Long Passel Poems
Long Passel Poems. Below are the most popular long Passel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Passel poems by poem length and keyword.
Some people hate because they do not know how to love.
I feel sorry for them; I wonder if they were ever loved.
But can I help them? No.
They have to figure out love for themselves.
It is easy to recognize these non-lovers.
Their sentences begin this way
I hate ….
I hate ….
I hate …..
I am not talking just three sentences, I am talking about
a passel of sentences; they hate all’s too.
I hate all
I hate all
I hate all
My neighbor told me that she hates all liberals.
I asked her if she has ever met one.
She said, “I hope not”.
I am the most liberal liberal I know.
I did not bother her with this.
What would be the point?
This is the tale of a soul reaching out to others,
but receiving a cold shoulder wherever she goes.
Words and phrases
are misconstrued,
meanings attached
which cloud the issues
which she wishes
to address.
A passel
of jaded poets condescending;
who sear and cauterise
synapses
of intellect, and
in the
bud,
it’s
vim.
I
don’t
give
a
rat’s tail anymore.
Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2019
REPOSTED 11 July 2021 with white space added between the lines.
POET'S NOTE: The expression with reference to a rat that I use in my shaped poem, could perhaps be related to a phrase ‘don't give a dead rat’ from Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884).
‘The Mouse’s Tale’ (which was my inspiration for this concrete shape) is a shaped poem by Lewis Carroll which appears in his novel Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Though no formal title for the poem is given in the text, the chapter title refers to ‘A Long Tale’ and the Mouse introduces it by saying, ‘Mine is a long and sad tale!’ As well as the contribution of typography to illustrate the intended pun in this title, artists later made the intention clear as well.
From the old rockin’ chair
came the sound of his snores
that rattled the windows
and vibrated the doors
She looked o’er her glasses
but kept counting her stitch
as she watched his feet jerk
and his hands start to twitch
She knew he was dreaming
‘bout them places he’d been
Was out riding the grass
cross the highline again
She’d heard all his stories
knows most of them are true
Been little on the range
that her cowboy didn’t do
He had grown a fine herd
carved a ranch out of rock
Raised a passel of kids
that now care for the stock
Fought many harsh winters
to keep his dream alive
Spent countless holidays
out on some cattle drive
Had fought wolves, drought, and fire
blizzards and flooding rain
Busted broncs and some bones
not once did he complain
Always managed to find
a bit extra to give
He had paid well his dues
for this good life they live
Always held his head high
through those sorrows and pain
Said if he had a do-over
he’d do it that way again
"1...2...3... Abracadabru, Please and Thank You!
Let The Light Turn...Green!"
Seven is a whole passel Max, not Mid,
But never shirk you did, never asked for a Bid,
Never also, we would not, you be Rid,
One O'Them, Rusty, the third floor Kid,
Lindsey was "Heart & Soul" 'til her digits did Skid,
The Rob, Brave Knave, yet 'neath a shore table Hid,
Kristie the Red "Incred" to Lee lovingly Slid,
Jen the Wren, Rambunctious Doer, her Rick Did,
Hilary, numbered John, even Lamp Lids,
Nori Pooh Bear gymnast, flipped Tom's Id,
Seven is a Duo, and How!, Plus a Quid,
All by Wooden Spoon marched, like navy Mids,
Your Caesars cut us 7 from rough Burlap
"Veni, Vici, Vids"
Written to demonstrate that post-stroke I could still write verse on Mother's Day
that was 7 yrs. ago
From deep winter slumber, she slowly awakes, and a fresh cycle starts with rebirth.
By spring, tiny shoots in deep ruby red, set out to emerge from the earth.
A passel of stems grows healthy and strong, encouraging leaves to unfurl.
And young baby buds beginning to form, look perfectly round as a pearl.
Magnificent blossoms in striking dark pink, have now all begun to bloom.
A glorious show she displays every year, enhanced by her sweet perfume.
Now flowering is done, and swept by the wind, her once vibrant petals have gone.
But glossy green foliage continues to grow and lasts nearly all summer long.
