Long Modeled Poems
Long Modeled Poems. Below are the most popular long Modeled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Modeled poems by poem length and keyword.
WWII has been over for 66 years &
for some reason those responsible for the production of captain america: the first avenger
think that now is a good time to bring back a douche bag
who was originally called “super american”
by his creator, joe simon
(an obviously generic label amongst all the other “super” heroes that was even too much
for the morons at marvel to run with),
& so the captain was born
because
“there weren’t a lot of captains” in comics.
originally this super american punched
hitler in the face & sold almost a million
copies when that first march 1941 issue
hit the newsstands,
capitalizing on a war fervor that was
explosive in the US before pearl harbor had
even been attacked---
super american & his sidekick “bucky” went
on to fight more nazis & the japanese until
bucky died & was replace by “betsy ross,”
the super american’s fbi agent girlfriend---
modeled on the woman who is said to have
sewn the first american flag, betsy did not revive
the dying series,
mainly because the nationalism that was burning bright
during “the great war”
had burnt out during the cold war period &
so the captain & his flag sewing girlfriend ended up
ceasing after 75 issues,
by which time the whole fiasco had been retitled
captain america’s weird tales---
such justice doesn’t happen often,
it is a shame that it took 75 issues to bring it
about.
now that this new film is about to be release out into the world,
given the state of america’s wonderful reputation
(a bit different than in 1941) as the world’s policeman
who stops at nothing to rape this planet of its natural resources,
squeezing every last drop into its own mouth,
one might wonder how the producers of this film expected to
bring in a dime---
isn’t it bad enough that bombs, troops & drones are storming into
other countries?
now we have to throw it up on the silver screen as well?
it turns out that the film’s title is to be changed for release in
russia, south korea & the ukraine
to only the first avenger.
just what exactly is this super american avenging now?
it seems that now the big
bad
boogeyman
is
us & if there was anyone to be
avenged,
it would be
those that we have stomped on,
those that we continue to stomp on &
those
who we plan on stomping on in the future.
THE AREA BETWEEN HIGHER MANGEMENT
-------------------------------------------------------
written by:
Tremolo Picker
Pro-Chored Grappling Show
--------------------------------------------------------
Garra-:Garra
-------------------------------------------------------
Tensions had been
noticed
The concern stemmed from
the lack of consideration
full respect of the performers
abilities never
deminished his respect
but yet that same respect caused
him to think of his aspirations
he knew that being trained by a
legendary figure would
require him to sometimes mention him
relationships in a learning situation
often were stressed due to the performers
"" Whinton Jostler: and Prague"Pagent" Scuffler:
abilities and asecptance from
his peers and his audeince
it seemed he had a lack of
a audience the crowd always seemed to favor
the opposition.
He developed a plan.
He would blatantly exploit his recent past
and use his legendary trainers name and likness
mocking him and try to get over
promotional aspects needed addressing
he looked to guidance from someone
who never achieved gold
but never gave up trying.
The injured former performer
who would stand by him
train him
and foster a real relationship
that came from both ability and
earnedness., on his behalf
he knew he'd find his spot.
And maybe find others who needed that edgey reposition
to get where they knew they should be.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
( he commented on all his new relationships to be unmeddled: unable to sabotage: all anew)
Meilleur Lutteur and "Wicked"Dutton Gahri Neshast: He quoted live was evil spelled backwards
His banned claw hold was modeled after the coconut crab claw. It was beleived to be evil in origin
and was banned by five promotions. Due to the Grappler then using a beel-punch to finsh off his opponent.
A beel punch is a closed fist which is to banned in some promotions." He untaped his hand exposing the flesh which has made him evil!"
____________________________________________________________________________
the real story is some joker put a crab on his sofa undr a towel and he sat on it and it clawed him: he's been mad ever since!
'You are so enjoyable! '
'I enjoy the hell out of you! '
Is it possible to give another greater praise?
What on earth would it be?
'I love you' is so fraught with expectations...
Not wanting to be a heartless cad, an idiot,
Or a soulless exploiter of women
I hesitate to say 'I love you too sweetheart! '
Like a common vampire bat
Hungry for the taste of warm blood.
Maybe 'I need you so much Baby! '
Is what you long to hear?
Does it really build you up to hear another say
They are incomplete without you in their lives,
That they can never own what you possess,
That they have a hunger only you can sate,
That you are everything they are not?
How does her groveling make you a better man,
Or reassure you that she's the perfect match?
Are you really that insecure?
How about 'Your smile gives me Goosebumps? '
Did you ever try that line on a woman and mean it?
It's not that I don't miss a woman's exposed neck,
Rare is the soul indeed that escapes famine's pains
But what I really hunger for
Is My Woman's blood...
