Long Nonsensical Poems
Long Nonsensical Poems. Below are the most popular long Nonsensical by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nonsensical poems by poem length and keyword.
It's not hard to see or tell this world of ours
Isn't the same as it used to be. Granted, it has
Never been perfect, but I've seen better days
I've become numb to a cavalcade of bad news
That saturate the television, social media
The radio, the newspapers.
I see our world changing with my own eyes
Every day, and not for the better. Sometimes I feel
As if I'm dreaming, but it's not a dream. It's reality
It's like I went to sleep one fine day, and woke up
To a world gone mad. A world, like crumbs
Falling off bread being sliced
What happened to the state of civility? What happened
To the nature of our social fabric? What is happening
To our country?
I'm so sick of Liar-In-Chief Donald Trump spewing
Hundreds of lies every day, further breaking
His unbreakable record of falsehoods. But why stop there?
Since his presidency, racism, xenophobia
Fear-mongering, corruption, foreign and domestic
Terrorism all surged exponentially
Under his watch, police brutality is at an all-time high
What is the world coming to when our "President"
Sides with foreign cold-blooded dictators
Over America's intelligence agencies?
What is wrong with that picture? This nation, this world
We're living in just isn't the same as it used to be
More and more African-Americans are ending up
Dead at the hands of trigger-happy police officers
More and more celebrities are falling from grace
Many emerging as sexual predators since
The inception of the "MeToo Movement"
Oh, and let's not forget about the Catholic priests!
The never-ending wars in Iraq and Afghanistan
Continue to claim the lives of American soldiers
Needlessly. When will our heroes finally come home?
What happened to the political climate?
It has grown so toxic. Washington politicians
Are failing to do the job the American people
Elected them to do.
The GOP has become the party of Trump
A so-called leader who stays up all night
Tweeting more nonsensical lies, who continually fan
The flames of division, continually assault
Freedom of the press, calling a legitimate investigation
Of Russia's meddling in America's election process
A "Hoax" and "Witch Hunt." But we all know better, don't we?
I wish I could go back to sleep and wake up
To the way the world used to be...
Poem Of The Day on 12/03/2018
Twas twiglo, and the snellish whidgers did sprowl and danzal in the warsh; all wafflie were the paridgers, and the gromb purtles sharsh. Prudalertating titillations the Gibbercrocky, my suthion The maws that nonce the tentlers that bonce Prudalertating titillations the Ardard bird, shewthion Foulishly speaking folklers such jocularonce He took his schwervo quill in hand: Eoness chrono the foemaxisis whom he sought so he rested by the editorial tree and stood awhile in fool killer thought and as in barblish thought still standing The Gibbercrocky, eyeing fierily came fiendishly through the critique trees and verbaled as is it came neigherly No, you! No, you! through and through The verbal blade went snacking-snickering! He left it dead, and with its head He went galloping and attacking. Thou -The has slain this son of mine! Holding in my arms, the shining boy What a fabulous day! Hoorah! Hooray! Cheering and snorting in his joy. Twas twiglo, and the snellish whidgers did sprowl and danzal in the warsh ; all wafflie were the paridgers, and the gromb purtles sharsh.
Most imp potent and salient playbook page...
'bout fluffiness of hair after washing
Now get ready for...
yup intelligent persiflage
determining if potty "talk" gauge
correctly calibrated courtesy this sage.
Beats out global warming
by a long stretch
most important commander
must set example you betch
chore life no matter
if miserable wretch
survives impeachable offenses
enough to make me kvetch,
especially four more years
yours truly will once again become
bulimic anorexic wretch.
Versus important crisis
of planet Earth,
where Gaia's bountiful
nature woolworth
analogous wharf resplendent
docks side of ships berth state
housing electricity generating
mined resources inevitable dearth
warming chill folks
courtesy homey hearth
reminiscent during inchoate
fetal nine months
in utero signaling imminent birth.
Quite understandable reasonable,
non negotiable, inviolable...
blah... blah... blah
scalp itching blather
particularly to prioritize
orange-blond hirsute fullness
upon rinsing sudsy shampoo lather
as expressed by this
post baby boomer
pencil neck geek father,
who attempts to walk poetic feet
across cyber sea
miraculously to slather.
Trademark seedy nonsensical
farcical gobbledygook,
perhaps posthumously printing
bestselling blank paginated chapbook
ghost written by Trump
titled Art of the Steal
detailing head and shoulders how to look
suave and sophisticated all business
swiftly tailored harried style shook
White House disguised himself as rook
key "Fake" incognito president
recruiting apprenticed bartered bride
slow vacuuming trophy wife crook
cow hoard milching, kickstarting,
inciting, generating... donnybrook
coiffing pompadour resembling
forefathers windblown periwig.
