Long Minimalism Poems
Long Minimalism Poems. Below are the most popular long Minimalism by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Minimalism poems by poem length and keyword.
She walked with resolve through her thoughts late last night,
Walked in a single straight line,
She walked determined to clear it all out,
All the colourful shapes in her mind,
The shapes that have jumbled the clear and concise,
That messed up where her thoughts belong,
She cleared up ideas from counterfeit folks,
She threw out the thoughts that were wrong,
So today she can see the things that matter,
The abstract beliefs that she holds,
Now she can walk clear and know who she is,
As she walks her dependable road,
Last night she cleared out, she emptied her past,
She threw out the thoughts that were fake,
And woke up in a mind filled with beautiful truth,
In the minimal world she creates.
Matt is a freakishly neat male
His kitchen is spotlessly clean
Almost made his date Dot want to bail
Clutter free to her is utterly obscene.
To live here would feel like jail.
Matt felt it was amazingly keen.
His minimalism felt rather stale.
Dot simply despised Matt’s neat-nick scene.
Her home is loaded with piles of junk mail,
She is a hoarder from way back, a keep-everything-queen.
Dot drags anything home she finds loose or on sale.
Figures her life is not what Matt would glean.
She thinks it is best probably to bail.
If he saw her home, he might be mean.
Various piles of debris, hearty and hale.
She keeps to herself, to most unseen.
Matt keeps his austere life without fail.
Dot continues to live like a wild free teen.
Neither realizing their union would have been hearty and hale
Both living alone the rest of their life, their lives both green.
Language breathes. Dictionaries opened their doors to thousands: petrichor finally named, gigil crossing oceans from Tagalog hearts, morto carrying Irish embarrassment across continents. Each word a technofossil in reverse and not debris but seed. Where analog crumbles into digital decay, new phonemes sprout from chat windows and kitchen tables, from Glasgow to Manila, Waterford to Johannesburg.
After warm rain falls
petrichor naming something
we always had known
The mouse jiggler hums on desks where we WFH, pretending presence while bed rotting through Sundays, doom-scrolling until brain fog sets in. A chatbot asks if I'm still there. Ghost kitchens feed nobody's neighbourhood. We've made words for our hollow industriousness, our productive stillness, our illuminated solitude, each term a hard pass at something we cannot quite refuse.
Screen glow at midnight
even the AI wonders
if we're still awake
But listen: teenagers shout skibidi at nothing and everything, absolutely delulu with joy, their rizz and aura untranslatable to us, perfect in their imperfection. A girl shows her butter skin lewk and someone says she ate and left no crumbs, bet. In Dublin, they're morto over spice bags; in Kuala Lumpur, tapau your nasi lemak with kaya on the side. The mouth remembers before the dictionary does. Alamak, how we've been speaking new languages all along.
Grandmother's recipe
lumpia rolls carrying words
the page can't hold yet
Perhaps this is the burnt toast theory of linguistics: what seems lost makes room for what must come. The broligarchy names itself. Gen Alpha coins snackable for their fractured attention, honest about their inheritance. Climavores choose with conscience; we practice eco-minimalism like prayer. Generative AI makes prose while we make slang, both of us biohacking meaning from the ruins of the old world, both of us marvelling that anything grows at all.
Sharp-sharp, we greet
this shoogly train of language
hold on, enjoy ride
He wanted stark, she wanted mess.
Bareness irritated her, he insisted on no paintings.
He loved their boring black and white life.
She wanted color, pizazz, flair. He did not.
But wait, she lived here too, right?
She dragged in an orange vase and a turquoise box.
Tiny, unnoticeable items, placed them on the mantle.
They were gone by the time she returned from work the next day.
They did not fit in with our décor, she was told sternly.
She knew better than to insist, for he was a pouting man.
He was into minimalism. She was into pretty.
He did not want children, for they are messy. She did, but kept this her secret.
Not wanting him to become angry with her.
He threw out her bed pillow once because it had a hair on it.
It had been her favorite pillow since childhood; he did not care.
She thought about the colors that she wanted, she dreamed of the paintings on her walls.
She could think of nothing else as they ate their black and white foods, the ones he approved.
She could focus on nothing else. Giving up her friends had felt okay at the time.
Eliminating her family ties had made sense to her, for he had insisted, and she loved him, right?
One day she brought home a red lamp. It was pitched into the snow.
She started walking toward him and could not stop. “It’s my turn!” she yelled. She could not stop.
“My turn! My turn! My turn!” She pushed him out the door.
Minimalism had never felt so good.
Written: 12-17-2018 Contest: Minimalism Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
1,
It's hard to stretch my check through the whole month
When just paying bills feels like a triumph.
I always work away for meager pay
Clocking in eight great hours ev'ry day!
I'm gliding now into the fourth long week
With no money left, there's still food to seek.
I look for every coin in my pocket,
While next door, someone pawns her gold locket.
I'll eat a bag of peanuts to get by,
'Cause their bit of protein does help me thrive.
I'm hoping that they do not cut the gas
Because the stove's gonna turn too cold fast.
It's worse to lose the electricity
Since I couldn't finish my school studies.
2.
It seems we're due for one big debt bubble,
And when it bursts, we're bound for real trouble.
Or maybe fortunes built on sand go bad.
While some people spend ev'ry cent they've had.
Living on junk food would not be healthy.
Eating that way is not for the wealthy.
How can we, the poor, still cut our corners
When there's no hot food on kitchen burners?
