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.
My new husband was a farm boy
who didn't like to roam.
It always took a lot of nagging
to get him to leave home.
But we were newly married,
I hadn't learned all of his dislikes.
I imagined us as travelers
who'd be going on big hikes.
So I was unaware of his sacrifice,
when he asked if I'd like to go
to the Exposition in Vancouver.
He probably hoped I would say no.
But I was more than willing
to go on a short vacation,
and it was more appealing since
we'd be in another nation.
We left early Saturday morning
to drive the one hundred miles.
When I thought of all the fun to come,
I could not hold back the smiles.
The closer we got to Vancouver
and our final destination,
my husband got more nervous
about the thick traffic congestion.
He drove right to the fairgrounds,
and didn't stop at our hotel.
I thought he did it to please me
and perhaps it was just as well.
There were so many great attractions,
we didn't know what to visit first,
and we ate so many exotic foods
I thought we would truly burst.
In the late part of the afternoon,
I said, "If you don't mind,
I'd like to go to our hotel now."
"You're right," my man opined.
They'll probably be filling soon.
we better go and lasso one."
I knew he must be joshing me,
just trying to have some fun.
He kept driving by the nice hotels
with signs "No Vacancy".
He drove on and on and on until
it really frightened me.
"You didn't make a reservation?
I can't believe that's really true.
We'll have no bed to sleep in.
What ever will we do?"
He kept on driving quietly.
Motel rooms had all been filled.
Although it had been a hot day,
I now was feeling chilled.
We were in a dingy part of the city
and were starting to turn around
when he saw a sign that promised
a vacancy would be found.
The registration desk was manned
by a man in an undershirt.
"Money first", he said before showing the room.
I felt like a piece of dirt.
"I think it's a flop house," my husband said.
I didn't like that term.
I though of rats and bed bugs and
it really made me squirm.
There was no way I'd get in that bed.
I chose a big leather chair.
With little to say, my husband laid down.
He was too tired to care.
I knew not what occurred in other rooms,
I heard footsteps and showers.
But you won't be surprised I know to hear,
nothing at all would happen in ours.
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..
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.
feeling his vitamin injection a new adventure begins
a slapstick epic of unfathomable implication here unfolds
as the rat gnawed curtain rises at Ye Bone and Gristle
among the clattering of wooden pints of bitter ale
the floor show a fatigued and spent collegiate symposium
a haggard attempt at ecumenical largess aimed at
raising the unwashed to an occasional and transient grasp
of the larger dimensions that haunt our daily addictions
Prof. Zlotto emeritus deluxe brooded over his maps
summoned by the tedious self-appointed constabulary
to pry somewhat delicately into a mystifying case
of good judgment deferred with a view towards
an increase in immediate cash flow revenues
wagers placed on foul play or the whim of ill fortune
were the options undergoing fuddled prehension
we have before us opined Z expansively from center stage
an antebellumite absolutist abandoned by fortune
skirting the Queen's tariff crushed white and cold
by a bulging bale of contraband Carolina cotton
observe the eyes fully crossed the smirking grimace
while grasping a message in a mangled scrap of menu
none of the Bone and Gristle's brain trust could
tease rhyme nor reason from its random hatchings
Sumerian birdclaw temple cypher went our Professor
fragments from the time of the Great Watery Peril
the gathered lumpenproletariat gasped and murmured
Zlotto's flawless command of forgotten history
was the object of awe and an untidy fealty
my appraisal shall go no further than this room
insisted Zlotto drawing his finger across his windpipe
aye wheezed the unsteady avid archivists of civilization
the hearth's peat flames glinted off Z's gold tooth smile
a million dollar asset with the neighborhood gorgons
fluttering hearts batting about the succulent stamen
Z pondered aloud over the runes inscribed in red ichor
my certainty was never under hazard went Zlotto
what we have here beneath the lantern of exposition
is a blighted invocation of the Blind Mother of Witches
the tenured and tweedy astigmatics drew breath as one
a petition of supplication borne on ancient trade winds
Zlotto's hard gaze scanned the struck dumb congregation
It says only this
as one body the throng leans a full inch closer
only this
fill in your blanks
AS OPIUM OPINED
On the mantle of my memory over fantasy’s fireplace is the remembrance of that one most precious evening when snow consecrated and baptized our roof along with its promise of a childish sleigh ride in the morning
But that single cherished night meant so much more than the next violet colored dawning
We watched as the flaming fireplace splashed dancing and ever changing shapes and shadows upon the wall of imported Spanish clay
Images you imagined and described in such a childlike and universally unique way
It was a moon’s minute after the joy of a snowball throwing and love growing day
“Oh honey, that shadow looks like a cameo of a lady from the eighteen hundreds who once knitted two pairs of mittens for her twins
And that one looks like a guppy with his flighty colored fins”
I was left breathless at your beauty and the fantasy you wove with wonder bewitched by your giggle witnessed to by your winsome and wide eyes
As you allowed a fairy tale combined with youthfulness to become our guide
We were already middle aged but the middle of that night created the height of heat
And your attempts to decadently decorate the dull spaces in the living room of my life were deemed complete
The shadows still danced upon the wall but our eyes were shut tightly and forthrightly while wrapped in a mystically magical embrace
You wanted those shadows to remain alive so I stoked the logs just in case
As the fire fueled passion while I gazed at your silhouette so silken and sleek
Then we closed our eyes once again and let our lips, although silent, begin to speak
They swore allegiance and reliance for the two of us to share
While the fire flickered on with finesse and fiery flair
My head would have been in the clouds but the nighttime sky projected only stars
and swear I your countenance of comeliness could heal even the scars on Mars
while you formed words akin to the purest Oriental opiate that sent me two galaxies high
But those words, as did the shadows cast, faded at your final and forever “goodbye”
© 2012…copyright PHREEPOETREE..~free cee!~
Over the holidays, I was watching Lisa’s sister little Leeza, she’s 14.
