Long Minimalist Poems
Long Minimalist Poems. Below are the most popular long Minimalist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Minimalist poems by poem length and keyword.
I was given the challenge
Well in truth it was a bet
And the bet was to get a date
With Prudence the librarian
Whose coldness was legend
It would be a tall order
But I picked up the gauntlet
And headed to the library
I walked up to the desk
And there she stood
She was short in stature
But imposing nonetheless
Her countenance was severe
Thick chestnut hair
Pulled back off severely off her face
Her make up would best be described
As minimalist
And she peered at me
Over thick framed spectacles
She wore a chunky beige sweater
Two sizes too big which hid her shape
And a dark pleated skirt, knee length
Over thick black wool tights
And the not unattractive legs
Terminated into sensible shoes
I tried small talk
But she was not receptive
Her demeanor was positively frosty
Every enquiry she batted back to me in the negative
But despite everything
There was something about her that I liked
Something intangible
curiously she was not my type
in any way, but still there was something
So I decided to persevere
But because I wanted to
Not because I had to
So firstly I paid off on the bet
I wasn’t doing it for a stupid bet
But because of that intangible something
An itch I couldn’t scratch kind of thing
Realizing small talk would get me nowhere
I thought I would try a different tack
And converse with her on her own terms
I had to engage her intellect
So each day I would go to the library
And ask her to recommend a book
Which we could then discuss each day
And each day she thawed a little
Then I posed her questions,
History, Geography, the arts
I found her to be both knowledgeable and interesting
And I found that I was becoming interested
In the subjects we were discussing
And looked forward to our time together
As each day she thawed a little more
I wanted to have more
Than just the few precious hours at the library
But I didn’t want to undo what I had achieved
Upset the status quo
And refrigerate her again
Then at the end of one particular day
Prudence asked me
“Would you like to go for a coffee?”
I was speechless but nodded in the affirmative
Later she told me
She fell for me because I engaged her mind
And valued her for what was between her ears
And not what was between her legs
Or inside her sweater
Form:
The day my life went ape ‘chit’ in no more than three-hundred words
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch counts
And pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis works wonders
When I am asked to write a poem that is either precise or reductionist
Thus I report from my personal lock down epicentre of home isolation
With free advice to conquer the gremlins of free speech and contagion
Firstly pretend you are German because one compound nouns fills a page
Then rediscover hyphenation and have a match with auto-correct settings
Or pick up the challenge and find those scrabble pieces under the couch
Next to valuable coins a few toe-nails or belly-ring to gather your thoughts
Pasta shapes with letters and letterpress cookies are essential food items
You will find them on shelves in shops where the loo roll had previously been
On that delicate matter it might be worthwhile to consider what colloquy
You can fit on a single ply sheet used sparingly on both sides in dire need
Word counts are useful to pass the twenty seconds it takes to wash hands
But remember to spell hyphenation-control-centre with a dash of content
Consider that a pencil is sharp on one end if you poke fun on the toilet
My wife still bears a charcoal tattoo from when a soft roll in satin sheets
Gifted an indelible reminder that pleasure and pain work hand in hand
A carefully calligraphed dot to dot surely trumps auto-generated novels
Unwrap fortune cookies and proof read for the true meaning of spells
Whatever tickles your fanny until cohabitational glow fades in the face
Of adversity calling for regaining control over figures of speechlessness
Blank page …?
One last piece of counsel and guidance for a true minimalist poet or scribe
‘I love you’ works well all you have to do is repeat one-hundred times
28th March 2020
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogochis the name of a
small town in the North of Wales
pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis lurks in the shadow of corona
Poem written for Caren Krutsinger's contest 'The day my life went whacko'
Word count exactly three hundred words
I rejected form.
I rejected meter.
I rejected editing.
I rejected reading.
I'm a flash in the pan.
I'm fueled by emotions.
I'm emboldened by scars.
I'm challenged by time.
I wonder how far I could go
if I took the time to study.
If I sat down and honed my craft
and took pride in my words.
I'm certainly no prodigy.
Every verse came at a cost.
Perhaps I'm finally paying the price
by stagnating in my growth.
I let my fingers write.
My mind is actually blank.
It's just a silly white canvas
that never blossomed.
I never once toiled.
I never once struggled.
If it was hard I just gave up
and deleted the verse.
I'm told I write prose
rather than true poetry.
Maybe I don't understand
what the difference is.
I never had any talent.
Writing was my safe space.
Now I have to wonder
if it was ever safe at all.
Admittedly I rejected effort.
I didn't want to actually try
When the minimalist approach
seemed to work so well.
I'm not a prodigy.
I'm not a genius.
I'm not gifted.
I'm not published.
I dreamed of the glass ceiling
but I never dreamed of breaking it.
Maybe I'm just damned to always look through it
and see writers much more dedicated than I.
I made omelettes without breaking eggs.
I created houses with no foundation.
I sang songs without reading the lyrics.
I baked cakes without a recipe.