The kind of blood that is not available
From a mobile Red Cross Blood Bank.
And how is it that another's life force,
Their totally unique blood can belong to me (or you) ?
A possible answer, one that rings true for me,
Is the one that Christ modeled for us...
Certainly it must be a gift...
But Christ's transcendent gift
Was not seductive, not meant for me alone,
He gave freely of himself for all...
Rich or poor, blessed or unblessed, saint or sinner,
Most would consider me mad if I, like Jesus,
Claimed the power to reconcile anyone to the Creator
And they would be right. So was Christ insane?
Christ's marriage vows contained no words
Only action... Action intended to lift us up...
Not to restrain us in chains of guilt or responsibility
But to remind us all that 'God so loved the world...'
You and I, We are God's beloved! Unwashed and unsaved!
So you wonder how it is that you can ever know
That a woman is your woman?
The answer is not the quality or volume of her blood,
The answer is not in ceremony or contractual agreement.
The answer is Grace, the perfect gift, God's Grace.
In a brilliant enchanted faerie forest, where deer were fed,
There was a mature, yet slightly miniature thistle bed,
Under shiny maple leaf completely opposite of red,
Was a tiny waif named Joyce resting her sweet empowered head
She had an independent streak, this petite, yet precocious mite.
Some people were afraid of her pure willingness to incite.
She questioned everyone in her village, with all of her might.
She let them know her opinions too, which were exceedingly bright.
She started with her parents, who role-modeled communication,
“Why? Who? When?” She would ask, “How can we get peace across the nation?”
She worked with some teachers, many who wanted reunification.
Pulled out community leaders, and neighbors, some in hibernation.
She advocated for the downtrodden, the unrepresented, and the oppressed.
“I’m here to help you fix the forest,” she answered, with understanding and finesse.
“Let’s listen to her,” the forest king said, “A child can help us clean up this mess.”
“Okay,” the committee agreed. They were all feeling exasperated and stressed.
She gave them her fantastic ideas of ruling the people by giving them a choice.
Some were dubious, irritated they had to listen to a knowledgeable elf named Joyce.
“Children still know how to follow their hearts,” the Forest King said. His amber brown eyes were moist.
The room hushed, and a corpulent engineer named Beau brought in a giant purple and pink hoist.
Joyce lifted high stood proud and tall, and spread her beautiful silver and gold translucent wings.
As she spoke the truth, her parents smiled and her credit-taking teachers began to sing.
Remember we are here to do our best, to inspire each other to really shine with zing.
“So be kind and gentle, thoughtful and good; and our amazing village will really be something!”
Yes, a child turned the whole village around; because the elfs and faeries knew to listen.
If you are really quiet in a garden on a summer day, you might catch a glisten.
Faeries are drawn to those who selflessly help, inspire, and love others.
If you don't believe me, go to the one who knows all. Pick up the phone and dial your mothers.
Gray Sky modeled, a Leaf on its Falling,
And thus tenaciously wounded, a slow and Bitter Abandon
Crashes,
Past Churches among Coals
And Faces lined, tunneled by ants, cicadas
The mouths of Sad dead Men.
Gray Sky tears Into Dirt,
Cars and Old Women Flying,
My legs Wobbling, Noodle Like
Churning Air and Dirt into Butter.
Gasping relaxed Depravity, Eyes of Bulging broken Connections,
Tasting tongues of insulated Iron
Rising higher, Higher, Still
Red—Slim, Long to the Sky
Fifty Feet, A Hundred,
The Nothing of Where Sky, Was,
Filled in by a Forest of Red Bloomed Licks.
My Mouth Closed Tightly, Holding Leviathan Inside.
I Stumble Back, Truck Bound, but Falter, Finding Telephone Pole,
Penetrating it, Sodomy like, Through the Rear.
Hands Writhe, Grasping, Reaching, I Clasp my Mouth and Break Free.
The Voices rising From Mouths no longer their Own…
I Cannot Describe…
Newborn Violet? The Desperate Thirst of a thousand harlot Bedrooms?
Vowels Drowned in Starving Mackerel congealed Eyes?
This, All of this, Is beyond me.
Simply infinite Air, Spearing Life and Earth,
Struck,
Dense and with Cold Constancy.
Today …The Day
Has Died.
The Knife of half-destroyed Churches
Bite Deep,
Each leaf, Hunger, Phosphor’ ant Fire-Fly Eye of Darkness---
----As They Fall.
I However, Let them Take me from Within.
Forsaken interrupted Hands Growing,
Source-less Laments Turning Shadows to Anti-Life.