She has a rebellious fashion sense and a joyful innocence.
She’s still fearless too, and on-God, I hope she never loses that.
Too soon though—the disco’s coming to town—the world’s coming for her. It’s the same for all of us, I suppose, but in Lisa and my cases, covid shut it all down.
It’s a rite of passage—the shoes, the bodycon dresses and the makeup. Those carry negative connotations, I get it, but there’s an excitement too, about finally getting to dress like an adult—a woman—in one of those bodycon, cut-out dresses.
I know the pressures on women and their bodies, but at her age, it's not all stress, cattiness and comparisons—it’s just innocent teen fun. She and her posse can take hours just dressing and doing their make-up—together. It’s probably the best part of their night.
Leeza’s dad (Michael) saw the little group of teens, all dolled-up and launched, like a SpaceX Starship. Pacing the living room, he quietly opined to Karen (her mom), “I don’t want her going out dressed like that.”
Karen was right there with him to cool things down, “No, hun, at her age, it’s about self-expression, learning and girl bonding—these connections are really important in the girl-world.”
I’m not worried about Leeza’s physical safety. These girls are watched over and gently curated. Their every movement is orchestrated and security escorted—hell, Hamas couldn’t get to them—much less some gropey boy.
There’s just this new awareness these days of how unhappy some people are—and a lot of them are teen girls. I wouldn’t want to see Leeza mired in the sad, brain-draining social media pressure and self-esteem traps.
Teenhood is scary—I was feelin’ positively parental.
Then I looked at Lisa, and I was reminded that they’ve done all this before, and she has a big-sister, role-model too.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Time Girl (feat. Charlie Barker) by Sofi Tukker
Dance To This (feat. Ariana Grande) by Troye Sivan
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
The blackberry's love for the garden rose
Brought down the gardener's wrath.
The blackberry sensed the danger
As he wended the garden path.
" A love so true as mine", he sighed,
"Must dare to brave the hoe.
Just a few more feet to reach her,
My true love she must know."
He crept along so quietly,
Sometimes quite out of sight
Until he nudged his darling's feet.
Did he dare to trust the light?
He heard the gardener's heavy boot
And hid in craven shame.
He knew he'd soon be weeded out,
A seedling with no name.
"Have I no worth since I don't rate
Some Latin nomenclature?
Without a well known parentage
Am I a freak of nature?
His darling's line was long and pure,
No skeletons in her past.
He had to make his feelings known.
Those boots were treading fast.
Gently then he wrapped his vine
Around his loved one's spine.
In great amazement he opined,
"Her thorns are sharp as mine".
The sweet rose felt his tender touch
And realized his fear
And wondered at his bravery
In coming to her here.
She heard the swishing of the hoe,
She heard those nearing feet.
Quietly letting down her leaves
In a manner so discreet
She covered her wild lover.
The gardener unaware,
Stopped but to view her beauty.
He saw naught hiding there.
She whispered, "You are safe now".
The blackberry's heart was light,
Thankful that his dear sweet rose
Had not exposed his plight.
"A rose is still a rose." she said,
"By any other name
And in our distant ancestry,
We share some of the same".
"I'd rather know your wild love,
Than a love that's dull and tame,"
Cuddling close, returned his kiss
Without a bit of shame.
Next season there were seedlings
Of a very different kind.
The gardener delighted, cried
"A horticultural find."
The moral of this story?
Things aren't always what they seem.
The love you look down on today,
Could be tomorrow's dream.
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?"
By the afternoon I was back-on-my-toes.
Almost every night my roommates and I sit around a low table in the common room of our suite, crossed legged, on cushions and do our homework. It’s less claustrophobic than sitting in our rooms alone and we usually have some music on, lowkey, in the background.
We’d just heard “Love Story,” by Taylor Swift.
“I like songs that make love sound easy.” I stated.
“Oh, because it IS easy,” Anna says sarcastically, “grab yourself a physicist and make a TikTok song.”
“Hey! I’ve got a beef with TikTok artists, I said. “At first, they release these stripped down, intimate, acoustic songs that feel personal, and then, if a song hits, they put out a new version that’s totally overproduced.”
“Right.” Leong agreed.
“Oh, yeah,” Sophie said, putting her hair back out of her face with a comb, “and some artists' voices are suited to simple accompaniment and the newer versions just don’t hit as hard.”
“I think Phoebe Bridgers is an example of production done right.” Anna said. “Her material continues to sound intimate and stripped down even though it’s no longer just her and a guitar,”
“On Tiktok,” Lisa adds, “when a new song works, I feel a connection, like it could be me recording a song with my guitar - so, I support them.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I updogged, “there’s a place for overproduction but sometimes the instruments don’t even sound real, like when they go all out electronic - then they lose me.”
“The big-music might drown-out the artistry we liked,” Anna opined, “but maybe that’s how they heard it, as songwriters, in their imagination, but they couldn’t afford it - the new version rectifies it.”
.
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slang...
back-on-my-toes = feeling back to normal / back in the game
updogg = when you add your two cents to an ongoing dialog.