Long Nth Poems
Long Nth Poems. Below are the most popular long Nth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nth poems by poem length and keyword.
Pleasant spring like day January 12th, 2020
Courtesy climate change
(think global warming),
I would never wish to exchange
unseasonable temperature
way out of range
far to balmy, undoubtedly
ole man winter
weather did shortchange.
Once thermometer readings rise
even smidgen one moost not minimize
Earth way out of balance,
I haint gonna catastrophize
as bajillion acres plus
one after another ocean dries
even the skeptic cannot turn
blind eye and believe contrary lies
when every species practically extinct
and self proclaimed éminence grise
doth trumpet and stubbornly tries
to claim plethora unearthed resources
as sudden goldmine
against wages of sin
former traitor joe redeemers actualize
to catalyze nth industrial revolution
teaching as heresy
ecocentric, which material basket
of deplorables power mongers bowdlerize
Concurrence toward meteorological
trend most all people agree
toward adapting, experiencing,
and witnessing increase -
fair in height degree
bestowed upon Thomas Newcomen,
Richard Arkwright, Samuel Crompton,
Edmund Cartwright
and James Watt first Industrial
Revolution conferred as honoree
appellation not necessarily
in retrospect donned as noble pedigree,
now hundred of years
later downside we see
of belching, coughing,
disorging... yes siree
foul, (née deadly)
cancerous, gaseous, noxious... pollutants.
Decreased dissension
grudgingly did abate
unclouded protests trumpet
Trump to abdicate
irrefutable proof generates
activist voices to accumulate
linkedin over Green Party
blessedly to administrate
hoop fully figurative tide
will turn and aerate
political atmosphere whereby
progressive minds will affiliate
otherwise business as usual,
cuz spewing deadly particulate
will only aggravate
dire straits, where series
of unfortunate events will airdate
prophetic apocalyptic fate
especially if nonprogressive
stodgy commander in chief re-elected
flush with bigotry and hate
increased chance (chants) ripe state
for revolution avast swath
of population to amalgamate,
and overthrow anachronistic government
absolute zero survival unless dramatic
nondestructive strategy eschewed
to supplant exploitation and mandate
radical transformation, which dramatic
shift off grid if lucky requisite
Earth friendly manufacturing
can possibly ameliorate.
Each year we drive to the south of Spain to soak up the sun's warm rays
But we like to maintain a leisurely pace, so it takes us two full days
Which means we stay at Hotel-and-Go, that sadly has one minor flaw
It's hidden away and finding the place each year is a bit of a chore
So this time I went into Google maps and zoomed in to the nth degree
The coordinates set, I was happy to let the sat nav find it for me
"You have reached your destination" the confident voice rang out
"No we flippin’ haven't" I cried "We're in the middle of a roundabout"
Ahead in the dark was a restaurant, so I went in to seek their advice
As to where the hotel was located, the directions were very precise
Turn to the left then left again then follow the road to the right
Go under a bridge, cross two roundabouts and the hotel will come into sight
We turned to the left, then left again and the road became a dirt track
We skidded and squealed with mud on the wheels with no way to reverse or turn back
We reached the hotel tired and irate, vowing never to come back again
I brought up the suitcase then a buzzing began, which was going to drive us insane
The noise came out of a grill, and although to heights I’m averse
I climbed on a chair and took it apart and succeeded in making it worse
The receptionist had nowhere to move us, but I wasn’t prepared to back down
So, fair play to her, she came up to the room to confront the irritant sound
"I'll find you another room", she said "You can’t stay in here tonight"
And so in the end she became my best friend, I could hardly contain my delight
I collected my kit and caboodle, pulled the case away from the wall
And the room immediately fell silent, not a trace of the buzzing at all
The noise had come out from the suitcase, hard to believe but true
My battery shaver had turned itself on and the sound was vibrating through
It was amplified by the hollow stud wall to emerge from the grill overhead
So the cause of the noise I had misdiagnosed creating confusion instead
I went down to the desk at reception to confess to the girl my ‘faux pas’
"Guess what, you’ll never believe it, the buzzing stopped, I know its bizarre”
So these days I’ll choose a hotel, that’s easy to find and what's more
I take out the batteries from every device and lay the case on the floor
Battle of the Sexes
A Collaboration Between: Pandita Sanchez and Eric L. Boddie
As beautiful and smart as you are,
you always seem to take it too far.
I know some of it is just;
but there is still so much that never needed to be discussed.
It could be that you too often misunderstand me,
overcomplicating and seeing life differently.
They say men are from Mars and women from Venus,
so things will never be simplified between us.
Tell me, what am I to think -
I mean, your mood changes within a blink;
so much emotion can sometimes get in the way,
you like pushing buttons - what's that shade of gray?
One minute you say that I’m too emotional;
then when I prove to be your equal, you call me irrational.
