Long Modicum Poems
Long Modicum Poems. Below are the most popular long Modicum by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Modicum poems by poem length and keyword.
Flim flam artists con like hackers
From the digital underworld
Scammers. Modern Thieves
Taking advantage of not just
Little ol’ ladies, but Me!
And the vulnerable gullible glue
That holds our species together
Shame on you! I cast you, you know who you are
who entertain time with waste
With the spoils of others
Internet Idiocracy is not a democracy
You, gangsters of greed
With the shameless need
To make others bleed
For your sins
I'm a $1,000 in the hole, you poor soul
I cast you
Into a special spot, the Deepest Hole
In Hell
That only one spell can break
You free
Give up your riches
Give up your chaotic chores
Give in to Jesus
He is the only Door
For any redemption
You fools!
Not tHe ENd
Am I whacked out, or what?
To actually believe
And actually, have high hopes
That someday human beings
Will just FOCUS their attention
And unite under one Earth flag
To hold up high with human half-baked intentions
Even with a modicum of enlightenment
Accomplish the Unimaginable end
Peace it all together and
Free the human spirit not by the Bomb
But by giving, each person their voice
Acknowledge the uniqueness that spawns genius
Education is everything. Never stop learning ...
Be allowed to express, even darklike King’s
Freed to believe, to hope, even grope or cling
For a better future for our grandchildren
Will it be a legacy of Liberty, or loss?
Am I a whacked out global goliath?
Or what!?
Child of God
Damn right I stand up
With my brothers and sisters
Against oppression, tyranny
And fatalistic foes
Hand in hand, with the sWORD of Christ
His piece ploys me to reveal
Something whacky
So, come join me at the outer edges of the Greens
Where dandelions and roses grow
Side by side, row by row
Stitching the seams of the Universe together
Come gets some whacky Taffy while it lasts
Off to the whacked-out Lands for Peace
Keep on sippin’ some poetrysoup
Where my whacky wisdom
Is the latest scoop
If not mine, then yours, you nincompoop
Let's get whacky in a Whackyland!
Let’s gets soupy in a poetrysoup land!
Let’s be friendly in a Friendland!
So, Keep on Sharing!
even if it’s a little whacky ...
Recruit Division
I never applied to join the Army, a nice man phoned me,
He said I was the type they liked, with a steel certainty,
Plus he happened to mention the nurses on the way,
And the simple matter of doubling up my pay,
I signed.
So after having passed some sort of fitness tests,
I puffed quite a bit, but certainly tried my best,
I found myself, as many a medic knows,
To the town of Ash Vale, near a certain lady rose,
I’d signed.
Now as I walked, fashionable hair dishevelled,
There ahead of me, was a soldier whose back was upright and level,
So I called out, ‘Sorry to bother you mate, is the way for the Keogh camp gate’?
And the RSM made it very clear, that I would find it and him, certainly quite near,
Now I’d signed.
Within the breath of a watching gnats eye,
My hair was gone, no time to wonder why,
Everything seemed to happen with rapid and specific shouts,
Part of me was now wondering, a modicum of doubt,
Why I’d Signed?
Over the months to follow, each day a tired tomorrow,
I learnt about guns and bangs and running for fun,
Whilst far out on the expanse of the drill square,
A Russian yelled ‘Moy Et’ with a certain disposition,
Signing was my decision.
Now behind that drill square ran the main London line,
So we would be doing things, everything looking fine,
When the London train would pass, thundering on time,
And I tried not to grin at the phrase, ‘I left you in this position’,
Glad I signed.
I discovered a new world of dead fly biscuits,
Often so hungry the compo was worth risking it,
And how far a bed could fly, without seeming to try,
Or how proud I was as my bulled boots, not asking why,
I’d signed.
There was the nine second rule, certainly a gas,
Although they’d not mentioned they would take off the mask,
As each of us fit and healthy blokes,
Laid on the grass, throat burning chocked,
But I signed.
Finally a day arrived, escape from the camp,
Helping my granddad walk up the ramp,
Parents watched on as their son stood up,
Second best recruit, but no second cup,
Proud I’d signed.
Andrew Carnegie, Reminiscing Aldershot, 14th Jan 2017.