Nope not even one hair
mussed out of place,
as if teetering fountainhead
supporting Atlas shrugged
top heavy topples
and crashes scattering
bajillion easy pieces everyplace
analogous to humpty dumpty
each and every last vestige
vanishing without a trace
exiting out cloaca
subsequently intently watching
toilet bowl royally flush
clockwise if within northern hemisphere
heavy enough to sink submarine
haint no reason yours truly might gush
even if abominable ballast
saves queasy passengers
plummeting thru aerospace.
Moving through the pulse and the flow
A timetable of fixed dilation
A given
And measured
Ellipse
To the people it trips
As they ride the crest
Of the waves
Of emotions
Just prisoners of
Perpetual motion
Never ceasing
Never pretending to be
Anything more
Born into the days
Of a future long past
Spying its records
From the start to the last
We are all
Just second hand news
In a land of ne’re to be
Nonsensical devotion
The prisoners of perpetual motion
Elate
And repress
The We
The US three
The Me
Myself
and I
Come to share in a life such as these
Checking out the view
I’m just second hand news
In the land of Ne’re do we
Strolling on by and
Pressing on through
Tasked with its provisions
And it’s riddled revisions
Nonsense and fiction
Have found their new diction
Of solar progression
As they encapsulate
The US Three
Strolling on by
Pressing ahead
The RIGHT
And the TRUE
It’s textured and layered deception
Held a managed intervention
Holding within its folio
The signatures of digression
Devoid of emotion
As it’s pendulum swings to and fro
Never able to leave
Or break its grasp
Transcending all in its path
Nonsense and fiction
Wear a guise of suspicion
Take on a new face
A perplexing division
With its sweeping broad strokes
To embrace and replace the US Three
Brushing on past
Just a page before
You knocked on the door
Of the garden where flowers once grew
These steps you’ve taken
Left to the tender mercies
Of fiscal conservancy’s
Hyperbolic uncertainty
Common knowledge
Given breathe
As stolen
A thief
Of the Inspector in chief
His notes plainly written
A solider in part
Has taken my enemies heart
In a fruitless pursuit
Of passion and pain
Here
I remain
In its orbital dance
The great mechanic has cast
His players
The WE
The US Three
Cry the home
On this ellipse
As we roam
The WE
The US Three
The black crow
Watches unfaltering
With his stalwart gaze
As your counterfeit lies
Sought in other men’s eyes
With a forbodance
Which can not be denied
In the wink of an eye
Like the pearls on a string
That glow
And
That shine
As it squares with the facts
In the drivers seat of circumstance
And at length in perpetuity
YOU hold the charter to men’s hearts.
The Peterson Directed Handwriting System...
Tis beyond the depth and scope
of this electronic post,
and author, what triggers deliverance
housing bounty full memory absorbance,
yet no matter how many
heat sinks plumb cognizance,
most ordinary happenstance
often dredge up old nettlesome
rusty mettlesome names
of teachers forbearance
nearly half century ago
recalled in a flash,
and helped birth this poetic instance
break open literary
piece de resistance,
yet I will make
no subsequent reference
albeit once, about Peterson Handwriting
non cursively typed poem
filled with nonsensical abundance
dashed off viz seat
of my squarepants
typed, via strong arm lance
meant tubby considered pure entertainment,
so...,this rhyme merely hints
at cerebral imbalance
as minor rave and rants,
culled from convenient
20/20 hindsight stance,
while this quiet as bobbing sponge
minutely straddled across
space time continuum expanse,
and (analogously, invisibly,
plus quixotically perched circumstance
amidst wide webbed worldly metaphysical,
intellectual, and existential kants),
yet unable to disguise me
porous (poor ass) student advance
barely getting promoted,
cuz sigh re: Seine ed lee
imaged myself prince charming
to frolic and prance,
and dreamt about being in France,
when teacher called on me,
I immediately (whistled like
a little teapot) appearance,
whereby steam issued
out chrome dome
(scanned hull – i.e. numb
skull) affixed on
short and stout genetic grants,
which noggin always
(automatically) looked askance,
while me got alphabetically seated
from grades three to six
(mrs wells, mister stout,
missus shaner, and
miss rinderle respectively)
with absolute zero exuberance
(at Henry Kline
Boyer Elementary School,
I just recalled aforementioned
randomly accessed memory by chance
casually rifling thru
memory bank, freelance
sing, while pissing
away time performing,
"I gotta urinate dance,"
thus rendering painstaking years
perfecting penmanship style
(reference poem title)
executed with Liberace flamboyance,
whereat yours truly obsessively and
compulsively excelled at
duplicating signature compliance
plus crossing T's and
dotting I's with rapacious
perfectly ruled slants.
