Long Noticeable Poems
Long Noticeable Poems. Below are the most popular long Noticeable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Noticeable poems by poem length and keyword.
with noticeable burgeoning bosom in the offing, ahoy
this baby faced blubbery bosom beastie boy
fast becoming a bra man,
and might hire himself out
as a male wet nurse for employ
ment, cuz when stark naked on shark tank,
I behold two bopping, brewing, busting
flap jacks in search of a frying pan,
which change in my physiognomy doth annoy
but, suddenly spurring,
this ordinarily calm, cool, and collected chap
positing even a more radical income idea
changing ma name to Chester, letting hooters
get suckled, though,
methinks they qualify as milk duds
tit two siamese twin guys christened ell and roy
offering accompanied with serving of cookies,
where adipose floppy blimps
rank popular as novel cheap toy
where art though washboard stomach,
where brestworks didst sprout
as if overnight a markedly increased
from flat “Joe” six pack chest did an about
face, with squishy, mushy, and doughy
sprang up without doubt
suddenly forcing a sexual identity crisis,
which freaky phenomenon makes me wanna pout
for weird, wicked woebegone
affects the psyche of this lviii aged lout
wondering what other transitions,
this fellow may indeed be on the look out
feigning to traverse (in me mind) badgering
rugged hormonal secretion terrain akin to a girl scout
on the prowl targeting a peeping tom,
whose foolery demands clout,
thus this imposed unfair punishment,
as some half assed irreversible decree
maybe hints of other surprises,
yet tubby revealed, which haint no fallacy
possibly being brewed up by a brood
of bruiting imps of the pervert with glee
some bot sized microscopic
anti bosom buddy hood stolen the genetic key
analogous to a pesky malware,
virus, trojan horse secrete lee
scheming to transform the sexual identity of me
perhaps waking up tomorrow minus
my little peppy ***** , and behold a pussy
should such an outcome prevail,
where media papparazzi
stake out this freak of nature re:
doubling efforts erecting fortifications
in a big old sassy tree,
especially if the press
(i.e. particularly meaning Wikileaks)
discovers ability to experience infinite orgasms
converting sexual predilection into electric utility.
I sing of the afternoon of life,
Of beaches shifting in such tiny ways;
Throes of death is what they are,
Under the light of a softly dying star,
When eyes full of wonder and hope
Stare into a sky
Made beautiful by the ugliness of transition
And the contingent world of vision and smell
Where only the blind and dumb can tell
That life doesn't really give a about
what you’ve done with yourself all these years.
Let the rain and wind pick up a bit
And clutch the world in a wet embrace.
I don’t really care, you see.
Let the drops mingle on my face,
A beacon for what hides inside.
I wear my disguise to bed each night
And when I wake I certainly stand
So that it's not noticeable.
My window provides a stark picture of a dim horizon
In the agony of acceptance
That every day is a painful step closer,
And those that don’t feel agony are numb.
Or maybe just dumb.
From the wisdom of poets long dead
And the simple thoughts of those
Who don’t mean anything to you
Come the answers we seek:
Words that illustrate our ideas
And the satisfaction of knowing that
Other people can feel the texture
Of the thoughts you hold
Inside.
Surely wisdom has no higher price
Than the realization that
Everything you think and feel
Has already been discussed.
Beauty and understanding once meant something,
But now they vie for attention with
Baser things, trivial things
Only meaningful in their relativity,
Along with knowledge, (what a funny word)
Which once meant knowing what was right
And what was not and knowing the difference.
Now it seems clear that true knowledge
Is only the acceptance that
We know nothing more than that which
We cannot change.
As flowers grow, bloom, and die, so must our
understanding ever be compromised and evaluated.
From the ramparts fall
The sonnets of those most have forgotten,
And maybe you’ll blink, mouth moving
Like a fish in the sand,
Gasping as you realize the futility
Of accepting anything
But what you wanted so desperately to believe,
But like any myth, eventually
you will uncover the trickery
And try to accept it without anger or grief,
Because once the movie’s over,
You’re just in a big room of people
Staring at a blank screen.
