Long Merchandise Poems
Long Merchandise Poems. Below are the most popular long Merchandise by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Merchandise poems by poem length and keyword.
Ah, twas only by a fluke conversation,
whence a speech pathologist
informed my parents about
the Lancaster Cleft Palate clinic,
where oral an examination
revealed minor birth defect
identified as a submucous cleft palate,
which explained the severe pinched twang
somewhat mitigated by wearing
a removable prosthetic
fashioned by Prosthodontist
Dr. Mohammad Mazaheri MSC, DDS
fastened with clasps to upper teeth
whereby a makeshift miniature
plastic protuberance closed the gap
so air would be prevented
passing thru my button nose
and thus gentle and soft as a shutterfly
shunted air out thee oral opening
though congenital defect disallowed
returning merchandise back to sender
nor could blame be affixed
at either father nor mother
who both harbored the genetic mutation
now such admissions
re: aforementioned impediment allows,
enables and provides boasting rights
if in a mood to temper
any curiosity or satisfying a rumor
whispered down the alley,
whence I said “ah”
left nagging nincompoops
as if pie hole filled with a gobstopper.
An angel in a Christmas play
Learning about Jesus this way
People have become so earthy
Lord have mercy
Just place an X to blot out Christ
And sell merchandise overpriced
Some have no respect for the clergy
Lord have mercy
Let us once again remember
All the month of December
What Christmas means and be thirsty
For God's mercy
If America doesn't change soon
And come to God_it will be hewn
Burned_ for we are so unworthy
Lord have mercy
Remember the angel Gabriel
Again and teach your children well
God will look and find some worthy
Lord have mercy
Sponsor: Cyndi MacMillian
Contest: Season Of Lights, Delight
Theme : Christmas
In your mind you conclude that
'this one is a dried bone'.
And you look at me as if am alone,
But i have got back bone that makes
Me rise.
I rise! for i am the glittering shining rising star.
I am the African sunrise
I am the future surprise
I am the poetic merchandise
The most wanted prejudice
The lightening ink that thunders rebuke
At your envious heart.
I am the black talking drum,
Talking, making sense as in twisting
Your brain until it starts learning to make sense.
Does my boldness frighten you?
Why restless when am stress-less?
Why do you freeze when i breeze in?
You device means to see am falling
But if i fall i will rise more rooted,
Sure footed, like a tree in the swamp.
Till tomorrow or even till i finally mellow
However, i rise.
Though is not by my strength, i'm only a serving vessel.
Out of thatch huts and bamboo fence
Emerged the future modeling art.
Banana boy from hot black soil,
To become a glorious star.
Who cares if you like it or doubt it or not to admit
That my prophetic poetic tonic makes your brain
Charge like alcoholic toxic.
However, i rise...
I rise like a balloon going high high...
Like Maya Angelou,
I rise! i rise! !
Charles Melody
*Lightning Ink*
Absurdity walked this path of a whorish lane,
Dauntingly decked in a dark seductive garb
Egregiously seeks the thrones by craftiness,
Nebulous transverse for the wayfaring man.
Illusions of a well worn thigh concealed with facial mascara.
Killjoy bipolar nagging for control, demanding dominance by demonic antics,
Eccentric public commodity makes it the brothels for quickie.
Acrimony well taught from the market square by “Iyaloja”
Damaging defiance conscripting father to “garri Ijebu” and Fish
Egomania derailed from home and deprived of morals,
Sagged and perforated lurid frame perfumed for a prey
Offensive forlorn factious feigned facades
Lacklustre and noxious mien seduced the prey by lewd bait,
Absurd Incentive the goal, merchandise of greed, A week of affiance.
The heaviness of this bed draws indications that I’m not sleeping alone
The squeaky sound of a loud spring creeping in as it moved like an aggressive ocean wave at night
I could hear I’m not breathing alone
The shivering sweat ice skating coldly down in the back area
Making-it difficult to toss and turn
Not moving quietly listening to each and every sound just to pick up a diverge scenario
What could be it that is joining me at this very night
Starring at the time will it passes 2am
I’m still awake wondering the weight that exist in this bed
As closed as my eyes the heart pounds hardly with fear I can even taste the figment behind with a ounce of fog as I’m breathing in and out
Creating the event of course invading my resting cage
Merchandise my movement
I’m no longer in rest
I can feel the breathing it’s getting anticipated as much as I’m panicking
It felt like both of us are as much scared at each other
The crib of the sheets stout the fingers as it was tied
The unknown visitor in this bed has no introduction
It felt so cold it needed my warmth
The irony is the actual senses felt the same energy
As if the same weight and heat belongs to me
Ashleigh Ngoqo
Attributed To Concerned parents
of Traumatized Refugee
Dear Fred and Mary Anne MacLeod Trump...
Posthumous belated tattered letter fragment
recently discovered (liberally sprinkled with
hyperbole (presumed for greater audacious
zealousness), sans accidentally acquired
by yours truly.
Miscellaneous personal item highly valued
when thwarted from auctioneer, whose gently
persuasion collectible merchandise requisitioned,
thence keepsake property perfunctory mandatorily forfeited.
Due compensation from sole male heir (me),
whose long since (resting in eternal
peace) papa suffered degradation,
humiliation and understandable lamentation
as a kid living in Flatbush.
Authorities and expert legal scholars
pieced together what probably comprised
a lengthy epistle rivaling the Epic of
Gilgamesh).
Recollection recounted torturous,
malicious, and flagitious mean spiritedness
visited upon the ambitious, cadaverous, and
timorous body electric high-jinxed introverted male,
whose abstemious, conscientious, and nutritious
dietary regime, could not forestall rigor mortis.
