Long Mull Poems
Long Mull Poems. Below are the most popular long Mull by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mull poems by poem length and keyword.
Alright have to admit that whole drole Bazball or Baz Bat cool cat vibe…rabbit out of hat tribe.. is taking its toll..sunk in a hole..losing it’s goal and soul..not being a vitriol troll..maybe need to mull over a cull of this rigmarole..
Can’t pretend..is the end of this spangly jangly new fangled trend…nothing off the shelf…just express yourself…won’t spank you..will almost thank you.. if you tank…bonkers fools rules you can’t bend…must always go stonkers.. all cool no old school…when you shan't defend and depend on a blend of soft conkers and tracks to conquer..
Let’s explain there are many ways to play and entertain…the lotto of the Baz grotto..no dull lulls …no more bore score draws…one motto…just high octane insane where seemingly the sole means to control is a flat track that blunts and shunts how every attack does bowl..
I know..have already banged on..had a go at the pitches…feather beds so flat you can bat gung ho heave ho from the get go.. no wear and tear..glitches or hitches.. despair to stop the flair.. no real movement in the air or off the square..the Bazball pest…Bazbat conquest..effectively saying no we won’t be surfing the crest of a true test contest of willow and leather..hey ho nonny no…to the real deal Test fest..tally ho..
No pretension..apprehension of the lacking dimensions and few mentions of the best Test tensions..
Also must rebuke how they have turned the duke ball from a serious nuke which would spook.. enthrall..now reliant on a cherry that gets so soft you need a fluke ..well Dukes will be compliant as England’s their biggest client…we saw our copper haired laird no longer..stronger defiant..again came a cropper..and this was hardly a proper whopper green topper..
It seems kitsch Bazball rule needily greedily avoids any glitches or hitches in batter’s riches which in turn.. does spurn and bewitches merchants of seams and stitches..
Well it can be dicey to make your tracks at home too spicy..get in a lather…at the palaver as runs become rather pricey..when you could goad..milk that ilk as you explode on a silk road..
Our selector trifecta…the three wise men..Baz..Bob and Ben.. know if there is no speedster thuggery… no Geoffrey jaffas…bunsen spin skulduggery..they will be the gaffers with some Bazball muggery..
I Dont Give A Fig About The Brouhaha...
of new year's eve,
yet yours truly does consider
at least one singular plum me facet by Jeeve
er...Robert (or Rabbie) Burns,
a profoundly poignant poem, he did conceive.
Anyway, this wordsmith fascinated
by historical lyricist whose unbelieve
hub bull lee brief life, nonetheless
made a lasting contribution,
a psalm burr tune folks across webbed
wide world sing to grieve
of recent sorrows past, plus pay
homage to joys summoned from
deep within core of soul bellowed
forth with an exultant heave
perhaps unbeknownst to most Robert Burns
(25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) did leave
his lasting legacy, sans (as national poet
of Scotland celebrated worldwide)
particularly the classic traditional chestnut
auld lang syne rendered in many versions
waving white capping
New Year's eve celebration proud
accomplishments one did achieve.
Coincidentally, "Auld Lang Syne"
and "America the Beautiful"
at which juncture, I interject
a historical grace note to mull
how latter named above patriotic
song in the United States,
(lyrics written by Katharine Lee
Bates saw many occasions
after music composed by church organist
and choirmaster Samuel
A. Ward at Grace Episcopal Church
in Newark, New Jersey) dull
lighting oomph and pizazz, extant
since early 1900s, origin gin null
intent format arranged as poem,
"Pikes Peak first published
Fourth of July full
edition of the church periodical
The Congregationalist in 1895,
now sung by mull teat hoods at Super Bowl
every year since 2009, and appeared pull
say ting stadiums at some sports events
after the 9/11 terror attack hull
lob bell loo in 2001.
The song comprises four verses,
one of isung before kick-off
in NFL's showpiece game.
Just by giving cerebral activity free rein,
this inquisitive mind of mine
learned how twenty first century New Year's
celebration include auld lang syne
linkedin with feted mid eighteenth poet
laureate, whose death at thirty seven, his spine
tingling spirit issues forth to give
him immortality almost divine
everlasting longevity within the pantheon
of August artists who humanity did assign
an eternal place future generations will
revere such metrical design.
