Long Minutely Poems
Long Minutely Poems. Below are the most popular long Minutely by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Minutely poems by poem length and keyword.
The Peterson Directed Handwriting System...
Tis beyond the depth and scope
of this electronic post,
and author, what triggers deliverance
housing bounty full memory absorbance,
yet no matter how many
heat sinks plumb cognizance,
most ordinary happenstance
often dredge up old nettlesome
rusty mettlesome names
of teachers forbearance
nearly half century ago
recalled in a flash,
and helped birth this poetic instance
break open literary
piece de resistance,
yet I will make
no subsequent reference
albeit once, about Peterson Handwriting
non cursively typed poem
filled with nonsensical abundance
dashed off viz seat
of my squarepants
typed, via strong arm lance
meant tubby considered pure entertainment,
so...,this rhyme merely hints
at cerebral imbalance
as minor rave and rants,
culled from convenient
20/20 hindsight stance,
while this quiet as bobbing sponge
minutely straddled across
space time continuum expanse,
and (analogously, invisibly,
plus quixotically perched circumstance
amidst wide webbed worldly metaphysical,
intellectual, and existential kants),
yet unable to disguise me
porous (poor ass) student advance
barely getting promoted,
cuz sigh re: Seine ed lee
imaged myself prince charming
to frolic and prance,
and dreamt about being in France,
when teacher called on me,
I immediately (whistled like
a little teapot) appearance,
whereby steam issued
out chrome dome
(scanned hull – i.e. numb
skull) affixed on
short and stout genetic grants,
which noggin always
(automatically) looked askance,
while me got alphabetically seated
from grades three to six
(mrs wells, mister stout,
missus shaner, and
miss rinderle respectively)
with absolute zero exuberance
(at Henry Kline
Boyer Elementary School,
I just recalled aforementioned
randomly accessed memory by chance
casually rifling thru
memory bank, freelance
sing, while pissing
away time performing,
"I gotta urinate dance,"
thus rendering painstaking years
perfecting penmanship style
(reference poem title)
executed with Liberace flamboyance,
whereat yours truly obsessively and
compulsively excelled at
duplicating signature compliance
plus crossing T's and
dotting I's with rapacious
perfectly ruled slants.
The Untold story of a Sitar 1 of 3
.
.
Few days back
I got hold of a strange gift
Of an old and slightly broken antique Sitar
It must be older than
Seven to eight decades
Or maybe it came to see the first light
On Earth
Around a century ago. 01
.
My heart was throbbing and almost jumping
To think and imagine
That I posses something
Of unprecedented beauty and melody
With an untold story
Still breathing
In its heart. 02
.
Thinking that I may get success
In adding again
A replacement of those
Strings and knobs
Which may bring back
All its missing tunes and music
Which the Sitar has lost
With the passing
Of many decades of time
When the Sitar got forlorn and neglected
And gradually
It lost some of its most essential
And dear body parts. 03
.
One day I was watching it minutely
To appreciate
The beauty of this antique Sitar
When I suddenly found
A name ‘Tan’ written
On one of its broken keys
And unknowingly
I began to anticipate
That with the perhaps
With the passing of time
The Sitar would have shifted
From the soft hands
Of its first owner
Whose name was perhaps ‘Tan’. 04
.
And surprisingly
This name ‘Tan’ was still
Faintly visible
Written on one of the broken knob
Of that antique Sitar
Which I happened to posses now. 05
.
I imagined and presumed
That perhaps
It’s unseen owner Tan
May had left that beauty mark
By writing her unique lovely
Name ‘Tan’
Which still appears to be
Singing silently and shining dimly
After many ignored decades
The untold love story of Tan. 06
.
That faintly written name
Appeared to me
As the last impression and effort
Of a beautiful skilled
Musician woman in love
To immortalize her name & musical lore’s
By mildly engraving that name
On one of the knob
Of this beautiful Sitar
Which for me was
No less precious
Then the Grecian Urn
Which was spreading the same
Beauty and stillness
With a difference
That the Sitar was still capable
To reproduce
The vibrations of all those sweet melodies
Which got lost on this unique
Musical instrument of the last century
With the passing and change of time. 07
Ravindra
Kanpur India 13th April 2016
I'm kind of taken by Jeremy Corbyn, the man and his success,
And believe that for the leadership role he may be able to dress;
I think what’s going unsaid is that he’s kind of in a way funny,
Minutely, not gloomy like Brown or Miliband, but kind of somewhat sunny.
