Long Portfolio Poems
Long Portfolio Poems. Below are the most popular long Portfolio by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Portfolio poems by poem length and keyword.
Not a cruel master; a humble assistant;
To visit or not, cannot be done by his choice.
Always carries a portfolio under his arm,
A pre designed schedule saying when and where to attend.
He comes not, though invited; uninvited, stops not coming.
Sometimes comes like an unconventional rain.
He is the mark of beginning and ending of life.
But how unlucky he is!
Always listens to no other emotions except mourning.
Silently tolerates all curses showered.
His job is endless.
No single applause for him.
Perhaps, in Nature
The one and only who is
Blamed for his utmost promptness
Let's Mix It Up Poetry Contest
Verse poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Date: 18-10-2021.
Placed : 3rd
In what galaxy does a heart
not learn lessons the hard way?
It’s in the nature of all creatures.
The school of life welcomes its students.
Some will breeze on by and
not learn much of anything.
The ones that embark implicitly
on that lush wild river of discovery
will be amazed when they unleash their potential.
Everyone is given the same amount of hours,
precious time to squander or exploit;
checks and balances accrued in bank book.
Here on earth promises are delivered,
bruises fade and broken bones are mended,
fear eclipsed and IOU's paid and erased.
Everyone carries about their baggage:
the outcome of their experience,
the detailed records in their head.
We each have our predestined portfolio,
an agenda or checklist of things to learn,
be they tender or wickedly cold and harsh.
It would be ridiculous to expect that life is fair:
it’s a lottery we are allotted numbers,
some are lucky while others feel their curse.
AP: 2nd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2025
I wish I was a Tory,
It would be another story,
So much simpler not to care
Or have to be aware
Of how other folks must strive
To make a crust to stay alive.
I could keep my privileged indifference
Surrounded by a picket fence
I wouldn't have to own the knowledge
(Whilst enjoying Heston's snail porridge)
That paupers are dying on NHS trolleys
I could just enjoy my hard earnt lolly,
Keeping my guilt edged share portfolio
Guilt free and safe offshore
(Like Rees Mogg, Gove and BoJo) so
That my net worth will appreciate
And HMRC won't be able to deviate
The profits accrued from fracking
To subsidise those who are plainly lacking
Any acumen or entrepreneurship
As a Tory I could safely worship
At the altar blessed by Thatcher, Zuckerberg and
Branson,
As I stack up my king's ransom,
A monument to personal wealth,
Built without any heed to the health
Of the welfare scroungers or the planet
A social conscience? They should ban it!
Let's get on and get the bull done,
Disposable wealth is supposed to be fun,
What's the point in being a Tory
If you're hamstrung by one nation rhetoric?
Yoghurt knitting tree huggers make me really
sick,
'It's for the money, not for you'
Is the motto of my Tory crew,
so go hug a hoody if you will,
My snout is staying firmly in the swill!
It was, perhaps it still is, popular to take aerial pictures
of farms, frame them, visit the relevant farms and try
to sell them. I had a suitcase full and walked from farm
to the farm I didn’t sell many and was tired when I came to
a small farm, so minor that it was not in my portfolio.
I was thirsty it was July but, I wore a suit with tie to look
businesslike. Knocked on the door it was opened by
a woman who looked affable – this was long ago these
days no one opens doors to strangers- I asked for some
water and she led me to a well lowered a bucket and up
came a pail full of the coolest nectar. We spoke, a widow
a tractor accident had killed him, and she was childless.
I felt a strong sexual pull towards her and could read in her
eyes she felt the same also, but I was too timid to act on it.
I thanked her warmly and left. Years later I read about her
had been married five times and poisoned all her husbands’.
Rhys comes from the Rhondda Valley,
In South Wales from Church Village.
He was born with mild Cerebral Palsy,
And sprints in the T37 category, page.
As a child he played disability football,
But migrated to sprinting in good 2010,
So he got the London Paralympics call,
Where he sat in the 100 and 200m glen.
2014 found Rhys compete in Glasgow,
In the Commonwealth Games vital jive,
Where he ran the 100m even out hoe,
In 12.04 secs, taking the bronze chive.
By 2016, and after the games in Rio,
He was sixth in the world in his class,
Of T37 for people with a CP portfolio,
Which he never even envisaged, gas?!
“…thank you to the people who play
the national lottery. Athletics is [a dear]
sport and by you paying [it is a way
for] us [to] get the…equipment [here].”
