Long Mimicked Poems
Long Mimicked Poems. Below are the most popular long Mimicked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mimicked poems by poem length and keyword.
The crust which formed 4 billion years ago,
Only came at the extinction of the molten,
And the microbial mat fossils keenly found
From 3.48bn years ago, came from graphite!
Over 99% of all known species are extinct,
Vital life is just a specification of yourself,
You will influence others for better or worse,
Life is ours and not god’s to mould or sculpt.
Those who are by you truly most inspired,
Will inevitably become strong, bit like you,
To supersede, to survive in another’s place,
Such that humankind is becoming better.
Speciation by niche events is very beautiful,
It codes life by behaviour and not by speech,
Inherited genes are based on action, deed,
Rather than on religious articulations devious.
Mass extinction is not normal, ending comes
To every species of any kind in every society:
Up to half of today’s plant and animal species,
Will be extinct by 2100 without question, doubt.
Death is ok, universal, and happens to us all,
It’s normal, and from it comes something good:
From death’s non-entity, speciation happens,
Which allows life’s structures to flow vibrantly.
Evolution does not exclude anyone, no one,
Not the week, not the disabled, not a starfish,
Every individual’s struggle and pride matter,
And the fit, moral, are modelled and mimicked.
The lockdown is a knock down.
We can all run back out there!
So we are dancing in the streets.
I drive to town to dance with people.
Yay, for the Covid heroes!
I yell it too, only more loudly.
This strange person I do not know glares at me.
My first instinct is to stick out my tongue.
Really mature my inner voice chides me.
Yay, for the Covid heroes!
Now I get it. It is annoying to be mimicked.
This yell from my least favorite neighbor.
She gallops over to see what I am about.
Going to the store, I tell her. Better be off.
Yay, for the Covid heroes!
I agree they should be revered and honored.
Cherished and lifted onto pedestals.
I have the utmost respect for what they have done.
But it is driving me insane that we are all yelling the same five words.
Yay, for the Covid heroes!
I had heard that the professor from Xanadu was a bit eccentric.
Try eclectic, pink kangaroo corrected me. I screamed for my muse.
Trixie did not arrive right away. She has a distorted sense of humor.
She teases me with weird creatures which do not belong in my head.
They pop up in a most wondrous way. Ha! I am kidding of course.
This Neanderthal kangaroo was poking around in her own pouch.
Why me? I asked. Are all muses this inventive and peculiar?
Whomp! Something large and awkward jumped on my back.
My muse Trixie sometimes hires assistant muses to help torment me.
One muse is not enough to torture me I guess? This was a gigantic yeti.
I yelled “Trixie!. The yeti mimicked me. My anger so deep it was tangible.
Just what I needed, an abominable snowman with a mean streak.
Let me guess, a snickering voice said from the corner of the bookshelf.
“Your poems are questionable tonight, and you are blaming me.”
I saw the yeti wink at her, so I did not take the bait.
Her participation in my next poem is solidly questionable now.
as the rosemary rain
soaks
pensive petals,
leaving an aroma
of lovers’ betrayal
the succulent scent
of
his
petrichor skin
caresses the midnight
crevices of this
meticulous mind,
urging my soul to purge
tears and ink
long mimicked
by April’s sunlit rays
synchronizing
a symphony of robins
a rhapsody
of wild blooms
a chorus of dragonflies
a sprinkle
of swirling sakura
painting a panorama
of spring meadows
dancing to
the diamond glows
of stellar streaks...
and without the moon
I am an echo
of rhymeless clichés,
an abandoned prose
breathing amidst
porcelain pages
of mourning metaphors
aching to savor
confessions
of clemency....
for heart feels numb
to the
b u r n
of being forgotten
as storms taste
softer than sunrise~
and in
s i l e n c e,
I rise....
It was a whiteout in bitter cold.
You think you fell, though you don’t really recall.
Rescued unconscious, airlifted to the ER,
there by any measure of life and death,
you died.
The doctors invoked their sorcery, their necromance technology.
Performing CPR, they bypassed your heart and lungs.
They connected your lifeless form to a machine
that mimicked life functions your body could not perform.
The shamanism paid off.
You returned to the realm of the living
after being dead for forty-five minutes
you were responsive again!
Forty-five minutes.
What wisdom can
you impart about afterlife?
Forty-five minutes.
Did you sense your soul departing?
Forty-five minutes.
Did you see a path to the stars
or a bright perfect glow awaiting?
Forty-five minutes.
What is living and dying?
Is there a line?
Animation and stillness?
Growth and decay?
Forty-five minutes.
Are they just parts of a continuum?
Are they intertwined like yin and yang?
Forty-five minutes.
Can you describe the face of God
or the ecstatic rapture of eternity?
Forty-five minutes dead.
Where is your gold? The pirate asked.
I grinned and said nothing.
You will have to walk the plank, he threatened.
My dragon taught him otherwise.
A quick hiss, and a fire flame shriveled him into an ash.
Where is your gold? My husband asked.
Thinking I had a secret stash somewhere.
