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.
My Freedom of Recollections
I am not original
I am just an open book
I am noticeable because I am simple
I grow weary of what to think
I seldom find any faults
When I do find fault
It is I
Not the person who I see
Because I am the only one judging at that moment
I look into my deepest memories
And it always was what I saw that made who I am
What I hear
What I smelled
What I touch
What I felt
It was not a book
It was not any other person
It was just the experience
Being held
That was me
Held sincerely
It all went gone
My peace that was lost
And now was found
Where do you think these things come from?
What value it holds
A touch with a simple hand
A kiss on a cheek
A whisper of kindness in the ear
It was not for sure my older siblings
It was not for sure the adopted parents
The recollection of this was sooner
The recollection was more than brighter
The protection was there
But the intimate demand disappeared
The value it holds so unclear
Moments, minutes, hours, days, and years
It all comes to one special feeling
To exist
Is to be kind
Is to be happy
Is to know faults
Is to be your self
Is to value
Each and everything around you
This is life
My recollection is life
No other way nor other people can change my recollection
April fools' day - (ordinarily) all manner of tomfoolery abounds
(written last year
unlike any other
when out of this world
outlandish accouterments
people did wear
hermetically sealed
of even faintest tear
to avoid contamination
against coronavirus
when wing and prayer
soul saving amazing grace).
Pandemic straps tightly plied girded beltway
unlike any other All fools day
in annals of recorded ("fake") history
western civilization tapestry doth fray
April first two thousand and twenty one
neigh, no time for horseplay
what with coronavirus (COVID-19)
boarded ship of jilted fools
(think *****sapiens)
barred courtesy omnipotent jackstay
furloughed workers analogous
grumpy minions lay
dwarfed by unfortunate global events, née...
germinating, jackknifing, and wreaking havoc
Mother Earth nonchalantly toying
(indiscriminately) regarding humanity
as bestrewing bajillion biohazards berserkly
bequeathing bedlam child's play
just desserts, she doth understandably repay
man/womankind flicked as flotsam and jetsam
vile treatment diabolically heaped,
jubilantly loosed, maniacally pitched
upon her terrestrial firma oy vey
she chokes, gags, laughs raspily yea
rebuffs, refuses, and renounces further abuse.
Nevertheless toothless gumption, albeit feeble
fighting spirit, her survival instincts assail
cumulative environmental destruction
triggered casus belli expelling deadly toxins,
when Gaia doth exhale
since onset of global interregnum
(think virulent spreading poisonous Kudzu
like wildfire biohazard)
since world wide webbed disease
brought grinding halt
consumerist paradigm in lockdown,
nonetheless within brief interim
noticeable clearer air to inhale
amazingly enough postal system...
intact voila... uninterrupted delivery of mail,
the daily highlight experienced
among people emotionally crippled
pasty faced and pale
finds quivering Captain Kangaroo
plus good n plenti proud primates
each dancing and quivering
like a captive quail.
They call me “ FIREBRAND”
Everywhere I go there is a demand
I slay giants and creatures
I possess distinct features,
Golden hair as thick as a mane
Eyes that set fires causing my enemies great pain
I swirl in the wind, leaving my healing dust
I devour those who abuse other peoples trust
I leave my imprint in weeping willow tress
I pity the lions that try to deceive me
When I laugh musical notes stumble out of my lips
I have a leather strap, buckled tightly, around my hips
My sword rest soundly until it’s time to be used
I enjoy demolishing monsters that like to abuse
Smoke whirls into messages from beneath my feet
They know when I am coming, I make a noticeable beat.
By: Sabina Nicole
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.
A thin violet thread
Barely noticeable
Light reflects off the shiny edges
Flashing tiny stars into the air
Winding its way from the dresser
Hard to see
Yet easy to notice
It tickles your feet as you walk
A breeze blows by
Lifting it from the floor
Swirling it around
It dances and twists at your feet
You laugh
The lightness
The softness
Caresses you skin
Twisting around your toes
You smile
Start to laugh
Then you think
You realize
The thread started somewhere
Looking, following, seeking
A baby
Your baby
Playing
Unwinding, thread by thread
You watch
Tears start to form
As your best shirt fades into a memory
And the baby looks at you and smiles
Suddenly that shirt doesn’t matter
And once again that thread swirls, dances and tickles
And you laugh
Recently, the President-elect
showed a noticeable lack of respect
when he opined that "Wouldn't it be great
if Canada became the fifty-first state?"
I have a proposal for the President-elect
and forgive me if I am less than circumspect.
Instead of imposing your country on us,
let America become a Canadian province!
That way, all Americans would get universal health-care,
as opposed to your system which is grossly unfair.
And say what you want about our flaws,
but at least we have strict gun control laws.
(And on that point -
although I know you don't care -
mass shootings in Canada
are extremely rare.)
Also, here in the land of Northern Lights,
we have respect for women's reproductive rights.
Yes, Mr. President-elect,
I know my country is not perfect,
but, unlike you,
we know a thing or two,
about respect.
