Long Maven Poems
Long Maven Poems. Below are the most popular long Maven by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Maven poems by poem length and keyword.
Laston Simuzingili linkedin with this American
maverick freelancing writing scout,
(and word maven par excellence
Matthew Scott Harris always ha sellout),
thru Spoken Word route, a popular global
Facebook poetry forum prodded me to venture,
without shadow of a doubt, and try my hand
to craft, this rhyme for that reason tout
ting expertise (mine) forging metrical
syncopation, which electronically soundless shout,
though tribalism within Lusaka, Zambia beyond
my literary purview hence any objection
i.e. cerebral workout, sans the following
amateurishly wrought gobbledygook by devout atheist
please do not be shy to call me out,
or send strongarm lance of the law if I
unwittingly commit any faux pas, this author,
who took mini crash (course) test dummy
about said convoluted titled topic unbeknownst
to him as little as Trout
Fishing in America,
cuz he gets this hooked Semitic Schnozzle snout
stuck, while groveling, ferreting, expanding
his knowledge base no matter he doth spout -
whale visiting unfamiliar leviathan African bailiwick
may deliver just deserved desserts fallout.
According to the following Google url search result,
I reddit at whatsapp
http://www.qfmzambia.com/2018/10/07/
tribalism-has-no-place-in-zambia-
First Republican President
Kenneth Kaunda opened
potential Pandora box trap
expressing honest opinion, and observed
discrimination predicated on snap
judgement, or based on tribe equally
unfair methodology to foster, and rocket rap
pore, and ethnic background as well
owns no place in Zambia, cuz smeared pap
(as conk curd by ghost of Milton Shapp),
I was a young adolescent,in love with Sig,
To me he was bigger than Big.
For him I had an insatiable crave'n.
Knew him so well,his sweet li'l maven.
Day after day,hour after hour.
I am weak and succumb to his power.
My family said Sig is evil and dark.
Sigmond Arettes is my light;my spark.
Friends knew Sig as ominous and grim.
I know Sigmond;I'm addicted to him.
The addiction goes on,year after year.
For Sigmond Arettes I shed many a tear.
I would hold him with love,with care.
It was a love that Sig did not share.
He just sat back;watched me decay.
Sig is still young,I'm old and gray.
I grasp at Sig LET'S MAKE IT QUICK!.
Youknow Iknow:you know I'm sick.
One last time;I know I shall regret.
Good-bye Sigmond,SIG Arettes.
Never underestimate the power of nature, it can have devastating consequences.
Quote by poet.
Lucius Gauis Viaggi was a centurion in the Roman army
Lived in the city of Pompei with his wife and family
The city lay at the foot of the majestic Mount Vesuvius
It was the year 79 AD in the reign of the Emperor Titus.
Lucius was home on leave from the campaign in Brittania
And was enjoying his time away in his luxurious villa
He got up late one October morning to go for a walk
To meet with friends, drink wine and to catch up on talk.
It had just gone noon when the ground started shaking violently
Many rushed out onto the streets to escape the falling masonry
Above the city Mount Vesuvius was spewing ash, smoke and fire
Lucius, no stranger to danger knew the situation was dire.
Huge white clouds were forming in the sky and ash fell like snow
He rushed back to his villa and told everyone "Save yourselves, go"
Then he got two horses ready for himself and his wife Ameili
And he put his son on his horse and rode quickly towards Napoli.
Thousands were scrambling down the rocky hillside to get far away
Lucius could hear the screams of those poor souls who chose to stay
Then came the molten rock, ash and gas known as the pyroclastic flow
Pompei was buried in minutes, and the living had nowhere to go.
Those who'd taken shelter in buildings were gasping for their breath
Their lungs filled with gas and ash and it's how they met their death
Those who had escaped were making the long journey to Napoli
Some had walked, many on horseback and some arrived by sea.
Four other towns were destroyed by the eruption of Mt Vesuvius
Hercanaleum, Stabiae, Boscoreale and Oplontis
Gaius Plinius Secundus a commander in the Roman navy
Died trying to rescue people and is remembered for his bravery.
The streets of Napoli were crowded with the thousands who'd fled
Those who had decided to stay in Pompei were already dead
In Napoli Lucius had a friend with a large villa, Luigi Maven
Who welcomed them saying , "Let my home be your safe haven".
