Long Posers Poems
Long Posers Poems. Below are the most popular long Posers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Posers poems by poem length and keyword.
Modeled by the skilled and clumsy hands
of artists and artisans into an ideal state of she-ness,
a penniless waif appears on a stool
last week a stranger called her Mona Lisa.
Statuesque upon the betrayer
warmed by the lemon-lolly light from
bays of north facing windows, blinded;
she can but blink.
Surrounded by a
cog-notched cyclical wheel of nubile artists—
blooming buds of wildness, vertical sprigs
flail softly on the breezy bounty of
illumination.
Brush and trowel, thick and thin,
the artists stoke her—semblance
canvased by millennium brush biters
maudlin Mary is returned to the pre-historic stew
by the likes of Claude
polished to a pearly perfection
by type A, Hieronymus’.
They were all strangers to her posers,
every bit as much as she.
Royal pretenders in a world
where only the artless
are paid.
Moneylenders rise on their discarded carapaces
beauty sucked dry by the doers and shakers
who spread like choking bittersweet through
the lollypop-light from the bay windows facing north
consuming Mona.
Julie ford Oliver - Famous Models
Ekphrasis
First Appeared in Illumen Magazine Fall of 2014
`
Hovering like a gnat that finds a face irresistible
Swatting frantically does no good as
insects will be insects and annoying is part of their plan
As it seems each day you find a new offering unfolding its wings,
buzzing about with your dirty laundry in tow,
as if poetry has become merely a tool to harass
Finding little folders to slide into…highlighting
each word of bin fodder, old but new
hoping for accolades in lemonade fashion
Funny how that works as hatred becomes the norm,
never letting go of that scent that attracts you…
whatever it is about the human aroma you find so pleasing
Perhaps it is that it will never be you,
oh little gnat of negative words seeking only attention,
lost within the deep confines of a posers petals
To ruin our summer fair, our poetic picnic in the sun
cannot happen for you see we are happy
in our own skin, with its wondrous fragrance…unlike you
`
Don't you just hate little pests that just fly around annoying people?
Seventeen
By Franklin Price
7/30/2015
Seventeen when will it stop
A traffic jam we need a cop
Too many think they're heaven sent
That they can run for president
Can't get together have a meet
A forum for that mighty seat
If they could just cooperate
They may have stopped at only eight
Another example of their plight
Won't work together only fight
Better soon find where it's at
Or four more years of democrat
Not so many on that side
Just a couple for the ride
Scrambling to present their point
Or maybe end up in the joint
How have the parties come this far
Think they're all drunk just left the bar
That would make a little sense
How else could they be so dense
Hard to decide who gets our votes
They are not lions they're only goats
One will lead us lambs astray
We'll find who it is on voting day
May not like it maybe will
I just know I've had my fill
Of many posers now hell bent
Who think they can be president
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the high
Were two furry reindeer who were too gob-droozled to fly
They had been drinking calli-milk that sealed their fate.
They were lying on their backs, in an inebriated state
Stable master and farm operator brought in two head elves
Should not these two idiots be clearly ashamed of themselves?
The elves they had invited were Tuckle Finger and Jolly Jeremy.
Seeing worse, they concentrated on Santa’s Christmas tree.
Giggling and snorting wolf-bane from the stable in the back
As the drunken idiots laughed away, the elves prepared Santa’s pack.
Nothing could get these two ready any faster than this thought
So they brought in their mothers Big Rose And Dangerous Dot.
The mothers were disgusted and mean with their boys.
Sobering them up quickly in the midst of plenty of noise.
By the time Santa arrived to fly them all night, hard and quick,
They were looking pretty good, but wearing sunglasses, quite thick.
On Dasher! on Dancer! on Rudolph! Let’s make a turn to the right
The elves said a quick prayer as they flew out of immediate sight.
Just then Dasher and Dancer pranced out of number 2 pen
And they all wondered who those poser reindeer had been?
The reindeer were shocked, there should have been clues.
They radioed Santa and told him the disturbing weird news.
Their own mothers were fooled, Santa said, high in the air.
See you tomorrow, for these posers and I do not have a second to spare.
Written 11-22-2018 Contest: The Night Before Christmas
Sponsor: Joseph May
Kapow! Here’s mud in your face!
Poetasting rhymes, rhythms and nuclear waste.
Playing in mud pits, kitchens and certainly laced
Everyting that’s made . . . in this mysterious place.
Prob’ly shouldn’t eat this mud in this pie,
It may be somthin’ that’s all just a lie.
Interesting reads and certainly flies . . . beyond belief . . .
High above all that’s high in the sky.
Grand Master Chefs with their heads in the sand
When they pop out unleashing their impossible plans,
Amaze me mind with swirling twirling expands
Me into magical worlds of colorful lands.
Creating recipes so fabulous and untamed
Makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’ - sometimes insane.
Like potters awakening monsters in clay,
I read with a fever . . . Poet of the Day.
New poems always put a smile on my lips,
“What’s this,” I say, “that puts new pounds on my hips.”
Feeding my soul with soupster’s gluteness glips
Coming to life like birds pecking their way thru the crust,
Flocking to screech that it’s Poetry or Bust!
Come one, come all! Don’t miss the bus!
It’s time to unleash the beast . . . in all of us.
I’m not sure I’d eat mud pie turned into soup,
But I’m sure it tastes better than anomalous poop.
