Long Mite Poems
Long Mite Poems. Below are the most popular long Mite by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mite poems by poem length and keyword.
even scrunching brow
defeats and doth be lie
this one measly mortal well nigh
tuckered out on par with calculating pi
tangential to asking if and/or
how i can access
fullest potential...say to write
about with the aid of symbols
i.e. letters to expound on an idea trite
or one that confounded mankind
many millenniums or quite
sum indeterminate orbits 'round el sol,
no ability within this mite
ova reproductive happenstance (yes me),
whom ye could tell go fly a kite
for inducing confusion,
but the nature of this har re: beast
with a little insight
gripped, harangued, rankled,
et cetera, thus communicates
hello or goodnight,
which understandable
simple words may not excite
as quotidian oft repeated philosophical
mental challenges
i didst expend effort to cite,
which mind exercises offers
no exit, ouch that doth byte
and if subjected to a brain scan
would blind technicians
and set alight
frenzied uproar amidst *****Sapiens
via intense thinking to induce blind
ness flailing at feeling trapped
asper being teased at find
ding no beginning
or end like a mobius strip
analogous to space/ time continuum
that little effort could
blow a fuse in the mind.
adieu: from matthew scott harris
hook halls schwenksville, pennsylvania
hiz home tow win.
There once was a lad who loved beans,
But only the ones that were green.
For breakfast, dinner and lunch,
Even for snacks and brunch,
All he wanted to eat were green beans.
He planted a garden of his own,
And green bean seeds were all that were sown.
Row upon row of beans grew,
Much more than a few,
And he picked them when they were done growin'.
Once picked he would snap them all up,
And measure them out by the cup.
He cooked some with a ham,
Turned others into jam,
Then invited his friends to come sup.
Now, his friends thought him a mite *****.
His diet of green beans caused some fear.
If green beans were all he ate,
What would be his fate?
'Cause he's starting to look green 'round the ears.
2/1/13
for Isaiah Zerbst's Irish contest.
Bleeding vampire turns baby girl
He didn't want to, but she insisted
He thought she was too young but she begged him to do it
His mother was horrified; the neighbors mad.
Her mother was angry at him forever after,
And he was perpetually being chased down by her angry angry dad
That is what we do, baby girl said, smug and happy.
She was his little vampire sidekick, all smart and snappy
They ran through dreams at night, Bleeding Vampire and Baby Sue
They turned other babies, and toddlers, and an old lady too
The old lady was not tasty; they fought over who had to do it.
Baby Sue would not, so BV finally took a bite. and nearly blew it.
Old woman neck taste is putrid. The after puke stays in for a week.
Baby girl bit the woman's cocker spaniel, and made the guy squeak
They are now running in a pack, BV, BS, OW and Doggie Mite
You'd best hide under the covers, for they have your address tonight.
What if....?
Death was a lottery,
With a Powerball price of a million dollars
Will people still queue up to play?
What if death was a clock, and you had one option
To either fast forward, pause, or rewind it; What will your option be?
What if death was a bank, and one could advocate with it;
Request death forgiveness, death deferment, or death forbearance?
What about death refinancing or death equity?
What if death was like a touch tone phone
And one could put death on hold;
Press zero to bypass mesmerizing angels of death at the reception;
And pally or advocate directly with death?
What if death was a court,
And one could ask for an interlocutory injunction,
Or death arbitration, death adjournment or deferment?
What if death was a wish,
Will beggars still elect to ride, or bolt like Usain?
What if death was cash and carry,
Will the rich, high and mighty,
Be so generous with their cash, as they are to brand names like:
Ferrari, Bugatti and Louis Vuitton?
Or will they chicken out like a cold Turkey?
What if death was a rain check
Will people Queue up to cash in on it?
What if death was like a set of clothes
And one could change from it
Like a Snake discards it's old and worn out skin?
What if death was a marathon
Who would elect to first breast the tape?
What if death was a school or an exam,
And one could do a remediation, carry death over,
Select another elective, or take a death sabbatical?
What if death was an essential commodity
Would you put it on layaway
And make installment plan ?
What if death was a widow,
Will people still accept a widows mite? What if.....?
Speeding to progress height
my special son zooms toward zestful flight
driving with his wheel chair with delight
whirling from left to right
cheering us all aright…
Vanquishing spastic blight
which does not well excite
he communes with gestures’ might
conquering boredom’s fight
flying cheerfully custom-made kite…
Then he grabs pen to write
figures clear at his sight
mom’s teeth showing smile’s bright
sister’s bag purely white
bits of cheese he can cheerily bite…
Along good appetite
he strives hard to recite
mumbling sounds without fright
noisy, oh, never quite
mirth-filled midst giggling sprite…
Soon enthralled with flash light
he grips it really tight
exuding smiles that invite
toward genuine respite
from rigors never trite.
With lullaby’s dim light
ending his prayer* plight
comes stuffed toy’s tinkling mite
messing up slumber site
for quirky wriggling cheerful night.
*Psalm 69:13 But as for me, my prayer is unto thee, O LORD, in an acceptable time: O God, in the multitude of thy mercy hear me, in the truth of thy salvation.
