Long Perusing Poems
Long Perusing Poems. Below are the most popular long Perusing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Perusing poems by poem length and keyword.
Times Have Changed
By Franklin Price
4/21/2017
Times have changed, not for best
Consequences are confusing
Computers have replaced the rest
One has made what you're perusing
Internet replaced the letter
Wired phone and telegraph
Don't know how it gets much better
Makes us grimace, makes us laugh
Key strokes made this not a Bic
Sent out at the the speed of light,
For you to read, that's really quick
Instant info wrong or right
No further need for traveling
Computers keep us in the race
We can Face Time that's our thing
From right at home or any place
Fully clothed and at our leisure
In a suit or in the nude
Whether business or pleasure
Civilized or crass and crude
We receive both truth and lies
It's hard to tell just which is which
We must come to realize
These changing times are just a *****
These times have driven us to Snopes
Must question all we see and read
To find out if we're fools or dopes
Marks, to swindle, yes indeed
Consider this a warning call
Do not believe a thing you get
Question Snopes as you should all
It's not a source you should not vet
What Llama Lil Saw in Baghdad
In Llama Lil's Cafe eating crackers and Stilton
surveying the street and reading Milton
Sits a strange and moody itinerant
Icon for a well-known roll-on deoderant
Under cover spy for a US president
Devoid of all human sentiment
On assignment he was hand picked
And his code name was Eggs Benedict
Perusing the pages of Paradise Lost
he re-read the phrase "At no human cost"
For his orders were, to him revealed
between the lines of Milton concealed
and I suspect, though I really can't say
the reason for this strange communique
Was due to the results of a wide-world survey
Showing few are caught dead, reading 'poet-ray'
Deep in thought on his plan of attack
He heard a blonde from the table at his back
Summon the waiter with fingers clicked
to order a double Eggs Benedict
Mysteriously, in dark glasses AND reading Milton
She slipped him a note- her number at the Hilton
He felt a strange rumble in his tummy
He remembered how the cheese tasted funny
The last thing on earth our hero has seen
are the spinning walls of Lil's, Argentine theme
The rest of his life flashed past his eyes
Is this the way a hero dies?
Super -spy and icon for a well known deoderant
Killed -from effects of a straying rodent
Missed his liason at the Hilton
Some one mailed his copy of Milton
pages torn and stained with Stilton
(Yes! It was from the Bagdad Hilton!)
To an address inside the cover
T'was to: George W Bush or someone or other
I was perusing on the Net
It was good fortune to have met
Not in person, I'm sad to say
An Interesting woman, anyway
Interesting and talented too
Amazing what she succeeded to do
After a very late start
Aged 78 before painting Folk Art
This person had dabbled a bit
Her life changed when tragedy hit
She found painting soothed her grief
It gave her solace and relief
From the troubles and strife
That engulfed her life
To me, this now-famous woman Inspires
Older people to realize
You are never too old too succeed
To strive to fill, a life-long need
No-ones life is a bed of roses
Ask the famous Grandma Moses
Just on the cusp of experiencing joie de vivre,
the triumvirate of Crooks and Quade
figuratively swoop down
to announce re: inspection
of apartment unit B44
whenever they deem appropriate.
Thus series of unfortunate events
(linkedin with bull limey
Lemony Snicket bro)
got sidelined nsync with
contracting a minor bout
with deadly Amish Flu
symptoms found garden variety reasonable rhymer
bedridden feeling a little horse and buggy (ha),
incapacitated to craft signature poetry writing.
An honest to dog confession
regarding hiatus spewing forth
vociferous versatile vocabulary
mine words - worth their weight in gold
(told woofer I do not know), nevertheless
included perusing a gamut of reading material.
The passion to engross intellect
witnessed courtesy immersing
attention, concentration, excitation
gratification, intoxication;
knowledge prized more precious
than fine spun gold.
Likewise crafting (albeit painstakingly)
elusive notions that flit
to and fro hither and yon
(analogous to ping pong ball)
within parameters of
microscopically crenellated
sixty plus shades of gray matter
also constitutes fervent interest.
One sad day, some years ago,
I got news that my father passed away.
He lived a long and happy life,
so I felt joy and sadness on that day.
Perusing a box of photographs and things,
his drawing, a poignant feeling, would evoke.
In his childhood crayons, it was beautiful -
a tree that seemed to be an oak.
Between a person's years of birth and death,
there's only a hyphen left to show,
but, in my father's unexceptional life,
he left something more - I know.
My brothers and I, quite frankly,
I would not celebrate.
Many fathers before and after him,
by having offspring, regenerate.
Yet, when I was a boy of nine,
My dad would, my brothers and me, provoke,
by planting in our front yard football field,
a native sapling, a California oak.
That tree is now my favorite brother,
huge, but kind and strong,
hosting an entire ecosystem,
with squirrels, and birds, in song.
In their short life upon this earth
many want to build a legacy.