A postscript (purportedly penned prior to
once philosophical pensive poet's papa's passing)
stated that said personage felt bitterness,
disharmonious envious self loathing.
That grownup man known as mine father,
though once upon a time, said recently
anonymous deceased old fogey ironically
registered as an atrocious, cantankerous,
and egregious deplorable high school student.
Also, the author of what constitutes partial
opprobrious litany attests during his
idolatrous, notorious, and semiconscious
Arab zombie school daze.
A store in New York City,
Selling “bargains” at top price,
Lures the locals and the tourists
Seeking upscale merchandise.
Yet their famous shoe department,
Always crowded and self-serve,
Is so customer-unfriendly,
It hits every single nerve.
From the samples set on shelving
Much too high for short folks’ eyes,
You choose shoes that are appealing
Then you try to find your size.
All the pairs reside in boxes,
Shelved below the model shoe;
If your size and style are waiting,
You’re among the lucky few.
You remove your shoes while standing
(Seats are scattered, never free),
Slip the new ones on your feet
And start to waddle, for, you see,
Every pair is linked together
With a sturdy plastic band;
And when both feet are ensconced,
It’s hard enough to even stand.
Look around to find a mirror
(Yes, they’re also short of glass);
Shuffle slowly, like a geisha,
Or you’ll fall flat on your ass.
Then repeat with all your choices
‘Til you finally decide;
Wait in line and start to wonder
If this treatment’s justified.
But of course, you’ll be returning
To repeat the same ordeal,
For deep down, you’re just delighted
That you really got a steal!
Yesterday, I happened upon a quaint, old-time country store.
I felt I was reliving my youth as I trod its squeaky wooden floor!
The sights and smells were familiar when I entered the door.
Memories flooded my soul as I gazed upon those things of yore!
A glowing pot-bellied stove provided an inviting place to sit and chat.
Upon a barrel of cheese snoozed an inscrutable tabby cat.
Old-timers were playing checkers hunkered over a pickle barrel.
'Mongst the clutter of merchandise you browsed at your peril!
Suspended from rafters were horse collars, lanterns and milking pails.
Boots, overalls and cured hams were hung with ten-penny nails.
Silverware and pocket watches were displayed in sturdy oak cases,
And others held buttons, thread, needles and rolls of fancy laces.
There were boxes of cigars, Mail Pouch tobacco and various tools,
Straw hats, aprons, bonnets, corsets and rolls of colorful tulles.
Stacked on shelves were galluses, overshoes and boys' caps,
Crockery, umbrellas, mantel clocks and several muskrat traps.
One wall was lined with churns, cream separators and kerosene stoves.
Wafting about the place was the pleasing scent of cinnamon and cloves.
There were bins of onions, taters, carrots and fresh roasting ears.
I sat by the stove a spell to absorb the flavor of yesteryears!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
At night I slather on my face
An anti-wrinkle cream
So it can make me youthful
While I toss and turn and dream.
Of course it doesn't work and yet,
This ritual remains,
With just the manufacturer
To really make some gains.
Surprisingly, I saw an ad
(Full-page, The New York Times)
That made me laugh, for irony
Inspires many rhymes.
It claimed most women do believe
They're judged based on their age;
Unfairly, too, the font declared
Upon the paper's page.
The ad was paid for by Olay,
My anti-wrinkle maker,
Reminding us that age should not
Define a gal or break her.
A bit ironic, don't you think?
To follow their advice,
I should not use their anti-aging
Wrinkle merchandise!
Hakim. The Gatekeeper from Esagila.
(A lone voice whispers)
In ancient Babylon,
I once stood alone and mixed fire
Iron and clay
All day
Creating a spell
To entice my only light to come my way
Sent merchandise of gold and silver
To her,
The Pythoness of Endor
Hidden in dark woods
Over the deepest of rivers
Bundles of finest fresh linens and purple silk
To satisfy her and her ilk
Citron wood and every kind of object
I could ever find
Made of white ivory and black marble
Whenever I could
No matter the expense
Incense sticks
And scented Egyptian
Candlesticks
Made of expensive Frankincense
Delicious crates of red wine
Bamboo baskets filled with white flour and yellow wheat
Fields of fat cattle and herds of baying sheep
Priceless trained horses and golden inlaid chariots
New slaves of broken souls
Lascivious ladies and ravenous men
To do her bidding
Even acts of depravity
Linked to the forbidden
For the fruit of my soul
And to be joined to her again
A bright light
I once saw
On a seemingly endless night
But in the year 323
When my leader
Alexander the Great
At only 32
Died and was eternally set free
In the opulent palace of Nebuchadnezzar
She
The Lady of the Wild Woods
The Pythoness of Endor
Cursed me to chase her
Forever
The Queen
I once conjured by fire
Iron and clay
So today
In the 21st century
Her I still chase
Since eternal life
Is now my only penitentiary
My only great living version
Of Babylon of Old
When I desired to sire
A queen, I once met
Dancing
The Raqs Sharqi
So fiercely
That her raw beauty
I can never forget
Adorned in soft crimson and glittering purple linen
Clad in silver
Wearing gold and shining diamond stone earrings
Reborn into the likes of
Badiaa Masabni
It's why I still chase her
If I could confess
For underneath
Beneath all things linked to trying to achieve immortal strength
It's why now
To seek her out
Once more
I always choose to break free
From the external grip
Of The Valley of Death
(C)
Copyright John Duffy