A week later Lucius rode back to see what had become of Pompei
It was now just a white wasteland where thousands underneath lay
Smoke and dust continued to rise from the top of the mountain
The winds had saved the city of Napoli of that Lucius was certain.
Way back before this baby boomer waz astute
countless decades before aye became long in the tooth,
and also prior tomb ma sporting dentures to boot
fond memories rush more than so far back
envisioning illusory wind blown steppes
(wait...this visage belongs to thine
long since deceased maternal grandfather
hub hill eave didst hail from Kiev,
or some place thereabouts) within the mind
of this prevaricating aging
"FAKE" barnstorming ole coot
preserved records (those times b'fore cds or dvds)
and now rewinds tape when family of origin
celebrated Xmas secular Harris
house style rendition of Magic Flute,
though genealogy steeped in Judaism
recollections abound of boyhood mirth
devoid of rubric asper orthodox and/or reformed
Judeo-Christian religion,
which essentially means,
I did not give or take a hoot
nonetheless cherish fond memories,
when ma late mum
relished making a hoo ha,
and got tickled and pickled pink
rousing a hullabaloo wrapping presents
and jamming three knee high stockings
with healthy goodies such as fruit
cuz, as a devotee of Carleton Fredericks,
she frowned on giving out sweets
particularly to three children she begat,
and iced hill easily recall her poker faced
feigning complete ignorance and surprise
sheep played “dumb” as did father
convincingly not giving a hoot
puzzled asper neatly wrapped and
stacked gifts under decorated tree
while distorted reflections of stockings
fractal shimmers from metallic gewgaws
in tandem of nostalgic magic
worth mo' than any amount of loot,
perhaps Christmas festivities a flash point,
when some jolly codger (papa)
dressed up, sans Santa Claus suit
and petsmart dogs doubled up as reindeer,
whose canine barking, cavorting, and dashing
haphazardly set them on a direct route
to pandemonium as crashing trimmed tree
cacophony elicited laughter, punctuated
with irrepressible escaped bursts of flatulence
(ah wont mention hoof from)
that emulated a toot.
Bedraggled the old man sat, monkey on his lap.
However could he recover from this mishap?
Louts took his organ and attacked him with a bat.
Monkey on his lap, bedraggled the old man sat.
His old heart gutted, his mind totally wrenched.
Rain yesterday had left him quite drenched.
We are OK my darlin, to his monkey he muttered.
His mind totally wrenched, his old heart gutted.
The rooftop a safe haven, for he and his pet.
Not much chance of another organ, he will get.
He was an expert on the organ, a regular Maven.
For he and his pet, the rooftop was a safe haven.
He can still sing, dance and tap the old soft shoe.
He was the best organ grinder New York ever knew.
Shoes are worn, organ gone, his monkey is everything.
Dance and tap the old soft shoe, he can still sing.
Chris prompts his friend, Cyra
to help him win the
heart of his true love,
Roxy
Chris is easy on the eyes
a dreamy kinda guy
but as far as conversation goes
he’s got no game
Cyra articulates like no other,
a maven of expression
But visible impression?
Not so much
Chris plans the evening well,
standing under the spell of
Roxy’s second-story window
(taming butterflies)
Cyra too on the scene
is nowhere to be seen
as if hiding in a cloud
awaiting a cue
Chris tosses candied sweethearts
at her window, she finally awakens
Roxy’s appearance is captivating,
stirring Chris’s senses
Surrogate Cyra begins on cue
launching love-struck expressions
Roxy nearly swoons …
Chris starts coughing
Discerning the subterfuge
as coughing Chris chokes
Roxy beseechingly begs,
“Who are you? What is your name?”
Truth undisguised
Cyra promptly replies,
“Cyra—NO! I will not lie …
I am generative AI”
Roxy faints, befuddled
Chris’s words muddled
Thus ends this mad romp—
AI awaits a prompt
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I tapped my keyboard, my eyes bleary
As I tried to write a novel that was no bore
I looked for inspiration, how to avoid clichés temptation
I’d write about rejuvenation—hope for the lonely lass Lenore—
An epic tale of a maiden born anew named Lenore—
A blockbuster for evermore.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
“I have writer’s block, Mr. Raven, perhaps thou might be a maven.