He’s a breath of fresh air on the economy and education,
‘Cos he’ll tax the rich more and increase the tax of corporation,
He’ll set up a National Education Service for any and for all,
And restrict free schools so that upon liberality they will call.
Tax evasion will be dealt with, so Amazon and Starbucks can cower,
And housing rents will be controlled, to let the hard-worker flower;
Immigration will not be dismissed, and welfare reform will be opposed,
And Trident will not be renewed, as political solutions will be supposed.
The renationalisation of energy giants will stop high electricity bills,
And Europe will centre in British politics and system safety drills;
The NHS will not be privatised but with social care it will be warm,
And women’s workplace rights will be proffered in a massive, great big swarm.
He'll have a Minister for the Arts, to trophy art, music, literature and poetry,
He opposed the Iraq war, and will work with Russia at diplomacy;
He’ll fight for socialism and its beliefs, but in a modern way, considered,
And he’ll represent normal people, because he comes from Salford.
However, I don't like John MacDonnell, the Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer,
Who should be more for the centrist view and a conscientious people reader;
His right-hand man should be someone who gives the opinion of the party’s right,
To offset Labour Leader Mr Corbyn and his radical, militant, socialistic fight.
But all the best to you, Jeremy, I hope things go your way,
And you stabilise the country with the left-wing policies of the day;
Although your shadow cabinet should be more representative in its views,
I hope that the economy rewards you for your heartfelt unionist dues.
You can read some of Jeremy Corbyn's poetry at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/politics/Jeremy_Corbyn/11844716/Published-at-last-the-poems-of-Jeremy-Corbyn.html
Elusive Ephemeral Ethereal Expansive: Timelessness
Analogous to mobius strip -
measured passage of existence
only took precedence
with *****sapiens ascendent
busting forth upon
the figurative pedestal
presiding over domain,
sans Earthly covenant
a bajillion ago,
where fits and starts
pitted proto humans
at no immediate advantage,
yet merely, thru
dint of accidental
happenstance ever so
imperceptibly amassed dominion
over every other species
as became evident
throughout the vast sweep of
anthropological
evolutionary incidental
plucky perturbations, provocations,
and/or pullulations arisen by
spontaneous circumstantial grant
ting quasi consciously
coalescing into brutish
deliberated focused intent,
where forethought
coopted indiscriminate
chance facilitating kent -
manifested rubber
baby buggy bumpers
activated, aggrandized, and
allotted destiny meant
to lurch incrementally
i.e. hierarchical designation
present day primate
predecessors practiced negligible
notched nimbleness orchestrated
(equal parts gall and genetic
giftedness), whatsapp operant
adaptation toward
survival rippled quiescent
lee minutely nudging overt salient
traits ineluctably
manifesting, outflanking,
and proffering
quintessential urgent
biological scrim quietly testing,
and wrestling, whence yen
(to secure rootedness)
zeroing what didst warrant
winning formula
to adapt adroit edge
pitted by dictates of nature
grappling iron
grip, viz literal hedge
fund and kickstarting toehold
upon tenuous ledge
(oft times succumbing to danger)
falling into abyss
of anonymity pledge
jing acquired innovative tool
such as a primitive sledge
hammer instinctively
resigning animal instinct
death be not proud not
before inculcating
survivalist tactical wedge.
Written on 29th and 30th April 2012.
BY: Sashi.Prabhu (zeauoxian)
Father time always has lessons to open heartedly preach,
Of late have understood few of them, which was for a long time out my thoughts reach.
Now life seems to me as a sandy bank of a long desolate beach,
Where we trudge life’s sandy path in a hurry without an end the shores of success to reach.
But I often ask myself, what lessons, life to us, does preach?
Need to with all 5 senses deem or else we will end up filled with remorse and impeach.
People tell me about change,
And ways to my life rearrange.
But my heart and mind vehemently hum to me to be real sure,
And ensure that the changes don’t take my life on an offbeat detour.
Far away from people who on me shower their love and care,
Is that what you desire I ask myself? Stop think, mull and be minutely aware.
Life’s Moments pass us like flowing water of a the sea or stream,
Linger on, Sweet memories of some wonderful people who touched us like waves, come to mind or in our dreams.
In our quests to succeed and get on in life we strive to move ahead to the success shore,
And those cherished moments keep flashing in our dreams and in our thoughts more & more.
