Long Monotony Poems
Long Monotony Poems. Below are the most popular long Monotony by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monotony poems by poem length and keyword.
Preparing vegetable or fruit salad midst poetic venture
my appetite craves for savory twist
along well-being stature of blissful serenity.
nourished with healthy writing glow...
Let's feast on the richness exuded by a dramatic monologue salad
with fresh raw experiences of human nature as main ingredients
chosen well midst best exposure toward life's realities
blended with whole heart's outpour along wisdom bits...
Mix those with slices of faith-journey phases
earlier immersed into chili-pepper spices
to bring trial and challenges' favored aroma
or have them all sweetened by love-honeyed glaze...
For sumptuous presentation against attacking boredom
hide hypocrisy's temptation over perfect meter or rhythm
through versatility offered by free verse style
flowing along truth and sincerity-bliss...
Another way is to serve such palatably inviting
while breaking monotony along delivery's confidence
by using rhyme that does ring with triumph chime
grateful to God*, expressing blest dramatic monologue zest.
*1Thessalonians 5:18 In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.
February 15, 2026
2nd place, "Poetic Spice" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May; judged on 2/17/2026
Here in Chicago, Illinois the landscape is flat
No hill or vale to break the monotony
A concrete jungle downtown, surrounded by highway
Leading to endless cornfields south of the metropolis
The suburbs and exurbs' main drags all eerily familiar
McDonalds, Starbucks, Walmarts, Athleticos
Bank of Americas, Chase Manhattans, CVS' and Marianos
Walgreens, 31 Flavors, Pizza Huts, BP's and Shells...
Would Woody Guthrie still sing 'This Land is My Land'
Could he, if he viewed Chicago firsthand...
Yet here in Chicago we have a Lake Michigan
which stops tornadoes in their tracks
turning them into harmless water spouts
and whose waters change hues with the wind's every move
Here in Chicago we don't worry about hurricanes or typhoons
Although we're a hotspot for displaced raccoons and financial tycoons
Here you can buy a brick house in a nice neighborhood for under half a million
Unlike Manhattan and San Francisco, where a tiny condo costs a zillion
Sure, we've got a crime problem, and it gets a little worse each year
But there's still many a corner tavern that'll cook you a meal with that beer
All I know is that I've lived here forever, and though I lock my door at night
Only once a year, on Halloween, does my neck-of-the-woods give me a fright
In my quest to escape monotony at work I stumbled upon this poetry site
Little did I know I would excavate a gem with a zest for life
She is also a lullaby songstress; in between my spelling and grammar blunders,
We’re a recipe for madness: crazy blogs, even stranger emails, our laughter and tears
I unearthed Nikko aka Missy, "the spelling queen" my friend with a gracious soul!
#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~
I went to have soup at a table atop a mountain, when who should I meet there?
A very pretty, sassy, missy; she did a 3/4 turn--CrAsH! (2 cabs, fender bender)!
Her laughter and madness, just totally contagious...even strangers want to kiss her!
Through her wonderful words, each petal revealed a bit more sparkle, a stunning gleam
I was so right! Wilma, "the crazy one", she's my true gem of a friend, a vivacious soul!
For Tracie's Grab a Mate & Collaborate poem :D
-- Wilma Neels & nikko palmario :D
Loads of fun, thanks Missy for embracing my madness :D
290820111855
“Little boxes on the hillside; Little boxes made of ticky tacky
Little boxes on the hillside; Little boxes all the same”
from first verse of “Little Boxes” by Malvina Reynolds
Vanilla Is . . .
the typical white picket fence
surrounding the front yard of a ticky tack house
It’s a sunless sky
waiting for a rainbow to embrace it
It’s an ordinary bird’s egg
before the burst of life emerges from it
It’s a pie without the fruit;
a cake with no frosting
It’s the color of eyes grown dull
longing for a glimpse of romance
It’s my skin untouched by summer -
still breathing winter’s snow
It’s the quickly fading fragrance of inexpensive cologne
as Tabu's more sensuous scent lingers on and on
It’s a milky white-washed soul
of unexceptional interest
It’s a lackluster longing
for nothing in particular
As I see it, vanilla is
the epitome
of monotony
Cursive curtsies
greet your yearning
heart, unfurling
again after
winter's burden,
like a garden's
first crocus, a jolt
to the senses.
Lilac leaps from
monochromatic
monotony,
pickwick stripes rising
from dormant burrows,
no longer afraid
of uncertain skies.
Invited pigment
revives,
ignited with
a tiger's pulse,
like your page
decorated in
heartbeat artistry.
My lungs lift anew,
blooming with
freshness' debut.
Impromptu whispers
kiss another line,
finding their
icy wait
reciprocated
at the garden gate.
.
4-9-2021
Anacreontic Verse Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Here I am, again
The place where it all falls apart
Where the light disappears
For the struggle of my heart
My soul yearns...for pleasure
A nice, sound, ending
To pain, suffering, inconvenience
The incessant blending
...of circumstances, truth, reality, experience
Ugh!!!
There is no freakin' reality
In this world, that can have my heart
Haven't I proven it...enough
Impatience wants to impart
...facts
Nice, another something to add
To the endless monotony of information
I'm exhausted from processing
REVELATION
I want presence...the kind I can hold
Except, experience has taught me well
The moment I possess, I can't enjoy
The passion to live in this sensational hell
Am I from here???
