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.
Unexpected or Unwanted
There arrival were always unexpected
With a string of curses never too far behind,
From the host, feeling particularly dejected,
Yet who’s always been able to have them wined,
And out the door without feeling affected.
With all that said they were quite kind,
Just chatty,
Simply put, they said anything in their mind,
Even so, they were never ratty,
But sometimes they were quite opined.
There visits were always quick,
They came, they laughed, they left,
And when they finally left it appeared to some as a trick,
Yet, alas, they were not that deft,
For something quite so sick.
The conversations were always filled with the same useless chatter,
Filled with their bottomless fake promises,
Where they reminisced on the days that we’re better,
Without ever asking themselves what that accomplishes,
And before you’re able to say see you next time they scatter.
(Quintain/Sicilian)
10/14/2021
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!
THE SECOND FALL!
Angels of lightening kneeled before Him flashing, “Everything is over!”
His look cast cusp of Cosmos, thundering across the change-over;
Adam in guilt hid his soul in Tree of life; Eve behind him hid her face;
Only Lucifer under the Knowledge Tree showed his face.
“Look!” Heavenly Atoms daunted as the Sundown morn
In fumes and fogs waned into night with moods of mourn;
“Alas! Alas! The creatures of clay with His breathing image,
In unbridled pursuit to conquer the cosmos ‘ve done this damage.”
Mountains lay scattered as dust over woods and land,
Oceans lay hidden inside heaps of mud and dunes of sand.
Life became a whispered secret of the extinct universe,
Read in classes only by cosmic cherubim, only in divine verse.
“Adam braced to conquer genetic mystery and lost Eden in fleeting coital ecstasy,
“His sons braced to conquer cosmic mystery and lost Globe in digital fantasy!
“It’s daunting,” heaven’s denizens opined, “it’s humanity’s indefinite, infinite fall!”
The great bard William would’ve exclaimed, “What a fall! What a fall!”
But the great puritan John would’ve claimed, “It’s indeed the second fall!”
- Swami D. Francis
Multihued lights flash fervently,
On naked illusion draped eyes zealously,
All shut and secured to colored vision,
Egoist blurry brain images, these are all in an intangible prison.
Some call me quirk, some foible, but all refer me to a societal misfit,
It’s true they seem to tell, but my way of life and my thought process I will not quit.
I know and cognize I don’t see the world as others want me to see and be,
But am not sorry because that’s how it clearly appears to me.
It’s not because I am unconfined, undetermined or with rebellious mind,
But because I am color blind.
It‘s not because I am in hate or in love,
But because I am color blind and sooner or later the world will figure out why and how…………
I am color blind to cruel, callous, cunning, sly ways of expressing colors in the world,
I don’t reconcile to these colors with my ethos, morals and ethics curled and ruffled.
But till they have reconciled with me in unison they have opined,
I possess an unsound mind and am color blind.
No matter what I do or where I go,
Hues and colors of my thoughts they desire to know.
Inside me I ask myself what is the color of fear, dismay and dread?
Is fear yellow? Dismay and dread be red?
Who can tell me where it is defined?
I am content that all mankind thinks I am color blind.
Where is the orange of the sun?
Has it enveloped and corroded all dynamism and fun?
Then to all their mind,
I am content to be color blind.
Where is the blue from the sky?
Has it been slurped and sucked by calm, trust and loyalty all dry?
Then to all their mind,
I am content to be color blind.
Where is the green from the grass?
Has enveloped envy and jealousy and goodwill, generosity let a mass?
Then to all their mind,
I am content to be color blind.
If all of us of the human race,
Would toil not to make it bitter but a better place,
All walls and barriers raised to the ground,
Then I would be content to stay color blind
A “mention” in the Master’s ante-room.
Another February had arrived,
with dirty snow and heavy, slate-grey skies.
(One couldn’t help observing, on the sly,
the Master’s knees were blanket-draped
beneath his desk.) No wigs or gowns on show.
A minor hearing in a puny case.
They call it “inter partes” when both sides
turn up. Some point-at-issue had loomed large,
and we were here to tussle over it.
This room, so Ruskinesque, with frescoes
high on every wall, so hard to heat,
was one great chilly barn. The speaker’s breath
plumed out before him. “And my learned friend … “
Our leader’s voice, so sensible in its drone,
so sweetly reasonable, continued on,
so redolent of wintry afternoons,
like hissing logs a-burning in the grate.