FADED
I was visible once
but now one of the forgotten ones.
I faded away slowly
imperceptibly,
like the once vibrant colour of blue jeans.
My edges frayed
as I walked along the road of fleeting popularity.
I felt my fabric thinning
until I became comfortable.
It made me kinda cool in a way.
I was paired with shirts and sweaters
until a time later other clothes seemed better.
My holes became too noticeable,
instead of somewhat perceptible.
The day came
when I was just a bit out of style.
So you washed and folded me
carefully put me on a shelf.
After all, I was a favourite.
No one wants to throw a favourite away.
Right there in the closet I stayed,
next to all the pretty new things.
I waited
craving the day
you might wear me again.
But somehow,
things just are what they are.
Faded old blue jeans
inexplicably disappear.
If you ever do find them
you smile and remember
how they made you feel.
Sadly though,
when you try them on,
they just don't fit anymore.
Sometimes, we expect
the sun to rise and smile,
through hazy hellish clouds
carrying vindictive
verdicts of venomous vultures,
surmising hues of
ink to pierce through
pores of this bleeding pen,
imagining rainbows
will unravel colors,
in violent violets and
intricate indigo streaks,
refusing to walk around
streets with
hailing stones of storms.
But what if the skies
unfold mysteries of yesterday,
would tales of truth need
translated transcripts?
oblivious to the weight
of every thorn I sustain
within these words I weave.
Whilst daggers
on my spine
still remain rusted with
runes of revelations,
as I’ve felt claws sharper
than twisted tongues,
so those feculent fingers
pointing at abstracts
across fields of
fruitful flowers,
adorned with
smokey quartz
jewels of life,
is nothing but
mere artless blades,
that burn bridges
from blunt blindness.
Let the bare brokenness
of your rags be
the conqueror of your
own demise,
I’ve seen too many
ghosts turn into
steel hearted devils with
tasteless plans.
Yet these cracks
won’t grow wider
from misconstrued
conclusions,
from barely noticeable
turbulence within a
psychological warfare.
I am more than your
definition of sharpened
needles and knives,
as I’ve been nurtured
in fearless forests with
herds of faceless wolves,
this warrior spirit
is unmovable,
by a million mountains
engraved with
lifeless blood and
bones of your kind,
so take your little
quilt of cowardly questions,
wrap them around your
fragile little ego,
perhaps, sleep too
can reveal
rosier dreams
in your doomed
nights filled with terrors,
for I refuse to
drink from chalices
of emptiness
concocted from
bitter ingredients.
I found an old photograph by the lake-
A young woman with dark hair, gray face,
leaning against a painted wall.
Unsmiling, beautiful. In full white,
with nothing exposed beneath delicate layers
of lace.
I wondered if she'd lived near, or if somewhere else,
how many miles?
I wondered how she'd laughed,
who she'd loved,
how she'd died.
Why didn't they smile often for pictures back then?
I wondered, if it'd been the custom,
would she've had a reason to smile?
I wonder if she ever felt the hard pang of regret.
How loud it screams,
how noticeable the most useless things get.
And did she ever think to blame herself?
Or was she wiser, her face a mask
for knowledge, that indifference is sometimes best.
If she were alive, and walking past me on the street,
this would all mean nothing.
But her gray nothing arouses something in me.
I can't help but wonder,
If she ever felt lost, did she find her way?
And afraid, did she face her fear in the end?
I imagine if she could witness me,
there holding her picture,
she might herself, feel something of wonder.
And maybe at some place in time where she waits,
her mountains would've grown smaller.
The times she cried,
closer to nothing than something.
I imagine if she could tell me anything,
she might not tell me anything at all,
Herself knowing the light
at the end of every dark road,
the length that gives it meaning,
the darkness that intensifies the light.
I've been contemplating the tastelessness of the soup being served on site.
The difference between what's sweet and sour is noticeable in every bite.
It's not just the infusion of artificial intelligence that leaves the soup bitter,
but poetry that's been stolen from others that stinks worse than kitty litter.
Months ago it was perceived by many PS poets, that there had been an influx
of so called 'poets' posting 'poetry,' but quite frankly... most of it just sucks.
And then there is the returnee woman who holds contests entering her own
with names who returned with her in a scam that no one should condone.
There remains the do-goodies, who continue to claim they've been victimized
but that story is so old that it is known as garbage and needs to be sterilized.
A butcher, baker and candlestick maker, who burns his candle on both ends,
still hangs around but nothing he says is believed and cannot make amends.
A quill is meant for writing and not for fencing with neither parry nor thrust.
Take care who you accept to be a friend for it's not always one you can trust.
I've turned off commenting or the trolls will be feeding on my every word
those floating in soup's toilet bowl, who should be flushed like a stinking turd.
I'll also post this as a poem in the usual manner of poetry on this flawed site
for those who wisely don't pay attention to blogs where bullies post smite.
The soup kitchen needs a Gordon Ramsay visit to free it from rats and mice
because it's been infested with toxic waste that some have labeled 'spice.'