Long Pome Poems
Long Pome Poems. Below are the most popular long Pome by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pome poems by poem length and keyword.
Roses is red; a dollar are green.
Dough wuz the grandest thang Bubba'd done seen.
He had a bad wreck and ruptured his spleen.
His surgery wuz in a room that tweren't clean!
He paid Doc with roses, and Doc got real mean.
So Bubba sent dough--biscuits in a can.
Doc planned to whup him, but Bubba he ran.
Then he sent greens--the kind cooked in a pan.
Doc wanted green MONEY. He wuz one angry man!
********************
The sponsor done asked for a hillbilly pome,
so I writ these purty lines here at my home
up in these hills from whur I seldom roam.
April 19, 2018
WRITER'S BLOCK
THE WOULD-BE POET
I thought I'd write a word or two,
Like all them famous poets do,
And then mayhap I would be known,
And folks would ask me to intone,
The lyrics that were world renown,
In recitals throughout town;
So I sat down with pen and waited,
For inspiration, breath abated.
I waited long into the night,
Then came the dawn and morning's light.
I thought I'd write a word or two,
Short story, pome, just one or two,
But seems to me there's no such luck,
So I got in my pick up truck,
And drove around to clear my head,
It did no good, my muse is dead;
Or else she's just abandoned me,
I prayed to her on bended knee,
But as far as I can see,
This effort's in futility.
DANG!!!
For Block, Block, Block Contest by Detroyer Poet
THE POME
I wanted to be famous,
So I thought I`d write a pome,
Somethin`reely spiritchul,
With touching undertones.
Somethin`folks would reed about,
When I`m dead and gone,
And call me poet, artist, bard,
And put it in a tome.
Them great big heavy books folks buy,
And never reely reed;
But if yer in one of them books,
Then folks are all agreed,
That yer the best that ever was,
A reglar Willem Shakespear,
So I set down to write it,
And found that it has took near,
All my time and energy,
To come up with a title,
Let alone the pome itself,
For me this writing`s futile.
Judy Ball
Fergive me Yàll.
I got writer`s block.
I thought I'd write a word or two,
Like all them famous poets do,
And then mayhap I would be known,
And folks would ask me to intone,
The lyrics that were world renown,
In recitals throughout town;
So I sat down with pen and waited,
For inspiration, breath abated.
I waited long into the night,
Then came the dawn and morning's light.
I thought I'd write a word or two,
Short story, pome, just one or two;
But seems to me there's no such luck,
So I got in my pick up truck,
And drove around to clear my head.
It did no good, my muse is dead;
Or else she's just abandoned me.
I prayed to her on bended knee;
But as far as I can see,
This efforts in futility.
DANG!!!!!
The pome was sweet
Never wanted to quit
Might've thought so
But never acted on it
Had a million seeds within
Each akin to some thought
Some were in the plates of others
Some were left inside to rot
Pome wanted to recite and sow
From poems to seeds it had
Had no column not a row
To write and hence the skin got bad
Pome was sweet red
Seeds were stiff white
Some had the juicy coverings
Some rotted and lost their might
It was sure just red pome
Not the granite deep in the crust
Pome might look stiff outside
It's nowhere near the rocky rust
It tended to become like granite
Pome tried, pome failed
It mended itself day and night
And finally it realized
The rotten seeds are futile
Not every seed should go in plates
Not every pome gets an eater
And it's okay to not to elucidate
Pome is now different
Tend not to worry about rotten seeds
Pome accepts the partial sweetness
It now trim or just pass by weeds
I learnt a long time ago.....art depends on how the person
experiencing your work perceives it...........so please don't
get upset...........how someone............judges your poetry
it is but the perception of one person..........a singular look
how one person looks at what you wrote....... .....when my
daughter...when my daughter was five........only five years
old...she built me....... .......a poem..........that is what she
told me.."daddy I built you a pome".....I can tell you it is to
this day the best poem I have ever read.....better than any
of the masters...........better than any famous modern poet
even Shakespeare....could not compete...... ....with a poem
written......by a five year old girl.............I will share it with
you now...you may or may not agree with me........that it is
the best poem you ever read......the poem my five year old
daughter built for me is this..."daddy i love you so so much"
...she even included an internal rhyme..."so"with "so"and to
this very day...........it is the best poem.....I have ever read
so you see....art is subjective....it lives based on perception
01~22~2015
With My Love
Armand
Once there was a young writer whose name unique her name was Poem young and free with her time what would she see, see fit to do she saw a tree as time went by she sat there all the time no one liked her name was so weird and she was more all they saw was a girl who sat staring into space but behind that frozen smiling face lived a lovely and wilder place she made masterpieces but no one did care when she tried to share they would point and stare and drive her back home, under the tree which she loved were the poems one day after she changed her name out of shame her art was found she left her name her old name back at the tree her legacy is pometree
I wanted to be famous,
So I thought I'd write a pome.