Those practised highs and lows, mellifluous,
his easy-listening tone, so bland, so blithe,
relying on the case of this-or-that,
distinguishing the precedent of such,
“I think it was Lord Blinkwell who opined …”
Two hundred years ago – a little less –
the young Charles Dickens wasted days in here
(the chances are, here in this very room,
observing dreary sleet run down the windows),
mired in this solemn nonsense. Might it be,
he swore an oath – if ever he escaped,
he’d never take life seriously again?
If so, this ponderous symphony in grey,
as glum as Shostokovich etched in stone,
has cranked out clowns. There may be more to come.
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!
O Dear I read you as Love without knowing true
I refine you many times as my God in my thoughtful vow
Here I'm still alone in the path of rosy thorn
look- I've accomplished everything with my heart colors
the race of river with its concentration towards the ocean
the firing sunlight with the icy moonlight
the golden sunrise with the silver sunset
the tranquil dawn with the greasy dusk
the handcrafted noon with the embroidered afternoon
the dreamy night with the contemplated darkness
the yearning day with a lot of learning chapter of nature
the daily life making intimacy with the imaginative desire
the far flowery stars with the deep silence of the space
the endless galaxy paths with its greatest journey
O dear I embedded these everything for our unity
Our disheveled caravan on the path of almighty
O dear in me craziness
I'm still wayward trace
I find everything everyday within love sublime
I live with my loneliness, it's opined me fine
The decorated rainbow abridging to your line
In me life and death double sim card is activated
But still don't know who is love or God in my debate
13.04.2020 Chattogram
Barely worked a job in his whole damn life,
leached off friends and parents for his money,
never could provide for his kid sand wife,
lived in homes so bad his infant did freeze;
yet he felt he could write economics,
never producing something or paid a soul,
academic words to hide his envy,
no wonder his thoughts had a bloody toll;
never was hatred more deserved,
Karl Marx was a damn monster.
Was downright demonic in sympathies,
his poems identified with Satan,
called for blood and violence to push his cause,
for his ‘greater good’ you must slaughter men;
attacked any kind of faith people held,
accept his own doctrines which would replace
all the higher values that a soul needs,
with a corrupting worship of the state;
never was hatred more deserved,
Karl Marx was a damn monster.
Had a strange obsession with suicide,
which he managed to pass on to his kids,
two daughters would perish by their own hands,
that kind of influence hard to forgive;
left his wife to deal with their creditors,
selling off their stuff just to stay afloat,
cheated with the maid and then knocked her up,
didn’t once claim the child as his own;
never was hatred more deserved,
Karl Marx was a damn monster.
Incredibly racist through his whole life,
called his Cuban son-in-law ‘negrillo,’
opined that Africans were subhuman,
seemed to think that the Jews were demons low;
wouldn’t by medicine for his sick wife,
it was too expensive, so she just died,
but when it came to him he spared nothing,
made dam sure that he had it come his time;
never was hatred more deserved,
Karl Mars was a damn monster.
Some say that bad men can have good ideas,
but more often than not they’re just as bad,
100,00,000 dead from the socialists,
a pretty good sign his ideas were mad;
why you’d build policy on such a man
who never worked and seethed with jealousy,
did wrong by all his family and his friends,
mired all who followed him in misery;
rhere it nothing good in his words,
Karl Marx was a damn monster.
A fiddler and a frog once met one eve
by a small shallow pool near to the sea;
each one attracted by a mating sign.
The crab was wading lazy in the brine;
the frog just had a feast of flies for tea.
Neither meant the other to deceive.
"You have, dear sir, a truly mighty claw."
opined the ardent frog; "I could not help
but notice as you waved it in the air."
"Well, well, dear frog, you have a voice so rare
it full stopped short my forage in the kelp."
Weighed in the crab, "from such a wondrous jaw."
Said crab. "I'd like to dance if you would sing,
Perhaps a little shanty or a jig?"
Croaked frog "the moon is full, the night is young."
All night the fiddler and the frog, they swung;
of differences, they didn't give a fig;
the two; they simply had a harmless fling.
The Fiddler and the Frog Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
Date wrote: 20th January 2023
You're the reason my pen came out of retirement
Because your gracefulness brought back my element.
I would have said "kurukuru" ( cloud ) has covered my orbs
But I saw you and you turned open my door knobs;
It was like seeing an "egbin" (antelope) in its gaity form,
Orekelewa whose beauty intoxicates like the persian rum;
They who opined that the beautiful are still unborn,
Walahi I wonder if they thought your beauty can be undone;
When you walk with the gracefulness of an "Ife Olori" ( Ife queen)
All heads turn to take in thy African glory.
Duduyemi Orosun whose melanin shimmers even in darkness,
Even the angels smile and their hearts are filled with gladness!