Long Posthaste Poems
Long Posthaste Poems. Below are the most popular long Posthaste by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Posthaste poems by poem length and keyword.
(alternately titled: impossible mission goes awry
probably mortal enemy cast spell binding jinx)
Both mental versus
physical tasks necessitate
laser sharp attentiveness
triggered within blinks
similarly on par when people toast
momentary instance utter silence
before more'n one
wine glass simultaneously clinks
cheering hurray, especially
if delicate circumstance
incorporates telecommunications downlinks
critical vital communique transmitted courtesy
think outlier (christened
Saint Matthew Scott Harris)
with acute instincts
held hostage between warp,
and woof fifth of dimension
far away beyond where
outer limits exhibits kinks
nsync with twilight zone
dwell alienated ratfinks
resembling authentic animated
Doctor Seuss characters
where one after another
third eye blind winks.
Lame excuse told cosmic speck (me)
sending yours truly on wild goose chase
an underhanded way to rub
inept feeble poetaster punster
out webbed wide world existence
purportedly great eats boasted
deep inside black hole sun pub
must make posthaste
to nearest galactic grubhub
mission control haint made no flub
boot deliberately thought
ineffectual doling out futile drub
cuz mister flibbertigibbet (me)
ostracized from highly selective club.
The aforementioned synopsis and
ultimate banishment cheered with big bang
decreed courtesy kangaroo court
constituting beastie boy gang
think star wars movie,
where farcical charges trumped
offering accused two choices,
either to hang
suspended (think piñata) and beat
to (fictional) pulp
torturers obviously ignoring pang
of utter emasculation, but rather sang
a song of sixpence*
while downing flasks of vintage tang
crafty entrepreneur William A. Mitchell in 1957
phallic drinking vessels
resembling Chewbacca's oversize wang.
---------------------------------------------------
*Lyrics
Sing a Song of Sixpence
BY MOTHER GOOSE
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing—
Wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the king?
The king was in the counting-house
Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey,
The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird
And snipped off her nose.
Upon opening the fridge this morning I found, to my great displeasure, that there was nary an egg to be found. Posthaste I marched down to the corner market, grabbed a carton of fresh, free range eggs, darted smartly to be first at the checkout counter, and rifled through my wallet to see if I had ready cash or would have to employ my Visa card.
In my rush to sit down to my newspaper, sunny-side-ups and piping hot coffee, I had neglected to remove my sunglasses. This would hardly be worth mentioning if the young check out lady had not inquired, “Did you check your eyes to make sure they’re not crossed?” She grinned as if the question were perfectly proper. Was this her idea of a joke? Why, this rude, cheeky young tart was poking fun at my advanced age! The nerve! Obviously my ancient eyes couldn’t stand the daytime glare. Was that it?
I lifted my shades and squinted at her with my two evil eyes before tucking the carton under my arm and strutting back home with seething indignation.
Have I checked my eyes to make sure they’re not crossed. Good god, that’s not even a joke! But were those her actual words? I hadn’t been paying close attention, for my mind had been more on consuming the eggs than paying for them. But, no! Those were her exact words!
As I approached my door, I confess to have felt to be but the shell of the man I had been upon awakening that morning. I had to simply be a good sport and admit my days were all spent. Nothing to do but to turn on the oldies station, curl up on the sofa, and let the Reaper do his work. Did I check my eyes. My last indignity! Adios cruel world!
Entering the house, I found my friend reading a magazine and enjoying her morning coffee. “Oh Robert!” she called out.
“What now!” I snapped at her with a sinking sense of dead and doom.
“I was just wondering. Did you check your eggs to make sure they’re not crushed?”
“No”, I responded, relieved that I had mis-heard that young delightful check out lady. “I’ll do that right away!”
First a simple lunch –
soup, salad, rolls and dessert
(and wine if we choose).
Then the book.*
We become critics when we read.
That's half the fun of it.
The other half is the pleasure of the word.
Prose can be poetry.
Our preferences are as diverse as our personalities.
What I like, you don't, and vice versa.
No book appeals to everyone,
just as no work of art is universally appreciated.
This particular book drew various reactions –
first "enjoyment" and then disappointment.
We agreed that the images were vivid
and the metaphors enlightening,
but the story dragged a bit.
The tragedy's resolution,
arriving at the tale's end, was anticlimactic .
Why had the author waited so long
to get the accused off the hook.
The ample evidence could have been revealed sooner, much sooner,
saving us from suffering endless descriptive passages.
Clearly, dangling was the writer's intent.
No one appreciated being dangled.
We wanted the case resolved posthaste,
with fewer stalling tactics.
"Get on with it,"
seemed the general opinion.
Critics should be aware
(alas, we sometimes are not),
criticism is infinitely easier than creation.
Creation is inspiration
mixed with plain hard work.
Authors, like all artists,
have their way with us.
We're simply along for the ride.
As critics we agreed –
a fine journey: long and well worth it.
"Snow Falling on Cedars" by David Guterson
A verbal warning this day
of redundancy, an end to
Twenty-four years of hard graft,
releases doleful innuendoes
from those safe, left on the staff.
Each dawn! That initiates, now
leaves the sound of silence
ringing, in one’s dependable mind,
each journey down “Everglade”
strange, empty and wry, now the
dignity of retirement, fade from
an unveiling sky.
