Long Opined Poems
Long Opined Poems. Below are the most popular long Opined by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Opined poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
I always had it in my mind to get one of those personal license plates
For many times have I opined what best reveals my personal traits
And over the past many years I had thought of more than just a few
But not one of them really endears by in turn restating what is true
Not that I am the type of person to wear such a bold constant label
So I pretty much figured it was done and this idea I would just table
And a few more years went by and with so many other things on my plate
But some of the one's I would eye I must say I would have to highly rate
But as I reclined doing fifty five watching each particular cloud in His sky
That thought again came alive yet this time I didn't even have to try
With His Name already on my lips and His Word loudly playing in my ear
I heard the Lord's little sullen quips as I so often hear loud and clear
I immediately got what was said yet so many others will miss the sign
Your soul would be dead if not for Jesus' Love, so Amazing and Divine
That deep sense of debt we should all feel and then His Glorious relief
Oh how the Lord chooses to reveal is so often determined by your belief
Dope boundary rope tropes…fans hopes..Ollie copes..thick skin…will find the strength within…ignores the din…as Pope unleashes that boyish grin..
Can hear Freddie and David…ddddd..Under Pressure…well..hard to measure the pleasure of the Pope’s treasure…papacy legacy pride..stops the slide..trumps the prodigy..got a ton to shun outgun..dumps the Bethell puns..rested and bested..still in at stumps.. after Stokes plumps for tried and tested..
Nasty ploys from the seedier media boys…that gambit or slight..of weedier..needier skittish rabbit in the floodlight habit..but such poise..delights despite the noise.. fights the red hot slingshot Jasprit highlights...that iconic.. chronic.. metronomic…never laconic..halcyon harbinger..joy bringer..humdinger swinger gunslinger....
Who’s got a clue what to do…where it will land…understand what the Bumrah brand’s got planned…should be banned…can’t watch it from the hand..love watching it from the stand..tames games…fanned flames…big names castles manned..but the sparkle of another debacle shames and blames…panned and canned..
Doff your hat…scoff..from the off…Test cricket doesn’t get harder than that…time we beckoned..back when Goochie opined…Essex accent whined..reckoned like facing the World’s test best one end.. and tother Ilford second eleven..
It was a story of small standing tall demanding another dance at the Bumrah ball as the diddy men zen of Ollie and Ben gave us a chance and dodged.. not bodged by the Jasprit lance
Even the boom boom cherry riff couldn’t biff the Pontiff of who we are so fond…no what if..made merry with his tintin strawberry blonde quiff in this tiff did respond..
Golly gosh the another level devil..tabloid tosh of him getting Bethell bish bash boshed…losing the race.. will never forget Ollie’s jolly face…gleaming…day dreaming yet screaming to those scheming and memeing…fury at the jury…beaming…the adored Pope ruled..his grace.. Dueled with the ultimate pace ace…an up yours…century scores…our faith restores ..Ollie.. rightly put out…brightly glowed..showed us what he’s all about..loud..proud shout to the crowd who know nowt…want him out…made it clear..peers cheers he holds dear..my best at your behest ..so sincere.. I deserve my Test place and rest my case..! Hear Hear..
Still hope we can cope
With the nope
Don’t give a damn plan
From that Tandoori tan
Obscene Tangerine dope
Jackanory Mandarin Man
That trope..like to be Pope
Go out on a limb..got the vim..scope
To make him of the grim...dim..whim..mope
Just give Mr Grope enough Rope
Opined women..a frump
If they mind.. some bump & grind
Half inching while pinching their rump
The darkness descends
Besotted with anything cosseted
Rotted or garrotted by design
But sign on the dotted line
Raise a 'Stein" of wine
Knaves..slaves.. saved
From the craze & blaze
Of this moral maze & haze
Extinguished by depraved waves
From distinguished graves
Denies his demise is nigh
Popularity sky high he lies
Bliss as the remiss abyss
Of hiss and diss ends
Thanks to a sly bit of
Wry Fab Four rapport
No not you say hello...but yes I say goodbye
Off with his head the French might have said
Cos we've read we'll get by instead
With a little help from his (dead) friends
I heard from PrimeAryan DT
that socialism kills nations.