But
We trudge each day life’s sandy path in a hurry the shores of success to reach.
Need to with all 5 senses deem or else we will end up filled with remorse and impeach.
Life’s Moments pass us like flowing water of a the sea or stream,
Linger on, Sweet memories of some wonderful people who touched us like waves, come to mind or in our dreams.
So
I often mull and ask my mind,
Mostly about me but also about thoughts that often in mind and they themselves grind.
Must I, my beliefs, ideology and principles change?
To improve my life and it’s relations and my entire life rearrange?????
Now
I long to be my original me
As an original is worth more than a copy, as the world conceives and all see,
I am my original me.
I am me
I am
Me………….
He had fondly decided to do his best
And win her love- his warm,cute choice ;
He flew about her, in chivalry and poise,
Who pecked and offered him to build a nest
That should be all of comfort and pride,
Besides being surely safe and compact ;
Beating amorous wings he receded with tact :
It should be pompous ; she won't deride
Nor ever in any way, the cosy love decline ,
As he would truly buckle down and align
Hovering about the nearby greenery and foliage,
He perched finally on an entangled branch,
Watching the waters running through a ranch ;
From the dawn to the dusk he did engage
His spirits and effort to search and port,
Shreds and patches of fronts and grass;
Every flight secured his hope and strength across ;
And then in all came up a neat little fort,
The emotive achiever made a careful scrutiny
Contented that the nest would house his destiny.
Fluttering around the proud preener, he did woo
In soft twitters and impulsive moves explicit ,
Of flapping wings and the beak came the tweet ;
The preview began without much ado....
Just a perch on the nest shaped well
And a few choice leaps here and there ...
She shrugged and fluttered away in the air
Leaving the poor proposer in a pell-mell
Yet was there a helpless humble chase
To seek the hopeful way out of the maze
The crest-- fallen darer with lost regard
And vanity, wrathfully began to crack --
Peeling and undoing every minutely twined pack
And pull down- his love laboured hard ,
With perches and hops crazy and anger agile;
The torn naive mass from the foliage nook,
Fell into the nonchalant water of the brook;
The puny loser's flight was fretful and fragile;
Snug warmth empowers and accomplishes a task
While cold pride crushes and sticks a mask.
RECIPE: “Poulet Roti” French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal 6
(NOTE: This French “ballade” is being composed on permutations of the number ONE repeated twice, I.e., 11. Eleven syllables to the line in iamb or anapeste, interposed with dactyls, I guess, and of course with the ENVOI added. Eleven lines to the STANZA in eleven in res media “instalments”involving the minutely PERSONAL in interaction with the larger hoi polloi in relation to the STATE and its tentacular authoritarian apparatuses designed to keep the independent INDIVIDUAL always nailed in limbo.) T Wignesan
STANZA VI
“So why don’tya get out of this Third World hell !”
Near-East stronghold now in Maghreb stranglehold
Where Asians and Africans mingle pell-mell
Where the French affix sign-boards on their soil: “SOLD!”
The moonlight flit now turned to Indian rope trick
Where East Europeans come thick and homesick
To join the ranks of those from South-Euro lands
Who make much of the Far Right extremist brigands
Les français de souche* still commute to keep jobs
Like they once nostalgic did in foreign lands
The migrant refugee does odd jobs and robs
ENVOI
French lasses push prams with babes sunburnt inlands
No Tariq Ali* need turn back for want of bans
May the World colourless be sans hapless gods
Or will it taken over be by hooligans
The migrant refugee does odd jobs and robs
*Les français de souche: the French of stolid French ancestry.
*Tariq Ali, the Berber Moor alighted on the rock of Gibraltar, in 709 C. E. , with 30,000 horsemen, and by 711 had over-run the Iberian Peninsula, but Abdul Rahman al-Gafiqi, the Governor General of al-Andalus, who tried to extend the conquests further into Europe was halted in his tracks by the Frank Charles Martel at the Battle of Poitiers/Tours in 732.
