Long Martian Poems
Long Martian Poems. Below are the most popular long Martian by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Martian poems by poem length and keyword.
You are all from a different galaxy sneered the moon.
I was not surprised, always suspecting I am a Martian.
But not Mars! He said, rolling his snake eyes at me.
I was intrigued, as he has never done that before.
Just joking, said a voice to my left. It was a star.
I wondered which planet I was from.
I do not get along with these weirdos here.
They are lunatics, their thinking absurd and unjustified.
Neptune? Jupiter? Saturn? I tried to open my brain.
Just kidding said the moon. Then he laughed.
Typical day for me; surrounded by idiots
Not only on the earth, but above the earth.
I’m not sure which planet I hail from
But I would like to go back as soon as possible.
This one no longer holds my interest.
No lentil beans before bedtime unless...
(alternately titled: unrelenting flatulence)
Ya wanna count bajillion sheep,
but tween gluteus maximus powerful
natural gas explosions during sleep
(ass suspected source) – courtesy missus
she served me lentil beans piled outsize heap
sinister been off fish shunt ploy
spouse I may no longer keep,
cuz dream house went up in flames
reduced to ashes smoldering (Uriah hit) heap
an feeble attempt made to extinguish courtesy
urination which suddenly found me awoke
moments ago groggily awakened out deep
slumber out requisite snooze,
cuz I bean dog tired exhausted fuel
driving one clunky body electric jeep
wee hours way after midnight night owl
in case ya give fig yore hot heave hoot
blasted tremendously nonstop
rendering air to smell foul
while my little chickadee evinced similar
disposition, she too did pepper her muttering
with expletives, and did growl
snarling evidenced yours truly espied scowl
unrepentant and threatened to apply dowel
well, I need not specify, "a" specific vowel
one cheeky spouse,
would find yours truly to howl
no pretty picture me bean
while slowly turning unnatural green,
henceforth rushed to emergency room
whereby team of alien specialists,
who casually did primp and preen
mistaking convincingly verdant colored
hue man as martian ready for Halloween,
and said practitioners loathe to intervene
reckoning yours truly -
with other worldly mien,
The Pekwachnamaykoskwaskwaypinwanik
Melting and Annealing Process Company
was Established in @029
He was no engineer! He thought he
was smart but he was actually foolish.
One of his Gal Companions told
him to stop breathing on her candy bar.
She liked Mars candy bars and he she said to him
to stop breathing on her candy.
He got an idea from that!
He had heard that Moxie was breathing on the Martian
surface. And
a discussion leaned toward finding diamonds on the Martian surface.
Well days went by and he couldn't
stop talking about the woman and her candy.
A guy told him to change the subject
that he thought
man could use a process to man gold and quarts.
He said One ton of sand and 1/2 ton of iron particles
from the iron grinding industry
mixed with calcium oxide
sodium oxide
and magnesium oxide
he would allow rusted iron and water to form
and would use it to create a reaction
so the oxided slurry would
form over the sand mixture
were a process of quart create and gold
separation could occur. He found the process would take to long to generate wealth: but
he found that a reformation of melted sand could crystalize and create beautiful crystal that would be valuable
in shaping to create valuable pieces.
differential scanning calorimeter
Silver sand
silica- sand
potash and
red-lead.
Referencing to the smallest individual unit a combined entity made up of multiple parts.
The desolate perfection of solitude. The shiver of recognition that there is only one being on the mountain, and that’s you. The pine trees watch, the boulders brood, but there is no one there. The splendour of being alone, crushed to fragments by the chirping of crickets, pierced by the song of a mountain thrush. The sea of solitude, a sea of sounds. With no noise at night, sounds rush you like a wave, a pounding surf inside your head. But, then, in the ozone tonic morning, the sky fills you with blue happiness, emotions so high you are born again on the mountain, and loneliness seems the greatest joy a man could wish for. Praise be to God I’m alone. Though the mountain air throws its voice from time to time. “There’s a whole world out there waiting for you — what are you waiting for? The world doesn’t care whether you're here or not.” I know, I think. I am free, so free I could dissolve into thin air right now and fly through that hill, through the planet for that matter. Find myself on Mars and know what loneliness is all about. Earthly loneliness is for cowards. On earth there’s an outside chance a human will turn up. On Mars, loneliness meets a new friend — desperation. The desperate need to remain whole, to not break up and boil in the Martian atmosphere. To not depressurise and explode. Lots of long walks required on Mars I’d say. Circumnavigation would do it. Is there loneliness greater than that? I think there is, but I’m afraid to tell you. But there is a tremendous rhythm to be found in silence. It might take days to get it. You might suffer with sound death in an echo chamber for a while. Tinnitus might strafe your skull case for what seem like endless nights. But one day you’ll find yourself listening to a distant, low base rhythm that starts from the balls of your feet, the back of your skull — you don’t know which — but it’s so strong, so virile and strident you see the whole forest take up arms and shake its fists. And you shake your fists too, and dance like a bear in a dry riverbed — wolfsbane shooting off your claws like bullet tracers, spraying colours all over the pine tree valley. The music in silence. It’s dripping from the trees, drifting in mountain mist.
Orson Welles and company put on a show
which was broadcast in 1939 over CBS radio.
