Long Mix up Poems
Long Mix up Poems. Below are the most popular long Mix up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mix up poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s 2022, we’re in the final battle for the soul of the world.
There is no Indo-European root for soul,
the Greek and Germanic roots mean quick-moving, fleeting, mercurial.
I’d add evanescent, impermanent, ephemeral
disappearing, diminishing, dwindling
tenuous, brief, short-lived.
Whatever forever—that’s where we’ll be after WWIII.
World, home, think, breathe: man,
woman the vital force in man, the Anthropocene, men together
violence, virtue, virility. Also, werewolf.
War: to confuse, mix up, make worse.
The old are paying close attention but my sons ignore the thunder,
plate tectonics, gamma ray bursters and mortars on the Eurasian front.
Peace out—the end, limit, boundary, never to have been. So long,
sayonara, shalom, salaam. Take into eternity my hail and farewell.
My navigation seems as though toward eternity,
Though I'm alone, I could feel an unknown fraternity;
Surrounding the highway, both sides, are beautiful greenbelts,
While passing the mountainous paths from peaks rocks soft snow melts...!
I started alone from the darkness of obscurity,
Fate, midst kith and kin, has been my constant security;
Each season of summer, spring, autumn, winter, and monsoon,
I've been moving through a grand universal rhythmic tune...!
The path is not, always, symmetrically straight and smooth,
Scenes and landscapes do not always, sensory organs sooth;
Turns, twists, terrifically tricky titanic tunnels,
Hills and mountains that resemble black brown and grey funnels...!
Graves like Pits, ditches, drenches, potholes, and patch-ups pop up,
Dogs, cats, cows, donkeys, horses, and even wild beasts mix up;
Wrong-side, drunk, speedaholic, wreckless, and ruthless drivers,
Men and women who ignore signals and road-dividers...!
My aim, midst these, like a river toward the sea, is clear,
Day or night winter or summer, I have nothing to fear;
Humans or animals I meet, good or bad, I confront,
I drive ahead, calm and quiet, fighting each battlefront...!!!
21 January 2023
Pick-A-Title, Vol 34 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
grandma never knew her name until she was an adult
and it was Helena (some kind of birth certificate mix up)
she embraced her new found name
it was lovely sliding off the lips like a waterfall
later, she found her Ojibwe roots
and I hear the drums of my ancestors in my heart beating
grandma was our family storyteller
she fascinated me and sparked my imagination
I would watch her lips as she spoke
how her voice changed
how her facial expressions changed
I never grew tired of listening to her stories
stories told over and over until her death of people and places
nothing was written down
they died with her. . . I think that was meant to be
grandma had given me a book
a journal for my small girl thoughts
and told me- write it, write it
write it, for the world to know
so I did, I wrote in my room stories about my cat and flowers
in time, I wrote of my sadness that made grandma cry
I had a gift just like Helena
I was a storyteller but in words
a poet was born
in a old attic room
I was lost in a sea of emotions
everyday over tea I would read my words for Helena,
I was able to pour my heart and soul on paper
my skill grew with me like a cool rippling stream
the drums of time ceased
for my Helena and I wrote and read her eulogy
my heart swelled with a sea of tears
then, I heard weeping echoing in the church
within the stained glass window glow
and I knew then that I had a power
Helena's gift... I had inherited
because of her I am a writer
the bond between us a delicate flower
and she had said to this sad little girl
find the sweetness in the dregs of sorrow
for life is a lighted window and a closed door
_________________________
August 3, 2019
Poetry/Verse/For Helena
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1223-804-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted into Strand No 670 Contest,
sponsor, Brian Strand
Second Place
I look at the world through rosy glasses
It helps me tolerate the asses
And as each new day passes
I am happy to be here
The glass I see is half-way full
I think diversity is kind’a cool
Mix up genes in the human pool
And let prejudices disappear
I like staying optimistic
Even if it’s not always so realistic
Being otherwise just makes me sick
I hope my meaning is quite clear
So, if you must wear a frown
And see the glass as half-way down
I don’t want you come’n round
Unless you’re wanting to be cheered
The pessimists are down the hall
The realists don’t exist at all
The fatalists wait for the call
They all think I’m kind’a *****
But, I am happy to be me
You get exactly what you see
This, I hope, I’ll always be
For another 50 years
What you talking about Mister?
He asked after the man
said "Sea Her F". C+ Sea
Her + the woamn
F is F!
Chef man it's a joke.
That aint something worth
laughing over. What you want me
to say man: Sea he F?
We See oh, oh Kay!
Shout your mouth
and clean under the table.
I heard they were having
Seudoughmankie..You might
have over heard them speaking
but I know damn well you
weren't included
in such conversation.
Get the broom or the mop
and get back to work.
Why are you smiling : you think
it's funny don't you> Mister Waurttir
would like to hear about you
goofing around,
sir what is your name.
My name is Du Talon "Chef extraordinaire"
You had me going Mister Talon:
ah I mean Chef Du Talon!
I apoligize for the mix up!
I did that man joking around:
my wife told me I played around to much
that's why they booted me outta the
theather< I once was a
theatrical marvel,
the gift of music aand song!
Wanna hear me sing?
To be frank;
I don't need to play prank,
For your unspoken words,
To fly to my heart's nest like birds.