It's quiet here - quiet in a way that catches me off guard. The tranquility is almost tangible, something I can touch and hold and wrap around myself. I can hear the pulse of faraway waves, the faint hum of the wind, the nonsensical call of distant seagulls. I can hear my own heartbeat, pounding along with the waves.
As I kick off my sandals, my spirit steps out of my body, leaving behind the material baggage of city life. The sand is soggy beneath my feet and I know my footprints will disappear when the sea rises, as if I were never here at all.
It's low tide, that magical time when the sea recedes to reveal the ocean floor. Grooves of sand catch pockets of water that are half-buried mirrors, reflecting pale blue sky and slices of violet sunlight that glitter like chipped diamond.
a vocal seagull
descends toward liquid skies –
reflections ripple
At low tide, a second beach emerges, stretching all the way across the bay to the opposite shore. I walk slowly, tasting salt on the breeze as it runs invisible fingers through my hair. Strands sweep across my face, catching in my eyelashes before fluttering free once more.
The beach is a dream catcher, snagging small treasures when the sea withdraws. And I am a child again, fascinated by the hermit crab retreating into his shell as I approach. I spot the dimpled surface of an urchin’s shell peeking out from wrinkled sand. Other shells are scattered across the beach, some upside down, exposing smooth, pearly souls.
a tiny starfish
drifts beneath placid water –
lost constellation
When I find a sand dollar, my breath catches. It’s perfectly whole, with smooth, rounded edges and clean, ivory skin. It’s heavy and light all at once, the flawless design at its center subtle and brilliant, like a delicate floral tattoo. How many hours had I spent here as a child, searching for this transitory coin?
My eyes fill with unexpected tears as my vision wavers behind distorted pools of grief. I’m half-blind until I blink, releasing salty rivers down my cheeks. Even then, my sight is murky.
My tears taste like the ocean and I think, suddenly: Whose tears fill the sea?
Written: November 4, 2015
For Charlotte's "Creative Haibuns" Contest
Descendent of proto humans
dumbfounded, mystified, stupefied, et cetera
despite plethora of technological trappings,
whereby world wide web virtually linkedin
allowing, enabling, and providing
instantaneous electronic feedback,
I still experience dearth
of mental, psychological and social
meaningfulness amidst cerebral chaos
courtesy healthy mailer daemons
occupying sixty plus shades of gray matter
more valuable then any terrain
designated as Silicon Valley or Wall Street
constituting nexus of brain power,
where metaphysical thoughts proliferate
and ponder such basic thought
such as who art yours truly
what (I declare)
will constitute date with death
and where will corporeal flesh
and spirit separately journey?
Since time immemorial
millennium generations
happenstance bestowed *****sapiens
ability to become self aware
double edged figurative sword
allowing, enabling, providing...
forebears of yesteryear
to marvel at life, and
reckon with death,
which mixed blessing
wrestling with living and dying
also confronts man/womankind
during twenty first century
said inscrutable dilemma,
albeit reconciling mortality
linkedin with consciousness
heightened, tested, under_scored...
particularly at demise dearly departed
inadvertently affect
upon surviving family members
hijacking, offsetting, upending...
fracturing emotional composure
prompting immediate questions
regarding purposefulness living
nee, being born essentially to die
predestined to pass away
identical fate decreed upon
all animals and plants
bolstered by believing deity
foreordained every creature
past, present, and future,
yet most pronounceable afflicting
non denominational, non
religious, non sectarian
case in point Unitarian,
vis a vis visa versa secular humanists,
especially nonsensical poet wannabe
riddled with perplexity
about nature of being alive
wondering what explains
essence constituting individual fluke
finding meaning scuttling
across world wide web
hither and yon, to and fro
dumbfounded at futility
absolute zero adequate answers
(again, unless one subscribes
to codified doctrinal dogma
i.e. religion, faith, creed...)
I attest as garden variety primate
baffled, flummoxed, nonplussed...
I got fired
For being awarded Most Desired
The truth got liared
I got tired by the fact that you are wired
A different way than me
Why can't they clearly see
That I'll make a difference in this world of labels?
This world is like a wifi that has been running on a ticking bomb of jacked up cables
Going thru a relapse of suicidal thots before and after
I hand you flowers of forgive-me-please after a disaster
After a rainstorm comes a rainbow of radiance,
A tragedy in reverse...a miracle cure, a prance dance - enhance my joy with Royal elegance
Loyal me up as soon as I give in to my old ways (that's what's up)
Cuz I've been unfaithful...mhm, truth sincerely hurts
To You, him, and her and I feel like giving up...I'm a filthy cup in the dishwasher, but I will be a spic-and-span cup (it shocks me to know many have given up so easily...I'm a whimpering pup)
I've been acting ungrateful...I'm inside out shirts...
