Long Necessity Poems
Long Necessity Poems. Below are the most popular long Necessity by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Necessity poems by poem length and keyword.
Necessity is the mother of invention
Leave us to our creativeness
Cos our necessity
Is our drive
We he nothing to lose
Yes nothingness means
Something
Were necessity is obvious
So leave us to our creativeness
Cos is obvious you can save
Us from our foolishness
Our deformity
Was from your failures
And now your lack of
Leadership is obvious
To the world
So leave us to our creativeness
Let our time be the beginning
Of a chance of our old
Era
Our necessity is obvious
To the world
So leave us alone
We are pregnant for an invention
From the womb of the necessity
Your impregnated through your
Failed leadership
Behold the busy bumblebee
Gathering pollen and nectar, his treasure.
He transports it home
To be stored in a comb
For his queen to dine on at her leisure.
How doth the humble bumblebee
Manage all that he does without stumbling?
He toils night and day,
Earning minimum pay,
Her commands he'll obey without grumbling.
Wherefore's he called a "bumble bee"?
Throughout all that rough and rowdy tumbling
Industriousness is no quirk,
There's no task he will shirk,
So, don't smirk, he is anything but "bumbling".
In a thriving hive of buzzin' bees
Will reside several dozen cousin bees,
All of whom are humble bees,
And very busy bumblebees,
Knee-deep in bees' activities
And apian proclivities
That show their main necessity
If just to bee or not to bee.
Cooler breezes give us relief from the stifling heat,
A signal autumn is coming, and summer is in full retreat.
Leaves on the trees turn yellow, orange, red and brown,
As the days grow shorter, they eventually find their way to the ground.
As temperatures continue to cool, animals prepare for the cold months ahead,
Birds, reptiles, and mammals make ready for longer nights and shorter days instead.
Diminished daylight triggers an internal clock,
Signaling waterfowl to fly south, virtually non-stop.
Monarch butterflies commence migrating to their winter home,
Flying thousands of miles, their wings beating in cadence to an internal metronome.
As days pass, daylight shrinks and nighttime expands,
Driven by the earth’s voyage around the sun as we have come to understand.
As the outdoor world starts changing, all plants and animals adjust,
Preparing for the formidable winter ahead is a necessity, a must.
Plants start dropping seeds while animals gather food stores - their pre-winter haul,
It’s that time of year again, a time we call Fall.
Sue S. Side Almost Won Out As The Tomb Poem...
(alternately titled: a page taken from the play
book of Little Miss Muffet.)
"Oh...My...Argh..." "Somebody...
Please...ease...help...me...ee"..., and
then dead silence, this comprises,
the sole thread bare strand
i.e. plaintive desperate plea – recorded
by emergency 911 agent Brand
N. Burg-Harris, a close family member
of the deceased, who
(said relation) hand
dully appeared aghast, shell shocked,
white as a ghost,
et cetera damned
near roundly dismissed,
but extraordinarily grand
lee escorted to safety,
as some VIP, who
under a "normal," regular,
and/or typical case, would be
gingerly brushed aside land
ding in the loony bin, what with his
babbling like a lunatic understand
ably very little attention paid,
but the sheer immensity,
sans horror surpassed any
concoction hatched, analogous
to grotesque japaned
artwork by necessity didst demand,
an extremely over
active imagination, thus
no "FAKE" spiderbiter words
exist to expand
to embellish, fabricate,
and/or surpass,
a terrifying, nightmarish,
and hideous circumstance
in summary visa a vis dis
covering Goliath manned
doubles (mandibles - jaws of steel),
wherein barenaked remnants
of Matthew Scott Harris protruded,
which humongous mouthparts
of gigantic sized
Tarantula pierced poison
into dangling, flickr
ring, and twitching
scant visible remains
of renowned Arachnologist, academician
passionate serious
die hard "Spider Man."
When considering a favorite teacher or professor, immediately, one high school teacher and one college professor come to mind.
Since I have to choose one of them, I am leaning toward the professor.
Mine was a small college and my history professor was a large man
physically. He was well learned and the founder and president of
The college. Nevertheless, as an authority figure, he was very
Approachable.
In a larger sense, as head of a Christian college, he was not only the defender of the faith, but also a discerner of negative attitudes, mindsets, and a defender of minorities. He established in my mind the necessity of building protective shields to give an adversary second thoughts about an attack. I was also inspired by the way
He used communion to unify and create a bond at the small college.
It was very clear to me that my history class was not just about
The studies of yesterday but about the everyday life of today which in essence makes for a better history that is being formed presently by the current generation.