It was based on a book written years before
by H. G. Wells whom many readers would adore.
Martian invaders landed in Grover's Mill, New Jersey,
and marched their way northward into New York City.
Many listeners considered this production terrific.
The sounds of an invasion appeared so realistic.
Unfortunately, the broadcast started some panicking.
So many people thought this was the real thing.
Welles had to announce he was downplaying any fear.
"Don't worry people, the Martians are not really here".
Based on the 1939 CBS Radio broadcast of "The War of the Worlds"
I'm told that I'm supposed to write a sonnet,
It isn't something I could ever do;
I know I'd rather shop to buy a bonnet;
A size six foot won't fit a size five shoe.
I look and see how little I have done;
I've struggled and I've sweated through the day;
I look and see the setting of the sun,
And still I have no sonnet to display.
I guess I'll only flunk, not make the grade,
My parents, I suppose, will be depressed,
(Because I'll never get a sonnet made,)
But then, oh well, you'd think they would have guessed.
My teacher should just go and climb a tree,
She'll never get a sonnet out of me.
I would love to compose a sonnet,
Reading rules and structure makes me think twice,
A mind grown in science does not want,
To mix meter and feet to replicate Martian lander
disaster twice.
To me, feet and meter are measuring units,
not an indication of word stress patterns,
The Iambic pentameter throws right out in woods,
Quatrains and couplets remind me of coupling joints.
The Petrarchan (Italian) and Shakespearean style
makes me wonder,
Why rhythm does not stay with music of salsa and drums,
Metaphor and peripeteia are some phrases to wonder,
The octave and sestet probably are some music notes.
Writing sonnet may not be a joke,
but for aspiring minds, there must be hope.
“The chances against anything manlike on Mars are a million to one,” he said. (Excerpt from the book by H G Wells.)
WATCH OUT, run for your lives ...the Martians are coming!
Well on October 30, 1938
Terrified listeners truly thought the world was ending
When a radio broadcast
Of H G Wells book ‘The War of the Worlds’ was aired
Jeff Wayne turn the book into an epic musical story
Well over 40 years have passed since it was released
Millions have listened to the double album
And seen a Martian monster recreated in the stage show
Though the Martians first invade dry land
The album cover focuses on the war at sea …
Terror stricken sea travellers try to escape
A massive menacing metal monster
With bulging green bug like eyes
Its gleaming silver body perched high upon
Three spindly chop stick like tripod legs
It stalks the steamer like a spider eying its prey
The brave captain tries to steer the ship to safely
but it’s is tossed on stormy seas
like a rag doll thrown by a petulant toddler
Suddenly, the ebon sky is illuminated
By an intense golden beam - a death ray
Which pierces the bow of steamer
with pinpoint accuracy
White smoke billows, fire rages
Countless lives will be lost
Will the Martians conquer the world?
I won’t spoil it for you…
Just listen to the album story to find out
Believe me you won’t regret it!!
In the nineteen sixties, growing up,
ideas filled my overflowing cup.
The future then was hopeful and bright.
It took eight minutes for golden light
to shine to the earth down from the sun,
traveling through space to land upon
a boy who was one year less than ten,
who worshipped the astronaut, John Glenn.
Do you recall, old friend, you and me,
how those rays missed us, 'neath shaded tree?
We studied feats of exploration,
learning all about our proud nation,
not knowing, in our days of wonder,
that we tore native lands asunder.
The planets would be our next frontier.
We'd be like Daniel Boone, the pioneer.
My excitement grew - I knew that soon
Neil Armstrong would land upon the moon.
One day, I'd fly space age technology
and create a Martian colony.
Time flies, and how I wish I could say,
the fire of stars still burns in me today.
Once, ideas filled a child's starry eyes,
and mind, a fruitful site to colonize.
What’s in a disease
when hate is all one needs
to chip away the soul...
Chunks us to our knees,
exposes all the darkness
Deep within
called
sin.
They say, it’s not my fault
They say, it’s in my genes
But every time I let one out
Everyone turns green
“Oh God” I hear them try to scream
As they gasp for air and breathe
God I’m not but some do believe
I may be a silly Martian
Landing bombs indiscriminately
Even though it is they
So, it seems to me
Who all are turning green
I swear it’s not my fault
But my body does not lie
When everything has gone to it
It’s time to let it fly
The pressure gets to be too much
So, I let ‘er rip
It’s time for my assault
So Everyone best get a grip
I never hold it back or halt
It only makes it worse
Releasing stinky poetry
Is my earthly curse
(Dedicated to Bill Bixby who passed away November 21, 1993)
I loved to watch you in the late seventies.
You were a gifted actor and I'm sure that everyone agrees.
Whenever you got angry, Lou Ferrigno took over for you.
You were great as David Banner and as Tim O'Hara too.
You starred in My favorite martian before I was born.
Your death in 1993 made this nation mourn.
You were cremated and your ashes were scattered at sea.
You starred in at least one movie with Elvis Presley.
In the Apple dumpling gang, Susan Clark went wild when you bought that bed.
She misunderstood your intentions and hit you in the head.
Your death shows that life can be cruel.
You were a great guy and that's pretty cool.
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