Long Neater Poems
Long Neater Poems. Below are the most popular long Neater by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Neater poems by poem length and keyword.
Men and puppies are the same
Training them is just a game
Of a lot of patience and
A gentle firm living hand
Teaching them what's right and wrong
But training can be very long
If they're stubborn and wont do
What you are telling them to
Smacking puppies on the nose
With a rolled up paper shows
Something wrong they are doing
On a rug peeing and pooing
Is not where it needs to be
It's more fun on a big tree
It's the same thing with your guy
No matter how much they try
To aim inside and not out
When they pee its like a spout
Making a mess everywhere
They're punishment can be severe
Puppies like to destroy things
Enjoyment it always brings
When they find a brand new shoe
On it they will chew and chew
So you say bad dog--they cower
Knowing you have all the power
When a man makes a big mess
Your patience is put to the test
Making them clean up they will
Be in the doghouse up until
They learn to be a lot neater
Making your life so much sweeter
Puppies like to run and jump
On top of you--sometimes they hump
Your leg and those of your friends
Push them off, it has to end
Like when a guy is all excited
His fire is soon ignited
And just attacks from behind
It is not polite or kind
So you push away your lovin'
Till they learn not be be jumpin'
It might take a ling long while
To reverse this wild style
That both men and puppies share
But with just a little care
You can turn them both around
With some tricks that you have found
Treating them when they're behaving
With some yummies they are craving
Or getting a little rough
When they're bad--showing tough love
Never knowing how they'll be
Full of fun or misery
Just take it simple and slow
And improvement will soon show
Death bids me welcome
Into his tended garden
Where quiet plots of bramble clots
House names now long forgotten.
Engravings faded, darkened serifs
Tower over brighter plaques
Sooted over gentleman
Look down on neater blacks.
Beneath Death’s open garden
There nods no congregation
A concert hall of empty audience
Unseen by stage commotion.
Their sandstone cradle cots
Swaddled in lichen sheets
Are emptied of their lifted souls
Like beds of feeding babies.
Not like the GI’s grinning whites
Crosses stood – Attention!
Polished to be each a sun
To mark those souls’ ascension.
This garden is like a tommy’s smirk
With gaps for whistling breezes
Bent double in his crooked laughter
His cackling gravestone wheezes.
Polite inclined as a footman’s bow
And flowers curled to curtsies
Roses, poppies, lilies attend
Their arch and shield stone masters.
Each of this staggered gathering
Breathed out their rattling breath
And out-shuffling their mortal shell
Were welcomed home by Death.
But he is not here seen
Out on his lively lawn
With reems of breathers, walkers, talkers
Strolling where he welcomes all.
In that lacquer case of copper rails
He welcomes none alive
Living mourners, pensive writers
Wait outside while they survive.
I hear his knell, a calling bell
To bring out life en masse
A host of mourners, singing lovely
Wave off him who passed.
Talking of their lost loved one
They process with dabbing eyes
The flowing tears of water’s life
Make tributaries of sighs.
So Death’s dour visage does faulty seem
When welcomed in his garden
A host of teeming, greening life
Is bursting at the seams.
I feel like a burden.
Parents kicked me out saying
“He’s gotta deal with her now”
And they weren’t playing
“If you leave this house,
You can’t come back”
Don’t worry mom and dad
I had enough time to pack.
Just cause I wanted to stay the night
You ended up yelling
I left after that fight.
Things had to change
Couldn’t get to HTC
Losing friends left and right
People started judging me
Just trying to live
But it doesn’t go so well
Sometimes I feel alone
Feel like I’m living in hell.
Cause no one understands
That age means nothing to me
If I love someone
Can’t you just be happy?
Missing my family
But it doesn’t matter
Going crazy cause I’m lonely
Like wonderlands crazy mad hatter
Calling my boyfriend
Hard when he’s away
Ending the call early
Cause we don’t know what to say
Wishing I was normal
Hate what people think
Can’t talk to no one
Cause I’m on the brink
Of not being able to cope
I know I’m negative sometimes
But all I want is to hope
I want to be able to
Smile again
But idk how
Where or when.
