Long Monocle Poems
Long Monocle Poems. Below are the most popular long Monocle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monocle poems by poem length and keyword.
From an aerial view, the sight of a beautiful red train
chugging along down the railway track
takes my breath away;
One moment I am watching a funnel shaped smoke stack sending puffs,
up towards the white cottony clouds then disappearing,
and the next I am hearing the sound of a whistle blowing.
A melodious voice is heard as a conductor enounces,
"tickets please,"
Out of my pocket I produce an admission ticket
that was long overdue ...
With one cotton white glove he presses the ticket
between his fingers then holds it up to his gold monocle and smiles ,
"welcome aboard then !"
He traipses over to supposedly important passengers that I cannot see
and leaves me sitting there, wondering about our destination.
How I got so lucky as to enter this magical snow train I have no idea,
but the scent of this leathery Kirlian man, still clings to my thoughts
like a revenant moment from a long forgotten past.
To Be Continued...
The Clockmaker
The old clockmaker sat at his bench
In the shop where he'd lived all his years
With a monocle lens on his eye
And his desk filled with sprockets and gears.
Everything had its place in a drawer.
Every drawer labeled proper and neat.
Only sound to be heard was the clocks
As they ticked out a monotone beat.
Of the hundreds of clocks there for sale
Each with spaces on walls or on shelves
Not a one of them told the wrong time
And they all said one minute till twelve
The dark moment he'd feared had arrived
And the clockmaker's face gave a wince
As each clock confirmed midnight had come
And that now Daylight Savings begins
8.17.18
Contest: A Rattling Rhyme
Why do we have pairs of scissors?
Since that's how they've always been known,
why do we care why we call them a pair
when one is no good on its own?
The same thing applies to our trousers,
just wearing the one would be daft,
just showing one knee, ugly veins you could see
and I don't think I'd cope with the draught.
The same thing applies to my spectacles,
another I couldn't let pass,
since one on its own as a monocle it's known
so why not just call it a glass?
I asked my good Lady's opinion,
she said 'oh, that's quite plain to see,
as a pair we get on, and the jobs all get done
but you'd be useless without me'.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The general’s monocle holds
no reflection~
only maps
where borders bleed
like wet ink.
His uniform stiffens
with every medal,
each one hammered from
the same mute ore.
He signs the orders first,
then breakfast~
black coffee, bitter as spent shells.
The map is clean
where his finger rests,
no mud, no blood,
just ink-stained creases.
Five thousand tons of steel will roll
where his pencil hesitates.
The military machine
calls it strategy~
a word that appeals
to the masses
better than
corpse or widow.
Down the hall, the lieutenant
memorizes his father’s frown,
practicing it in the mirror.
Promotion tastes like
brass buttons
dissolving on his tongue.
The General studies the map again~
his coffee gone cold.
He traces borders
with his finger.
one that’s never touched dirt
or trembled in surrender.
Victory fits neatly
in his briefcase.
On the battlefield weeks later,
a corporal triumphantly
wipes his blade
and thinks of the boy
who called him coward
ten years ago,
in a schoolyard.
Later, alone,
the General admires his reflection
in the polished table,
imagining history books
too kind to mention
the tremor
in his hand.
And the wartime ego?
It never dies.
It digs trenches in the mind,
planting flags
in the graveyards
of reason.
Sometimes people ask me... What's in your purse...
So I tell them the best that I can...
Lipstick, chapstick, matchstick
What’s in your purse?
Billfold, change purse, money counter, and clip?
Aspirin, Tylenol, Tums, coupons and stamps…
Tissue, pressure bandage, Mom excuse tablet!
What’s in your purse?
House keys, car keys, skate keys and a toothbrush.
Toothpick, dental floss, yesterday’s movie ticket.
Magnifying glass, insect book, handy magic cards?
What’s in your purse?
Personal stuff, extra stuff, and just stuff.
Needed stuff, wanted stuff list…
And all the stuff I meant to take out.
What’s in your purse?
Crayons, a pen, a magic marker, and chalk.
Hodgepodge, glue stick, and tape…
A clown an elf and two small mice.
What’s in your purse?
Bird Seed, fish food, and a safety pin.
A feather from a goose, an empty candy wrapper.
A small notebook with and without lines.
What’s in your purse?
Gum, a straw and an eyedropper.
A paperclip that floats like a boat,
And a folding flying airplane.
What’s in your purse?
Flashlight, book light, nightlight.
NASA blanket and plastic rain suit.
Hairnet and socks that match.
What’s in your purse?
Paintbrush, hairbrush, dog brush.
Playdough, finger puppets and jelly packets.
A flashlight, a monocle, and a bingo dabber.
What’s in your purse?
A calendar, a phone, and things that I have to have.
Pictures of those I love.
And a little cross…
What’s in your purse?
Jesus!