You don’t have to say
one spherical metallic word
I know with GSW empathy credulity
just how you feel ... I bequeath kindred sympathy
Taking one lead body blow
for the I homeboy visiting team,
was enough mental pain timeout for me
And the physical hurt toll it put on my body
made me frequently start falling to my knees
I can understand if you’re gun shy,
really I can
When you felt the quiet burn
of the silencer,
and the sweat of your fear
started to pellet fly
There’s a few blood splatter
reasons why
you’re audibly mute upset,
and so gun shy
Some whack eraserhead
unholstered their hostility on you
Bam, bam went the bullet hate —
hot metal piercing flesh ...
smearing cold iron-cooper fear
over your nude, trespassed privacy
I can understand if you’re gun shy,
really I can
I can truly relate
if you thought death
was your imminent fate
Really I do
You don’t have to say
a single semi-automatic word ...
You’re gun shy,
and I know the trigger reason why
Your temple’s been invaded
by kinetic metallic thieves,
who left your wounded,
praying soul to cemetery bleed
But putting a cap on the lip lid
is gonna make you implode within
Though asking for a modicum of gun control
is considered a Second Amendment sin
Keep the treason
on the tip of your tongue
from speaking
It’s best to remain gun shy,
never saying a word
It’s smart to duck when the bullets fly,
and the screaming is heard
Silence is double-O seven golden,
it’s good that your thoughts
ain’t got a license to kill
In the quietude of the grave,
victim death shout echoes do reverberate still
So, shhh ... stay low-key gun shy
Any sound motion can be detected
by a revolver barrel indiscriminate eye
Heat seeking for some unsuspecting
bipedal target to Big Wheel die
Any guttural movement
is gonna get a crosshair,
scattershot, fade-to-black goodbye
The kevlar-coated lip service politicians
sternly suggest you keep
any over-the-top, brash comments
under-the-counter on a locked vault cry
They say, now ain’t the time to be vocal and brave ...
bite the bullet,
and suffer your soul to die timid gun shy
Whenever I make a mistake my mind drifts to my little league coach back when I played the game…I’m sorry to say as the years have passed I have forgotten his name.
You see I loved the game of baseball…loved its glamour…it’s appeal…unfortunately my ability to play the game would never match my zeal.
If I missed a catch that somehow found its way to me…exiled in the right field clover…my coach would smile then patiently say, “Nice try, Jim….I think you need a do over”.
When I’d swing and miss…which unfortunately I did an exorbitant amount…coach gave me so many do overs I’m sure even he lost count.
Who would’ve thought my do overs would have given me a modicum of fame…but that’s precisely what happened as ‘Do Over’ became my name.
“Do Over, you’re up.”
“Do Over, nice try.”
“Do Over, throw me the ball.”
I’d even hear, “Hi Do Over.” In school…as I was walking down the hall.
On our jerseys, as a surprise, coach had our names emblazoned on the back…but when I looked at mine I was crestfallen…as I read Doover all in black.
How could this have happened…Coach said he hadn’t a clue…but, looking back, it seems appropriate my jersey was a do over too.
I put it on reluctantly…unable to think of an escape maneuver…and for the rest of my short-lived baseball career…my new nickname was Doover.
But I came to love that jersey…in it I found both glamour…and appeal…and I think I learned more from that jersey…than my time spent on the field.
I learned to view the world through imperfect but patient eyes…I learned everyone deserves a break…I learned to give people another chance…whenever they make mistakes.
Eventually my mom threw out my old jersey…years of wear and tear taking its toll…but I didn’t mind because by then…Doover was emblazoned on my soul.
Through teaching, marriage, fatherhood, friendships this Doover thread has spun…because we never know, when we fail, if the next do over is the One.
It’s funny how initially I thought Doover would lead to my demise…but in the end…it is Doover that saved me…
So…thanks coach…I may not remember your name…but I’ll never forget the name you gave me.
“We have a surprise for you!” They told their grandchildren who were staying with them for a few nights. “We guarantee you’ll be amazed…it is a truly wondrous sight.”
Moments such as these one has to experience…it’s not something you can’t teach…
so they loaded them into the car and headed to the beach.
After playing in the sand a while the grandchildren approached their grandparents…there was something they wanted to discuss.
“We were just wondering.” The eldest one said. “Where is this surprise you promised us?”
“We’re glad you asked.” Their grandparents smiled. “We hope it’s something you’l never forget. SURPRISE!” They said pointing out to sea…”We give you a sunset!”
There was a modicum of protest from their one granddaughter and each of the three grandsons until they turned themselves around and looked out at the sun.
They stood on the beach like statues…between them not a word was said…
as the blue sky they were watching was slowly painted orange and red.
Their grandparents watched them jump up and down….they saw their smiles…they heard their sighs as the clouds kept changing colors right before their eyes.