I thought it was fascist totalitarianism
that killed nations,
the lack of democratic social intelligence,
social investment,
non-violent communication,
restorative,
therapeutic
win/win social justice.
My grandparents,
at least on my mother's side,
who seemed ancient and fragile to me,
often opined,
"When you lose your health,
you love everything."
I don't know if they literally meant everything:
your faith,
your active hope,
your love,
your integrity,
your egocentric voice,
your hate,
fear,
anger,
obsessive-compulsive wealth,
despair,
cynicism,
narcissism,
xenophobia.
Probably they meant only everything good,
all things social,
Beauty fading into inconsequential,
Truth into lack of significant meaning,
Life into absence of future purpose.
I was young and apparently immortal
and could not hear their wiser warning.
Now older,
I find I have little more to add
to health's imperative
standard for resilient Wealth:
much older and more integral,
historically and multiculturally deeper
than money,
or even humanity;
older, even, than verbal communication
about healthy v pathological social-system experience.
So, why isn't this same observation
first on the list of every political party's platform,
every faith community's regenerative mission statement?
If we lose our democratic win/win social health,
we've lost our greatest wealth.
If we optimize
our actively co-invested trust
in global interdependent health,
we regain our most resilient dreams
of cooperatively-owned wealth,
communal peace
served up with personal integrity.
"Make America Great Again"
whether triumphantly declared as "mission accomplished"
or somewhat more humble,
errs in dreaming way too small
When we could more robustly
courageously
compassionately choose
"Make Earth Healthy Again"
Which would, of course,
also make America wealthy
in all the democratic social positives,
and none of the aristocratic anti-social negatives
again?
I guess sometimes healthy restorative justice
is more like exploratory win/win polycultural justice,
more pro-social green peace meadows
than elitist
monocultural
grab and crab grass.
"Lizzie Borden took an ax
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one."
Whoever wrote this jump-rope song
About Lizzie Borden got it wrong.
Though she did give her stepmom ax whacks aplenty,
By the coroner's count there were no more than twenty.
Then before anyone could scold her or scoff,
Lizzie took her little hatchet,
And whacked her daddy off.
And how many love taps sent Papa to heaven?
The doc thought maybe ten,
No, better make that eleven.
What made Lizzie do it,
What caused her to snap?
Was she simply fed up with her family's crap?
Was stepmother's embrace somewhat less than maternal,
And her dad's fond caress somewhat more than paternal?
Then, of course, there's her sister who saved her from grief
When she helped her burn evidence,
And then on the witness stand raised her right hand
And very politely lied through her teeth.
The inquest was heated,
Everyone testified,
And though she changed hers often,
Liz was well-alibied.
All through the trial she sat calm and unmoved
And was finally acquitted, her guilt never proved.
Now all these years later her legend lives on,
Of the usual suspects she's still number one.
When I read about Lizzie I have often opined,
If she had been musically,
As well as murderously, inclined,
I wonder if Miz Liz would still be so well-known
If her "axe"* had been a saxophone.
*Slang musical term for an instrument such as a saxophone or guitar.
When we walk the campus
to what used to be the center,
we might miss the venerable place.
Taller piles of brick and towers
obscure the central space
of Western Pennsylvania brownstone.
Who hasn’t heard the poet moan:
“Present concerns shroud the past;
Granddad’s principles will not last.”
But as we turn the corner
at the edge of vast Old Main,
we may glimpse a simpler grace
in the Ur-construction
of Washington College
(before Jefferson was spackled on)
and on higher ground,
raised up from lower down
near the center of the town.
We’ll see the wings added
before the world flew west
past our hills to flatter nests.
Maybe we’ll hear that vines
grew up the extended wings,
that J-men felt like ivy kings!
Then one will say, “A trustee quipped
that vines weaken most things.”
Presto, the vines are stripped.
Another then will say, “A sage opined
that walls are firmer when envined.”
A committee will study the case
and advise us to coat the face
with a super-brick-embracing kind
of paint that holds old walls in place.
“Save the symbol!” We’ll apply the cure.
Is paint sufficient to insure
that we will keep our symbol pure?
