Long Monk Poems
Long Monk Poems. Below are the most popular long Monk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monk poems by poem length and keyword.
predicated on verb hose noun sense
with brain matter makes me astute
and this union with the trappings
of virtual reality tub boot
would be akin to heaven
within the domain of this atheist - ole coot
whose purr add ventures scripting verse
sit aisle feeble rhyme with no reason
moost definitely hi yam not terse
aye speculate yar facial reaction
(understandably) would be
toe step from this purse
son i.e. Daff Punk Matthew Scott Harris
when ma time to ride luxuriously
in a plushly jeweled hearse
carrying thigh cremated ash
disagrees with me credo, ethos,
faith no more much less brash
since be yen entombed
in a coffin resistant to crash
vis a vis atoms either
forcibly split (divorced)
or tum marry in a shotgun flash
(fission or fusion respectively)
exhausts precious natural race horses
cruelly whipped
stinging fresh fielded gash
where putrescent hide of Equus resembles hash
sheesh, how in the of Judas Priest
did hie veer off into the least
common denominator,
which absolute value increased
the totally tubular confusion
into a worthless jumbled gobbledygook feast.
What later will be filled with squeals
And peals of childish laughter,
In desolation thus reveals
What comes before and after.
The vacant swings, with chains unclasped,
Hang waiting, so forlorn.
The silver slide, unoccupied,
Gleams dully in the morn.
The jungle gyms or monkey bars
Seem bare and incomplete.
They’ll only come alive when tamped
By scores of tiny feet.
The benches, ever patient,
Bide their time, unsatisfied,
‘Til that moment when some sitters
Will enjoy what they provide.
The meat of day will change it all –
The park will thrum with *****;
But in the empty hours
It’s as silent as a monk.
Thelonious Monk
piano keyboard prophet
harmonizing scales
Melody from flat to sharp
rhythm soothing to the soul
Comments: Thelonious Sphere Monk (1917-1982) is recognized as one of the
most influential figures in the history of Jazz. He was one of the architects of
bebop and his impact as a composer and pianist has had a profound influence
on every genre of music. Thelonious Monk Institutes of Jazz are located at the
following locations: Washington Office: 5225 Wisconsin Avenue NW, Suite 605,
Washington, DC and Los Angeles Office: University of Southern California, 3443
Watt Way, Lower Level, Los Angeles, CA. The Thelonious Monk Institute of Jazz, a
nonprofit education organization, was founded in 1986 by the Monk family along
with the late Maria Fisher, an opera singer and lifelong devotee of music.
sliver of vertical night
visible slit along the curtain centre-line
too lazy to pull them tight
surely nobody outside lurking, peering in
winds rise, branches creak and fight
rattling thud, something moves, somewhere not far away
cosy on the edge of fright
the rain does lash, thrash and thrum on the window-pane
so cuddle in, out of sight
turn toward the pillow, tilted still half-looking
focus drifting, downward flight
eye-lid motion mimics uneasy state of sleep
first birdsong disturbs the doze
veil back-lit as dawn dissolves dim glowing darkness
scan the length, the hanging sweep
beaks announce material folds, suggested deer
expectant, ready to leap
doughy face and furtive shape emerge re-pleating
reality skinny skin-deep
dreamscapes drape the new day with tall tapestry tales
so draw the future and reap
hopeful morning, rays bathing bountiful beauty
as little wings cheer and cheep
clouds pass the sun, grounded feathers in the shadows
don the mask, heave on the cloak
defend against the viral load, heavy breathing
watch out for febrile folk
wild games people play, clandestine intermingling
beware anointed keystroke
shaman, mullah, rabbi, priest, cleric, monk and nun
flames not far below the smoke
guardians of supernatural jealous gods
those who divide, those who stoke
whether hijab, masak or turban, coife or quimpe
jibe, jape or jeer, jest or joke
lives matter much more than statues masquerading
"Twas the night before Christmas...
When Mrs. Claus had got drunk
She went to a party...
