Long Plethora Poems
Long Plethora Poems. Below are the most popular long Plethora by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plethora poems by poem length and keyword.
Connoisseur Of Ethnic Cuisine
Theme seems apropos during Holiday FancyFeasts despite the plethora of – in my opinion witching hunting - reputable male personalities suddenly accused of sexual harassment after substantial time. Yes granted so the unexpected name dropping felt like a bomb shell towards chaps, this baby boomer mwm would never suspect, point the finger, or accuse, especially one former Norwegian bachelor farmer from Lake Woebegone.
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Though anonymous and hardly
a substantially sized mwm baby boomer
(which dual disadvantages partly explains
lack of ubiquity among claque of cooks, yet hoop full
to get attention from some well fed dame
many popular rotund gourmands l'chaim tame
their hungry beast – wa hood put me to shame
vis a vis consuming in their one meal,
what yours truly eats in a lifetime,
none of those celery buddies,
whom this non television watcher can name
seen on any selective cable channel,
I still revel in writing while
on the hunt
(during Red October) for a meme
poetry and prose, and decided
to introduce myself quite lame
with NON GMO marginal uptick
in any sudden fortune or fame,
yet t'would be pleasantly syrup prized
if interest
from potential mistress didst exclaim
desire to enjoy a repast, though
said hypothetical gal need
not be a high society dame,
and if perchance such just desserts
came via the kitchen maiden kitty,
versus kit chin middens
no boastful claim
would be uttered by me,
her intellectual company satisfactory aim.
During Hurricane Harvey resourceful fire ants stayed alive
clumping together on waterways, forming a raft, not one dive
I saw them and my hair stood up and I let out a scream
Knowing how dangerous they are as they travelled downstream
I had been bitten by one, which was like being burned by fire
He had gotten me on my inner thigh, I was glad it was no higher
The poison he put in me left me weak, I was barely alive
hundreds of thousands of fire ants floated past ready to survive
Another raft of them floated past, a million, score!
I ran away from the river, for I could take no more
Hurricane Harvey seemed to have found a plethora of them.
My view of fire ants is truly pretty dim and grim.
Author's note: Talk is good, conversation is better. I don't know that any good ever came out of an argument, and in a supposedly enlightened society, no subject should be off limits.
In hallowed halls of ivy 'cross the nation,
In dorm rooms and classrooms,
Quadrangles and halls,
In locker rooms and laundry rooms,
In bookstores and malls,
Campus U's and coffee bars,
City trans and private cars,
Etc., etc., etc.,
Students and academics alike
Love to get up early and stay up late
To discuss or argue and debate
A plethora of currently controversial,
Debatably debatable,
Arguably arguable issues, i.e.:
Evolution or creation;
Salvation or damnation;
Missile ranges; climate changes;
Global warming; eco-farming;
Obesity; incontinence;
Casual sex or abstinence;
Free love or marriage,
Same sex or straight;
Labor or capital;
Minimum pay rate;
Democracy or autocracy;
Despotism or anarchy;
Christianity or paganism;
Civilization or barbarism;
Religion or terrorism;
More prisons or more schools;
Why so many grammar rules;
Why the federal deficit mounts;
Whether oral sex really counts;
Wearable technology;
Is war a perversion or merely perverse;
Our position in the universe;
To be or not to be;
Is there an end to infinity;
Etc., etc., etc.
And they always strive with utmost care
To present both sides of a question equitably
Because it makes them feel aloof and erudite,
Impersonal yet superior,
Open-minded, objective, and fair,
Detached from everything but essential abstract truths.
With meticulously researched facts
Neatly organized on index cards or iPads,
They argue passionately and hotly,
But behind the facts and figures,
And once they've gotten past the fads,
They have no real passions
Or even any real feelings about the issues
One way or the other,
Except the somewhat nagging concern
That they might be right…
Or wrong…
And then what?
Author's additional note: I'm not sure which "category" to put this piece under, dear readers. Any suggestions?
Oh my beloved,
this life can be confusing.
A plethora of recycled emotions,
sometimes result in false devotions.
Absence wounds with nostalgic reflections.
Secluded souls yearning for old satisfactions.
Oh my sweetheart,
sometimes we feel like trees in Autumn,
exposed to the harshness of an apathetic Winter.
We battle the storms, remaining defiant until Spring.
Virgin petals bloom among protective thorns in Summer.
Only a true lover knows how to cultivate in the garden of love.
Oh my darling,
you remain hidden behind stubborn veils
and even though I'm deprived of such pleasures,
patiently my eyes wait for one glimpse of heaven.
The stars are no substitute to illuminate my desires.
The moon lacks mystery in comparison to your elegance.
Oh my lover,
my lips yearn to taste forbidden nectar.
My heart envies those who breathe upon you.
My hands seem empty without a hand to hold
My eyes disinterested by this monotonous existence.
My speech disillusioned with oxymoron contradictions.
A sad soul searches among an abundance of cherry blossom trees,
to unite with a unique rose resembling a titanium chrysalis.
Upon this path of desperation, a true heart has no fear,
life is a trial with many an adversity,
the one who prevails, is the victor.
Silent One
Written 17 April 2016
Simple Musings
I write upon ethereal silicon wafers of time,
pressing words into the computerized clay of today,
stored in a cloud immune to time.
