Long Obstreperous Poems
Long Obstreperous Poems. Below are the most popular long Obstreperous by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Obstreperous poems by poem length and keyword.
After debauched dearth of scorched earth & Aussie mirth
New Gay opener in the berth & Ollie back to surf the turf
Bazball less gall but more girth a rebirth but what’s it worth?
“Lack of nous is now notorious
More cat less mouse us furious
They say will try to do laborious
In house be bit more studious
About game’s history curious
No tantra mantra is spurious
“Bazball” is in the thesaurus
Moan it is prone to bore us
No more lone tyrannosaurus
Crazy tone like I am a Walrus
Toil of Sisyphus & boil of Icarus
Obstreperous schlep to leprous
Horn shorn a blunted rhinoceros
Hunted stunted shunted corpus
Sunken drunken hippopotamus
Wet beset with regret so porous
Raucous ruckus need new caucus
Mac attack Bull too full of Taurus
Cruel winter as they all lost focus
Plans to be a sprinter were bogus
Ken Baz & Ben splinter the onus
Dump us after screaming rumpus?
Key thick dreaming hocus pocus
Fans stick sick streaming mucus
So pick a well known local locus
Go to town not clown at a circus
Survives revives is a new crocus
Forlorn past forsworn vocal chorus
Reborn alive strives thrives..Lazarus
Our sown homegrown magnus opus?
I am lost, my eyes wide, and my heart quivering.
My legs are paralyzed, and I have no memory.
I stroll silently, my consciousness wandering.
I am alone inside an unexplored territory.
I would wish the room to be cold and inviting.
I envy our heat vitality to come from within,
trusting that it won't be an errorless meeting.
I simply wish our spirits to embrace and grin.
If anything, I crave to be on the last ship.
It will set sail from the port this evening.
I love to read and listen to the sea on a trip.
For me, ocean melodies are alike love singing.
I dream to be a bird that flies with the wind.
Away from the realms of science and business.
I hope that what I say will be defined.
And, surely, my goal won over my madness.
I starve to beat back that feeling of wholeness.
I sense gravity and an utter void in the vicinity.
Bringing me back to a firm base of neatness,
since I'm heavy with knowledge and salinity.
I desire to write for myself and believe again
and will sing from the heart and avoid flattery.
Apart from romance with myself after pain,
I yearn to look weak, not prone to my mastery.
Regardless of how narrow is my path.
It obviously loaded the coil with censure.
For punter or worse, my life is in my sheath.
My soul's captain is myself, the sensor.
If you can hold your cool under scrutiny,
They'll gripe and hold you responsible.
If you can trust yourself as others botching
Charter their views, yet they look with mutiny.
Our Soul’S Wish List Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Axe the old Don, a trump peter n piper
of incredulous hellish crud - be gone
ha air brushed pompous ****
Sunkist in Macy's window
then like a jackal hound, he doth run
after public outcry yelps
for his hide leaving
proletarian discord re: pyrrhic victory won.
Donald Duck Trump ™$ - a pompous ass
makes war with his big brass
knuckles and bucket of crass
maligns vis a vis character assassination
while kissing thing kith
darting forked tongue sharp as bro kin glass
inciting banal deathly hallowed
expletives toward lass
sees – especially Fox Television
news anchor woman Megyn Kelly
(quite so many ill mannered indiscretions ago)
inducing said personality
to bear the brunt of brutish mass
of vitriolic n vile insults sacrilegiously
maliciously, noxiously, opprobiously
incriminating, hellaciously,
desecrating opportunistically as hiss oh piss
so…NO amp pull VOTE of confidence from me
(thus far ohm host halfway to 2020 election
toward such a volt char quite rude, snooty
arrogant simian with sass.
I van (terribly hard pressed)
to describe while sitting on me rump
how he oh bomb in lee rages
gnashing false teeth
Wilma backside doth slump
still blasting Democratic nomination
(pa hill a reed) as sham –
from special interest bro and sis turn pump
he, the epitome of
crass bloviation, a malignant lump
whose rants,
sans presidential outcome a shame
bullying with his millions beds this,
that and another woman to bareback jump
disseminating gene pool
birthing more Quakers
and additionally doth hump
the mass media as some foolhardy charade
and caricature of a frazzled grump
this arboreal clothed ape erected Taj Mahal
phallic symbol, where players dump
and gamble away hard earn cash
for his kitty, as if that cachet
to grind and bump
lambasting with maniacal
like "Stormy Dan" yells
leering oafish ill pout
while hair rum
(of red follicular) bulls ad hocks
atop his bulbous aerosol sprayed locks
resemble a flock
of bronzed sea gulls mocks
heady measly shaped Muppet Ox
dis eased cranial hologram shocks
of a cretaceous, facetious tocks
(sic) exogenous, insidious, and obstreperous vox.
the soul
Why should I write about my soul? I don´t know?