Is it just that I’m way too much woman for you?
And, perhaps, you really don’t have a clue?
There you go again thinking you are all that;
that's the reason we are always off track.
I love everything about you, but I tire of the stress;
and I can't calm you down unless I get you undressed.
See that's exactly what I'm talking about -
resorting to caveman tactics makes you believe you have clout;
but you're no longer a boy, so you should know better, Boo,
you're wearing me out with your commitment issue.
You see, I just can't ever win.
So don't stand there trying to pretend
like you are faultless in all of this;
but the blame always hits me - it has never missed.
While I admit that I’m not totally blameless,
I’ve been the one who‘s always willing to do more while you do less.
In fact, like Rodin’s ‘Thinker’ you just brood over our problems;
but I’m the mover and shaker who actually tries to solve them.
You know what? I am done with all this…
I mean, you know I am addicted to your sweet kiss
which, consequently, makes arguments hard to resist,
all because there is not a feature about you I want to miss.
So please just let me say -
the indifferences need to end, and let's start anew today.
Well we don’t need to be arguing all the time sinking into quicksand,
if like two adults, we address concerns before they get out of hand.
But in spite of what our differences may be,
I know we love each other to the nth degree;
and in the end, we know we’re worth it, and we’ll see,
man and woman, we can work it out together, Baby, you and me.
A tale of two twins ...
Kit: That sure was a mean swing, Dottie. You knocked it out of the park. You’re the Sultana of Swat. I love the way you ‘round the bases doing your cute duckie trot. I love how you stand on home plate, kissing off the booing fans with your sour whispering asinine talk. You sho’ can swat high nonsense spitballs a lot.
Dot: Aw shucks, Kit, you Putin a smile on my face. But it ain’t me really. I just do what you coached me to do. Follow your lead like a good sibling pup pet is suppose to. I can’t help but wag the pig tale. Everybody knows that bare bosom greed sells. Now sis, you know I never vote swing and miss. I just love lip-crushing abetted ayes. Sending those lying spitball kisses flying high. But half-truthfully, girl I love the wet way you dry hurl. Such vomit velocity ... sending that propaganda puke spinning thru the air with such speed. You’re so lassie Vladdie bad amazing.
Kit: Yeah, twin ... we in a beleagued of our own. We don’t never do no wrong, at least none that we personally have to disown. And the Lady Bolshevik tag-team pocket profits are gonna stay kompromat strong. As long as the I-scream flag vendors keep selling the popular patriotic yellow snow cones. I love hearing the synthesized, trumpy anthem blaring sound, when the seventh-inning ruble donation rally hats are being passed around. It jacks me up, to the Nth lobby Molotov degree. My oligarch strong arm do a Siberian burn meddle poll vault sales pitch; delivered decibel stealth low, and so slow curve icily.
Dot: Serve ‘em up good, twin. Twist the grin like Papa Lenin said: “Never let a capitalist sucker get a free lick. Always snatch the purse from a paper chasing hick. Always foxy scoop the golden laid eggs from a sleeping, loose-liberty chick.” All bad things come in good corrupt Communist time. This czar fate injustice demands. I love the smell of democracy peanuts roasting in the ballot stands. I love hot, dog day debate fry cries doing the mustard squirt dance. So beleaguered and bland. I love the pretzel, fixed victory feel of cash register chance. I love being the pink champagne torch lady wearing no morality pants. Slyly, safely sliding home, skirt up ... silver tongue tush fanning kicked diamond sand. Giving a darkside-of-the-moon kiss to the loser Americans.
the Forgotten One
( an invitation to innocence )
There once was an angel
who walked upon the moon,
when east was east
and west was west.
Looking and looking
for the season of soon
through parks of dark
and gardens overgrown.
Looking and looking for
what she had always known
she would one day find
in the eyes of the mind
and the hearts of the wind -
the unsaddened words of the Forgotten One,
“Come in. Come in.
I have been waiting and waiting
and wanting and wanting
always and always
only you.”
“You can not bring
the thousand things,
the dust of the earth
and the rags of kings,
the broken songs
that no one sings of
the hundred gods and
their wanderings.
You can not bring
a shred of these
nor anything but the only thing
that breathes and breathes
through the seething leaves
that never rest
in the void and voyage of the branching trees
moving east and west
under the kind and blinded sun.
‘You are the one and only one in everyone.”
“Come out. Come out
wherever you are,
out of the hypnotic unceasing din
circling through earth’s first scar
on your journeying skin
from the demented dimension
that selects regrets and forgets
that, taken to the nth degree,
anything less
than love is a form
of insanity.”
What theory unifies forces, weak, strong,
With gravity— also, to which belong
All the string theories of why and because?
To answer these queries, M-theory does.
