Long Lucrative Poems
Long Lucrative Poems. Below are the most popular long Lucrative by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lucrative poems by poem length and keyword.
With a peaceful plot
My Big Game betting tickets I got
It seems they have a European divide that has an opinion for three nations that do try
With the American football putting gold and leadership on the stage
This message should be healthy for any age.
According to my results
That still have no faults
The British are selecting the Chiefs
Since their Liverpool Reds had the right beef
On their way to being number one
In matches that have no playoffs and are there for entertaining fun
As for the Italians Inter Milan
Was the prophet able don
As they selected the art of the deal
With a 49er’s meal
Now there was one that took the middle of the road
Since that was what the French know
Metz made the decision with scoring being the priority mission
Their ticket prints out Chiefs/49ers over 54
And if that happens it will be a nice payoff that will head out the door.
Right now, the half time show is on the floor
And ten ten is the score
It seems not to be a bore
But it is moving very quickly fir sure
With the draft coming here soon
This game being played under the moon
is the final seasonal visual NFL shield display
And hopefully one will say
Everything was worth the pay
But as for the British, Italians and French
They are not sitting on the bench
Since their matches are next week
And continue a heavy message they do speak
With a respectable peck on a cheek
In every small village and town
These games keep the peace before things go down
There are skills learned
That will keep one from getting burned
As tonight’s wind blows outside
Keep in mind of this poetic guide
It is not the winner loser that is newsworthy
Maybe the fact that a war is needed instead of someone being apologetic and sorry.
Carry on all you physical entertainers
And hopefully someday a point will be made to all those complainers
Let our lives be lived with much respect
And put in perspective that lucrative check
There is a reason for all this
And aggressive behavior can be missed
Put it in competition where it belongs
And that is indeed a nice thought for any lyric in any song.
Not content with just penurious loaves
Wretched pauper for richer diet strove
Seeking treasure from a wealthier trove
Delicate crumbs from hearty stoves;
Pungent fruit from well-stocked groves
Poached sustenance frail body did gladly receive
Yet of better fare covetous mind did conceive
Then with guile from gullible hearts lucrative profits deceive
'Til stitched threads a fine, seamless tapestry did weave
O'er time malfeasance with cankering anger did twain
With licentious craft bartered for wanton gain
Still, embittered spirit did all the world ruefully disdain
Tethered to earthly mammon; eternal soul did enchain
Moral, be content with the goods you have
A shriveled piece of bread better than a poached calf
With tendered tissue your festering wants salve
Lest infectious greed spread to heart's valve
here you go.
Have a sedative.
No wait! That’s mine!
It was given to me by a doctor fine.
Here’s a lithium.
That might calm you down a bit.
No wait. It has to be given to Uncle Chit.
Here’s a cough drop.
But hurry and be quick.
My dog loves to devour these.
His name is Slick.
I am not a pill pusher.
I just like to share.
Getting you hooked too feels kind of fair.
When you have to have other drugs look me up.
I have greens, blues and reds, look there in the cup.
But bring your money cause although these were free
The next five or six transactions have to be lucrative for me.
Her_Weight_Of_Dance
Her moves are close in heart they value each beat of the hymn sound of music
She breeds in her own world where each and every step is a formation of a choreo
She invented heaven on her own path of life with all kinds of extortive feelings
Her story
Only she can portray it, by sewing deep within to touch those veins that have sacrate scarce. Her only resource through those painful wounds is just dance. The stage is her own world where she created her own peace with her pace.
Where she hugs herself a million times when she is vulnerable, just to shake off her fears and invite relief in her space.
Her happy place where she knows everything she does count the emotional depth of her becoming a better version of her. She is not seeking help or shaken by hurt, she describes her lucrative feeling where it started till where it ended.
Her demonstration captures a moving bird to forget to flop as rare as it sounds,
The rain to fear falling down
The air to forge respiration
While her mood moves in, preying in like an aphrodisiac, leaving one with the motion of inspiration. Her movement purges the forgotten eyes to see her body with words and all.
The music behind
It's just a luxury, to chase her storyline
Her reflection between the ocean and the image of the moon is flawlessly stamped in the sea.
Her mission is to accomplish souls that are lost in pain not to be forgotten in the vein yards of hardship.
By just her posture of entrance she grasps a soul demanding light by dance.