I don't want to sound entitled
but my writing deserves to be better.
In twelve years I should have accomplished more
than using these poems as tissue paper for tears.
In 2007 I was just a kid
writing five to ten poems daily.
That effort got me noticed
and I shared my verse with crowds.
I was driven by ambition
and fueled by emotion.
All I wanted was adulation
when all I had known was the gallows.
This is the last flash in the pan.
Fleeting emotions can't guide my pen forever.
I do not know what the future holds
but no longer will I be complacent.
I am a writer.
I am a poet.
I am a lover.
I am a fighter.
This is the swan song
of my old poetic style.
With eyes on the horizon
My pen will ever be furious.
We had breakfast on the Champs-Élysées this morning at Café Joyeux. Their croquet monsieur (a breakfast sandwich) was to die for - one bite can cure a hangover. They also serve a deep, rich Yirgacheffee coffee (€15 a cup) that I think God stirs with his little pinkie finger - it’s THAT good.
We took up most of the little outdoor, oval tables on the right side (there are 10 of us) and our little sorority was noisy with chatter - earning us looks. Our European vacation culminates today. We’re flying back to Georgia in a couple of hours. June seemed to drain away like water.
The minion my Grandmère charged with coordinating our vacation, François, breakfasted with us. He’s one of the flock of Sorbonne Université MBAs she recruits each year to infuse new energy into her conglomerates.
He briefed us on our departure and flight. His imposition of definitive order and advance planning allowed us a casual and carefree sense of travel. In an ideal world, he’d coordinate my entire life.
He’s been on-call all month but joined us, off and on - like when we arrived in Doublin, at customs, to smoothly guide us through and again, similarly, in Paris.
He’s 26, very handsome and model looking. He’s perfectly tailored, with an elegant yet minimalist style. He wears dark shirts of admiral and yale blue with long black jackets and gray slacks with no tie. His hair is a hipster straight, blonde fringe.
He’s so perfect that I wouldn’t put it past my Grandmère to have placed him in front of me, like bait, to see if something with us sparked-off.
He’s Frenchly brisk and yet dryly solicitous - as if I have the power to sanction his position, which, in a way I suppose I do.
“How’s François doing?” Grandmère would ask, each time we talked.
“He’s wonderful,” I said, “I think he’s a keeper.”
“Good, good for him.” she would reply - making the comment sound almost sly.
Aha...At Last,..Bitta Bing Bitta Bang
The Figurative Nail Hit On The Hair Strand Size Head!
Though no physician,
this aging baby boomer
absolutely, intuitively, and
unequivocally sensed hair loss (mine),
at first a speculative rumor
not simply in my (ahem) head,
no matter a minimalist groomer
nevertheless, thinning follicles,
upon dawning realization, sans medical
sought relief thru good humor,
though within this balding cerebral noggin
became repulsive as if my scalp
pulled pate rendered as a tumor.
Thus an unexpectedly present surprise
when in private consultation in the guise
as out patient client (early afternoon
December 19th, 2018),
where I did fraternize
and kibitz with the medical assistant
(old enough to be my...sister),
aye did exercise
mild mannered mien mean, aye do patronize
before doctor Rudolf (dearly
reigned) Roth, a practicing
Dermatologist told me no lies
his instant karma knowledge - mainly his
thirty seven years expertise
sought to excise
a prominent non cancerous mole approximately
centered middle of back
a small patch of skin,
he needed to anesthetize
nonetheless, a reassuring persona,
yours truly did lionize
(not merely, cuz
he received a five star rating,
specialist under auspices
of Penn, Medicine)
in Radnor Pennsylvania),
his modest calm did neutralize
any uneasiness, as did his pronounced
humility earn kudos to idolize
such rarely present gentility, and
unwitting capacity did harmonize,
and maximize significance to me,
asper my thinning limp
hair logically rationalize
identified underactive thyroid gland
(hypothyroidism) tubby,
which didst legitimize
no hair brained rooted concern,
hence...less reason to catastrophize',
which for no reason I
wanted to mildly emphasize,
hence choice to apostrophize...
tequila smells like nail polish
and then lemon put in it
tequila now smells like nail polish with lemon
and youre vulnerable to retching
because nail polish regardless of whether there is lemon in it or not
is dangerous because of fruity solvents
like toluene and butyl acetate and ethyl acetate
and plasticizers like dibutyl phthalate
and to be perfectly honest its close to
ruining the taste of the newly tried
miller lite you had
it had a crisp aftertaste like buttered bread
the burger deserves a special seat in
the hall of fame though
hand the tequila off you dumb lightweight
hand it off hes too into it now to notice
you put lemon in it but who would care
the lines of night seem to have gone away
the lines of everything seem to have
gone away
miller lite tastes like beer now and thats it
but youre buzzed
those darn hops once delicious but now delicious but under wrong circumstances
youll never be able to step foot into a spa
without smelling five seventy five a shot tequila
again will you you dumb lightweight
buzzed off a single miller lite
blah blah blah its only ten thirty
and you can feel it that satisfactory dinner in
your stomach and the beer in your chest
and the confusingly unstoppable and
insatiable drinking bird in your head as it
constantly dips and rocks and your
meal came out to fifteen dollars
and the walk out the bar was filled
with strong fear because what if you
stumbled or something around all the
older folk and they said look at these
young bucks thinking they could
drink but you know you really cant
you dumb lightweight
the lines are all fading
they werent exactly visible once you boys
got there now were they
youve got a lot to figure out for yourself
How happy can one be?
