Long Mockers Poems
Long Mockers Poems. Below are the most popular long Mockers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mockers poems by poem length and keyword.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
ETERNAL SLUMBER
I'm Serving Savory Sacrifices of Soulful Songs,
Soundly Singing psalms so Sonorously:
So-fa-mi-ra-do,
Sweet Songs on my lips Staples,
So far my radio
Shook so many Tables
Souls Scintillatingly Trembles
As feets, mouths and hands Dabbles
Soul-prayerfully we stand so strong like Jambuls
Making my Mumble Mockers go Bunkers,
Mayhem Magnanimously, Murderously Making More Moaners
Including the Stalkers, Scorners and Spoilers,
Inoculate my jesters into the sleep ocean.
Pollute their Motion & Intention with slumbering Potion
Because no fusion to be awaken in life's institution,
Now look at them in their slumbering execution,
They are even doing choreography sleep!
Lol...Sheepishly taken astray like a Shaded Sheep
To be slaughtered by bounded brainstorming breezes, blowing,
Bellowing, bringing bed-time bruises, bad buddies broken,
Shaken, Sailing Straight into Solitary Severe Sleep instead,
Eternally Entangled into Ephemeral Everlasting End.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© 31st December, 2019.
Tricking; treating; meeting, eating, sometimes, cheating!
Amidst, mount-like cards, we, like owls, keep on guessing!
Neither hunger nor thirst for souls; play soul polling!
Like jokers and mockers, we do costume knolling!
Ghosts and souls carved pumpkins with lamps keep us howling!
Warm bonfires give us a whole soul social feeling!
Apple bobbing makes the old feel young, strength glowing!
Divinations, fairy, and scary: Mind-blowing!
Pranks prove us hooks and crooks and jacks great trick trolling!
We don't leave experimenting with haunt growling,
Or horror scenes watching; scary storytelling…
Till we, at dawn, like sun rays, see all saints smiling!
27 October 2021
Halloween Monorhyme Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
From the depths of struggle, where shadows loom and hide,
I'll rise, unbroken, with a spirit that won't subside.
Like a phoenix from the ashes, I'll emerge anew,
With flames that fuel my soul, and a heart that's pure and true.
Through life's trials and tribulations, I'll find my way,
With every step, I'll rise, and chase the darkness away.
I'll stand tall and unafraid, like a mountain strong and high,
Unshaken by the winds of doubt, and the storms that pass me by.
The mountains I'll climb, the oceans I'll swim,
I'll conquer every obstacle, and rise above the din.
Through fire and rain, I'll walk, unshaken and unmoved,
For in the midst of storms, I'll find peace, and a love that's improved.
With every breath, I'll pray, and seek guidance on my way,
For strength to carry on, through life's trials and swaying.
I'll rise, like the morning sun, that chases away the night,
And brings new hope, and new light, to all that's been fought for in the fight.
Tears will dry, and disappear, like morning dew,
Problems will vanish, like mist that the sun pursues.
No sorrow, no worries, no struggle, tomorrow will bring,
For I'll rise, like dust that's lifted, by the wind's gentle wing.
My dreams will be fulfilled, my desires, all that I've prayed,
A new chapter will unfold, and the old me will be displayed.
The mockers, and the snickers, will be silenced, and shamed,
For I'll rise, like the sun, in all its glory, proclaimed.
I'll shine like diamonds, reflect light, and sparkle bright,
I'll glow like gold, refined, in the fire, and made pure, and light.
I'll be a beacon of hope, in a world that's lost its way,
A shining star, that guides others, through the darkness of each day.
I was never born to suffer, I'm a winner, through and through,
A finisher, not just a starter, a victor, with a story anew.
I'll rise, and I'll shine, and I'll make my mark,
A trailblazer, a pathfinder, with a heart that's left its spark.
Shut Up!
Shut up the hurricane shutters!
There's a storm that is ready to blow.
Batten down all the hatches!
Mother nature is angry, don't you know?
There's a man on the watch tower
and he's signalling to the boats in the harbor.
There are squalls on the horizon,
and he doesn't want you to go.
Keep your prayers close beside you.
Keep your loved ones by your side.
Settle all scores that divide you.
Pray for forgiveness, and for strength to abide.
Paint the front doors that judgement pass over.