And like dust drifting with the wind,
my thoughts float freely from one cloud to another,
not stagnating inside a box in someone's attic.
I give the reader a glimpse of my heart
and a peek at my soul between each line,
as I explore feelings we all share.
I write of pain, hopes, dreams, and fears,
evoking a plethora of emotions
that are a shared part of life,
innate to the human heart and soul—
whispers in the wind, silent screams, and cries of joy.
I express human feelings in verse and rhyme,
as relevant today as they were yesterday
and will be tomorrow,
for feelings outlast time.
I believe that forgiveness and unconditional love exist,
and I carry that thought like a surrogate mother,
giving birth to a new understanding of self.
An ardent lover of words
Of his own is that world.
A crave stretching his soul
Dipping into a plethora of verse
Rising with a fulfilled thirst.
Unpredictable are his journeys
Unfathomable is the depth of his thoughts.
Unchained is his soul
Traveling along with the tune of his heart
The beauty of his mind.
An avid worshipper
Immersing his soul in a mine of gems
Rejoicing the blessings of a compassionate essence.
A heart of a poet
With a meticulous flair for fine art.
Knowledgeable reads
Dropping in relish
Into a haven of voracious insight
Rippling through a ravening mind.
A fervent passion for admiring
What a poet's pen of worth portrays.
A tremendous sense of reverence
Impressed on his fine heart
Upholding noble a value
To poet's endeavouring words
Pay tribute.
An ardent lover
A treasure of words
A heart of a poet
The reward!
May 31st, 2018
Didn’t digest my all-dressed pizza
Suffering now from insomnia
A touch of every possible phobia
Mostly of ravenous bacteria
And humongous tarantula
O yes, and the sordid mafia
Did I call my Grandmamma
Did I put away the spatula
Did I book girls’ day at the spa
Did all the bourgeois really die of cholera
I’m drowning under this plethora
Remind me What’s that formula
O yes, Abracadabra
Tra-la-la and La-di-da
And poof now I’m in a gondola
On the way to utopia
Dressed in graceful taffeta
Eating baklava in the basilica
Hanging from the candelabra
Swinging to the tunes of Lady Gaga
Supported by the silliest orchestra
Hey you Pass me the foie gras
I have a cockeyed camera
You’ll see me at the cinema
I love you Etcetera Etcetera
AP: 1st place 2020, 3rd place 2025
The corpus millennia has crawled down the vale,
Retracting the sleek, unwieldy remnant of glory,
Into the memorial vault of the deceased perfection;
Romance with Nature in express affection
Set up structures of infinite wonder and story;
Wingless flights, finless aquatics, and sail,
Put up a collage of conformity and compliance
With the Eden-norms on the planet of reliance.
Mastery, like a potter's wheel, shaped success
Out of the clay of daring and venture ;
Finesse and goodwill brought forth the plethora
Of confident happiness, but in an aura
Of warning and threat of the nurture --
Fostering, Greed, and his kin of all excess ;
The forbidden tree put up the succulent fruit,
And the disobedient eater turned into a brute!
Battles and wars were fought for trophies inane,
While the elements have kept tracing a new map;
Fire has charred many a live greenery
Making it look like ill-painted scenery
Quakes and slides have always set a scary gap,
Like the swooping flood and the howling hurricane;
Power, pelf, and the wide stretch of win
Devastate as the victor lies in the forgotten bin.
No glib snake need tempt one now,
Since the Devil himself has chosen to dwell
In the inner depths of defiant ambition,
That leads to the dead end of perdition,
Through exploits, for the riches to swell;
Wants change and satiation never cease anyhow;
Midas, or a conqueror, is not uncommon to find;
Avarice subdues the conscience to stay blind.
Time, the grizzled wizard watches with a frown--
A little amused and often with disdain--
The similar themes and slides in rotation,
With self-centered and wayward a mutation;
The domain is lost in pursuing the gain:
Vain and rueful maneuvers, yet no crown;
To rise to heights, one need not fall,
Nor transgress equity - the bounds for all.
At the deep end of night
when all that can be seen is the digital clock
and the light under the corridor door,
we slip out of our personas -
a fumbled attempt at drowsy love-play;
the plethora of giant pillows
hiding us from ourselves.
The hotel elevator takes us further
into a story we have already written.
Day 3 blurs, sight-seeing
pictures long poured
from the concrete mixer of time.
The machinery of a life
rusts absent-mindedly somewhere else.
Morning arrives in untidy disarray.
The vacation puts on your holiday face and pants,
the pants offer to go get Danish
and a yoghurt from the breakfast bar
while your partner
paints her features a deeper shade of alien hue.
This big and little city is so great.
It is situated near the middle of the state.
The city draws tourists and visitors in a plethora.
It has most of what can be found in Florida.
This place must be the product of a dream.
The “Magic” is the name of their basketball team.
The team plays a poised and formidable game.
Is it any wonder the team has that name?
All year long, the weather is usually fine.
Visitors can enjoy some warm sunshine.
Included is some clear and sparkling water.
Be sure to bring your spouse, son, and daughter.
There are hotels and restaurants galore.
Besides big theme parks, it has much more.
This is where the family has a good time.
In order to describe it all, need I rhyme?
This is a town many people would know.
For a great vacation, just get up and go.
The city is none other than Orlando.