Somethin' reely spiritchul,
With touching undertones.
Somethin' folks would reed about,
When I'm dead and gone,
And call me poet, artist, bard,
And put it in a tome.
Them great, big heavy books folks buy,
And never reely reed;
But if yer in one of them books,
Then folks are all agreed,
That yer the best that ever was.
A reglar Willem Shakespear;
So I set down to write it,
And found that it has took near,
All my time and energy,
To come up with a title,
Let alone the pome itself,
For me this writing's futile.
(Fergive me Y'all, I got writer's block)
"This 'pome' don't make NO sense! What junk!"
the scowling students muttered.
"Two roads in the woods!" one hissed. "Such bunk"--
opinions rudely uttered.
I quelled the urge to hurl my book.
I said, "Can't you surmise
what they might mean? Let's take a look.
What might they symbolize?"
One hand shot up--then two--then three!
My probing did the trick.
Alas! Two kids just had to pee.
The other whined, "I'm sick."
The bell rang. As my prisoners fled,
"Essays next week," I screamed.
"I ain't no good at them," some said.
My mind was gone, it seemed.
entered in PD's Contest 15 (100 in a Row) on September 18, 2016
every March seventeenth, the glint froom
a perverted imp finds me achin'
and if aye dig deep enough,
this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin
can figuratively unearth a puckish
(gnome like) elfish sprite
with a layer ring ga Erin
which byte size (key) ah man able troll
help pan for treasure hunters
plume bing the underworld
with his (aye farm lee bull eve
moost har male) sly grin
stirring thy faux set (head)
feigned Irish with in
new mutter nada trace,
(boot perhaps juiced an iota)
o' Brogue kin
Celtic gene found
within me genealogical tree,
an itty bitty min
newt chromosomal thread,
(which with assistance of Crispr)
i.e., a more discerning Quaker can pin
point how this predominantly
(decrepit ole coot)
Semitic baby boomer tub hoot
(whale hugging
ma gude look four leaf Shamrock)
can locate long buried loot
according to legend
(plus devout avid fervent
Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen
aka Sally Salamander Newt)
doth avail her excitement to help up root
(perhaps revisiting a previously dug oop ditch)
maybe treasure undetected
cuz ova technical,
and/or mechanical glitch
truth to the tantalizing myth
whar hike can hitch
my dreams to a morning star,
that would make a par man rich
and put an end
to mine fingers that hoo twitch
which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz)
alluding to healthy appetite,
sans tea zing alluring
(whet started as byte)
size nar invisible craving,
which fantasy easily didst excite
(necessitating yars true lee) to don robe of foo fight
tar, yet persistent and nagging lust didst light
lore (akin to un hearth thing
pot o' gold at rainbow's end),
cuz hum ma penniless plight
such dogged pursuit, a mirage,
whereat aye drool in plain sight
thus conk clue ding this
hip poe eponymous droning pome
though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!
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