Here is my advice for them and those.
On a sunny day, go plant a tree.
I admire great poets old,
perusing the tragic ends.
Researching their writing styles and patterns
their layouts, rhyming, punctuation, moods,
in dark solitude they penned dreadful words.
Many, end by suicide,
others of drug addiction.
John Berryman threw himself off a bridge,
Weldon Kees, disappeared into nowhere,
Rupert Brooke, he died at twenty-seven.
Some living a good long life,
with a death due to old age.
Merwin had a childhood full of sadness,
but he found his Zen in nature writing,
he explained his style as an open form.
Abraham Klein, a recluse
he lapsed into a silence.
Called, one of Canada's greatest writers,
here is one that published at eight years,
Wilber, he lasted to ninety-six and wrote.
I admire great poets old,
perusing the tragic ends.
_________________________
March 7, 2018
Poetry/Blank Verse/Old Poets Dead
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1001-977-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Seven-Ten
sponsor, Emile Pinet
First Place
Day was very sunny,
Old Jet felt so funny,
Old black lab, muzzle grey,
His family off to work today,
Old Jet lay down to sleep,
Left alone, watchdog to keep,
His gait was slow,
Not much get up and go,
Jet slumbered on,
Not too long,
His canine dreams bemusing,
Flashbacks Old Jet perusing,
Brilliant happy companion days,
Lots of fun and rambling plays,
Ben was his best loved lad,
Now his unofficial dad,
Jet's loyalty never wavered,
Yes, Ben he always favoured,
Pats and hugs and lots of snacks,
All kindness, time to relax,
Old Jet's breathing slowed,
Snoring on, time to go,
Asleep in the sun, one deep sigh,
No one home to say goodbye,
No drama, no fuss,
Old Jet's no longer with us,
His long life was over,
Puppy Heaven for old rover,
Old Jet had breathed his last,
Finally, Old Jet had passed.
Unblinking reflexive opinions lean
indubitably, favorably and certifiably
with minimal pandering soliciting
uber voodoo yawping woos
socially quintessentially obviously markedly
consciousness brakes alignment
defining mine political views
loosely yet not strictly, jerry-rigged,
hidebound Democratic
fealty haltingly pledged ones and twos
to roster of candidates
slated to challenge incumbent Republicans
all to quickly accused,
sans participating sinister ruse
this active voter puzzled at controversial
eye opening ex post facto
fractious, governmental
harmfully injuriously jaw-dropping
suppression within top secret queues
during nasty donkey kong braying p's and q's
(case in point) scurrilous, opprobrious,
and malodorous Clinton administration,
where (based upon my recent perusing
"The Peoples History” –
me strongly endorses
(authored by Howard Zinn news
worthy revelation, (whose recounting
atrocious, calumnious, egregious
glaring ignominious knowledge
jackbooted, mandated, predicated
on blind trust, essentially billeted
charade, facade, inlaid faux Hope loose
bandied cutthroat gratuity legislation
favoring pandering "pork" via
pretentiousness to wealthy gentiles Jews
abandoning average civilians snuffing out
sputtering, grousing, and hoo's
flick erring tapering fuse
whereat this news worthy informed citizen
totally tubularly unaware of any clues
pertaining to antithetical maneuvers,
(loo win ski) shenanigans, and undertakings
today yields genuine boo's
toward Clinton, where I despondently feel
he renegged promises
made to electorate (except top 1 %) got souled
(sold) to remaining 99% cheapest bidders
as-sized thirteen duff heated no nothing
sneezing Schnorrers
spluttering phelgm at me at-chews.
A Judges Dream
While judging a poetry contest I dreamt
of the time and the thoughtful energy spent
perusing the content, rhythm and rhyme
confused by the presence of rosmary’s thyme
counted the syllables, measured the meter
only to read something sick’ningly sweeter
and then with a bang a poem exploded
my god was the writer just crazy – or loaded.
Thus was I tortured, forced to flee from my bed
to read once again whatever I’d read
awaken the muse, become more reflective
remember that poets have but one directive
and that is to write, and then to write more
then share what they’ve written with both rich and poor.
John G. Lawless
5/27/2021
As it was our last night in Santander
we went out for a meal somewhat grander
Perusing the set menu I did choose
three courses with complementary booze
The waiter who came a glass did pour
leaving the bottle for me to have more.
How generous this seemed at such a good price –
those refills of wine did more than suffice;
yet what remained seemed such a shame to waste,
so I poured a glass for Olivia to taste.
With adventures in Spain so soon to lapse
we were thankful for all we'd enjoyed and relaxed.
Soon came the time to our room to adjourn,
I felt in control and steady for the return.
But on our departure I missed a step
and fell to the left. So I must accept
that a glass too many had been imbibed.
Down on the street, Olivia at my side,
a trinity of youths then rushed to my aid,
an old man on the floor before them splayed.
Muchas grazias, I said, when stood upright
relieved to be unhurt on our last night.