If a soul thinks if the entity that vanishes when the body dies
into the air, we breathe like autumnal leaves on trees?
Was Stalin a good soul with a dark mind or a smart mind
He good rid of (killed) the obstreperous officers
In the red army to kill off any dissent, he succeeded.
Or was he simply a dark soul?
My mother thought he looked charming, but she failed.
To see his snake eyes.
I can´t make up my mind about Hitler´s soul, his clownish
The body got in the way.
I don´t think, and there is such thing as a soul it is not
Tangible but we can´t call it an aura, Hitler had an aura.
He liked dogs and sweet cakes when not murdering
Jews and other miserable, like gay people.
In other words, a soul is a Christian idea that promises
A life ever hereafter how else could heaven have
a place to so many people
By the early years of that ancient decade, the 70's,
I'd tired of my obstreperous tomboyish games:
kickball with the neighbor kids, sledding in the winter,
desecrating the peacefulness of our street's grave yard
with our bike races, tag, and hide-n-seek.
And I tired too of the pastimes of my season preferred:
chasing siblings with a hose, giggling and gleeful,
swimming at Weed Park,
and my perpetual swinging through those long, sweet sunshiny days
longed for during classes in my school.
Old friends grew up.
Boredom anon crept upon the remnant of my childhood.
At times - through infancy and beyond -
I'd been beset by a feeling of loss
over something not yet sought.
It was something kin to loneliness, but no. . .not that.
More a sense of gloom - a sorrowing for what?
I still don't really know.
Despite the days of inexplicable forlornness,
I grew more and more cavalier
throughout the days that came
between those odd forlorn days
because my old timidity, in fact, had waned. . .
Another face, fairer, appeared.
It waxed and glowed - assured -
until those “days - in- between”
had finally surpassed the melancholy ones.
I learned to stifle monotony and squelch the blues.
I became a "doer" of too many things to name
as I went gliding through with the Gibbous moon.
Soon enough, a fullness had arrived.
And now it must disseminate.
In the years to come, I'll be wondering this. . .
Will the shining face I show the world wane too,
and will my youth's strange darkness re-emerge,
eclipsing what light remains as I drift,
having come full-cycle,
into my final
crescent phase?
5/21/14
Submitted 3/30/16 to PD's Any Poem # 38 Poetry Contest
How refreshing to experience
a reprieve from sultry weather
when hazy, hot,
and humid warm front
unleashes a very short sweaty tether.
Man hat tin dar overcast skies
hint potential rain on the way
perchance avast dastardly
flickr ring instagram
kickstarter linkedin shutterfly
Taurus headed soundcloud
skidding across celestial
(span hushed) rink
surprising forecasters by yowl
ling whimsically, unexpectedly oye vay
training (laser like),
Asian outsize dark cloud
climatological frontispiece
randomly making next stop Old
Rotten Gotham's Greenwich Village
zero wing in on
Poor (Chuck Keys) Uruguay
neighborhood possibly confidently
foretold by meteorologists today
pointing at map showing
cold air mass as it doth sashay
July twenty first 2018, though
Mother Nature defies pre
diction pulling out all (busted) stops,
vis a vis via "her" quay
zee bag of tricks nay
saying trained forecasters klan
hush all self importance
also to humble those mere mortals
getting paid a handsome buck
by anthropomorphizing viz cluck
king in tandem with duck
billed Baritone Horn
Trumpeting "FAKE" luck
trotting out obstreperous
Sunny Rays, who doth beam
with radiance a
diametrically opposed extreme
over zealous call for precipitation
instead raining one after another quanta
bright blinding meme
outsmarting the seem
ming airtight (cat in the bag)
prediction leaving once supreme
vouchsafing without a doubt forecasters
left holding the empty bag
large enough tuff fit the whole team.