I'm in my doom-gloom dorm,
Keeping warm through it all...I've crashed due to an epic fall or an accidental fantastic fail
I'm an weird, empty Earth worm
Seeping through the wooden floors that are as tough as a well-built wall...you're a tough trail to tread...I'm a message never sent by mail
Got crazy
A lil lazy
Got naturally hazy
Off of hyper wild-child
Inside me - so not mild
For a while, my mind has been piled
With nonsensical, fickle desire of my elevating empire
I am home with my cheesy nachos on my lap while singing "Girl on Fire"
I'm higher than the clouds cuz I'm high off of laughter and bliss...something I cherish and admire
It's cool to be real
It's not legit to be fake
Ah yeah, it's not a big deal
Hit the brake for my sake
Regret nothing
Quit that fussing
You're my everything
Carry on, do your thang
Off you trot
Don't let me Rot
On the spotlight...
Tonight...despite your black and white ways of sparkling spite and under-your-spell might that shines so bright and it's wrong when it's right
I'm a kid without his kite
Stab me with love-me-not loathe - I can take it without throwing a childish fit with a mature kit with freezing fire foolwit
I'm sorry - I feel like shite
I know I broke the friendship oath - I still luv u a bit, I must admit
I hated it at times, it could be so annoying.
It meant we were always waiting dinners
and you hoped when you were out she wouldn’t
see anyone she knew because that was sure to add another
half hour or so to the outing. It meant every where she went she was l a t e.
More than once I had called the hospital worried she had a wreck
However, it also meant that there was always a smile,
a kind word and encouragement ready at all times.
She could be loud and boisterous and enthusiastic about life...she loved people.
It’s different now. I see her in the lobby and go to sit by her,
her head is down, propped by her hand. I sit beside her, nothing.
I rub her back, nothing; I talk to her, nothing.
I jostle harder, talk louder and she comes to life.
Life, do you still call it life when it has evaporated,
slowly faded away into the bare minimum of existence
She used to babble a nonsensical jargon that she herself could not reason.
You had to train yourself not to look away while she was talking because
whether anyone understood the gibberish of irrational thought
that somewhere connected to voice she did understand rudeness
and impatience and you could read the sting in her eyes.
I want words so badly now. Questions that beg answers,
words so scarcely uttered.
Nursery rhymes started by me that she may join in,
mostly wrong words but the rhythm still there.
She loved to have her hair combed so I do it now
but it brings no response of comfort or liking.
I bring something she enjoys eating but she does not reach for it.
I touch it to her hand but she does not grasp.
I put it to her lips and soon she opens and eats.
Does she know what it is? Does it taste good to her.
I cannot read the expression but she will eat if I feed them to her.
I start putting them to her fingers and she eats
Time goes on. When do you leave?
Nothing really changes from beginning to end.
Do you watch the clock and leave after the time allotted.
I don’t know. I still have this need to fix it.
She’s my sister, she’s too young, make it stop, give her back.
I leave her with her strangers as I’ve now become.
She’s always with strangers
When I look at you, silhouettes spread through time,
Variations of life, in the curtain of stars,
As children, we lured each other with a warm thought,
Down an alley, where you brought me a large beetle,
And on my hair, you gently placed the odd traveler,
We gave it a name, and you whispered secrets,
A string of wisdoms from its tiny world,
You were a genius, speaking the frogs' language,
I believe every word, and worlds of beetles
In my wide eyes, are not silly at all.
When winter heralds an unknown ending,
And in snowy garments, my soul is lost,
In another realm, our fates have shifted,
Me a man, you a woman, a change without fears,
With a new body, I learn to love you anew,
No corner of the cosmos feels alien or cold.
The heights call us to be migrating birds,
Other times we meet as the hands of a clock,
I chase after you in flight, but I cannot reach.
Sometimes we are lazy morning cats,
Occasionally, I weave colorful ribbons into your hair,
I stroke your thighs faintly, in our silent game.
It seems that universes will never end,
Through every cell, I feel your hand like dreams,
In another life we laugh, choked by a sip,
In another, I'm a bee and I sting you, you're gone.
Often you kiss me goodbye,
And you embark on an endless journey, as if forever.
We meet at the front, and you carry me,
Wounded soldier, you ask if death hurts much.
We lay trembling hands over your wounds,
And we greet victory with open arms,
We stand in squares, veterans, and I remind you,
Since childhood, you were always by my side.
On the days when children look out from the bus,
They have your profound eyes and my calm voice,
Your stature and my footsteps on the pavements,
Your education, my tenderness, and your strength.
When old age comes and you whisper to me gently,
Thank you for being the sun in my life,
And I call you softly, "My sun."
On Saturdays when I tint my lips red,
Your cheeks bear kisses, like falling leaves,
I tell myself that dying without knowing you,
Is a great fear, a wild, nonsensical fear,
Without having lived, even one full life together.