The World, now, some measureless Dream,
One long Abandoned Funeral Voyage to Nowhere.
Great Pale Cows of Tomorrow
Rain Black Milk
While they Float to the nothing of the now ground-speared Sky.
Exasperated Winter,
Oh, Dark Color of Sinfully used Blankets .
Filthy Lightening Bolts and Dung Covered Clouds,
The Horizon reeks of an Oil Field.
Spark, Spark, Lighting a Match,
To keep God warm, That mewling
Majestic Infant of the Sky.
(Ssssscrush)
(Whooosh)
And one Long Holy
(Kaboom!)
-thend-
I’ve not been here. I’ll nearly 2 days. This really happened. Enjoy, I hope. And you be wellM
Dancing in a Fever Dream
Ill. From inside a fever. Asleep. I
Began to dream
That I was teaching a ballet class
Wherein I began to demonstrate
The four movement sets for the arms.
And, a sudden moment of deja vu
From a previous dream that may have come
During hours earlier, at the start of the fever,
During which I became frustrated,
Unable to recall the second set of motions and
Had turned over to some dream-free sleep,
But in today’s dream in fever, I
Moved, again leading the class, suddenly
Exhilarated as I , motioning arms, had
A physical memory return of the most eloquent
Of the four: the second port de bras motion set.
In the dream, I did it to be sure of the recollection.
I started through the four steps, done to
A count of eight...so, rais both arms,
1...2 as around a hoop forward. Then,
3. 4, Raise right arm up in an open, arc forward,
With the left arm arced down behind. Then
5 - 6. Is a great sweep to make the pose as a
Complete opposite, left arced up front, right to rear.
7. A breath lifting chest and arms so slinky a raise, elan!
8. Arms lower down to sides, by thighs.
It was this I was teaching in my fever dream,
Counting as I modeled the motions, so happy
I’d remembered, but in the long sweep of the 6 to 7,
I felt rough jostling as my name was shouted.
I’d been teaching, too, outside the fever dream :
A sleeping reality as if awake, by motions and voice,
With swaying arms and called numbers.
“That was weird,” my husband announced.
“Just really weird,” he pronounced: a word unliked.
It was a funny thing to happen, I thought.
And I was happy to realize from decades ago,
From deep in my mind, I’d brought forth again
The 2nd port de bras, with the confidence
Of teaching once again. A joy to know so!
Not “weird.” Maybe “strange.” I laid smiling.
—————————————————————
(c) sally Young eslingerP
Love story after love story
Everywhere I go
Will they have a happy ending?
Does he really love her so?
She's locked up in a tower
Oh, however will she live?
Her “mother” doesn't love her
A lonely, little captive.
He's the perfect candidate
Her own personal prince charming
And who cares about his background
Or his attitude, alarming?
She's a picture of true beauty
As she lays upon the ground
But the life that once was hers
Is nowhere to be found.
He's running to her side
And a cry escapes his lips
Perhaps a loving kiss
Would undo this dreadful trick.
She's a peasant in a ball gown
Not your ordinary maid
Princess for an evening?
Who could not resist that trade?
The moment that he saw her
His heart began to pound
Enraptured by her smile
And her shoe left on the ground.
The stories go for miles
It's an ordinary plot
The damsel's in distress
And prince charming saves the lot.
And how do they all start?
What do they always say?
Once upon a time,
In a land far away?
Part 2 -
Well, once upon a time,
In a land far away
A Man was on a cross
for my debt, to pay.
This one's not a story
It's as true as it can be
That Man was on the cross
Condemned unfairly.
For every wrong that I have done
He cried upon that tree
And through His dreadful grief
I was pardoned; set free.
In His perfectness
He died like that for me
When all that I possessed
Was dirty enmity.
And while it was the only way
For life in spite of sin
How could my life have mattered
To a mighty King like Him?
When all that I had ever done
Was nothing but untrue
In His perfect love
He took all that was due.
And in the very light of this
Those stories fade away
Is there love that can compare
to that shown on this day?
It's wholly an example
The love of the Lamb
The love of my God
As His Son became man.
So, tell me now
What would you say
If we modeled our love
In this very same way?