With a hyena and a skunk
She laughed all night long...
Till, something had stunk
'Twas the laughing hyena...
When he pulled out his junk
Mrs.. Clause had caught sight...
Then, she danced with some funk
Her Jolly old fellow...
Her man, ...with some sp-nk
She thought it was Santa...
But, it was some punk
Disguising himself, with a beard...
Dressed, like a monk
So, she ended the night...
and crawled into her bunk
Then said, Merry Christmas...to all
Now, ho-ho-ho please leave me alone, it's me time :) ...with me hunk!
Whoop-Whoop!
The Night Before Christmas 2 PC
Sponsored by Joseph May
11-21-2019
so much precious existence
found me rooted with mouth ajar
as sigh asper the dentin-cementum
so mud dear reader (with dem perfect
enameled pearly whites), aye har bar
envy for those with a complete set
of eight incisors, four cuspids (i.e. canines),
eight bicuspids, and twelve molars
(including four wisdom teeth) tabulating
many hours in the car (engendering
saddle sore bony tuckus)
plus regarding chunk whereat,
pernicious cementum funk
viz distraught psyche, when muss self as a lil monk
key decades after being examined
by family dentist Doctor Marcus (NOT WELBY),
excellent practitioner (button irate pulp pill
people ' especially children) eater – the grump,
whose private practice located
in Levittown, Pennsylvania,
and when prepubescent underwent
pertinent more explicit focused
intense noninvasive procedures
asper subsequent cause of speech impediment
determined why air didst jump
thru nostrils, (speech therapist at Henry Kline Boyer),
neither thin nor plump
informed parents
of Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic –
fifty plus miles one direction),
where chief prosthodontist
Doctor Mohammad N. Mazaheri, DDS, an Iranian
whose expert reputation, sans strict manner didst trump
his aura, karma evincing clipped commands
forceful as a vocal whump
before launching into meat and potatoes
of crux comprising real aim
constituting modus operandi
(and cresting away from details indirectly tide
into main intent, nobody aye blame)
for thine dental debacle quandary
(managed by gumshun,
whereby eons hyperbolically toted beyond google),
and despite the optimistic stance
wool worth anesthetized numb skull claim
nascent malocclusion faintly affecting,
hinting, pointing toward Periodontitis
(despite diligence attending to oral hygiene frame)
the manifestation of major looming crisis compromising,
forgoing, instigating, et cetera loss of teeth,
this (after agony in league with separate occasions
twice wearing braces, concomitant Extractions
of wisdom and removal of crowdsourcing –
closeup toward the front of mouth teeth - game
Sometimes the Cities
Sometimes cities split apart in their sleep like amoebas dreaming beneath a wax moon,
some taking the shape of a glass lung, others of a blind ship,
while two wingless angels, stretched out on the ashes of spent time,
plot with a child's tools and spells forgotten by old witches
impossible cathedrals, towers grown from the bones of long-dead fish.
On the endless shore of night the fangs of a smoke-wolf glint, ready to bite the moon,
a herd of pregnant shadows grazes among rocks salty as a tear,
small shells hang from phosphorescent seaweed, like wedding rings lost by the drowned,
and the herd of shadows carries in its womb another herd, lilac as an old bruise,
overturned, yet still thirsting for liquid pastures, icy pastures, pastures of sky.
Waterfalls of grass tumble into the black ocean like locks of hair torn from the world's temple,
magnificent remedies for the fever that keeps our flesh awake in the deepest sleep,
and the virus, patient as a monk forgotten at the monastery gate,
waits for the moment to enter the shadowed, soft intestine of the city, elastic as an old prayer.
Beneath brotherly chandeliers, among quartz mirrors frozen in their own light,
the meanders blackened by the sawdust of water sing their endless litany,
there where day and night a giant drum of double monkey-hide keeps pounding,
and its echo spreads through the veins like a root that can't find its ground.
While the two wingless angels, stretched out on the ashes of spent time,
plot, with tools of their own, the terrible duel of eternal rent,
after which the cities will split apart again in their sleep, like dreaming amoebas,
taking shapes that no one, ever, could have imagined.