Ashleigh Ngoqo
CANVASSING A DIFFERENT KIND OF COLLATERAL DAMAGE
(EDITED AND REVISED:
Near the bus stop, there she sat
On an old wooden platform; moonlight
Reflecting an exposed watermelon-shaped
Belly: housing the fruit of a struggling womb:-
In her arms was a baby doll-sized infant
Infant being teased by the nipple
Of a left titty that had gone dry:-
And the mother’s weary eyes,
Slowly blinking to evaporate
Tears too weak to flow.
To her right, lying still on the cold ground,
Was a skeletal-like, ebony-hued body
Of a barely breathing child, with tiny
Sunken, red marble ball-shaped eyes:-
Thus, is the canvassing
Of the collateral damage
Inflicted upon starving victims
In a war of the homeless hungry,
Where there is little hope
Of any liberating aid:-
Particularly when
The aider has
Has no assurance
Of lucrative money gains:-
Ironically, allied aid to anyone
Victimized by the collateral damage
Of whatever war they’re in, continues
To be motivated by huge capital gains,
Rather than mercifully coming to
The aid of the victims of a war’s
Debilitating collateral damage:-
The Queen and I, being survivors
Of hunger’s collateral damage,
Engaged in a Simon of Cyrene
Motivating labors of love,
Decided to do this:
We got off the bus at the next bus stop,
Went to a “chain store” across the street,
And bought two blankets and some snack foods,
And walked back to where we saw her and her kids:-
Giving praises and thanksgiving to the Almighty,
We turned around and began the remaining
One-mile walk to the little one-bedroom
Housing God had blessed us with.
Once there, we used our spiritual NI,
To employ AI, to find various organizations
That could be assistance to this needy family:
Hope was Burrow's substance, where he poured his time,
Pedalling steadily.
Intended path made smooth for those in legacy line.
Sliced through wiry roots,
Watchguard Wombat dug safety spaces.
Safety albeit empty,
claw shortening scooping to prop up progeny.
Plodding stoically.
Muffled praise from mollycoddled recipients who forgot
to congratulate wombat.
Chirps trill between ear orifices, a cheerful bell,
twinkling creek,
Thrill of apparently sucidal bird ledge leap,
harks updraught as capacity for flight.
Her name is Rainbow, though only he calls her so.
Optimism is Burrow's skeleton, firm fragile scaffold not broken
Bloodstream good Samaritan convinces him those closest know
that he would give everything
- devoid of return, satisfied in striving.
Fallen from insipid clouds, risen to a wide arc -
Squadron Observation squawk when the sun reemerges.
Related inseparably, sweet candy stripes are strings,
Harnesses of translucent hues.
Rainbow holds a cauldron in her wings
Shivered salute feather plume pom poms, her support
Altitude albeit not born to
Chimes a celebratory chortle, rain's finishing touch
Firey refraction stacks medallions of precious metal.
Magnetism draws, claws refuse to dig, Burrow closes.
Academy of affluent fly close to burn point,
- risk being scorched
Hypnotised by the increments his digits indicate.
Prospective friends and followers fill up his hollow
Lucrative lure curates karma, demanded by lorikeet
Marionettes dance, tuned to bushland command
Pinnochios pulled by Burrow's Rainbow.
During my poetical career I had never received a trophy,
I exploded with joy when I received it by first class...
"Enjoy your reward!" read a note signed by Laura Mckenzie;
and this first prize is my achievement for future success!
Entering poetry contests is fun and rewarding to a greater extent,
and any price is a rare opportunity to bask in your talent;
poets never get rich in this non-lucrative trend,
but satisfaction and accomplishment go hand in hand!
Thanks, Laura for the beautiful and glittering trophy, which I have placed on
my highest library shelf for all to see and admire; it actually seems small...
compared to those given to movie or music stars,
but it is the grandest and preciousest by all means!
Like a gladiator in Ancient Rome winning that fierce fight,
standing in front of a wooing and delirious crowd before dusk...
and being honored by the Emperor with the gift of freedom,
I am also set free by the excitement of my enthusiasm!
Yes, my trophy has gladdened me, and one unexpected day,
I may win the Nobel price, too...who says that's an impossibility?
More passion and desire I will put in my work, and I will not fray!
My confidence will feed that fire and with undefeatism I begin today!
My poem is dedicated to Laura Mckenzie, who was the source
of my inspiration.