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or *****
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
darkness, like Jonah
held in the belly of the whale,
the end of a world;
closed-in time in dark spaces -
gives one, a hell of a time to think
in the belly of the whale
grew a whole world,
longer than 3 days and 3 nights,
the construction took finesse
and dare one say, a gauche fearlessness
to unravel that ball of light
eject it out of her universe
like a supernova,
like a titian haired prodigy,
far from easy, ostentum
to accumulate the life of it all
extend the regeneration in kind,
of a generational call -
each time an infant cries,
the occupant in an infant is re-borne;
they say, it will take
3 days and 3 nights -
to destroy it all -
the end of an unprepared
naive world -
who keeps tabs on the betting
of it all, the end of a world?
there’s always 2 sides to a game -
the dimensions, levels all endless,
split and perplex;
in your arms today, gone tomorrow,
the love and the purpose stolen,
the end of a world -
the cycle sometimes broken -
yet the perpetuation of life,
for all its worth -
continues,
light and dark
some more light,
some more dark,
some sit on the fence
in the middle, in-between;
the end of a world?
they say shooting nuclear rockets
into the Moon’s shadow
could be a valid reason
to collect unknown dark matter -
dark matter resides in us all -
why target the Moon and the Sun,
when we have bountiful supplies
within us all, human, here in this world?
all Jonahs, at some point, we are -
inside the belly of the whale
the internal infernal wars
of us all,
perhaps she thinks ...
she should cry like Jonah,
hmmn, not anymore buster, not anymore
she’s had a life time
to think on it all,
mull it all over -
more and more
the rise and the fall,
but, she doesn’t cry anymore
the philosophy
the mathematics
of the metaphysical
revolution takes over -
the futile banality of it all;
ostentum
the occurrences,
foreshadowing future events
borne from the belly of a whale
the ostentum,
goes about freely, now
watched from afar,
by the love of another,
uneclipsed,
in her own world
like a child
watched by a loving mother
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Lifeblood of democracy hemorrhaging
ousting the "FAKE" president only recourse
to staunch impending grim demise,
since forefathers drafted
United States Constitution
ratified more'n two centuries ago
hoi polloi must take to the streets
denouncing severe curtailment
impinging sacred freedom of speech
linkedin with paramount bedrock provision
accessing unvarnished flint stoned "truth,"
nonetheless commander in chief
he quakingly, staunchly, vociferously...
excoriates, lacerates, repudiates...
one damning hermetically sealed,
iniquitous airtight, vacuum packed
flagrant misuse of power,
(not to mention nepotism)
invidious, insidious, injurious... infractions
incontestable, incontrovertible, contemptible...
significant melange in führer
re: hating deplorably
crooked basely barren
factual exposé after another,
deft correspondents all not quiet
along western front
(I heard Maria - mull remark)
bring "to light" execrable,
lamentable reprehensible...
gross transgressions
commander in chief
significantly overstepped
Pulitzer prize winning
prestigious storied publications
scathingly trounced, pillaried,
lambasted, insulted, denounced,
butchered, critiqued, demonized,
fricassed, gored, humiliated,...
pummeled, quartered, reviled
courageously expounding fiend
ensconced within his Taj Mahal
impregnable donjon, whereat he trumpets
laurels asper, nonpareil administration
laying groundless accusations
baring his white fangs,
twittering, naysaying, mocking.. supreme
renown gifted by "honest Abe"
recalcitrant commander in chief,
who refutes objectionable
dogged investigative journalism
every step of the way,
where dedicated news gatherers
risk life and limb
firing line reportage troopers
ferreting (foxlike) he/she
doth gopher precious nuggets
uncover alarming undisputable details
impossible to refute raw bits
agent provocateur freely colluding
immediately hashtashed poppycock
smarmy, snooty, snappy
beastly capital one ogre
blatantly castigating diligent endeavors
oblivious pie in sky
delusional egotistic haughtiness
bobblehead vilified by silent majority.
Crazy Man
By Rick Rucker
By subterfuge, and sleight of hand
I’ve won the fairest in the Land.
While she was concentrating on the Rose,
I won her over, head to toes.
She never even had a chance,
I overcame her with Romance!
Like a mounted charge, it was so fast
That her resistance could not last.
She was resolute, she held fast to her Heart,
A friendly relation was all she’d start,
I listened to just what she said,
Knew I’d pursue her 'til I was dead.