Ofentimes, I wonder aloud,
Taking advantage of my creative licence.
Let me explain -
The filth I encounter in this city:
Stinking garbage hills along the sidewalks,
Bloody graffiti of betel-nut stains on walls and lampposts,
Jellying lumps of bronchial ejaculations
On carelessly laid pavements of crowded walkways
On which I negotiate my bearing with a grandmaster's moves,
A gentleman peeing into a roadside drain,
In broad daylight, all the while
Looking up at the sky,
As if he is criticizing a painting of Michelangelo,
Even as his beer color discharge bubbles on
Overflowing effluence let out
From cesspools of adjoining buildings,
A hairless dog licking at a sanitary napkin,
Thinking it is a slice of loaf with generous spread
Of jam on it,
Like the way a chupacabra plays with a helpless lamb
Before the fatal bite.
I reached my breaking point yesterday,
When I saw a shining red car with sparkling windows
Pulled up and a hefty plastic shopping bag flew out of it,
And landed at the foot of a signpost by a level crossing,
Which read - Don't dump rubbish here!
And the car rolled away in style.
I stood frozen in utter disbelief,
While a three legged goat limped in and
Began inspecting what was inside the new arrival.
I returned home hallucinated and deeply scathed.
In the bedroom,
I found your black silk stockings
Sprawled across the floor.
I observed the illusive embroidery on them and sensed
A slow storm brewing up in my guts.
A precarious yearning suddenly nudged me
To touch the blue veins on your ankles.
And I felt a minimalist petal of happiness swirling
On a gentle breeze in my papery existence,
In spite of the revolting landscapes.
Form:
I I
b c
art art
I I
b c
old old
I I
b c
ash ash
I I
b c
one one
I I
b c
all all
y
ell
take refuge in the blues
when the sadness comes without permission
the minor chords, the slow repetition, the cigarette voice,
the dank barely lit bars & the pain drawn out through the synergy of
it all.
take refuge in the rock
when excitement is willingly invited
when the hormones race in the summer heat,
the pumped up psyche of your favorite sports event, the speeding in a car down a wide
open road, the thrill of the fight outside your favorite bar,
the first kiss, the passion that comes with
accepting nothing & delivering all that you want to yourself on your
own.
take refuge in the jazz when perplexed or interested in
pondering,
when the rhythmic beats or painful croon just won’t do,
the meandering notes dancing upon the brain stem & sliding down the spine with
your head buried in a book & consuming the words & images of others,
all part of a bombardment of stimuli
bringing only fresh spontaneity
throughout.
take refuge in rap & the rebellion that ensues within the mind
when the heart steps along the side of the beat meshing
with the metaphors painted in rhyme---
equipped with the minimalist essentials of words culminating mass
illustrations giving feel to actions outside the self
now brought deep
within.
take refuge in classical when exhausted from the day’s strain,
the strings & winds may coax the veins into a calm well deserved or
conversely,
the tempo of the timpani, the beating of the drums & shrills of the higher octaves
will shock us alert to the day’s needs
like sunlight baring down in one’s face---
either way, the whole room is filled with an eruption of
sound.
Dear dada
add an “ist”
to it all
I reject
in the face
of it all
Aestheticism
true beauty
is found in the
ugliness of it all
peaking out
under coverlets
of mud
throwing
spit balls
of pulchitrude
wrapped up
time bombs
that stick
to the banal
unexpected beauty …
of it all,
ambitious
edges and curves
open and inviting
accompanied by caveats
there will be
splendid over-ripe
gardens of Eden
followed teasingly
in close pursuit, by the
madhatters’ tea parties
and Hugos' balls
rooms too large,
and rooms too small
it’s all
rather
simple
underneath
the dirt
of it all
precious
and most expensive
jewels are found
smudged kisses
mascara stained
cheeks of Cinderellas
holding spaces
for roses are red
and violets are blue
daisy chains
of love me
love me knots
tightly
tied
small victories
virtues held
and lost, conquests
stroking glass slippers
drinking in the gins
and espousing
their 3 wishes
looking for
long lost Kings
failing that,
settling for
paupers, not
princes
their crystal balls
over brave and
missing the mark
shattering
then later
lying unclaimed
under the sun
melting
through the
flaws
Dear dada
add an “ist”
to it all
escapist
artist
tourist
minimalist
extremist
illusionist
fatalist
but never
realist
escape artist
mud wrestling naked
in poetic jello, at the
Cabaret Voltaire
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Dadaist.