When he’s there
My life seems so much sweeter
Met him at work he’s on the clean team
(But that doesn’t mean he’s neater)
Gotta buy the groceries
Hoping to do more
Part time at the bakery
At the cub foods store
Life is complicated
Like staying balanced on a saddle
New conflicts every day
But I’m still fighting my last battle.
Once I finally feel
That I am close to winning
I look at the mess behind me
Saying “that was just the beginning”
Could our verity be any unique?
Whenever the twenty-first century is antique,
Links are the best way to deal with everything
When even the pencils will betide self-replicating,
The whole would be vastly improved
And, the fortune of the rich would be approved
Would remove those in requisite thoroughly
There will be no grimness when there is no infirmity.
Autos would be entirely electrical
Fuel and diesel would behoove skeptical,
News and journals will be made ready on digital
People react to move visions by a flash signal.
Parcels won't be uttered for a long time
Besides, astonishingly swiftly and in prime
On voice order, pencils and pens would work
Baring, scribble down all that we would rework.
Everybody will include a robot in their house
That will perform anything, including catching a mouse
It will cook meals and neaten the home, with no screams
Additionally, conceive all your expectations and dreams.
The earth will deem even as sole leader
A man with odd propensity and backbone neater
We might glean the option to dwell out in the cosmos
And we'd stray out on rockets to shop for blue camos.
How slightly does the world treat spot our sacred history?
Purvey future posterity with a canvas to our glittery
Sober-mindedness is the best way to crumble in terror
Indeed, pens will be automatized to abject horror.
Written: February 06, 2022
Let's explore digital technology Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Simon Rogerson
Estella Murray
1891-1912
Johnny’s was the last face
I saw that April afternoon in 1912.
I admit I was mean to him,
As mean as a starving she-dog in heat.
It’s not that I did not appreciate
The blooming rosebud he presented to me
Six months before my untimely demise.
But that thorn hidden beneath it,
Could it not have been removed beforehand?
It’s not that I did not appreciate
The long-winded love letter he delivered to me
Three months before my untimely demise.
But that last line written so sloppily, – “I love thee!”-
Could it not have been rewritten neater
And the word “thee” replaced with the word “you?”
It’s not that I did not appreciate
The inert standing vigil he kept for me
Three days before my untimely demise.
But what was that fool doing out there?
Just standing in the garden out front-
Outside my open-curtained window?
Could he not at least have stepped to my front door
There on Friends Street
And cried real tears for my departing soul?
But no! That fool, Johnny Barrow,
Instead stood out there flirting with his new girl-
Insipid April and her moody mornings and afternoons-
Standing and staring straight ahead
Like some stupid stone cold statue!
“Oh happy dagger!” the young Juliet once intoned.
“Oh happy death!” I said at last,
There on my mother’s divan,
Forgetting once and for all,
That staring unmoving fool, Johnny Barrow!
For so long
It’s just been you and I
Darting around the house,
Every weekend and holiday
Each summer, easter, autumn.
Circling the place that was our home.
Be it tag, hide and seek or simon says,
We’d always end up round
This little tree, on the ground
Basking in the sunlit garden.
Our grapefruit tree, branded with
12 sets of our initials
Set side by side,
Each neater and more intricate
Than the next,
Cuddled up against each other.
It grew as we did,
Its fruit ripening slowly throughout
The summer months,
From a harsh yellow
To a soft tangerine.
But unlike the tree as we aged,
Our blossoms began to wilt.
The end came that summers day
At your coming-of-age party.
When those words left your mouth
I felt all the air betray my lungs,
All the blood my heart
And all the light my eyes.
You left me broken and helpless,
Sobbing in front of our tree
In between shouts of
“Happy birthday!”.
Now every valentine’s day,
I buy a grapefruit from the shop,
Doff its orange coat
And remove its fiery insides.
Place it neatly on a ceramic plate,
Slowly eat it
Pearly cell by pearly cell,
Each bite leaving a tremor in its wake.
It tastes sweet like our childhood innocence
And bitter like your so-called “child’s play”.
For your Himalayan Singing Bowl retreat stood neat.
For you gifted five eager souls, sheer enjoyable flight -
For your expense paid treat gave me first time visit,
And I, on friendly shores of my mother's birth, rejoiced.
Our aircraft desked in red, yellow, blue, and white,
The Island of Jamaica showered us with welcome signs.