…of streets walked on still,
taken in by looks and glances that create
more than a memory - but a
gallery revered for years to come.
Of the skyline rising and falling like a
heart monitor, painted passionately red and
tinted orange from crushed autumn leaves;
the city’s fluid backbone muddied
and sludged and smudged by fingertips themselves
crafted and carved from bark in Regent’s Park;
a jewel, a diamond in a crown that sparkles in
a frame held by proud hands and tall chimes that
paint reminders of time across Victorian pebbles.
Of that ‘implacable November weather’ so loved
by Dickens. The cold air now water-coloured
against New Year explosions of kaleidoscopic palates
and clean canvases and annual additions
to the portfolio of a capital.
So, trace your hands back across each painting;
turn each image to reveal another take and
dash after brush after stroke after flick of
War of the Roses paint and Industrial Revolution charcoal
or the pencil of a Globe’s playwright with
the oil of underground tracks below the
Mache moulds of those streets walked upon still…
Well over a hundred years ago
The illustrious Vincent Willem Van Gogh
A genius somewhat like Michelangelo
With thousands of artworks in his cluttered studio
From the sublime to the grotesque for show
Might have been better off working as a gigolo
Because he died a pauper on skid row
In those days artists had no impresario
To make sure they lived high in a chateau
Dining on champagne and escargot
So it was quite a different scenario
That brilliant artists lived totally incognito
Often exchanging a painting for a meal on a patio
Or selling their wares door to door on tiptoe
Carrying under their arm their impressive portfolio
So it was for Vincent Willem Van Gogh
Misunderstood and suffering from vertigo
Mentally unstable and drinking heavily in Bordeaux
Depressed, impulsive and insane – a tragic combo
Cut off a piece of his ear, his sanity was touch and go
A troubled soul, life for him was a wild rodeo
Obsessive passion, far from living the status quo
His life and work intertwined shimmying like a yo-yo
Feeling the stranger, he shot himself overcome with sorrow
Post mortem everyone wanted to hear the myth of Van Gogh
With his vivid colors of burgundy, ochre and indigo
In his honor every year the orchestra features the oboe
And while the Italians chant magnifico
Everyone else cheers Bravo! Bravo!
How times have changed for poor Van Gogh
From a mere hundred years ago ~
Read on air by invitation ~ March 21, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: 1st place 2026, 2nd place 2021, 3rd place 2025, 3rd place 2022, 3rd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on August 15, 2021 for YOUR BEST MONORHYME contest sponsored by WILLIAM KEKAULA - RANKED 1ST
Jealous, Jealous, Jealous
The swiftness of the Vessa just killed me,
That speed and the grandeur of the seat,
The frame’s shine and the four wheels free,
The maroon leather upholstery neat.
The diagonal pattern on the seat and back,
Which made diamond shapes all over,
Reminded me of Pringles golf wear sack,
That sportsmen buy, their goods designer.
The prestige of owning one was immense,
A Vessa with thin black joystick, gray box,
Orange on/off button for your own sense,
To use wisely to be the batteries’ prox.
That privilege, that air that they all held,
Even made their severe disabilities trivial,
Counted them as people who so gelled,
With normality, the cool and the convivial.
I couldn’t walk at all well, sore feet often,
And in Primary Two asked of my physio,
That she give me in order to cheer, soften,
An electric wheelchair for my portfolio.
I wasn’t asking for a Vessa, not at all,
Just a Bec, ‘cos that could be anyone’s
They were blue, just for indoors, did stall,
And there were some just sat there, tuns.
My feet got sore and I was badly in pain,
Because mum insisted on Clarks shoes,
Old fashioned, hard, so I did complain,
Ås I saw trainers that would fit my toes,
My mum’s strict faith said no to sense,
No to love and yes to abuse, I’d loose,
So I explained to my physio, no nonsense,
That Christianity meant my pain, choose.
My mum thought trainers were worldly,
Demonic, non-Christian, rough and sinful,
But I didn’t know my credibility fully,
And so my physio said no more mouthful.
I knew it would’ve given me a life,
A mouth, a mode that could let me talk,
‘Cos I couldn’t talk and walk, my strife,
Together, simultaneously, talk and walk.
So at school I was always jealous,
Of those with a Vessa who got respect,
From every staff member zealous,
To enhance their freedom prospect.