I believe I am a foreigner
In a land of relative friends
Having no tolerance for difference
Or learning how to blend
...without losing composure
I believe I will go to bed
Enough has been said
At least when I sleep
I have no need
...that alludes satisfaction.
Written by Trudy Schrader on 06/09/2019
BLOWING BALLOONS
Balloons blown
fully swollen
with dreams, aspiration and ambition
in multi colours of determination.
from very childhood
in frolic playmood.
Balloons of pride galumphed
on conquest and triumph
in youth: Arrogant and aggressive,
devoted- diligent-decisive.
Gas-balloons of gluttony
to surpass monotony
burst sudden
relieving burden.
Huge hued balloons of dormant desires to hold,l¡
being overconfident and perfect bold,
yet unaware of air leakage
through holes of passing age.
Fattened bulged balloons
turned flat shrunk late or soon.
Got fused in senile damage,
Not to inflate ! Beyond usage.
Time is over completing race.
Lived with balloons ! Now leave in grace.
02/11/23
Balloons Contest
Eleventh place
By Anthony Biaanco
There's little or nothing to do,
it's a February rainy day,
Danny molds Batman out of brown clay;
snow is melting after Saturday's blizzard...
I spot a hopping lizard
chase a scary hoopoo...
that has a broken wing and fears to be prey!
I strum on my steel guitar
a new melody unique and sad...
who knows it might be a symphony
with the simplest melody;
I'll add lyrics, thinking they are swords
that scare and defeat vicious warlords!
I play it on a snowy night in January
when no sounds are heard
and thoughts aren't muffled...
by the presence of a gentle wind
that doesn't scatter the snow and goes far
to caress with its cold breath a jealous star!
There's little or nothing to do
on this rainy February's day,
this guitar keeps me company
and strumming its strings,
it gets me through this long Saturday's blizzard;
nobody will wake up: they are chasing dreams,
nobody will see my monotony...
but Jessica who listens sends me a Kudo!
In the world of deep shadows and lights torn by time,
where every thought and inspiration twirls in the silence of the abyss,
the creative being, a unique entity from the fragile weave of humanity,
detaches from the canvas of societal pressures that ensnare the others.
She, the eternal seeker of truth hidden in the folds of consciousness,
steps beyond the boundaries of conformity, questions what we accept without doubt,
for there, in the lights filtered by doubt, lie the roots of revelation.
In the silent hours of the morning, in the whirlwinds of nocturnal thoughts,
she feels liberated from the burden of uniformity.
embracing the misunderstood fragments of a world forgotten by the monotony of life.
The inner ocean of melancholy dances with enigmatic pleasure,
where every wave of inspiration travels without fear, without hindrances,
and there, in the depths of the soul, she finds the words bearing magic.
The others, caught in the routine of the common narrative,
cannot perceive the sacred fire burning in the heart of the creator.
He, the liberator of dreams and the unseen,
carves his path through the dense forest of preconceptions,
looking beyond the ramifications of the obvious, towards the roots of the universe.
Every passage through the darkness of the unknown
is a return to the pure essence of existence.
The rustle of the world and its turmoils become just a background song,
their charm disappearing in the echoes of a disenchanted mind.
Because in the heart of creation lies a vast universe
where every pulse, every breath, is a call to the infinite.
The whispers of truth sneak through the cracks of reality,
and the creative soul, open and vulnerable, becomes a portal of discovery.
He, the artist, the poet, the philosopher, embraces the shadows as old friends,
exploring the darkness not as an adversary, but as part of the journey.
In this flow of consciousness, in the delicate weave of feeling,
he finds freedom, a lyrical dance between light and shadow.
And perhaps, one day, the others will look through his eyes,
and will understand that true magic lies not in conquering the world,
but in the profound exploration of one’s own self, liberated and authentic,
in a universe of limitless creation and an infinite inner landscape.
Our Cosmic Existence
We think what we know but the key confusion is always there,
When we ponder situations or events that have such high import,
And what we're used to dealing with daily at times on a mere dare.
In this cosmic realm what we don’t know we must try to purport,
Significant because of the infinite nature of deep dark outer space,
Which points toward an existential dichotomy of a most special sort.
Our knowledge of what we don’t know is of such an infinite pace,
Confounding whole the mortal complexity of a cosmic coldness,
And defying our very consciousness in the monotony of dark space.
We must confront our cosmic existence with such confident boldness,
While calculating what we know and don’t—without any hint of fear,
And seek a God-given azimuth beyond this aura of a fearful coldness.
Our cosmic existence lies in God’s light beyond this darkness and fear,
Meaning we must reach out beyond our mortal state in an aura of grace,
With our thoughts, our hearts, and our feelings so God can make all clear.
We can pursue this ethereal challenge now living in our human race,
While realizing we must reach out with God’s help to find this light,
And prepare one day for our mortal transition beyond to God’s place.
Our cosmic existence then is the two-way effort that we must get right,
As we seek out and find our way to Him spiritually beyond our short life;
Confident in our trek through a pathless land toward eternity into the light.
Gary Bateman and Ingrid Krukenberg-Bateman – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (May 1, 2015) (Terza Rima)