Long Pom Poems
Long Pom Poems. Below are the most popular long Pom by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pom poems by poem length and keyword.
Repeat The Sounding Joy, Little Drummer Boy.
Up on the housetop 4 calling birds sing,
Why does she wear 5 golden rings?
Jack Frost will nip at the famous nose that's red,
then sticky canes and gingerbread.
In fairyland snow underneath mistletoe,
she wishes for chilly kisses, but will he show?
Three french hens greet Emanuel, whispering to him, "Joyeux Noel."
Silverbell dreams of little girls and boys,
figgy pudding, Kris Kringle toys.
My true love sent to me a jingle bell melody
of chestnuts roasting and eggnog toasting
under a Christmas tree.
Repeat The Sounding Joy Little Drummer Boy,
and play your drum for him, a joyous hymn.
Celestial beings will sing, Welcome to the New Born King,
the world's great glorious blessing.
RA POP PA PA PA POM
Poetry IS the Mother of ALL art.
The completion and the part.
A private punchline-divine.
Be it the fruit or be it the vine.
It is The IS, sometimes the Music,
sometimes the Muse for us.
The usery that uses us.
The gizt of hearts in infatuation,
of the telling apart.
Insanity or bust.
Between lesson and instruction.
To be or it's destruction.
The painting and the canvas,
bared for emotions-teeth to take a bite of that
sweet ****- au pair with a peculiar incisor inflection.
Like a werewolf transforming with a tear, gleaming
to go on a tear.
Of whatever amazes or confounds us.
It uplifts and surrounds us.
There is poetry in a hungry infant,
and the warmth of a Mother- the need pregnant,
expectant.
Symbiotic-
Symmetry-
Symbolic-
Systemry- in offshoot,
Automatic
Ethereal firmament
To drink of
the bulwarks of love that
cultivates the brainworks as it wallows in
possibilities mud,
taking thought into-the bliss-of-the asunder,
of connecting string
Gloriously plundered.
Poetry is,
A glimpse of
"The Way."
Sparking like a pinwheel,
on freedom day,
growing, blooming
the flowers seed of
Intensity, integrity, glowing into
Life's density in sporadic release of splay.
The I Am. Pied piping His signature conducting groove
into our channels.
As the orchestra plays.
The call that we all dance to.
Molding the Earth like pottery of clay.
God's use of snapshots of what love should be.
Has a chance to put from the reach of it's ease'.
The Universe His studio, and dispensary.
WE the ones fogging the lenses scope of things
(needing proofs before the picture is even through/
or while the ink is still new.)
Because it IS both abstract and it IS REAL.
There IS Contagiousness in poetry's mental feel.
Its thundering peel, uncovering, rolling. Roaring in zeal.
In a symphony of opened seals.
Showing like a signet ring.
Shofar in the spring of knowing.
We drank cheap beer in a rusted-out shed.
Buzzing before our 8:00 AM English class.
Trying to be cool- to fit in with the "Ins."
Instead, we're becoming the wobbling outcasts.
Spinning further out from the golden Ins.
Ah, the golden center.
Filled with jocks, cheerleaders.
A chorus line of silver thighs and golden pom poms.
Smirking at my pimpled insecurities?
But your long bomb popularity didn't stop that tree.
From slamming into your popularity.
It didn't move aside as you passed by.
Like I used to move aside as you passed by me.
You were popular in that narrow hallway of slow death called adolescence.
Now your football helmet is yellow and cracked.
Destined for a garage sale. Bottom shelf existence.
At the very center of long forgotten.
You with the pom poms and patented dimples.
Nowhere near that cocky cute kitten anymore.
Turned plump, pregnant, abandoned, aborted.
What happened to that sweet cotton tail and golden lips?
That used to pip "you'll never be with me".
Finally, after forty-plus years.
You're lying with me...figuratively.
Spread eagle atop pom pom mountain.
An outcast on the periphery of everything.