Of course I do, but dare I tell him?
Every woman I know who told her husband ended up alone
With him running toward a younger woman with her stash.
“In an ar! In an ar!” my traitorous parrot squawked.
Luckily the stupid bird cannot make a J sound.
All of my riches are in a jar, underground,
in spots I may never find myself.
“in an ar! In an ar!” I mimicked my parrot.
Stupid bird.
*LORDS OF THE RIVERDANCE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once were three Irish squirrels, Shawn, Finn, and Mack
Whose Riverdance skills took the villagers aback.
They' mimicked the steps of *Michael Flatley,
But truth be told they danced quite badly.
Their tap shoes they didn’t know how to clack.
They danced on stage and ‘neath the Irish moon.
But together their steps were never attune.
Their costumes were not green but ugly maroon ,
To others criticism they were immune
But oh how the ladies over them they did swoon!
“Oh, *Michael, just come and look at our show!
We’re the best dancers you’ll ever know!”
But the pride that they bore,
Was met with an uproarious roar,
As they tripped on their tails with a sigh and moan.
Undeterred, they danced 'neath the moon's silver light,
With a rhythm that just wasn’t right.
Though they tried with great zeal,
It was clear and ever so real,
They put *Flatley to shame every night!
*Michael Ryan Flatley is an American former professional performer and choreographer of Irish dance. Flatley is credited with reinventing traditional Irish dance by incorporating new rhythms, syncopation, and upper body movements, which were previously absent from the dance. He created and performed in Irish dance shows Riverdance, Lord of the Dance, Feet of Flames, Celtic Tiger Live and Michael Flatley's Christmas Dance Spectacular. (source wikipedia.com)
In those dark eras of the split, to live was to be alone,
A calculated isolation chilling to the bone.
They hid inside their separate pits and hoarded what they kept,
While just beyond the blast-doors, all their starving neighbors wept.
Lysander watched a nearby vault collapse into the grime,
Their priceless banks of ancient seeds destroyed by mold and time,
Because they lacked the synthesis, the codes to make them grow,
Held by a hostile bunker just a thousand yards below.
They traded only in their scars and deep, ancestral dread,
A territorial madness that infected every bed.
The mind locked in a cage of concrete learns to hate the dark,
But hates the neighbor even more who carries still a spark.
Lysander saw the rot was not a scarcity of bread,
But the absolute division of the living from the dead.
The lonely mind was screaming out behind a wall of stone,
And so he took the broken blueprints time had left alone.
He did not build with iron wire, he did not work with brass,
For metal was the weapon of the executioner class.
Instead, he grew a softer thing along the dripping wall:
A bioluminescent moss that answered to his call.
A fibrous, pale conductor made of cellular design,
That mimicked how the brain-waves spark along a living line.
A living loom of emerald wool, a bright, organic lace,
To knit the fractured pieces of a broken species' face.
For twelve long years he labored there, a surgeon in the night,
He harvested his cortex for the seeds of golden light.
He took microscopic biopsies from his own thinking brain,
And spliced them into mossy veins to cultivate the strain.
He became the anchor node, the root within the deep,
And when he lay his crooked spine down on the floor to sleep,
The Sunken Spire would start to pulse, a soft and rhythmic gleam—
The first erratic heartbeat of a solitary dream.
I HAVE A DREAM™
In Martin Luther King Jr.'s binding words of oath,
Saving souls solely sold out for fair esteem,
Without gainsay, granulating the greatest quote,
Comes these four words "I Have A Dream."4
The marvellous melody of Martin's message,
Mingle minds - with magnanimous meanings,
And just like an age-long and archaic adage,
Mustered majestic march, melding morals.8
Memoirs of Martin's muse mimicked mystery
And his mighty moment moved mountains,
Miraculously merges and made history.
So, in our racial disunity, a united unity reigns.¹²
In the future's fair and fearless frame,
Black boys, white boys, hand in hand.
In unity, under sky's serene same,
Dreams dance daringly to destiny's demand.¹6
Girls of gold and girls of grace,
Gleaming, glowing, & growing together,
Heartbeats harmonize, honour embrace,
Hope's horizon, boundless, forever.²°
No colour confines, no creed can chain,
Tomorrow's truth, in love, we attain.
“I have a dream that one day, little black boys & girls
Will be holding hands with little white boys & girls.”²4
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Alliteration
Copyright ©? January 2024.
you came to me
again in a dream...
this rain tapping
against the windowsill
echoed like footsteps
down lonely streets
the thunder rolling
through the hills
mimicked my heart
beating in anticipation
as you reached for me
through the shadows
on dimly lit walls
i felt your hands
gently tracing
the edges
of my soul
your lips
softly pressing
against mine
silent whispers
of love spoken
without words
i reached for you
my hands slipping
through air
falling by my sides
empty again
the only thing
thrusting forward
in rhythmic pulses
is this clock
on the wall
the rain tapping
on the windowsill
echoes like footsteps
fading in the distance
as i lie awakened
alone again
your kiss
still lingering
on my lips