“Look!” One grandchild pointed…and they all stood as quiet as grandchildren can be…
“Look!” He repeated “The sun! It’s sinking into the sea!”
The grandchildren ran to their grandparents side.:
“Why if the sun is already set.” They asked, “why is it not night.
Why when there is no sun…is the sky above still bright?”
They could have given the scientific explanation…of why the sky’s still bright…
about how the sun is still shining and about the bending waves of light…
But they thought, at least while they’re young, their world should be more fun…
So instead they told them, “It all has to do with the magic of the sun.”
That night the grandparents were smiling as they watched their four grandchildren dream…and they thought to themselves…this grand parenting is not as difficult as it seems.
Today we showed them the magic of the sun…a moment that shall forever be ours…
Tomorrow they decided as they turned out the light…
we’ll show them the magic of the stars.
The problem of the inclusive pronoun is still very much a problem for the writer, and needs an accepted solution. I tried for years with a suggested one of my own, but it never caught on. So here, I have simply alternated them--over and over!
Your Best Friend
You may not know him very well
and often slighted her at times
you needed him the most.
You neither heard nor gave a thought
to all the wisdom packed among
the secrets of her mind.
He fades from time to time,
and often thinks she is not wanted, nor
quite sensible enough to speak out boldly,
lest he bowdlerize the common sense
proclaimed by gilt-edged saints
enshrined in texts the priests
bear high above our nodding heads...
and would she dare to disagree?
But there he is--
and all the little thoughts churn
endlessly, and quite in vain.
She is your friend, conceived on skeins
of common cloth; his sources are
the mysteries the ages pass
to everyman, the flying residue
of concepts born of the enlightenment
that generates upon prolific shores
unseen--some call them mansions
of a heavenly domain where God resides.
I will not reduce such visionary
to a royal personhood, give him a sex
nor place him on a throne. She is
too much for anyone to pray to, bow before,
or lovingly array in ermine robes
and facial hair,
and that best friend denies his pedigree
to so assume.
And yet a modicum of faith preserves
a shred of confidence within
that she does not in plain reality,
so lead.
Your friend (and any God who may personify
himself) does so abound in unexplored
and virgin territory, that ready inspiration
is available to any meditator or philosopher
who stumbles over truth--best friend indeed!
No question is too much for her examination;
there are nuances to the myriad of answers
he may entertain, or at the least, confront.
No preachment is beyond her reach.
He leaves no clue to her identity, for
He is you!
~
Words activate something in me
even if I’m just thinking, not writing.
So I soon find myself back at the keyboard.
It seems that my life’s been a series of keyboards.
My motor’s always running—I idle fast.
But I’ve been untying my intellectual shoe-strings recently.
Dissociatively avoiding intellective pursuits,
and embracing entropy (since school ended).
It’s been relaxing—I’ve felt new to my body.
There’ve been happenings lately,
particularly in the nocturnal theater of romantic nights.
My bf Peter’s here—trying to look impressed by an under-grad degree.
He’s a pretty good actor—for an amateur.
We’ve been interrogating the richer aspects of love,
testing it’s configurations you might say,
with constant motions and lush indulgences.
We’re savoring this temporary freedom,
devouring it, like mindless carnivores.
Peter lives in Geneva, you see, while I’ve been in New Haven.
If I’ve learned anything, in my ivy league, senior year,
it’s that you can’t cheat closeness with virtuality.
He may have a new job in New Jersey and I'll be in Boston.
I've already calculated a year’s travel expenses from
Logan to Liberty and back 52 times = ~$62k. Make it so.
I'm an enumerator, I count everything
—the left facing croissants on a tray,
the days Peter and I have been apart,
and the modicum of hours we’ve had together.
I’m somewhere on that obsessive-compulsive bell curve,
and I’m a Libra, uncomfortable in an uneven world.
Perhaps there's no shame in this.
I wonder sometimes, when we’re separated, if we’ll still work, when
we’re reunited, and then, like sunlight can suddenly define shadow,
we can see that it does.
That love is more potent than wine.
I dream of things I can’t have—yet,
like the life I’d like to live—someday.
Hey, I’ve something to look forward to.
.
.
Songs for this:
Love Train by The O'Jays
Easy by The Commodores
Pareidolia is when we see familiar faces where they’re not supposed to be…
Like Abe Lincoln in a cloud, the Virgin Mary in a piece of toast
or Albert Einstein in a tree.