Proponents aver it offers clarity
As to the issue of singularity.—
Where there’s a will there’s a way,
So they say…
In the beginning our universe sprang
From membranes colliding to cause a Big Bang…
Hence matter and energy stem from vibrations of strings seen by seers
In a music of spheres.
One mode of vibration, or ‘note’, makes the string an electron,
Another a photon…
And what of Higgs-boson?
There’s even a mode for the graviton, thought to have gravity’s force.
So vibrating strings would then be the source
To create tiny articles which we call
Elementary particles— one and all.
Dimensions— four plus compactified seven—
Equal a total that’s oddly eleven…
To wit, though string theories wound up at the tenth,
They had to add one more that’s odd to the nth.
Do we have enough sense or senses extended
To fathom those p-branes M-theory intended
And get to the bottom of hyper spacetime
In this super multiverse theory sublime?
What sounding vibration
Strange seeming sensation
Might set the strings strumming
Or maybe branes humming
Is something to ponder,
One’s whimsies to wander—
My mind like the wind evanescent can roam
O’er billowing waves and ineffable foam
With parallels plenty of our bubble home…
Thus I heard
M-theory’s word.
Albeit in physics there’s much knowledge base,
What waters of wisdom could ever embrace
Such cosmic curled places with hyperspace face?
Eerily far we’ve come to here
From bards’ illusions yesteryear—
When heavens would sing lullabies,
With moon and stars to harmonize
Midst luminescent light display
That might have been the Milky Way
Overturning all its jars
In a shower of shooting stars…
How flimsy, fleeting, and fragile life seems,
In our floating realm like a land of dreams!
Amen— let poets lyricize yet
Sweeter reveries lest we forget
Dearer wonders perchance of yore
From whilom membranes nevermore
Where earthlings gazed at clearer skies
With yonders nearer to our eyes,
In a once upon a time divine
P-brane world of auld langsyne…
– Harley White
Ah had a aulder bruther whin ah wis wee,
ah wis five then an' he -wis nine yea see.
A tendid tae follow him aboot,
bit bein' aulder he widnae care a hoot.
Aw jings a remember wan day at school,
oot o' ma pocket ma hankie a bullyboy did pull.
Whit arrrr' yea cryin' fur? Ma brother Jack did say,
that big bullyboy pinched ma hankie whin ah wis at play.
Noo bein' aulder an' bigger he set aboot his bloke,
at furst the bloke thocht it wis a joke.
Bit no fur lang whin Jack grabbed this blokes wee wee parts,
the bully bloke screamed an' had an involuntary fart:)
Weel a gote ma hankie back an' it stoaped me fidgin',
as that bullyboy bloke walked away haudin' his Nether region"
Naw ma bruther wis no fond o' playin' wae me,
bit he wid a'ways protect me tae the Nth degree.
Whin a wis Nine an' ma bruther wis thirteen.
Jack wis a'ways oot an' never tae be seen,
Wan day ma faither came hame frae his workin' day.
"Alex" he shouted oot the windae , cum in this minit frae play.
Jings, crivens he wis in a blidy angry mood,
a wid hiv ran a mile if a possibly could.
Did you burn aw those window curtains doon?
a looked up at the windae an' blidy swooned.
The curtains wir hingin' wae a wee bit charcoaly thread,
oh crivens a wished as wis blidy dead,
No me faither, naw it wisnae me,
jist then, at that moment, ah hid an' involuntary pee.
The door opened an' Jack came in,
his face white as if he had done a terrible sin.
Sorry faither it wisnae Alex that done this horrible deed,
oh so sorry faither I wis stupid, Jack did 'onestly plead.
It wis me as ah flicked a lighted match,
oan blidy fire those curtains did catch.
Aw a kid dae wis tae pull them doon oan the flair,
an' smuther the flames wae the back o' that there chair.
Noo , faither dinae explode,--- at aw,
even efter aw whit he had saw.
Faither said. Twa things saved yea Jack ma lad,
an' fur those twa things you should be glad.
First wan, yea admitted yer firey crime,
saved yer wee bruther frae a hell o' a time.
Second wan wis yer presence o' mind,
actin' sae quickly whin yea were in a terrible bind.
So ma lad, thank you for being so quick an' true,
no punishment but a reward for you is due.
Sadly for me noo baith have gone,
but niver have lights so brightly shone:)
The Auld Yin.
The look of pity on the saleswoman's face said it all
my paint spattered clothing, however the jeans fit
just didn't have that panache, chic pizazz, tongue hanging
inspiration for desire a young woman out to have.
The car dealer took one look at me, led me to the far
corner of the lot, showed me the used hot rods
the beater four doors, the budget cutters like I'd rode
but I wanted glossy black, silver hood ornament, brand new.
Paint is supposed to sit on top of your nails, but underneath
is advantageous when compared to oil, to muck, to dirty guts
so I was a step on the ladder of the working man,
I could even afford to buy hose, which I still don't wear.