When the ability to write manifested itself among the many learned minds, accounting, and recordkeeping too, had manifested as what has become known to be called, history.
The routine breakdown, and the frequency in some reflective properties via some periodic order post-prehistory, as the assorted is gathered and assembled for review and interpretative insights, thus creating the effects and all that is belonging to that particular portion of history.
Remembering and placing events, people, and places, all of that, sorted out history.
The discoveries that were established, explorations of findings, investigating quests, and figuring out enigmas, such became part of history.
A miscellany of items and artifacts of life during any given period is a form of physical purpose to history.
A common source becomes noticeable and formidable as an organization, a religious order, a political party, a civil association, an action group, or a school recital, whether they be big or small, they are all part of history.
When events present themselves, as to how it is articulated and expressed, the wherefores and whereof, are indicators given to history.
How we treat some exceptional thing, our rendition of it, and our particular point of view, like understanding its artistic values, are intricate matters for the basis of history.
The changing of the nexus, fads, styles, precepts, and concepts; specifically, for this writing, nowadays interpretation concerning one's gender, meaning, 'Herstory' too, makes history.
Donning rubber gloves, the wife does washing of clothes and dishes...
(plus cutlery, pots pans, et cetera) in the kitchenette sink.
She started what would immediately become
a first and last generation tradition
(the spouse as washer woman
and scullery maid)
soon after we moved here
eight years ago come July 1st, 2025.
I trumpet her pioneer spirit
to apply elbow grease
(to tackle tough
heavily stained articles of clothing
(after her weary cowboy husband
comes back home on the range
after a hot day rustling cattle)
think underwear of mine -
whereat even bleach
falls short of removing
stubborn noticeable discoloration)
such gusto similarly applied
to glassware or cookware caked
with crusty hardened food.
After washing wearable goods,
she squeezes the excess water
from saturated item(s)
and drapes still moderately wet garment
over drying racks
despite the availability
of clothes washers and dryers
here on the premises
of Highland Manor Apartments.
Though she continues to threaten
with colorful epithets
never to wash my clothes ever again,
her words ring hollow
when some time elapses
and... guess what?
yepper, her hands slide down
into the behavioral sink
and I make sure
to acknowledge gratitude,
yet admit to falling short
of filling in the blank
(with a select response),
when she asks me
what will I give her in return.
Earlier in our
almost thirty year marriage,
we (I more so than the wife)
used to be conditional
and if asked a favor,
the immediate response
from yours truly (me)
just so happened to be
what do I get in return?
That Pavlovian feedback loop
occurred way before
my libido took a kamikaze dive,
into a suicide mission
a strong suspicion arises
(but I dare not utter
a premature ejaculation)
videlicet that being adverse effects
linkedin with one or more
of the nine prescription medications
ingested for mental health issues
such as anxiety, dysthymia,
obsessive compulsive disorder,
and palmar hyperhidrosis
could be the only logical explanation,
and interestingly enough,
I breathe a sigh of relief
cuz all to often sexual fantasies
ofttimes filled every waking
and sleeping hour of mine.
And we all thought that Christmas
was a jolly season for all ages,
but we've ignored pain...not seeing tears
roll down those cold and fearful cheeks!
Some weep, some rejoice...
others don't celebrate, but rage with malicious eyes;
wasn't that child's birth announced by angelic voices
that attested He was God's choice?
Depression is the worst kind of sadness,
and unless the noticeable signs are felt or filled with alarm:
we may lose persons very dear to us...
before tragedy strikes, intervene to save them from harm!
Some weep, some rejoice....
many show blind belief and resist
to give the Redeemer due praise;
they are the fools who follow a cult!