Oh final stanza
Title yet required
Men of mice
Oh Sancho Panza
O Wilde
Oh Auden juicy bone clock
Oh vagueties of meaning
Speak unto me in visions
of language only i may understand
Feed me grool as spaghetti soup
Until i plead please Sir,
May i have some more
Fulfill my lesser known desires
catch me up in Dante Inferno
back draft
Beat , form , flow , glow
Stroke , poke , needle , prick
Dark , light , day , night
Love , argue , fight , make-up
Hope , faith , belief , positivity
Endless possibilities of kaos
karma reciting mantras
Oh quality
O revelry
What such sweet penalties await
When writting on muffled drum
Sabre rattling one's pen scratching
furrowed brow over tilted monocle
Whilst drenched in pools of
pensive acidic sweat from
over thinking thought
Ever still enveloped and intoxicated
by the poem's pacing through my
mind racing blindly out of control
While all the while i wishing
this was not my chosen hobby
but merely just a past time
That i could leave behind and
would let up and in so doing
free me from this cursid state
of insomniac wordplay paralysis
That blights my night's and
suppresses me from dreaming
Till all that's left is yawning and
a billion plus random word's that
don't make sense to anyone but me
Clouds spiral down and curl around to touch me
—not those western drizzle shrouds
baring a soul of misery mizzle
...though I adore a good wallow in sorrow —no
these clouds come from yonder bluebird wilds
white cirrus wispy and whispery dance around me
I steal one to wear across my shoulders
like a platinum’s blonde’s faux stole
they come to me like papier-mâché angels —no no
that’s too cliché… and passé for I’m far beyond
the Godly touch of angels… hmm.. they come to me
like a lover —no too easy …like a heartbreak-er lover!
yah I’ll go with that and get a taboo tattoo of his name
anyway the clouds they find me where I stand
dissatisfied with being satisfied
the result of my cool cat face seduction
I wear a crimson bee balm boutonniere
display it on my plunging V lapel but
it attracts wasps instead of honey bees; I find
danger brings a secret pleasure to my displeasure
my leopard print pants (red sky colored)
stirs sir knight with his bridled gaze and walking stick
he watches my next move on the chessboard
tries to guess my breezy strategy
my hands behind my head legs crossed
maybe it’s a white crested ocean I'm floating on
—or wrestling with— either way
I’m here to play and paint a displeased scene
watercolors? they’re just transparent hues
applied to my white background
depending on the mood of my mood ring —but
when acrylics bleed it’s harder to see the scene
colors escape their space creating a slurry
of what is where where is when when is why
and why don’t know why ..what?! but I know how
blurry lines take on a life of their own
and shapes a new fate from ‘no gesso’ mistakes
I could switch my style to snarly tiger stripes today
and gladly take that horse-headed knight down
that wooden old guard has new orders
he’s suspicious of me scrutinizes me
but only half as much as I’m used to
his right hand on his monocle
—the other eye blind
just beyond the reach of his walking stick
I free my torso of its purple grapevine corset
uncinching my fake waisted form —I muse
if my time as a wastrel was wasted or invested
oh …the monocle is telescoping me again
I shimmy lose my butterfly wings
slap him as I flap them and fly away
it’s hard to know if I’m still beautiful
or if I’m just broken
—either way I embrace the rainy side of the rainbow
happily discontent
My Love, Eve
Your skin glows like the Apple, blossoms eagerly as the rose in the purest hope of spring.
My yearning heart rises to your guitar voice and leaps like a dog at the whisper of your name, Eve.
The evening ascends in on a great parrot wing.
I am calmed by your sock that I carry into the twilight of leafbeams and hold next to my knee.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of Valvoline.
As my nostril falls from my monocle, it reminds me of your toenail.
In the hushed, I listen for the last pfrrrrt of the spring.
My heated cerebellum leaps to my stocking. I wait in the crystal moonlight for your secret mole so that we may saunter as one, cerebellum to cerebellum, in search of the glorious gallbladder-green and spiritual jello of love.
Created by,
PoetrySoup Poem Generator.
Data provider, Martin Braun
12/06/2018
1. A dangerous vision coveting another,
blurred by envy to need a mental monocle.
she burns in such deadly blast
not to realize the soul already promulgate itself
to the better one.
Nothing can serve as a wake up call
to warn against the penalty point.
What was once a silent partner in thoughts
transform to wicked acts and a stench
not to be overlooked, wanting a friend to be less.
2. Sees up through her friend
both are fine, she wants to be finer
both are well, she wants to be better
a onetime dove becomes arrogantly disloyal
a part-time energy with flashlights
relevant to the downfall of another,
exhibiting abrupt vagaries,
playing billiards not even to win
but to break the board,
watching closely in a bad timing
to revert all positives with negatives.
3. In the flowing dam of our love,
you poured strong acids of your crude emotions.
you are the one downgrading your worth to a bric-a-brac
your unexplained anger proves the more
that I’m by far better.
On this affliction, you stay rat-arsed,
giving jealousy so much importance
to be obsequious to it.
Time to be matey with the envied has passed,
let this dark heat continue fighting
for the devil may care.
Steampunk Stella woke up in the thick of an alternative world.
Colorful mechanical flowers were dancing and singing.
The gold band on her top hat changed a gorgeous fuchsia pink
orange poppies and fancy golden engravings adorned it now
her dress had changed from black to a marvelous seafoam turquoise
gold trim at the bottom was new, as was the ornate embroidery.
where was she? she blinked her eyes a few times,
This was no dream; it was magi world, and she was a key player
a marching band went by; the drummer was insanely loud and clever.
people began cheering from rooftops, and there were lots of them.
She felt a kinship to this place; without knowing why or how.
a toad wearing a monocle hopped up and gave a distinguished bow.
you are our honored guest, we have to fly up to the clock tower now.
no idea what it meant, but her boots took a leap and she was flying
She landed on a balcony surrounded by hanging clocks.
The mayor congratulated her on her ginger locks.
I do not have red hair, she argued, so he showed her a mirror.
Her entire face had changed, she was amazed that she was beautiful.
With blue eyes! She had always wanted blue eyes.
I will never go back, ever, she vowed.
So she stayed in the magic kingdom, and married a prince.
But he proved to be boring, and she tired of color.
One day she simply returned to her own kind.
A steampunk world of fantasy with limited color.