People need money to cover lunch food,
And streaming subscriptions must be renewed.
No one wishes to accept a handout
We pay debt on time to get a shout-out!
We're now embracing Minimalism,
Eating healthy for metabolism!
_______________________
Haiku, a traditional Japanese poetry on nature, seasons, or human emotions that captures a fleeting moment ever so briefly is increasingly becoming a playground for humour and wit in today’s world in hurry having no time for a long-winding punch line. Some haikus here say so in traditional three-line format of 5-7-5 syllables—in brief moments of minimalism.
________________________
From reflection deep
To tongue-in-cheek comic clip,
Haikus have held grip,
Poets caring scant
Have haiku boundaries bent,
And there’s not a dent,
From an art ancient
Holding a fleeting moment,
Hums of humour rant.
Humour all alive
In forward flow were to drive
Looks dainty if naïve,
If brevity rules
In this world of AI schools,
Punch lines look like jewels,
In haiku’s kingdom
Humour for long may well hum,
Not long drawn ho-hum.
__________________________
Happenings | 03.06.2026 | funny, humour, poetry, Haiku
An Economy spirals up in euphoria,
enslaving Casinos, Supermarkets, Malls.
Lavish and happy hedonists in quicksand,
relish in desert of drudgery, not so small.
As we dance, an orgy and frenzy of 'Plenty',
Mother Earth looks fragile.
Thousand channels on TV....
Commercial 'Breaks' bonding ornate families.
Fizzy drinks decor, fountains in creams of ice.
Chocolates, cheese and clothes in arid paradise.
Bourgeois entities consume branded merchandise.
As cars update to limousines, jets and fancy yachts,
Mother Earth looks fragile.
Crass delightful spending, offers on Credit Cards.
Useless junkies clutter, unrelenting greed so garish.
The rush to get" Freebies".. suffocates a " Freedom"..
Like morons, we take care, of our precious kingdom
As an empire shops in frenzy, like a thirsty Vampire,
Mother Earth looks fragile.
Addicted thoughts doomed to oblivion.
Smartphones, iPod and Game Consoles.
Claustrophobic painted homes, nauseate in stress.
Have we forgotten to learn to live with "less"..?
Forgotten carefree butterflies...wilderness of peace
Forgotten molten glaciers,... wild streams and breeze,
Opulence of a Billionaire Earth...
Let life go on, billion years of mirth.
Anybody listening???"
Stuck in the mire of more and more
Look, he goes there.....
.Another Ferari riding Billionaire...
20th December, 2018
Written originally for Minimalism Poetry Contest of Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
Queen of Materialism Versus Queen of Minimalism
She shops and shops and shops and shops.
She is either in a store or on the phone.
Amazon boxes surround her house.
Some are opened, some are not.
She is a consumer, smothered under boxes.
You can find her hand reaching toward the computer
As she tries to click “buy” but the rest of her is under boxes.
Hear that click? She just bought something else.
Will she have time to open all of these boxes before she dies?
Doubtful.
The Queen of Materialism lives.
Our next Queen has signed up to be in a tour of homes.
Her friends are horrified.
It is a Christmas tour. She has no Christmas stuff.
She has no quilts, no tree, no ornaments, no stuff.
Her house is black and white and blah.
There are no pictures on her wall.
She would not recognize an Amazon box.
She is not curious, not interesting, not tantalized by shiny things.
Colorful sassy things do not amaze, intrigue or entice her.
She does not go into stores, and she does not shop online.
Her house is stark, empty, bereft. She is the Queen of Minimalism.
_______________________
Haiku, a traditional Japanese poetry on nature, seasons, or human emotions that captures a fleeting moment ever so briefly is increasingly becoming a playground for humour and wit in today’s world in hurry having no time for a long-winding punch line. Some haikus here say so in traditional three-line format of 5-7-5 syllables—in brief moments of minimalism.
________________________
From reflection deep
To tongue-in-cheek comic clip,
Haikus have held grip,
Poets caring scant
Have haiku boundaries bent,
And there’s not a dent,
From an art ancient
Holding a fleeting moment,
Hums of humour rant.
Humour all alive
In forward flow were to drive
Looks dainty if naïve,
If brevity rules
In this world of AI schools,
Punch lines look like jewels,
In haiku’s kingdom
Humour for long may well hum,
Not long drawn ho-hum.
__________________________
Happenings | 03.06.2026 | funny, humour, poetry, Haiku
I have
Been
Relegated
Condemned
To follow
The straight
And narrow
Path
Of Poetic
Minimalism
I shall not
Stray
From behaving
In this way
Its the straight
And narrow
All the way
From now on
For me
Straight Arrow
No more
Than a few
Words I can
Say
Its the new
Style
Of Poetry
DONT stray
I shall abide
Keep things
Straight
Narrow
Like
The Indians
Arrow
I shoot this
Poem
Over your way
Do not laugh
Nor should you
Play
From now on
Its the straight
And narrow
All the way
If you wish
Spaces
That’s ok too
As Long as
You know
Straight and
Narrow
Is still for
You
That’s the rule
So don’t be blue
If you cant beat them join them!!!!!!!!!!!!
Notes: The
formatting issues of
short lines and
double spaces seems
to be fixed, however
if anyone needs help
to fix their posts
feel free to email
me, be happy to
assist.
I stand corrected, there still seems to be issues. However, it seems if you post
in the Chrome browser is ok. I have tried in in Firefox and sometimes it works,
and sometimes not.