There's something to be said for the over glasses, safety
glasses look, white paper coat, something comical
one supposes, but the purple overalls worn for skiing
which suddenly I could afford, made me my nephews joke.
At times I waited for a date who preferred the bar
called and said maybe later, because passion rumbled
between us when we kissed but I didn't want a flit,
disease, broken promise, I wanted to be embraced
Cozy now, body motion are promises and content
passion is beyond me, the bar on the patio in back
the hand I always hold a missing app that answers
more lonely than any mistaken wish that he'd be the one.
Stars, too, I climbed to them in my dream, climbed
the Space Needle and found my self with no safety net
I always avoided those climbs the dreams more nightmare
even though I do what I am told, to reach, to soar.
Sometimes now I wear black on gold dresses which fit
to the nth inch, so I can barely sit, hold champagne
to watch golden bubbles float against the elegant
white linen against starry night event, that's rich, success.
Dump it gladly for a romp on the beach, the missing
something like threads through a woven maze,
like an angel's hope. When I dump it all and seek
there's grace lying on the shores between the rocks
a pooled place where deer come to lick minerals,
boulders come unglued and sail down river
and think, maybe I could do that. Maybe I could
unglue all the expectations and rearrange the world.
(There's a thirteenth 'zodiacal' constellation, Ophiucus, The Serpent Wrestler/Holder, or the "Twelth Symbol," as here used. In some ancient cultures, serpents were revered as feminine symbols of rebirth/healing, and bees as symbols of wisdom, while Roman catholicism considered coffee to be the "wine of infidels" until the 15th. century. Historically, Ophiucus may never have been used in astrology, though it is the house between Scorpio and Sagittarius in a astrological system purportedly developed in the mid-1900's, making Sagittarius the thirteenth sign in such a system - thus in this poem, "the Twelth Symbol" was "usurped by what used to be the thirteenth". Of course, "Good Ol' Triple Six" and other numerical variations thereof in this work refer to 666, the mythological number of the Anti-christ.)
___
I want a jeezus, unsweetened, decaffeinated, no additives -
- certainly no booze or needle tracks -
because I want a trim, uptight jeezus, totally pure and constipated
to pimp for the face-down with the Great-to-the-nth Numeral-Triplet,
because the descendant number of my measureless time
is a Trinity of the fourth primes-of-eighteen (no xeroxing
needed!)...
... my godpappy, William Blake, gone loony out of his goddam mind
over visions of seraphim and angels,
slapping the jaggedly unholy rhythm of a bawdy tune on my new-born
butt
while in drag he baptizes y'hweh in drag...
... and I want you to know
that my razor isn't my father's
road-hog...
... smoothin' along, instead of Jacko Kerowacko in my briefs, just
the road of excess still somewhere on the map,
while the bottom line is
that it's all as cheap as a Walmart `ho, though why not plumb the
sacred profanity
of All Animalism in the ditch just along that road
instead of blasphemating in a line way too long at The Mart?
"Can't wait, dude, gotta' get my *jive, here and now, `cause the
marquee says", `Drive-by Lyrics Smack-Down Between Marilyn Manson
And Good Ol' Triple-Six' '', farting rhythms and rhymes
from all orifices of His five-and-a-half shooter off His uncouth
butt -
(continued in Part 2)
Spare a thought this Christmas for those suffering in Ukraine
While you are enjoying the festive season Russia inflicts more pain
Huddled around makeshift fires with no where to escape the chill
The evil Russians fire missiles and drones that are designed to kill.
Russia hopes by taking out their power grid that they will give in
But its made them more determined not to yield to Vlad Putin
They're melting snow for water it's what they're having to do
And if we didn't live in a civilised world it could easily be me or you.
Women and girls are sexually assaulted at the point of a gun
Their families are forced to watch while these dogs have their fun
Another report a girl watched her friend raped and shot in the head
They didn't want any witnesses and made sure that she was dead.
Mass graves have been discovered with bodies tied and bound
With many showing signs of torture investigators have found
Russia claims only military targets have been hit but of course its lies
Anything that comes out of Putins mouth should come as no surprise.
Iran is supplying Putin with missiles and other cheap hardware
Putins rants about nuclear weapons I don't think he would dare
The axis of evil has now changed its now Nth Korea, Russia and Iran
They're all a bunch of cowards and they'd never fight man to man.
The Patriot missile system Ukraine needs and I urge the US to supply
Because if they don't Russian bombers will fly and many more will die
The war has already escalated because weapons we are supplying
And only by doing so will it prevent the death toll in Ukraine from rising.
Written on 13th December 2022
I have supported Ukraine since February by writing poems about what is happening there and trying to bring to light atrocities that have been committed by the Russian army against the Ukrainian people and have at no time written anything negative about some brave Russian people who opposed Putin and many who have been imprisoned for making a stand.