10172019PoSoupContest,My Favorite professor,Chantelle Cooke,3P
Amazon Order
I ordered some things from Amazon, today.
That cold and wind outside,
chilled my body and my bones on this sunny day;
so I chose to shop from the safety of the warm inside.
I ordered things of necessity, or so I told myself.
Those obligatory buys needed to survive.
The laundry detergent and nice oils and shampoos,
and so many other things I could use.
Things I may not use till the thaw of spring
but I’m on a role, needing almost everything.
There at the checkout, I looked again,
as the total was more than I meant to spend.
Delete that one and that one too
surely, I could do without that coffeed brew.
Oh Amazon, how easy you make my purchase,
but alas, I pressed the order key,
let’s hope it’s worth it.
A treasure was given to me
One with whom I could never depart
Day after day, I saw decay
Form in the center of my heart
I watched pieces harden and split
Discolor and begin to chip
I told myself that one day
I would have the money to fix
...what I was breaking
Robbing the world of beauty
Given to me for my joy
By keeping you, safely in place
You remain my baby boy
There are so many elements
Outside the doors of this house
That can kill and maim
What I must never allow
....suffering
No, no, my sweets, surely you see
All punishment belongs to me
I tried so hard to clean it up
The systems riding my back
But it seems as though
I have taught you the way of lack
There is no way I can repair
What I broke with Mama's tools
Restoration can only come
When necessity pulls
...value
It is not enough for me to see
The gift of you in the reveal
Seed lies dormant in ground
And I am he that wishes to steal
You do not belong to me
I am not granted your soul
I enjoy your presence, always
But it is time to let go
....and observe
The grand rising of light
As the mason repairs our sight
Written by Trudy Schrader on 04-12-2026
A year it's been, a year and more...
not that anyone else is keeping score.
My poems have never slept for so long,
but life has also never felt more wrong.
'Defiance' is my utmost, my favorite word...
the closest to "me" that I have ever heard.
But necessity has stolen its triumph and pride,
survival having become my only guide.
Grief has forced upon me six rounds...
loaded the revolver by filling the mounds.
The muzzle presses into my temple every day,
and only mulishness holds it at bay.
Instead of defying assholes, malice, hate, greed...
my will is entirely bent towards this need.
I cannot write otherwise, cannot force the muse,
while I'm simply looping, "I refuse, I refuse, I REFUSE".
"Undefeated", my favorite songs belt out...
I wish I could claim it truly, could similarly shout.
But the truth is that I have been shattered,
soundly beaten, smashed, stained, battered.
But strength lies not in never taking the heat...
only in getting back to your goddamned feet.
And if there's two things I unquestionably know,
it's heat - and telling the world " no".
Charlie briefly belonged to a group that would say...
"the only easy day was yesterday".
I say, the only easy day was...
when?
In the antique store
an old physician’s desk,
walnut and marble-topped,
holding the remnants of a life
of service;
stories etched in
wood, metal and stone.
Next to part of an old syringe,
a can of ether, half full;
it’s lid rusted shut
and a stethoscope
sporting the cracked rubber
tubing, of a bygone era.
A clock that once worked,
a necessity for any physician
or scientist;
it died at lunchtime.
A gilt-framed memoir
of time served abroad.
Life stories abound in old
antique shops;
shh...you can almost hear them
whispered tales,
ethereal remnants,
for the purchase.
2-12-2020
Enter the 'STRAND SELECT M,any form ,any theme' Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Frames of navy night sky sparkle, her glasses
Reminisce on stricter times, nineteen forty eight
A generation before Jimmy Hendrix liberation
Prior to gyrations from tight crotch crooner
Women without an inheritance would struggle
Menial jobs taken on, still society frowned upon
Independence, thus encouragement to link existed
Father substitutes sought out by sorrowful youth
Amusing imp, as quick to pout as to smile
Stirred strangely eroticism with simple antics
Erratic her dance, alluring her firey tantrums
Lost in wanting better love, engrossing plight
Instinct like that of wobbly Bambi stretches limbs
Sprinkled in Summer lawn abandon, carefree unfurl
Flicks tiny traumas aside, a childhood culpable
Absence aches in her chest like necessity
Little lady of burden smudges beasts with kohl
Sketches a future of picket fence flowers tall
Daddy provides sanctum her unheard heart calls for
Distance dissolves, eloined on island of illegal union
Bubblegum pop, impatience dressed in playsuit
Her fickle requirements are infantile outlines
Bumps in road don't dislodge her admiration
Grim portrait rebellion saved for another decade
23rd January