I got my Vessa at university, shiney,
But I saw it rationally and with thought,
Understood something had blatantly,
Gone wrong, since it I’d only just bought.
But I appreciated my Vessa so much,
At Uni, no-one knew the status or fuss,
That’d been attached to it, not to touch,
At my special school, uh ha, for all of us.
Just in case you wondered...
Yours truly, (i.e. I) quickly
became hypnagogic afore
subsequently segueing soundly
into autohypnosis booklore,
while binge reading courtesy
regarding aptitude chore
treasure trove books galore
five dollars as many
paginated fictitious stories ('bout deplore
hubble basket cases) fit into authorized bag
infernal challenge sifting evermore
alum skid more or less
bending and reaching skyhigh
toe tilly (ejaculating
what the heel) footsore
compromising writing, rather heretofore
indulging insatiable knowledge
(surpassing narcotic fix),
the world wide web hide ignore
engrossed various and sundry
enchanting, kickstarting, and revelling - bonjour
dear reader buzzfeeding...
Till chief hankering
(regarding appeasing passionate
word loving aficionado,
albeit temporarily ceased
(think intellectual fancy feast)
getting imagination (mine) linkedin
outspeeding lightning greased
experiencing cerebral capacity increased
virtual make believe
terra incognita leased.
insatiable jabberwocky yen
countless hours elapsed when
inconvenient wont head sleep
wracked courtesy (bowling) ten
pins nabbed mettlesome ambulation
often found me - hen (pecked) hex pen
sieve dishabille scattered brained brute
somnambulant analogous awake burning ken
kindled smoldering cognitive tinder even...
Chilly cooling off, where
temporal lobed hiatus taken
beefing portfolio in effort to scare
back poetic proclivity despite near
severe withdrawal symptoms
reacquainting novelty here
with effort to jog capacity
to craft poem quite aware...
Unsuspecting readers breathed
sigh of relief interim joker I went absent
posting trademark gobbledygook,
now unnamed fool rushes in,
where angels fear to tread - nay cent
return of native son unequivocally, pinterestingly
digitally... afore written dive versification
brandishing said as unsung literary event
psalm time sacrilegious Jew bull gent
bringing entertainment intent
to thee anonymous
analogously, humorously, and parenthetically
lamely affecting (i.e. poorly emulating)
Shakespearean belles lettres,
perhaps coronavirus pathogen
t'will cut me down, whereby
microbial size Clark Kent,
whoops twas Lois Lane I meant
to empower one meek and obedient
primate even during
but, and, or conjunctive
rutting season quiescent.
Perched on figurative shoulder...
taking devil's advocate stance...,
with sharp eyed cognizance
of course Joe King abidance!
Wild eyed traitor Joe Schmoe,
albeit Democrat subjects himself to grow
wing skepticism at impeachment show
whip lashed, viz strapping jock who stow
weapons of mashed destruction
expects at least one rotten tomato,
or "mother's petrified pop slop,
electronic brickbats, et cetera
hard as(s) bupkis targeting yours truly
smack dab rendering aspiring po'
wit smashing me face
courtesy final deathblow,
while pilloried vainly
waiting for... Godot,
cuz I must say impeachment travesty
appears triumphantly trumped,
where Nancy Pelosi will eat crow
proving Hillary Clinton's catchphrase
basket of deplorables apropos
aforementioned speaker of the house
tin pot dictatorial desperado
scuttling hither and yon to and fro
oddly enough even staking out
manhunt for Wizard of Oz
enlisting (right on the Dot) doggone toto
tense seat of pants increasing
stiff competition on all faux pas,
whereby freezeframe tableaux
icy (I see) as temperatures
dip down into five below
analogous to stop motion
projector manned by bonobo
sports petsmart stuff and struts
(think shock absorbed) ditto
Ringling Bros and Barnum
& Bailey Circus, where ma's yoyo
tricks, tracks, and trumps...
three ringed circus, nonetheless
(toe) nail biting suspense
amazingly graceful slick cameo
starring emperor donning
invisible new clothes
couture well worn portfolio
prosecutorial cadres itching
to dredge schmutz (quad) drilling,
and extracting ore region null
evidence upending forefathers status quo
appearing impressive bandying
sine qua non quid pro quo bingo
emphatic pedantic Latin Oh
though above named
language dead - Anglo
Saxon heavily and
will (yum) doth barr row,
especially to appear self important
those of the Senate
does saul full bellow.