To be serious;
I don't have to be hilarious,
If truly true love don't run smooth,
A mould morales that soothe.
To be candid;
You won't want to be stranded,
Before you pray my caress,
That for free I coalesce.
To be real;
You barely should plea,
When attention digress off gaze,
Your eyes' roses drive me so craze.
To be best friend;
It doesn't have to depend,
On your girlhood status,
For virginity don't determines SHE callous.
To be successful;
He needs not woman so colorful,
Rather caught amidst feelings & readiness,
For forever in spite whatever for liveliness.
To be cultured;
There is no need to place morals acquired,
On the possible retriever of mistake,
That had born enough good by its ache.
To make mix-up stop;
There is need to stoop,
Not that low,
But let him know.
Iamb, Trochee, Spondee, Pyrrhic. Do those words have meaning for you? If not, you may find it handy as a poet to learn how to employ at least a few of them. They are names for the most common of the two-syllable feet used in classic poetry forms and many rhymed forms of today (there are other metrical feet used for 3 syllables). Poets can practice to become skilled at any one of them, but often poets are drawn to just a few when they write naturally. Iamb is the one that I prefer. When your words rise and fall in an unstressed to stressed rhythmic pattern, you are using iambic meter. Five feet of these unstressed-stressed syllables is called pentameter. That is why a sonnet is written in Iambic Pentameter. The traditonal sonnet writer uses ten syllables which are divided into five feet of unstressed/stressed syllables.
Here is the way Iamb looks if I show just two-syllable examples: de/TEST, un/LOVED, a/ WORD, go/ HOME. It would sound unnatural to say DEtest, UNloved, A word or GO home. The poet chooses his metrical foot and simply goes with the flow! If I choose to write a triolet, I would use Iambic Tetrameter (8 syllables with 4 feet of Iamb). When you consider all the different combinations of feet and meter, there is much to be learned! You can even mix up types of meter or use them unrhymed! To some poets it comes naturally -no textbook required. I have known free verse poets to say, "I just don't 'hear' it." But a few of those poets practiced and practiced; with time I saw them grow!
For those who want to practice poetry
in such a way to make their poems sing,
Iambic meter is one way to go.
Unstressed, then stressed creates a pleasant flow.
So give your words some musicality.
Keep practicing, and then your skills will grow.
Aug. 5, 2018
MYSTAKES
Mystakes…Misteaks…Mistakes
made everywhere by everyone;
13. A misjudgment of memory in what was wrote down
3. A errror of sintax in computer coding
6. A falt in a car’s nackered engine
9. A discrepancy in a shop’s cash office readout
11. A problem with line memorisation as an actor perform onstage
8. A slip-up on a drunken night out
2. A inaccuracy of a burette measurement in a science exam
5. A mix-up of paytients in surgery operations
12. A long forgotten deadline for a university assignment
4. A blunder of five hundred doomed men charging into battle in the wrong direction
10. A miscalculation in clockwork chronometry
7. A lapse in concentration as a lunch order is given to the wrong customer in a cafe
14. A misjudgment of memory in what was wrote down
1. A oversight in gramma and speling in a poem
Mystakes made everywhere by
everyone but nobody learns from it.
A Mazed Mind
Thoughts manifest and harbor within
Boiling like a kettle bursting at the lid...
When the whistle blows now uncontrollable
Actions become actions no longer affordable...
Elevated emotions mix up all your chemistry
Taking perfect lines and twisting telemetry...
When the dots disconnect leaving an open void
The Architect turns Addict becoming paranoid...
Instructions become a labyrinth of complete dead ends
Turning left, turning right directions won't comprehend...
Losing control the mind slips now unable to stand up straight
Sitting flat on your **** waving goodbye to all those you hate...
bmdavey@08/31/16
Today we traveled from Bayfield, Wisconsin to Bark River, Michigan
We are staying at a beautiful cabin by the lake….
The 200 mile drive went smoothly…except for one slight navigational mistake.
We planned to stop at this 52 foot. statue of Hiawatha
In Iron River…where…since 1964 he has stood.
In my defense…not knowing Michigan
it’s easy to mix up Iron River…with the similar sounding Ironwood.
So…when we reached Iron River and Deborah read about the statue
I was half right …Hiawatha is his name
but he stands in the town of Ironwood…100 miles back the way we came.
So much for Hiawatha…and my map reading expertise…
but we forgot all about him when we reached our cabin…
nestled among white cedar trees.
We learned from Walt, the owner of our cabin,
as we felt a cool Lake Michigan breeze…
how, to the Native Americans, white cedars are considered sacred trees.
In his front yard we listened…surrounded by a wide array of flowers
while Walt told us how they believe the white cedars are imbued with healing powers.
How passed down from their ancestors…were legends such as these…
that there are protective spirits hidden in these trees.
He encouraged us to hug these trees… so we could feel their power too
which of course the two of us were more than willing and happy to do.
The white cedars are also called the tree of life…
because…lasting through the summer heat and the winter cold….
some white cedars standing today…are well over 1000 years old.
If we had to miss a 52 foot Hiawatha…by taking the wrong route
landing in thicket of 50 foot tall white cedar was a wonderful substitute
Stories such as these…like the one you have just heard…
prove once again how life is…and always will be…such a beautiful word.