Because our mind has a way of taking random bits of information and filling in the blanks…and at Christmas time every year…for Pareidolia…I give thanks.
Take these random bits of information…
I’m old, I have a white beard and if I happen to be wearing the color red…
when children see my wrinkled face and a stocking cap upon my head
more often than not they stop in their tracks…sometimes it’s just a pause…
when their mind put all this information together and they think I’m Santa Claus.
It happened the other night in the bookstore…
when a little girl saw me behind the counter…and immediately paused…
“Mom,” I heard her whisper, “I think that’s Santa Claus.”
“Don’t be silly.” Her mom said showing a modicum of parental self-control.
“What would Santa be doing in Florida in December
when there’s so much to do at the North Pole?”
Her mom grabbed her hand and they headed off down to the Children’s aisle…
but not before the girl glanced back at me…and I gave her a wink and then a smile.
‘Shh.” I whispered as I put a finger to my lips…I imagine just like Santa would.
She smiled back then nodded…as if she understood.
As her mom was browsing in the store she came up to the counter,
leaned over and whispered tenderly…
“Don’t you worry, Santa. Your secrets safe with me.”
I’ve been blessed to have a wonderful life…
I have so much to be thankful for…
many times by good fortune I’ve been kissed…
and for a few weeks around Christmas every year…
I add Pareidolia to that list.
Yes, for a few weeks every December…
you might say I’m a little jollier…
because…
a few children here in Florida
believe I’m Santa Claus.
I believe we’ve all been blessed to be created with an open mind
I imagine with this gift our creators were particularly elated…
as it allows us to be open to the variety of wonders…of all the love and beauty they created.
I imagine it never entered into our creators thinking…
that they never would have supposed….
how the open mind they blessed us with…could so easily be closed.
When our mind is open it can see the beauty of a sunrise paint her colors across the sky…
It can see our children’s smiles…and the love reflected in their eyes.
But when that same mind closes…when it closes from within
hate and prejudice begin to form…based on the colors of our skins.
When our mind is open we can see the vibrant hues of a rainbow…tell a sunflower from a rose
see the changing leaves in Autumn…and blankets of winter snows.
But when that same mind closes to love and acceptance…
when we shut forever our mind’s door
The beauty our creators created becomes clouded by hate…
and devastated by war.
When our mind is open we see the glimmer from the surface of the oceans to the twinkling stars above…
we see how all people, not just friends and family are all created out of love…
But when that same mind closes…when we’ve secured and locked the gate
we see those same people, friends and family so easily destroyed by hate
I’m sure the creators in their heart of hearts never would have proposed it…
If they thought the people who they gave an open mind to
would ever think to close it.
Or perhaps they knew that was a possibility…perhaps they understood it’s scope
and left us with a way to fix this…a least a modicum of hope
For our creators knew any mind that closes..
no matter how or where or when….
also has a chance
of being opened up again.
No Joke, This Punster Riddled With Anxiety
Hue more, a dog send,
asper how this poe
whet tick mutt air ring
mortal doth cope with woe
principally said misery prevails
because a dearth of dough
cash, liquid legally rendered
assets, money, y'know
what I mean, and securing, and
maintaining employment efforts go
south, cuz yours truly
experiences extreme anxiety,
where perspiration doth flow
most significantly moistening
palms when this bro
fills out application,
or during interview so...
to spare myself such
grievous anguish, although
such acquiring a job, the
quickest most obvious to diminish
penuriousness whiplashing to and fro
primarily due to requisite ought toe
motive repairs (ordinary
wear and tear),
this unearned income of mine - so
shill security disability
(monthly electronic depot
zitz), the sole source of mo
knee for myself and the missus,
(who also unfortunately emo
shun null lee dogged by psycho
logical pitfalls since her grow
chee parents (both deceased) unaware
of her mental afflictions decades ago
lacks any checking, and/or
savings account, lo
she wants for disposable income hoe
ping to rely on me for spending money
on regular basis, which by Joe
siff, mother and Mary
stresses thee only means
to sustain financial status quo,
hence my lament and plea
for succor, yet just blow
wing figurative steam also
bring a modicum of alleviation, as
does talking to a therapist, crow
wing about pennilessness
day late dollar short,
hence cue thee oboe
or violin somber
(pitiful) tune - ho...ho...ho...
methinks gofundme site not apropos
cuz just a couple thousand bucks...
would allow me to get show
back on the rodeo
circuit, but I hoop
not to engender glow
warring revulsion - whoa!