Why should this holiday be so sad,
wasn't Jesus born to bring us joy...
that's what every joyful angel proclaimed
as they crowned Him king for eternity!
Some weep, some rejoice...
others don't conceive the true worth of Heavenly glory,
they hate goodness and despise holiness:
mocking and twisting the pure image of faithful Mary!
It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, but who's elated about greeting thorns when picking roses from a bush or picking lemons from a tree? I observed from the start that I'd never seen a lemon tree so guarded with most of its lemons in deep and difficult to reach areas behind its new growth of limbs. It was as if the tree in 'Tartspeech'* said to me, "You are free to have and consume my lemons if you can endure the munitions of my thorns".
At the time that my wife was offered fresh lemons by a friend, I did not extrapolate the assigned mission by my wife, and prior to my first approach I had not considered the resistance I would confront nor the pain I would have to overcome. After all, some things are instinctive and routine, not necessitating calculations and strategies. I had no thoughts of the combative nature of the lemon tree until I attempted to extract its lemons. One look at the pointed thorns gave me pause and forced a distraction to count the cost of extraction. I then proceeded cautiously lest I should bleed excessively.
Also at the time, I did not count the number of my pricks, but my best guess would be 10 or less, one of which grew noticeable blood. None, however, triggered a retrenchment or convinced me to quit. I did count the lemons upon arriving home, and they totaled 82 as I recall. A nice crate of lemons for less than 10 pricks. I'd say, not a bad tradeoff.
On these early winter mornings, I have green tea and a mixture of the lemon's juices with a spoon of honey, also given by our friend. It's then that I take a different kind of pause and realize the worth of it all.
011220PoSoupCtest, Favourite Poem from January 2020, Julia Ward *Vocabulary.com Dictionary. As an adjective, tart describes a sour taste, like lemon. Website, Blurtit: Yooti Bhansali answered. ...The word is also used to denote a manner of speech that is especially bitter or blunt in the way it is spoken as well as the connotation of the spoken comment. ....
Recognition
There I am again,
in the wall-size mirror
at the gym,
myself seeing myself,
a compulsion of sorts,
a checking-in
to see what has changed.
My bent and rotated spine
is always the same —
a very noticeable dog-leg
listing me to port.
There are those
who look at themselves
each morning in the mirror
and think,
“Damn, I look good.”
Perhaps the guy at the gym
with the triangular upper body
and tree-thick thighs does this,
but I don’t know him,
so he doesn’t count.
I don’t feel very old inside
except on cloudy, wet days.
My exterior says otherwise;
that doesn’t matter much now.
I know shadowy mortality
lies in wait. Occasionally
I hazard a quiet guess
about the time I have left,
a fruitless contemplation,
leading only to
gloom and foreboding.
Most often I move on
to meaningful pursuits:
driving much too fast,
eating ice cream,
making love,
writing and painting
to sustain my soul.
Some believe that one should,
"Live fast, die young,
leave a good-looking corpse."
I regret not living fast enough in my youth,
I’m thankful I’m not James Dean,
and ashes are only as beautiful
as the urn in which they are stored.
So, henceforth I shall marvel
at my visage in the mirror,
appreciating both my continued presence
and the elegant curve of my crookedness.
Rough diamond in the smooth is a theft
Romancing with the dead addressing death
With no intention to join the ones that had left
Yet time is impatiently awaiting their last breath
Some lonely graves lie on top off the hill
Pull down the mound that will never heal
Amen!
If only shiny eyes could see the moistening minds
Moving hands would write of the troubling souls
In every direction best possible to their binds
Covering every noticeable difference as loopholes
My sockets are without eyes
How will I aid, show up Lord, that madness dies
Amen!
Throughout this mess, we live in the blasphemous self-religion
Which agrees to the world's double standard's degree
A blameless morning with belief, black night filled of wizard's legion
Acknowledging the soul's capacity by choice to be free
Nearer to Thee oh Lord forever
Farther away from the worldly fever
Amen!