Though you be ghastly grim and ancient wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me can a modern writer craft prose that’s not a bore?”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“My idea that just can't lose, a crippled, homeless guy who likes booze
He’ll rise to fame and glory but I worry on some phrases in this story.
This and more I plan I’d write but the DEI staff might fight
On the plot’s blood and gore that tells life’s authentic core
Where from zero to hero, he’ll wins the fair Lenore
Wins her love forevermore!
The Raven looked pained and croaked "Nevermore!"
Then, the air got denser, this bird was a woke censor
A ghastly leftist bird who drifted over my parquet floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “who appointed thee—to impoverish my vocabulary
Give me respite – let me write my way the story of Lenore;
Don’t dilute my novel to be a crashing bore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
Is it possible nowadays to write a novel at all?
Can I earn more than zero, if I include a macho hero
A macho hero to clasp a demented maiden who won't be sore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the underworld’s dark shore!
“Don’t use ‘dark” said the Raven, “use BIPOC instead” as he continued sitting
On the pallid bust of Obama just above my chamber door;
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out my body that lies contorted on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Moshe, Larry, Curly,
Howls, cries, nyuks;
Three silly comic stars:
Smile, clown -- Cluck!
Chico, Harpo, Benny, Berle,
Moron grins, happy chins;
Crazy nutty comic kooks:
Funny jokes -- egads zooks!
Alvin Ailey, dance gaily,
False teeth: Brush daily;
Silly Sally, Dilly-dally,
Ollie, Holly, Mollie!
Belly flops, fatal plops,
Messy slops, lemon drops;
Harry Caray, Tooth Fairy,
Music Maven -- Chuck Berry.
Pitty-patty, kitty-katty,
Ticky-tacky, Cinci-nnati
Polly-Wolly, Wooly Bully,
Diffy-daffy, Laughy Taffy!
March 22, 2018
Contest entry in "A little laughter five," sponsored by
Edward McCall, closing date - March 23, 2018
Notes: Moe Howard's (of the Three Stooges) actual first name was Moshe.
'Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk' was a trademark line of Curly (3 Stooges.)
Berle is comedian: Milton Berle (aka 'Uncle Miltie').
'Egads zooks' is an exclamation my mother and others of her
generation used to use (frequently).
'Wooly Bully' was a pop song by Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs,
released in 1965; it soared high on the Top-40 charts.
I left my heart in Melbourne
A rift in time and space
Before becoming airborne
To go back to my place
I left my heart in Melbourne
In blueness of her eyes
In every club and tavern
In which we spent our times,
In parks, in zoos, in forests
In places where we roamed,
But more important further
I left it in her home:
I left my heart in Melbourne
Inside her warm embrace
As though inside a cabin
Containing all of space
Where sweetness flowed like river
And gentleness like snow
Fell on us, and we shivered,
As her gifts Life bestowed:
I left my heart in Melbourne
And I returned, half-me
And half-impassioned maven
Of the Eternity:
Which we had found together
And by it were transformed -
Two spirits, of one feather,
In sunshine and in storm
Desiring to make heaven
And in its light to burn:
I left my heart in Melbourne;
To Melbourne I'll return.
Coruscating gravitas
imbibed algebraic
cerebral tranches
to spark
alacrity defiant
material manducation
deployed tangibly
phlegmatic
whilst
begetting manifest
miraculous meteoric
innovative impulses
when
penetrating bailiwicks
of tongue-contortion
cerebrum
eidetic retention
straddling juncture’s
poised gateway
as
baton weaving
catalyst triumphant
for
pumped ensemble
virtuoso visionaries
who
taproot trajectories
cocoon emerging
brainchild unfettered
obsessing
magazine mandarins
artistic
archetypal Monet
lavish lavender
lily pond
with
balsamic brushstrokes
galvanising
similar maven
budding Einsteins
blazing trails
of
original contrivance
boosting beneficial
health domain
of
wellspring weal
integrating impactful
slants
gearshift gargantuan
narcissistic nadir
repetitive
regurgitations rampant
abjured by
polymath prodigious
whose
appalachian peak
of antecedents
an avalanche
tintinnabulation
enunciated showpiece
heralds harvesting
gilt-edged prodigy
in fields
belletrist
nimble-fingered
experiential