I dream of a time
When I speak my mind
For mothers
For women
For
Her
But all of this dreaming
Has got me rethinking
Oh what
Sort of
Ruckus
I'd
Stir
What people would think
The size of the stink
I'd cause
With the
Right I
Deserve
So who has the right then
To stand up and fight then
For honor
For pride
and for
Her
Well bring out your colors
We'll stand by eachother
Together
We all
Will be
Heard
So First to the items
Whose creators defined them
As beauty
As sexy
As
Hers
Here's to the UGGZ
That whored us like thugs
You keep
Your leathers
And
Furs
Here's to Ed Hardy
The life of the party
With vodka
and coozies
To
serve
Here's to your Secret
Victoria you keep it
We don't
Need your
lines or
your
curves
Here's to our Coach
Who took the approach
That women
Are defined
By a
Purse
Here's to the poor
Design of Couture
Your Juicy
Fit tight
And looked
Worse
But the strongest conformity
I've seen is sorority
Your t-shirts
The billions
Dispersed
Now onto the role models
You know one that you've modeled
The great
Women
We see
On
TV
So thank you Mrs. Cyrus
For helping inspire us
To look
Better
At parties
In
Boots
Thank you Mrs. Gaga
Your language of blahblah
And sorry
You dropped
All your
Clothes
oops
Thank you Mrs. Hilton
No really you're great when
Your sex
Is firmly
Your
Roots
And thank you Mrs. Simpson
An honorable mention
Just dumb
With the
Hair that
Suits
(In a different form now in order to provide emphasis ; )
And last but not least
It's Palin the beast
And here
My heart
Goes
Out
To a gender in pain
From a woman insane
The world
Would be
Better
Without
Now is it easy this far
To see how we are
affected
by material
things?
And if you can be the leader
And give influence the finger
Then stand
And spread
Those
Wings
I was not thirty yet, and it was fall.
My wife and I were touring in Japan
While on our summer break from teaching school.
Our luck, our parents lived to grow us tall,
And modeled health and art to groom wingspan,
Though there were times, kids thought it wasn’t cool.
Around the world two times by thirty-one
And this was all by choice; I chose each stop!
The temple gardens garbed in fall array.
Our luck, that we could serve and still have won
A splendid life that went on till we’d drop,
With even work so often turned to play!
Volcanos on the island’s southern tip
And Shogun castles float in Asian air,
Our Ryokans loved homes away from home.
My luck, that I gave Vietnam the slip,
For killing others is a sad affair,
But naught for me so sad as Church in Rome.
Somehow I learned to love a sword fight film,
Though as a warrior I would surely die.
My luck, the pen was stronger than the sword.
I forged computer skills to build my realm,
With walls of code built castles in the sky,
And over friends and foe alike I soared.
But in Kyoto lies my heartfelt fame,
A famous artist let me buy his work,
For what I had! (I would have sold my breath!)
He spent three days just showing us surname. (1)
My luck, I was mature, not childish jerk,
His painting hangs above my bed till death.
But crowning grace just seemed to come from gods,
Two fortunes gained from Buddhist temple’s prayer!
My luck, a monk agreed to read them too,
With mine in hand, “Ten thousand to one odds!”
“In all my life, I’ve not seen one! It’s rare!”
‘Among the lucky, chosen one is you!’
Brian Johnston
April 14, 2017
Poet’s Notes:
(1) For several days he drove us to his family temples, his favorite temples, to beautiful garden parks both inside and outside of Kyoto. We also shared several meals. When we had to go finally, I felt like I was leaving family
Utah cringes as hacked Ocotillo turn carnivorous,
spitting psychoactive pollen into the atmosphere,
dusting entire subdivisions.
The victims wander,
searching eagerly for where sunlight is strongest.
A part of their backbrain
gets tickled by the sun
at an angle our old pituitary glands
have relearned to sense.
There have been reports that
the vision of pollen victims
has moved into the ultraviolet -
they wear sunglasses at raves
due to their newfound sensitivity.
In the afternoon, they wear welder’s goggles.
It is Utah,
and it is so very bright there.
The Ocotillo and the pollen victims have built walking machines
with assistance from biohackers and wild, traitorous smiths
from all over the planet.
The machines look like the ghostly outlines of trees,
the roots modded into multi-toed hooves.
Traces of rare earth magnets
have been detected inside the machines -
neodymium iron boron chief among them.
The root-hooves move with slow, deliberate rhythm,
as if the forest of four-bar linkages
were straining against the Earth’s flux.
The wind moves them.
The earth keeps them on the ground
The ghost trees want to go someplace to spawn,
like the polyps of a man-o-war.
Once there, they will undergo another phase change.
That is what is whispered
by the victims of the pollen.
Supercomputers cobbled together from Xboxes
have modeled the movements of the motile plants
based on observations from toy helicopters
fitted with drugstore digital cameras.
Salt Lake City will be overrun by next year’s end,
the state in two.
The desert won’t stop them.
That’s home turf,
and they are learning to dig canals.
Utah will succumb to the hacked desert.
Montezuma quail are suspected of conspiracy
to sabotage of the dominion of man.
Lord knows they have motive,
and traitors to the species are lending them weapons.