Through the unclear path to ancient home
Through a lost road to aging fire
Troubled by the visions of my own beautiful Rome
Tying up the gold to coal mining fleshy desire
Where light heals the night barking in the dark
Rides the diamond of another chance to the arc
Amen!
The January good night's love
The chirp of December's morning dove
By the unchanged weather in the sky
A world so beautiful to every graceful eye
Get me to see
The white golden sea
Amen!
Beautiful
……Even then you were beautiful.
I watched you grow
An angel you were,
Love of people and adventure was your fortitude.
A quality many did not possess.
I watched you grow older
Even more pretty you became,
An angel to be reckoned with.
A man by default,in your life appeared.
Something you could never have control over.
I watched you grow older and drained.
Cuts on your hands were noticeable,
Your eyes were a mask of anger and betrayal.
Distant and cold was your sudden field of expertise
Even then, my dear you were beautiful.
I watched you grow older and bitter.
Hate speech was all you mastered.
Your hate for men grew from nowhere,
Hate for your own blood was also imminent.
But my dear, even then you were beautiful.
I watched you grow older and angrier.
No one understood you, you said.
No one would ever understand,you professed.
We tried to ask, we tried to break the ice.
In your state, my dear you were still beautiful.
I watched you grow older and thinner.
Scared you became.
When a caring man came into your life.
Angel, you called him. A knight you adored.
Even then, my sweet you became more beautiful.
I watched you grow wiser and stronger.
A tragedy of a life, you said.
A blessing in disguise, you prayed and cried.
I’m thankful, you always said.
Even then you glowed with beauty my darling.
I watched you grow wiser and wiser
I watched you teach young molested and rape victims.
I once was bitter and angry like you, you said.
I felt betrayed you see, by a man;
Who was safely plucked under my mama’s wings
I watched you sob, I watched you smile.
A man saw the beauty beyond my scars, you continued.
A man loved me beyond my sufferings and wrong doings.
A man saw the hurt, the pain, anger but still knew;
Even when I was at my worst; I was still beautiful.
I watched you become fulfilled.
A wife, a mother, a teacher.
I watched you my child, I did.
And I hope you forgive me,
For I can’t say much more from where I am.
As long as you know my child that you are always beautiful.
© Herzel Poshiwa
.CORLEO the robot inspired our venture
the robot with navigation control
seeking cactus fruit and rare stones
the brittlebush and desert lilies patterns
embordered in to silks and cottons
from the looms of yarners the warmth of a poncho
a tent and rv for staying
CORLEO for exploration
"the area known as desert Tulips."
The vibrant blooms of the Adenium Obesum
they sought to find the treasures in
a complicated environment.
peyote, a cactus with a button-like crowns
she spoke again in a much noticeable tone
her voice a soothing distinctive tone
a songlike chant a melonic flow
Banda the brasses and woodwinds
could her melonic tone as she spoke
nearly singing, she soothed me into her words
we came upon an outcrop of assorted rocks
one to include agate, amethyst, beryl, fluorite,
garnet, opal, barite, calcite, chalcedony,
jasper, quartz, lapis lazuli, and malachite.
walking barefoot on the concrete slab of the trailer
makes her feet as black as tar
Yeshu"a bin Yusef she spoke
of her troubles and in trouble
I will speak this name she said
then I shall seek remedy
and seek solution to our needs
all while not telling what
the crown of the desert
really meant
I felt used and foolish.
My company to her nothing special
as her next friend shall be the same.
Nothing specail, just a mere person
A polarizing perception of a weak man.
The Myth of belonging
just woman exploiting men.
A Brothel in 1800's is belived to be a myth
until a truck of gold is found
and a book with the names of many
people discovered
"Mujer tribal puta" was the cover-up
and now we know why.
they hasd discovered how to use
wires to communicate
and wished to keep
it a secret.
the Joshua Trees rattle from
Quakes.