Burn the candles that welcomes the Prince of Peace.
You can see the four horsemen come riding.
There is no shelter from His wrath to hide.
The mockers will taunt you,
as Noah had to endure.
Your obedience is your love,
and in faith, your salvation is assured.
When finally the seas die back.
And the armies of evil are drowned in the murk,
A ray of light like a dove will descend on you,
and everlasting paradise will be secured.
by Martin Braun
3/17/2024
*I admit we're putting on quite a carnival for the world to see.
Putting our worst clown foot forward.
Fighting one another over rolls of toilet paper
Scorching our foundation, juggling our fragile humanity.
Because of an exception to the rule-
A tin star clown is looting the gold from our souls.
Putting one rotting apple on the windowsill,
For all the world to see.
We're putting on quite a show, aren't we?
Now you cock roaches come out of the woodwork
to kick us when we're down.
To lay our stars and stripes six feet underground.
We the people get our act together.
When we put our clown feet back in the closet.
When the smoke clears, and the stars re-emerge.
The mockers will come knocking on our door to get in.
Demanding things from the one they put down.
Hey mockers, even at our worst, we remain the shining model for the world.
The torch to light your dark caves, to show you the way out...
Democracy is a constant debriding-a molting of the soul.
We are in a painful molting phase right now.
The eagle is grounded temporarily.
This battered bird will come out lighter and stronger.
Fly higher than ever before.
Ask old King George or Adolph or Bin Laden.
Mockers like you will retreat into your dank holes.
Still yapping as your mental visas run their course.
At the dusk of life,
All promises of dawn fade.
The hopes of noon arrive dead—
Petals wilt, beauty flees, and regret dances.
Time feigns vivacity within the day,
Yet grows listless before twilight unveils.
Its carcass leaves behind bitter regrets—
Like emptiness gripped in bare hands.
If you still feel time’s galloping pulse,
Run with blistering speed, lest it leave you behind;
For time deceives, wears down all strength,
And barters vigour for disillusionment.
Build your fort—adorn it with success;
For mockers wait to scorn your fall.
Only steadfast endurance sustains your stride,
And smooths life’s rough gallops on your way.
Mocking the dead,
the vampire on the hill, high
above the cityscape. Why
does his cloak wrap around?
It moves with a hissing sound,
blackened on the outside,
blue on the molten graveside.
Sharpening incisors on the crag,
but
the villagers with their worn rags
tight fisted with their goodly lights -
those lanterns, infused with salt
of garlic, compelled forward in the dead
of night. Mockers and murderers, fed
by rage, want to dispel the wine and bread.
Hell,
the strangulation of fire, lava rolling
down the hill. Mocking, laughter -
the shivering of the old church rafters.
The reborn, new creation, settled
on roof-blowing praise. Nettled,
old Nick, the vampire king unsettled.
Mocking the dead,
making his own bed, jutting at jugulars,
darkening the atmosphere, drawing
congregants, unholy. But, someone holy
has his heels on the vampire’s head.
He’s been banished…dead heads’ rolling.
The glorious light of the lamb, consoling.
I can see us now Luv,
pettin ponies, musing in warm moon light,
free versin in satin style, a smile born from genuine form,
Two hearts too stubborn for apologies or effigies of maybies,
sunburned by stardom, kingdom of monsters fathomed,
forlorned by the "Cloak and Dagger" of fox hunt horn,
withholdin my love from you feels like a wasted martyrdom,
The riverbanks of apocolypse may swell over my joy
but I will not drown Luv, I will not crumple,
winds of hysterical 'what could be' scratch my face
still I do not frown, I collapse not to the ground,
I am not a runaway from your palace of peeps & pain,
nor am I a tresspasser in your orchard of ecstacy,
I can no longer accept lovin you in the third person,
these masks of merrigold manipulation have become dreadful,
Much of my life has been spent defendin
against manipulators, abusers, haters, and mockers,
I needed to hear you say
that my affection for you was not taken for granted,
Thanks for being my Eve on those evenings of earnest thirst,
my Viper Rose, that it was I you chose, as God knows,
my love is not runnin, its stayin,
not prayin or playin
just gainin from the sayin,
love once levied is forever bevied,
gotta keep certain that my spine is mine Luv -
J.A.B.