In the past, she had some troubles,
I had to make those burst like bubbles.
I had to let her see my Heart,
And from her side, I wouldn’t part.
I thought of the technique I’d use,
Not really a trick, or a ruse
But rather a daring plan,
To show her what a loving man
Would do to protect her Heart,
And every other part,
From those that would use them, to their own ends,
Leave her hurting, and not make amends.
My love would shield her like a force field,
If she would, to me, but yield.
A protector wouldn’t have a chance
Her security to enhance
If she kept her guard up, at the ready
Seeming tough, but not steady
The Plan was simple, it didn’t shove
Relying instead on my words of Love
At first, she was taken aback
I don’t think she expected that tack
That one who knew how to grieve
Would carry his Heart on his sleeve!
She was living in a prison
Behind a wall that had arisen
Due to past romances bad
These had left her alone, and sad.
Every time, when there was a lull,
I would not let her mull
On those failed relations past
I’d say “I love You,” slick, and fast
When I did it, she would react,
I know that it showed little tact
But, in the end, I could see,
That she began to think of me
As a man that just might be
One with whom she could spend Eternity!
I don’t say that this is THE WAY,
It did, for me, win the day!
Failing, I would have been crushed
I knew she could not be rushed
I now know that she thinks me daft,
On the Sea of Love, a raft.
But, from me, she never ran
And she calls me her Crazy Man!
A cupola shin, prickly dick creed, hoary
testes tossed, master baiting ova all eel trades
crossed the fecund Rubicon and ejaculated
olly olly oxen yawping, in utero seminal raids
with phallic coup d’etat that buck came vasocongested spades
lit torch, where hello kitty Ernst lee screeched
amidst Grafenberg tit parades
bumping uglies during four nuke key eight ting game
where pinkish puckered two lips viz biological
Russian roulette played – birth control relegated as desuetude
hotly contested fee conned, caved heat seminal blitzkrieg overlaid
bilging swamped,
whence olds eye goat ruff fused exiting nightshade
shy ham mull in, and gave way to blast ta cyst
vis a visa viz biological fertilization qua two plump milkmaids
from inchoate seeds juiced beginning
to compress bladder re: lemonades
per diem mother via umbilical cord fueling gestation,
where sonogram shows faint genetic threnody skein
perchance manifold jades
nope – no fallacy when peppy thrust with sucks esse full feint
after thwarting objection against skin flute charmed thence invades
which begot conception from chromosomal traits stitched
via jean S, and her faction of trumpeting handmaids
whose fecund ditty began to feel swell as biological reproduction
showed no uterine back grades
as Tabula rasa In utero endured fusillades per what mother tubby ingested
sustenance promulgated noticeable womb dar full expansion fusillades
of nutriments ordaining future health of progeny
riddling endless questions within the gallimaufry
discombobulated mental, physical fatigue enfilades
and spiritual state of momma me ya in tha family way, whereby baby blueprint an outcome as nano sized atomic bombshells scoured decades
to determine the ontological makeup from when the fluid dynamics
spelling impregnation since time immemorial and into the future cascades
artfully concatenating eminent grise immaculate kindred laminated with waxy substance i.e. vernix, though smooth
doth serve analogous to microscopic switch-blades.
Form:
I had a seventh grader tell me, when I was in 5th grade, that things go downhill after 5th grade - that life doesn’t get better, it just gets more complicated. I’ve had years to mull that over and I have to say that in some ways his testimony was on beat.
As we start the second half of sophomore fall semester, I think I’ve reached stability and I’m accustomed to this year’s schedule and workload. I haven’t surveyed whether I’m faster or slower in this (see below), but now I know all the tricks - where to eat, which paths to take and what to carry. I have a firm rhythm that’s consistent and insistent.
“I’m finally on my schedule.” I commented to Sunny yesterday morning as we collided in our dash to get our shoes on.
She looked at me in confusion “You know we’re on week 8 out of 15, Ya?”
I was shocked, “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I admitted as we stepped out.
It’s midnight and we’re going (Peter, Lisa, Sophie and I) to “My Butt” tonight (the dorm basement snack-bar). I took two seconds to splash my face with water and twist-back my hair. “How do I look?” I asked Peter.
“You’re attractive.. enough,” he said, “..I mean you fall within a bell curve.”
“You're almost 40,” I say, in the face of his non-complement.