Thank you!
St Ann's Bay of our stay showed prancing peacocks.
Qui gong on sculped lawn by the pool at dawn,
We stood adorned in soft white.
Such picturesque view of water, sky, and trees,
We savored graciously served meals.
Our Masseuse' full body massage floated me on a cloud,
Soon we enjoyed harmony of individual bowls -
You, "Mama T" patiently led us in symphony.
In stillness, we perked with treat of your lead bowl.
Thank you!
Bob Marley's mausoleum up at "9 Miles",
His humble childhood abode,
Ocho Rios, Dunns' River Falls,
Small colorful fishes swarming as we swam,
We basked in shade of tropic trees,
And we jet skied with warm breeze.
Such expense paid retreat remains neater than neat.
Thank you!
Returning to my quiet studio on Manhattan West,
I often envision the artist residing in you -
Such smooth share of therapeutic moments as gift,
Who would resist?
Bless you!
*
GALAXY YOKE BOMBARD MASTICATE LUSH VISCOUS
Some say our galaxy’s a feeble joke,
and I’m not one to beat about the bush:
two stellar oxen, fastened by a yoke?
Mythology, to me, is so much mush!
The moon, I guess, is made of white hibiscus!
I never take the storyteller’s bait.
We intellectuals are on our guard:
there’s no such thing as ‘destiny’ or ‘fate’.
Don’t follow fables: that way, you’ll fall hard.
I put my faith in science. Am I ‘woke’?
The president says toilets fail to flush.
That SCOTUS justice – is he an old soak?
He’s fond of beer – does that make him a lush?
The others go for substances more viscous,
which take a little time to masticate:
the pleasures which we’re able to retard
feel somehow more intense. Thus, ‘better late
than never’ means, ‘Bill Murrayed’, not ‘Bill Mahered’.
And words have meaning. If you want to ‘stoke’,
it doesn’t mean you’d much prefer to ‘gush’:
and on the whole it’s not as bad to ‘poke’
(because it’s less invasive) as to ‘push’.
Is ‘facial hair’ a neater term than ‘whiskers’?
So, my belief. I’d rather be a plate
than sharp and incomplete – ie, a shard.
It’s nobler if our pilots sit and wait
than if they get the order to bombard.
I was cleaning out the closet today and found an old shirt that I no longer wear. Mainly
because it no longer fits. Why I've kept it all these years, I haven't a clue. It just sat
there on the shelf. Minding it's own business. The last time I saw it was when we
moved here 5 years ago. It's not like I will ever be that size again. No matter how
much I wish for it or plan to do something about it. It's not a fancy shirt. It's not even
a special color. I remember that it was very comfortable and it fit me like a glove.
I didn't throw it out right away. I laid it back on the bed along with other items I had
placed there from the shelf. As I wiped down the shelves and replaced articles and
such, in much neater orderly stacks, I avoided that shirt. Finally I was done. I put
away the cleaning supplies and walked up to my bed. There was that shirt. I picked it
up, folded it and put it back on the shelf.
I decided that one lone shirt was me, just in a different form. I'm not fancy. My
coloring isn't all that special. I don't fit anymore whereas I was did.
Just like that shirt, I'm a little frayed and well worn and displaced. But, maybe, just
maybe, we might fit one day.
We had some neighbors with a sign, “Do Not Disturb.”
They’d vanished when a moving van came to the curb.
How thrilled we were to learn new folks were moving in.
Would they make that old house look neater than a pin?
Originality they did not lack!
They started painting everything, and everything was black!
We feared the value of our property would drop
next door to this atrocity. They would not stop!
We noticed many other things that seemed to us bizarre.
That pair would only paint by night and neither had a car!
The sign “Do Not Disturb” remains, so now we think about
the fact we’d never seen our former neighbors moving out!
Behind their house is where we saw them the first time.
We’d heard them digging in the night, but that is not a crime!
My spouse peeked out the window. Working fast, and with no sound,
that couple started planting bushes on a wide fresh mound.
It spooked us, and I pray they didn’t see our curtain lift
while spying. They’re at home all day. I think they work night shift!
Our house is now for sale; we stay indoors with our two cats.
Before each dawn, I swear I hear the sound of bloody bats!
Written 9/12/2015