I don’t know, but here’s the plan:
sustain Grandad’s dream, if we can;
and if we’ve mislaid the liberal arts,
let’s find out where they are, Dear Hearts!
When fairy tales were in fashion, before true love was rare,
A prince wooed a maid who was flaxen and fair.
He came every day and patiently knelt
Before the dark tower wherein his love dwelt.
He'd call out, "Rapunzel, oh, show me you care,
And let down a ladder of your golden hair."
This scene re-enacted for forty long years,
His plaintive pleas ever falling upon unheeding ears.
But one winter's day, very bitter and cold,
The prince puzzled to fathom what his eyes did behold.
Overnight, it appeared, her hair came unbound
And the tresses lay scattered all over the ground.
As he gazed at those sad locks, his poor heart was torn,
Was his loved one now bald, her long hair shortly shorn?
Then the prince felt a chill shoot right down to his boots,
He perceived that the gold was quite black at the roots.
Suddenly down came a note in a filigreed cup,
"I can't hear the doorbell, so just come on up."
"Are you freaking kidding me?" he cried, quite beside himself.
"My perfect Rapunzel is bald-headed…and deaf?"
Much chagrined, he charged in, but the higher he climbed,
His ire waned at the prospect of the treasure he'd find.
He opined she'd be virtuous, angelic, demure,
But then he stopped dead in his tracks at the door.
The crone he encountered at the top of the stair
Was morbidly fat, and far, far from fair.
The prince blanched at the warts and stiff hairs on her chin,
As she lewdly, and nudely, gestured him in.
She lay draped on a bed wearing only a smile,
But a true prince is immune to lascivious wiles.
While most heroes in such tales are stalwart and stout,
This one raced to the casement and flung himself out.
As he plunged to his doom from that horrible room,
And ever nearer beneath him he watched the earth loom,
The prince yelled as he fell, shook his fist, and he cursed,
"Why the heck didn't I vet her on Angie's List first?"
If you had to pick...what’s your kind of comic
Do you find you pine for slick ironic
Or get behind a line that’s quick..sardonic
Opined by design.. aligned to resigned laconic
Unkind with the mic..sick at taking the mick
Defined by sly dry wry alcoholic hyperbolic frolic
Or less refined grind.. moronic the comedic tonic
Swoon at boons of the goons or cynics picnics going manic
Ready as lampoons buffoons with an unsteady heady histrionic
Idiosyncratic…emphatic witticisms..feeling victims reeling.. erratic panic
Keen lyrical hysterical mean criticisms scene stealing whims.. talismanic
What about who croons your tunes …go slow..metronomic
Choose the muse & fuse of rhythm & blues.. free flow tectonic
More giddy Philly Delfonic than tidy Taffy Stereophonic
Or raw roaring baselines scoring plus eleven ..soaring supersonic
Soul or rock & roll heaven.. acolyte delight.. bright totemic
Atrocious Metal in ferocious fine fettle...furiously demonic
Bespoke notes of sublime folk strokes always curiously bucolic
Pizzazz…elite razzmattaz of jazz.. seriously neat hedonic
Classical..technical feat regalia…deliriously sweet symphonic
Dance hall & reggae.. calypso beat.. all imperiously euphoric
Quadrophenia paraphernalia or more quadrophonic
Wurlitzer chutzpah delightfully or frightfully electronic
Tip top non stop hip hop drops like Dre’s the Chronic
Don’t do generic…when you could do mesmeric
Wiggles or giggles.. this is a witty ditty polemic
To big up shindigs..grins at gigs..sins at jigs…guffaws & encores..stratospheric tunes & comic buffoons..scores on the doors...simply iconic!
She could not recall when her inner voice
began to narrate her life.
It noted every humdrum happenstance,
each ordinary advent,
as if there were indeed a story unfolding
toward a bold and literary purpose.
Until now the Teller had related her biography,
in a subdued commentary.
Now it openly opined
upon every uninteresting moment.
One day she caught the voice speaking
as a thing apart from her.
She blushed as if she had been discovered
speaking naked behind an invisible microphone.
The voice went on to say that her life
was a going to be an American Masterpiece.
She replied, smiling somewhat smugly,
"carry on."