No bird brains here, weird just expressing our scoop,
You’re all wonderfully wonking a world worth a damn,
Nothing here can poss’bly be wrong or a scam . . .
No hackers allowed, A.I.s or plagiarizing posers,
Only original awesomeness of incredible composers.
I see you . . .I feels you all . . . eating this soup . . . making the call
To the restaurant that feeds the needs of us all.
No one here starves, no one at all.
So, thank you for being you
And always know that it's true
you’ll always be welcome
in my sandbox of blues.
Social media is a charade
A manic masquerade
Where charlatans peddle lies
And truth slowly dies
But you were led to the dance
And you thought you had a chance
So you either go ballistic
Or end up a statistic
Volatile times produce hostile rhymes
And television that glorifies crimes
We're taught to live shameless
And despite mistakes we're blameless
To them everything is a game
Laughing as you seek clout and fame
Those lives you see aren't real
But the devil made a deal
Instagram is full of posers
Facebook is full of hosers
Reality is your brochure
To disconnect and find closure
Don't be afraid of friction
As you escape the fiction
Social media is a charade
A manic masquerade
They hung around the beer joint with the finest Western wear
with thumbs tucked in their belt loops and such a studly air.
But those boots weren't made for stirrups and were polished to a sheen,
and on those fancy cowboy hats not a sweat stain could be seen.
You could be sure they hadn't spent much time around a branding pot,
for the only brands they recognized were ones on stuff they bought.
And if they ever passed the time just musing 'bout their spread,
it'd be the one around their middle or the one they put on bread.
Just a bunch of cowboy wannabes in a modern masquerade,
but they drove the biggest pickup trucks that Detroit ever made.
The beds were big and beautiful without a scratch or scuff inside,
'cause the only thing they hauled around was a horse's big backside.
As they stood around outside the joint, in a smart-ass state of mind,
in pulled an ancient pickup with an old horse trailer hitched behind.
The truck an old green Chevy, year 'bout nineteen fifty-nine,
with two high wooden sideboards stacked with hay bales bound with twine.
Out stepped a skinny hombre, with steel-blue eyes and bandy legs,
but he had a rippling six-pack while all the boozers sported kegs.
His cowboy hat was sweat-stained; high-heeled boots were dusty gray;
he kicked off a chunk of cow pie, then he grabbed a bale of hay.
He was mighty parched and dusty, but he wouldn't quench his thirst
'cause you're not an honest cowboy unless you water horses first.
The pack of fools gave out a hoot, yelled "Hey there, Texas Pete!
Get yourself a man-sized truck and take that geezer off the street!"
As he finished with the horses, up walked two ladies smokin' hot.
The cowboy promptly doffed his hat, while the posers there did not.
The cowboy got a long admiring look and the rounders just a sneer,
as the sham was so apparent when a real cowboy was near
They flashed the dusty cowboy a big ol' smile 'bout ten miles wide...
Said "Honey, would a gent like you care to escort us gals inside?"
He winked, then gave the trucks a look and spat a stream of juice.
Said, "Boys, y'all's might be bigger, but mine gets a sight more use."
They shuffled as an angry group
Eyes averted, as if they were ashamed of themselves
My daughter never used to be like that
But she had been ushered in,
She acted like she was one of them
Her Pollyanna side rarely came out these days.
She was wearing dark eyeliners, and had painted her room black.
I had not heard of Goth yet, for it was only the middle seventies.
Her friends began hanging around, wordlessly, on my couch.
If I came into the room and tried to converse, they left.
So I came in the room quite often.
She had lost her way, so to speak.
I knew it, but we were new in town.
She was glad to have friends, even if they were posers.
We had moved a lot. She had given up much.
She needed them at this time,
For pretend friends were better than no friends at all.
I was relieved when she decided to trade them in for the service.
The day she joined the Air Force, I rejoiced,
Figuring this bunch of angry downers would not follow her.
I was right.
They didn’t.
After basic training, she began to smile again.
And she had new friends.
God works in mysterious ways.
Yes indeed, I am maestro and mistress of Hare-Brained Town.
I can probably out-absurd you backwards and upside down.
My fatuous foolishness is deemed crazy by some, possibly most.
This will be taught to you in fury, as I am your elaborate host.
What was senseless and silly a second or two in your life,
Will make you dance a happy coal-fire-dance on top of a knife.
I will open your dendrites, get them to slide up and laugh.
Leave your tired ideas at home with your dull stuffed giraffe.
I am not good with posers, so lend me your dreams and your heart.
Sharing your most cleverly hidden secrets, will be the best place to start.
You can be mayor, queen, or puma mascot of Hare-brained Town.
We will start with whack-a-doodle-spinning until we both fall down.
Under the moon light we gathered;
Giving listening ears to grandpa’s trembling lips,
As serene dusk and silence embraced
Once upon a time onsets his tip.
There was the first garden of untold beauty;
A gift to the first man with overwhelming privilege,
In which the first sin stunk humanity;
Engendering the first punishment as a badge.
Did the creator miss the creature?
Where else could they go in this plight?
These posers came like rapture,
While grandpa laughed to our naïve insight.
Still, he continued with an annunciation,
One Gabriel, one Mary in Nazareth;
Actors of act 1 scene 1 of salvation,
Here, faith steps on Everest zenith.
Nine months passed to zamani’s womb,
And the expected saviour came,
Gold frankincense and myrrh exchanged tomb
To seal Christmas fame.