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Hidden under crop circle
resembling an ampersand
hides sheathed silo - obscured,
said symbol adorned every armband
of national socialist, yet weapons
of mass destruction) bland
lee, blatantly ignored global pact
prepared from this once (bajillion
years ago) geologic bottomland
repurposed for a bomb bin able
(made in good ole US of A) brand
to release payload
upon given command
i.e. at moments notice,
the notorious brigand
usurped entire communications broadband
to stow and let loose by,
thee once upon a time pokey cowhand,
now chief of state tyrant,
sans military industrial complex edifice
where deadly warheads demand
did and trumpeted by "FAKE EVIL"
apprentice madly (ad libbing)
gesticulating, & expostulating to DISBAND
at once - to no effect
falling on deaf ears
as Doomsday Clock rhythmically
minutely gourmandises
cannibalizing entire webbed
world, whose former slender
(now stubby) baby grand
piano playing butter fingers
primed to press miniature
Taj Mahal shaped hand,...
(now a pause for infowars
commercial identification about Homeland
security threatened by migrant husband
and wife, especially terror unleashed
from baby, whose hood
loom doth not expand
much taller than kickstand),
Regular noteworthy poetic program resumes:
...but biological chattering multiplicand
the fiercest most critical operand
linkedin with scheme
asper deadly retaliatory reprimand
against leader of free world,
a hot headed note tory us
donning wig by handmaiden Shetland
knitwear, which Total Mortal Kombat
every man, woman and will soon understand!
KA-BOOM! Into a bajillion
(to the power of Googleplex)
goes civilization and discontents,
and since World War II
accursed with self destructive hex
hmm...mebbe terrestrial for
another species similar to T-Rex.
Our own rough road too Salzburg
Then, prematurely those familiar cliffs of your morning appear
strangely there is no sea in your blurred dawn viewpoint just
rolling waves, those same un-swimmable white horses just
rolling in your stomachs pit, galloping wildly, then crashing
your standing with a gut full of feel, that feel ! of weighted thrown
iron shoes surprisingly as your breath draws inward its obvious
creeping emptiness, dissolves any rational plan for your day.
In a small mouse sized space where live, your fags, crumpled bills,
small brown bottles of pills, tea bags, coffee pot and “stale photos”
And in the memories of those “stale photos” minutely blinks a spark
squeezed out of the creased years of folds, you add up, the gains, and loss, your head turns, away looks up right, as your balanced hand sweaty slips slowly down the paint needing door post, picks up a splinter prick, your pain ridden blood, trickles out, and into your tired eyes, that rough road too Salzburg morning rolls on in.
Coffee doesn’t cut it anymore, and Gin in the bin is much lighter
you feel like, your a voyeur inside, behind your own eye sockets
gazing out with change in mind, but sadly without the needed plan.
Spilt bouncing runaway coins, unassisted by notes, or cards trip over the mornings mountains of worries, their as big as the moon
that ache, straightening up, the cat eats, you don’t, no need to feed
while plump, well abused waist lines hanging on celebrities wealth
mouths as big as their bank balance, tell me too give ? What ! Up?
Each of us stands on our own rough road too Salzburg,
you cannot compare journeys, media moguls will judge you
each of us fall, on that rough road too Salzburg over and over
but that dirt on trousers and skirt, always breaks your fall.
You create them
You give birth to them
You nurture them
You raise them
All the while seeking to rearrange them
For you insist on always owning them
Kids are forever
Children are our saviour
Dynasties become prolonged
It is never best to have just one
Mirrors of one’s ambition
Apple of our critical eye
A mini me who is never contrary
A vessel to fill with my life plan
Someone to control till I die
Pride is king
The family name is nirvana
The façade of respectability must never crumble
All and sundry must toe the line
For the world must believe all in this household is fine
Be better
Be all we wish you to be
Attain heights we never grasped
Never let our ambition lapse
Caged and thus unable to be free
Longing for a faraway glimpse of liberty
Dying to show some level of individuality
A life on a road to eventual calamity
Secrets and hopes
Are encased deeply
In a psyche that aches gloomily
Insular and depressed
They contemplate university
They exist from day to day
Awaiting a long list of all they need to say
The dress sense must be perfect
Their manner never abrupt
Everything is done to give the family
A social step up
Grades must be exemplary
A career path must show economic sensibility
Friends must be vetted minutely
Who cares about your sanity
Do it all for our vanity
You can never grow up
We own you for life
Fly the nest and we follow
We are your bothersome shadow
Letting go is hard for us to do
When we made you
It was not only because we wanted you
Our future plans have always revolved around you
Smile and never let the world know
How dismally we have wrecked you
Those that must forever be
The centre of another’s world
Have a big responsibility
They are clones
And will always be second best