March 17, 2020
Edited on March 27, 2020
Honorable Mention, "STRAND PICK 3,any theme,any form" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 4/7/2020.
From thee over-ewesed too letter word 'up' wee get a lot of mileage.
It has moor meanings than any other word inn thee English language.
Without reelizing it wee weave it intwo hour daily conversashuns,
Oratshuns, knowtashuns, quotashuns, summashuns and exhortashuns!
Wee pier 'up' at thee sky butt it makes know cents two say wake 'up'!
At a meating if a topic comes 'up' wee mae bee asked two speak 'up'!
Politicians ar 'up' four election and beefour exercising wee warm 'up'!
People tend two stir 'up' trouble and wee panic when a drain plugs 'up'!
She gets gussied 'up' fore a knight out and he drives bye two pick her 'up'!
Gluttons work 'up' an appetite, gorge themselves and then throw 'up'!
Wee drive a pick 'up' and if it gets rear-anded wee get it fixed 'up'!
Wee lock 'up' thee house, cover 'up' hour tracks and make excuses 'up'!
Mom dusts 'up' thee room, warms 'up' leftovers and cleans thee kitchen 'up'!
When it reigns it clouds 'up' and when thee son comes out it clears 'up'!
When it reigns it soaks 'up' thee earth and if it doesn't reign things dry 'up'!
A joke cracks ewe 'up'. If things don't go write, yore dey's awl screwed 'up'!
Stores ar opened 'up' inn thee mourning and at knight they ar closed 'up'!
Ewe use thee dictionary two look 'up' words if there meaning is mixed 'up'!
If ewe ar 'up' two it yew mite try two think 'up' moor weighs of using 'up'!
Butt four now my time is 'up' sew eye'll shut 'up' and rap this thing 'up'!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Birds have their moments,
capybara have moments.
Bison, bighorns, and bumblebees,
all creatures, despite the harshness
or savagery of their life
enter that moment where they quite simply
delight in just being.
The flea hops into bliss then jumps back,
back into its speck of existence.
A mite on the back of a flea
rides along into its moment also.
Just one moment
and there, there in your emptiness
you forget to be this long string of moments
swirling in an ocean of moments.
Even the plentiful and smallest sparrows
have their moment. A time of no-time
an instant free of thought when they cease to be,
yes even the ever unheeding, momentary flea.
Dowry, drug addiction, and domestic violence rule
Female foeticide and female infanticide go cool.
Abortions, corruption, and gender inequality
Racism, human trafficking, casteism, and poverty
Food adulteration, wealth hoarding, consumerism, and greed
With many such evils, we, as a society, bleed.
Where are our good-bad consciences and consciousnesses?
Where are our ethically fit philanthropic choices?
Like a crack in the rail track, there's moral delinquency.
There's a slip of synchrony in the social symphony.
Virtues, like iron in saline waters, are eroded.
Human regulations seem to be, from somewhere, goaded.
Are our weak feet slipping from the edge of a worn-out cliff?
Do we, in our sailing, seek for each leg a single skiff?
Our link to each other, to shun anomie, should unite.
Though small, for the good of all, shouldn’t we bestow our mite?
Ritualism, retreatism, and rebellion should end.
Our knees, to compassion, temperance, and justice, should bend
If my pen would talk, it'd say what I thought,
what do I think would come straight from the ink.
If it was blue, red, or black the words wouldn't change,
the ink states the facts.
The facts are words, thoughts and rhyme,
reading them could take some time.
Time is here, there and all around,
my pen making the only sound.
The sound is words, rhythm and rhyme,
the sound it says is for you and I.
Now that my pen has said what its said,
its talked quite a bit to get near the end.
With an end near and in its site,
my pen has used much of its mite.
Its talked and wrote, for this, this note it wrote.
What's the meaning with all this ink thats been said,
was for you my (Debi) our love is that, what's been said.
I love you, as my pen has showed its took quite a bit,
to get to this part of the show.
With the credits running past through and through,
it boils down to just me and you.
I love you my sweet, my pen has agreed,
I love you my dear, it's you that I need.
My pen has wrote what's needed to be said,
I love you baby, this last part is from (Ken).
The cap has been placed back on the pen,
the words at the end, came from me and my heart within.
I love you.
...dead mice thus far do gnaw, splintered mirrors
neck and rubber yet with scant regret.
Ropes both for hanging and climbing, good grief,
bad love, honey-do-dew in a salty brew.
In my closet, pockets unpacking pockets,
string bags under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls as mute as hollow urns
turn to cry their mournful why’s.
One horror story lives forever much chewed over
by skeletal moths and stray cats.
The edge of IF, the pots of peeled moonlight
guttering in a midsummer dunk, these glad me not,
yet are kept like the pickled smiles of saucy women.
In my book of lies there are truths still worth distorting,
times killed by a compulsive retelling,
fields plowed over too long
where the dead are uncovered only to dance again
on the graves of long reclining martyrs.
The drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
works slackened and sent unfixed back to the
depths from which they came. The unclaimed, reclaimed
and the unnamable named.
Yet here I am, the one person, this golden spark
in a potash smutter, still blinking my way,
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic wings hover
to grab up my rash stash of self, and I say:
yes let them yes come, and god help those wings.