“I’m 26,” Peter said, “You know it, and I have proof. You DO have some good points though,” he granted, while trying to drape his great, hairy, gorilla-like arm on me, “there’s your sparkling conversation and nice underwear.”
“I donated those to goodwill,” I lied, while giving him a half-gentle stiff-arm.
“You remind me of my parents,” Sophie says.
The tea (the best tea is scandalous). Lisa’s friend Baker dashed back to her room between classes Yesterday. She’d forgotten the big paper she had to turn-in. It was a mad dash and passing a roommate’s open door, she realized that the girl was lowkey masturbating. Lisa, delighted to be an interlocutor in the matter, due to Baker’s overplus embarrassment, is trying to suggest next steps in a post-shock protocol.
.
.
Interlocutor: “someone who takes part in a dialogue, or situation”
The doctor asked, “Any bizarre thoughts occurred to you?”
Mr. Trexler, the patient, had many since age two.
However, as he would mention with hesitation,
“Bizarre” was the psychiatrist’s reiteration.
The patient noticed the analyst’s keen scrutiny.
Despite all the thoughts, there was no spontaneity.
He felt pressured to produce answers in a hurry
Trexler’s mull would be, “How about the rhesus monkey?”
This patient had realized the doctor’s time was short.
He wondered which item might elicit a retort.
The Madison Avenue bus incident would stall
any possible response from the patient at all.
Mr. Trexler responded to the doctor’s question.
“No bizarre ones” he said with some slight inhibition.
This patient’s session dragged on for twenty minutes more.
At the end, the psychiatrist let him know the score.
“You’re scared,” said the doctor. “Do you want to know what for?
You have pushed your chair away from me across the floor.
Moving back a few inches is an indication
that you are overcome with a slight trepidation.”
They shook hands as the patient showed a mendacious grin.
As Mr. Trexler left, the next patient entered in.
A previous experience would pass in review:
This was riding the bus on Madison Avenue.
A week later, Trexler was back in the patient’s chair.
For many weeks thereafter, he would find himself there.
He began each session with thick vapors in his mind.
Other physiological symptoms he would find.
This man harbored neurotic feelings of the worst kind.
They were all too common and each rendered him resigned.
The doctor asked, “Have you found something giving relief?”
Trexler replied, “Yes, a drink” was his answer quite brief.
The patient saw each time had almost no difference.
He would soon assume psychological transference.
By placing himself within the psychiatrist’s stance,
Mr. Trexler soon discovered pattern resemblance.
This proved to be nothing new to this doctor’s patient.
Vicarious events came from things that were latent.
Trexler might see himself in other occupations
as a barber, cab driver, or priest with oblations.
To be continued
Written on 29th and 30th April 2012.
BY: Sashi.Prabhu (zeauoxian)
Father time always has lessons to open heartedly preach,
Of late have understood few of them, which was for a long time out my thoughts reach.
Now life seems to me as a sandy bank of a long desolate beach,
Where we trudge life’s sandy path in a hurry without an end the shores of success to reach.
But I often ask myself, what lessons, life to us, does preach?
Need to with all 5 senses deem or else we will end up filled with remorse and impeach.
People tell me about change,
And ways to my life rearrange.
But my heart and mind vehemently hum to me to be real sure,
And ensure that the changes don’t take my life on an offbeat detour.
Far away from people who on me shower their love and care,
Is that what you desire I ask myself? Stop think, mull and be minutely aware.
Life’s Moments pass us like flowing water of a the sea or stream,
Linger on, Sweet memories of some wonderful people who touched us like waves, come to mind or in our dreams.
In our quests to succeed and get on in life we strive to move ahead to the success shore,
And those cherished moments keep flashing in our dreams and in our thoughts more & more.
But
We trudge each day life’s sandy path in a hurry the shores of success to reach.
Need to with all 5 senses deem or else we will end up filled with remorse and impeach.
Life’s Moments pass us like flowing water of a the sea or stream,
Linger on, Sweet memories of some wonderful people who touched us like waves, come to mind or in our dreams.
So
I often mull and ask my mind,
Mostly about me but also about thoughts that often in mind and they themselves grind.
Must I, my beliefs, ideology and principles change?
To improve my life and it’s relations and my entire life rearrange?????
Now
I long to be my original me
As an original is worth more than a copy, as the world conceives and all see,
I am my original me.
I am me
I am
Me………….