy glaze
Oh, how I loved these humidity infused summer days
They take me back to youth waking early; to enjoy my plays
I missed the first half of my life; when time seemed to have these endless ways
For adulting means its time to teach my littles how to navigate the craze
Also, to savor the moments 'til their fate reaches this phase
Who knew parenting was just guiding mice through the stands of maize?