A Wordsmith’s pen
Is mightier than the sword
For he can turn a tricky word
Into a verbal weapon
And win the day against the hoard
The words of the Bard
It’s not very hard
The turn of a friendly card
The changing of the old guard
The wicked witch is feathered and tarred
The sky above is dark and starred
It’s feeling out loud
The dancing of spirit abounds
The singing of the soul
The mind and body are whole
Although sometimes it makes no sounds
Manifestations of mental visions
Put to paper by steward, or vassal
On cotton, leather or papyrus passel
Seeing illusions and derisions
Inside the book, the bookmark’s tassel
Of words and dreams, and fantasies
Muses and fancies
Blissful and blithe
Demons and monsters, and zombies alive
Somehow the dead come back to life
Shadows and shades of torment
Ghouls and ghosts, and wraiths
Humans tear at their at the clothes and lament
And prophets forecast and forebode advent
Fortune tellers and soothsayers say
The mind screaming in pain
Devotion and emotion
Evolution and convolution
The sane are temporarily insane
The brain suffers erosion
To purify what has been defiled
Or deride what is pretentious
Celebrate what is momentous
Of the humors; blood and bile
Are both infectious
Soul speak
Affirmation of thought and deed
The lookers seek
All of those who have a need
Reap of the sown seed
Strong encourage the weak
Travels in time and place
Exploring inner and outer space
The Children of the Is
Sing the songs that were once His
Though the Old Man’s dead and gone
His legacy lives on
From dusk ‘till dawn
Memories in tome eternal
Glimpses of Heaven
Thoughts of Hades infernal
Rolling sevens and elevens
Immortal mortals
Of a limited time
Speaking in riddles and rhymes
This poem a babbling run-on thing
Pondering, wandering and wondering
A beautiful mind
It should be dismantled and dismembered
Fuses blown, circuits fried, wires unwind
The Dancing divine
When remembered…
Waiting once more for the wonders at dawn,
a tired, empty muse paces the lawn
struck dumb by notions refusing to spawn.
The new day arrives but dark does not lift,
an overcast sky now leaves her short shrift
as workers head home from serving night shift.
With nothing to prompt, she sneaks up the stair.
Some fifteen young bards enroute along there
went searching but found her out like a bear.
One ran errands for a friend who was ill.
Two ran a fever, three ran for the thrill.
Four ran their mouths while five ran up a bill.
After they ran, these bards pondered to pen
a passel of poems, then some again.
October 5, 2020
Silent One - When There is No Inspiration
A Passel of People Participated from all Portions of the nation.
The Purpose - To Promulgate the Pickle Pickers and Packers Association!
Parsimonious President Dill Presented a Pretty Powerful oration,
To Pitch a Passionate Plan for their Prestigiious organization!
Picker seminars Provided Pertinent Particulars for Participants,
Pertaining to the Proper Pampering for Perpetuating Pickle Plants.
Packer Panels Propounded ways to Perfect Professional Panache,
For Packing dills and gherkins Perfectly so that they dare not smash!
A blue-ribbon Panel Picked the Pickle Princess in all her Persnickety Pomp.
A working Party Picked the Pickle Prince and his Pompous aide-de-camp!
A Patron Provided a Plastic Plaque for the Pickle Picker of the Year.
A Packer won a Prize as top Pickle Purveyor, the Pinnacle of his career!
A quorum was needed but a Passel of People were Pickled in the Pub.
The President was Perturbed, not easily Placated, there in lay the rub!
A Plethora of Pixilated Pickers and Packers Presently repaired,
Protesting that they were Prepared to vote, not in the least impaired!
It was Paramount that the Proceedings not end on a sour note,
So the President Proclaimed a Positive quote for all to Promote:
"We must Project Professionalism and Perfection in great number,
As we Proudly Proclaim the Palatability of the Prosaic cucumber!"
With hands immersed in suds and water warm,
I stand before the sink, humbled vassal,
To plates and dishes, grease and grime the norm,
My task to cleanse this polychromed passel.
Each cup I cradle with a gentle pinch,
Their curves and corners, every angle blessed,
Rinse them speckless, my soapy palm a winch,
A chore completed, my service at rest.
For though this labor at face is mundane,
It's in the simple things we find our grace,
And so I wash each dish with grateful strain,
And let their gleaming surfaces erase
The chaos and the clutter of the day,
A small but satisfying task, I say.