Obdurate goat tangles rough knotted rope
Stuck beside shadowy friend, Silky Oak
Hedonistic prisoner capricorn, cheap trope
Ethics remain riddle, morals mere joke
Towered timber utters truth in its creak
Canopy clapping hands crush recollection
Billion fingered Silky Oak, silver limbs oblique
Obscure overlooked sins, a whispered detection
Keeps capricorn unkempt, tethered to trunk
Smooth curled horns apply keratin to bark
Scaffold of decency rubbed back, defunct
Gloss of molestation, shamed oblivion hark
Hefty hormonal avenger of societial conform
Ediface eroded by wiles of willful exhibition
Tortoiseshell taupe noxious horned capricorn
Weapon wield deposit encircles oak, dark depiction
Mirror denies texture, mirthful obstreperous ignores
Shine diminishes structure, erect neck narrow
Malnourished foliage, goat's gritty diet implore
Capricorn's carnal gyrations abate, restore marrow
Fractured cracked tenacity, tree's foreboding scream
Matchstick snap collages goatman gonzo in debris
Collapsed capricorn of devilish demeanour obscene
Scruple niggard gruesome morbid marauder buried
22nd August 2021
Written for Contest : This Or That Volume 6.
Tethered To A Moment
Sponsor : Edward Ibeh
The Peak
Nothing easy in life to achieve
But only failure is achievable stress less
The road to success is full of obstreperous
I latter discovered that
End of a war is the beginning of another
No matter how the hindrance
Termites built their house
No matter how obstacles
They keep destroying their target
As tall a tree may
Squirrel pursuit until it reaches the top
Continue doing your worth
Thee will reach the peak
For thee to get thy want
You must be confident
Shakespeare has became a mirror
Wole Soyinka symbolize Africa
They both encounter challenge
They keep pursuing
Till their names are shining like a daily sun
and like a rounded moon
Written: November 12, 2025, for contest sponsored by Tom Woody
*****************
If granted the power to time-slip back—
not a scale of edits, just one clean crack
in the epoch’s obstreperous spine—
What would I convert? What moment, what line?
Would I sieve the tumult of history’s breath,
undo a war, a plague, a death?
Or would I vilify my own dwarfish past,
pluck one thread from the tapestry vast?
I considered Napoleon’s umbrella,
or whispering sense to a gin-soaked fella
who discern “Titanic” meant unsinkable fate—
But the glitch was mine, not the ship’s mistake.
I’d fly to the day I didn’t say “stay,”
when love was a lissome, vivacious ballet,
and I, a moribund, wan little rabbit,
Let fear swindle my healthier habit.
She stood in a nimbus of vernal light,
a pioneer of pleasure, a rotund delight.
I was a hayseed with embryonic grace,
a virtuoso of silence, an evocative face.
I’d evolve that. Just that. No replay.
No sesquipedalian excuses or rhapsodic decay.
Just one word spoken, one velvet touch—
not humdrum, not blithe, but just enough.
Let the empyrean writhe with ululation,
let the rubble of regret find its station.
I’d be her possessor of time,
a zoetic glitch in fate’s design.
And if the Nereids complain against me,
If the metaphor of kismet tries to unfree
My choice, I’ll redeem my soul with song—
a mellifluous farewell to what went wrong.
Written: November 02, 2025, for contest by: Robert James Liguor
**********
The frozen core of human activeness
where the temperament recklessly smiles,
sludge cascades from the blade's edge
A joyous opsimath emerges,
reminiscent of rebellion and aged books,
sturdy and infused with a grin.
His unique calling sign is the "lard of law."
He wears robes adorned with nimbus designs
and stands before a wall of questions.
He gathers information from insightful individuals
Every conundrum is a breach in the law,
And every victim wants to be obvious,
He repeats sharp retorts to the sentient
To the obstreperous, the zymotic throbbing of history.
He says that justice is not banausic.
She is a lissome Nereid,
dancing with eurythmic elegance through garbage.
Though weariness grasps the morning,
and moribund minds look for troughs, not summits.
He persists on—
a sherpa of the spirit,
bestow the noisome into view
where enlightenment flowers akin to vernal fire.
Justice is not a flaw,
It's beginning
It is Nemesis
the tiny thread that links,
the strained heart to the flimsy earth.