Copyright (C) 2010 by Andrew Crisci
The day fell at its prey since man’s first fall,
To feed poison the dragon hath lifted its head,
Men have fallen into lucrative chasm,
Many ‘succeeded’ perching on the dragon’s head,
A few ‘defeated’ chewed ‘twixt the beast’s teeth.
The ‘victory-markers’ decked themselves with stars stolen
Which ought to be all men’s property shared in oneness.
The ‘star-markers’ began to squeeze their subjects and minions,
For minions take their root for their swampy survival,
And run deep thro’ stony soil unhealthy for fertility.
They sleep on stolen beds sans shame,
Their survival runs thro’ coveted bills,
And they break heads of the honest horse.
Sweet is their rest on the spiky bed of the poor,
Across their domain raise they their statues of the Poor’s sweat.
They eat doctor’s pain thro’ people’s treasury,
Never have they failed to lash at talents for self glory.
Manifestos so sweet strolling at their lips;
Yet sweetest are the deeds done for their families;
Yet most bitter when hung around the Poor’s neck.
They lay roads to their family line;
But dig chasms to the poorest of folks.
Lungs stained with bribes they can’t breathe themselves;
Yet breathing thro’ folk’s idiocies.
They can write stories; but not histories;
Yet what they’ve made are fallacies.
They dance on people’s neck until it breaks,
They build castles themselves in the air;
And for the poor lay roads to survive.
They kick the belly of the sweating toil.
They say they make the hen crow and the cock lay eggs,
Unmindful of their fooleries they dig pit themselves.
Who cares them? For one has to toil and survive;
Yet I hate the politicians for want of honesty in them.
I will try where practitioners
far wising than I have failed,
where greater ships of thinking
than I have sailed: explain how
many approach the topic of
kissing –
from the twinkle in an eye
to the deep-felt jelly sign –
from the pucker and the peck
and the downright awkward
neck – big lips; small lips; various
tastes and lengths of duration;
this need to express, some liken to
emotional constipation – why
there are those who refrain while others,
though frowned upon, have seen opportunity
for lucrative occupation? Myself
more in the camp of, just heartfelt
recreation; while the pious, sternly,
vociferously say~ from love and dutiful
ritual there can be no separation...
So, what then should the student of kissing
rightly conclude?--to be happy in life, my
advice, explore the subject with at least one
other often in the mood....
Anecdote:
For a nuptial effort, I was editing a photograph, my former husband, and his two classmates, as we were proposing for one, not all of them!
Posters are problematic these days, with every hotline too!
Please ignore, once your own tire, is acted up.
It is conveying a symptom, an outlier or an eloquence.
Now give them a brake, as you are not an advertisement, here.
***Quantitative process of elimination (Poe),
how can you be a parable that you are not a hoopoe within? ****
"You are nagging too much, these days!"
The time, outspoken, looked into the eyes.
I am pieced off with Du'a and Gloria Anzaldu'a
I am Netherlands, perhaps Holland, Hall &, and yet Norway....
Now you popped out from nowhere, half-hearted and negated
(and said),
e will become gradually into E, and all I heard , perhaps,"Thou art a....!"
I foretold this must be an acne issue with hormone, either hyper, or hype-o
Now "Being" a rare loner lump some inside a prayer room, where shall I serve the Type-o?
The Imam simply withered away, yet his glory is not! On a Friday, even though, remembrance about,
But the sister theory is giggling and nagging around, anything, other than this, without outsider harbinger chariot!
As every should could, perhaps, whence the targeted e is a mere life, not a grandiose Neon God!
These are all "Bay leaf " shape poem, unequivocally true, for the bookmark of your "Al Quran-ul- Kareem" and "hadeeth"
Even though price variation, there is a "housekeeping should" of the reason behind, that you will be liable al through,
Lentil and Moong, Mosul, and other peas, all you will subtly be, a graceful Imam your self
You did not disgrace them, and you did not happen too!
I will urge the time, to declutter own whine, to serve the deepest strength, the other side of your Chromebook screen
Or else, I will be a mere outlier quantitative with crispy onion, for lentil, alfalfa, already piled up algae enigmatic scene
Your work talks there, not your mannerism or coy word, lucrative, adjective or precisely so!
First 'be'! A distilled water bottle in calling for reverie, once rational, for any book, any letter too!
1:38 PM
9-5-2024