I begin,
with spearmint breath, barefoot, and hushed skin
woken are earth’s aromas of prayer and namaskar
spilling intentions auspicious a focused vow within,
with a promising salutation to the resending rising star
for the faded filaments of ashy ailments, as well
I hear their praises of open routes and yellow brick roads,
fast tracks to filigree of fulfillments where egos swell
gritty goals, lickety-split in their surrealistic abodes
its competition stirs the soul, yet their ebbing eyes be blind
to suit oneself and not the self, the soul-search sold,
to stay true becomes onerous of an untruth abstract mind
The scribbler’s hastened house upholds,
phasing flowers into a creative expression explored,
literary archaic yet no soul from muse’s molds
some choose to pull from brutal banks previously implored
A game of Scribbage, the deal, the play, the show,
noted nothing less nor nothing more,
vintage vantage, a cribbage of blank blurt we all know
forgetful is the fact that we’re all amateurs
Take my savory words you, I’ll take yours if kind,
let go the ways to wicked wharfs, it’s the way to putrefy
away from stagnate depths of opaque layers grind
for those without weakness those of you rise
without the wormwood shells of bitter taste
the lower plains and the pains and alibis
of watering wells d i s p e l l i n g waste
There’s innocence in our hearts
an inner chamber where the divine never dims
there's a purposeful purity that never parts
it lives inside once broken down, our bones and limbs
it fills the ovoid, gives opportunity, I end with this,
as an appointee, in a designated avatar,
in n o w mindful we won’t miss
as we are receptors of higher light,
held above varmint vestments tsar
we transform our image gone the dark knight
There’s a secret garden inside, drunk on lovestruck swilling
becoming well known, follow the pathless path amidst
to the road I’m on, there, the sacred wells worth drilling,
the one path known as blessed bliss
—A Monk of Quiet Quest
Funny honey and so I say come.in.d;an this way....
Took the words from in a tomb, arranged the order
and removed the doom. Turned the pages of his.story
and put some women into play. Analyse, angle the
eYes! ponder life and pretend to be wise and that's Write.
Pro.Found a message in there. Said a circle was also
a square and that it spun... like a web it was just fun
and I watched as it came undone. Smiled a while as the
colors began. Then I chased the bubbles of art in Time
and learned a song that came in rhyme.
Funny angles come.in.dian geometrically medium in
a weeble of a wobbular motion and when I saw that...
I removed the explosion as the poison just isn't good.
The Pen agreed and we understood that a change of
ink was needed. Took out the felt & refit a belt just,
and in case. No one ever said we couldn't change pace
and it made sense as "Nature doesn't waste"...
Looking inside with eyes quite wide I had to pause.
There came a place with no Santa in the Cause and
I paused. Children play and imagine days of plum
filled things and goodly ways so how can it be if this
be true? It was question.able SO I changed the crew.
Left the bridge a Number One and aWay I flew...
I seek the Monk I asked the Know. I hear a song I
need to grow. Departure near it's knot my way but
a Vision needs repair this day... "Four, the innocent"
came to sea and breathing the Winds they grew a
Tree. "Look to hear.Comedian...use all the noodles
not just the 10..." And after the ride, well.come.inside
the honey.com;b is full of bee.lives!
Form:
With no agenda in our shelf,
having become the witness self,
our gentle touch and mindful eye,
allows life to flow by itself.
There yet are moments when we sigh,
since thought tempests take time to die
but for the most part, we are still
and in the vast void, wingless fly.
We sense in heart, bliss nectar spill
and drink greedily to our fill,
which is of course to steady mind,
surrendering to God our will.
Thoughts slow down and we become kind,
our head and heart, with love aligned
and as we slowly vaporise,
fears and desires no longer bind.
This oh monk, is the way we rise,
ceasing to weigh, measure or size,
merging soul with the all-that-is,
feeling each heartbeat in surprise.