Yet! Upon this February day, the
puppeteer of Vevey reaches out
to the land of the “Long White Cloud”
Weaving his website of hideous agenda,
strategically infiltrating the very soul
of simplicity, when lifting of the
corporate shroud, upon an
ethical unswerving crowd.
His disciples cynically well versed,
a subtle way his empire constructed,
the turning of the Sabre
of injustice within the wound.
His greed insatiable. Shop floor
loyalty marooned!
Oh! Nested bird, pretender of
family values, branded power
taken from long ago sincere ways,
who’s personified voice, continually
heard on mountain peaks,
within the valley, around the bays.
Yet! This minute, many lives,
especially those belonging
to us “The Clown”
Have seen in lieu, better days.
Alas! Time does surrender
each day the scaffold unfold,
hour upon hour, one assumes
a condemned man’s threshold.
As the final moment approaches,
the noose of disparage
set, posthaste!
The “Vevey Executioner”
gets rid of his
industrial waste!!!
© Harry J Horsman 1999
The Shifting sands
Kingdoms of Dunes
Desolate sands
No life. Low tide
Landfalls now twixt mud and sand
And then the seals appear
Their sad calls staying in my memory
I walk the dunes
Why am I sad?
I’ve just returned
Alive and not wounded
The girl I left behind
A friend I thought
No commitment
No declaration of love
The enemy advanced
I was hard pressed
But while in deep despair
I thought this was my end
I realised then
I loved her
But when I came to her
She’d found another
she said “Just a one night drunken stand
So ashamed
Could I forgive?”
Logic says I should
I made no promise
Nor did she
My ego’s not so sure
More seals arrive
Floundering on the mud
They call to me and say
“Forgive her? What’s to forgive?
You had no right
You do not own her.
Go to her now and beg forgiveness,
Declare your love.”
I walk the dunes
Why am I sad?
I’ve just returned
Alive and not wounded
I go to her posthaste
To beg forgiveness
“What for” she cried
“Because I turned my back in wounded pride” I said
“I have no right to judge
Can you forgive me
I love you please take me to you heart.”
Oh Joy unbounded
She forgives me
And offers me her heart
Kingdoms of Dunes
Desolate sands
No life. Except us two Low tide
Landfalls now twixt mud and sand
And then the seals appear
Their sad calls staying in our memories
We walk the dunes
I am no longer sad I’ve returned
To meet my love
I enjoy reading through the New Poems List
Skipping only those who’ve proven a waste
Naming even ten, so many would be missed
I could never perform this exercise posthaste.
Skipping only those who’ve proven a waste
I find gems in the poetry of at least thirty-three
Some of the best are naughty, others chaste,
Occasionally I find one worthy of a grand prix.
I find gems in the poetry of at least thirty-three
I faithfully read every single poem they write,
Occasionally I find one worthy of a grand prix
If I listed three, I’d be certain to provoke a fight.
I faithfully read every single poem they write,
Genuinely impressed and moved by so many
If I listed three, I’d be certain to provoke a fight
For poets are a sensitive group, we’ve a-plenty.
Genuinely impressed and moved by so many
Naming even ten, so many would be missed
For poets are a sensitive group, we’ve a-plenty,
I enjoy reading through the New Poems List.
Written December 3, 2022
[Original version before it was
modified to fit three-stanza
requirement for contest.]
Regardless of what some folks are saying
The weather is changing, climate’s askew
Major storms threaten atypical places,
Is there nothing at all we can do?
Let’s begin by developing a new respect
For this planet all of us call our home,
Consider cutting back on fossil fuels
Using fewer plastics, learning to defoam.
We can resolve to reduce pollution
Be more careful with disposable waste,
Recycling is an excellent practice
We should all begin doing it, posthaste.
The glaciers and icecaps are rapidly melting
We are destroying the vital ozone layer,
And it appears a time is quickly coming
When all of us won’t have a single prayer.
In truth, some will never be believers
They will, in ignorance, never play a part,
So, it seems to me rather obvious
We must hurry up and get a head start.
Let’s face it, global warming is upon us,
The weather is changing, climate’s askew
But, believe me, when I hasten to say
There’s plenty to slow it, we surely can do.
My daughter who was then, just about seven.
The sun had just settled softlty in the Pacific.
We were in Ghiradelli Square, a joyful place,as is heaven.
Into an elevator we went so sparkling clean and spiffy terrific!
It was an elevator with walls of shiniest metal.
I pressed the command button, to take us merrily down!
Alas, the brightly lit buttons, did not work as itheu should.
Its tall, chrome doors shut, but the elevatotr refused to move?
How I frowned!!
Aha! But not to fret, I was intelligent enough to recall….
And reassure sweet Elena, that I would find a way out.
With lightning speed, I recalled the phone on the wall.
And so I could call and smoothly we’d be safe and let out!
My heart filled with joy, to that phone, I hustled posthaste.
I prayed, oh, please, let some Angels be very near.
But finding out the panel was dead, my heart sunk to my waist!
Suddenly, a knock on the door, help had arrined, Elena and I
gave three cheers!!
1/30/2024
With rushing hands about our hips
and loving thoughts so hardly chaste,
let locked together be our lips
as equal rights we must posthaste:
for in love and in God we trust,
in them here in this psalm's the thrust.
This day we are an ardent pair
as we do our impassioned best
to disrobe ourselves and thus dare
to expose our fair, lovely breasts:
for in love and in God we trust,
in them here in this psalm's our thrust.
Full of fervent, delicious zeal;
we make love while it's pure delight
to show the world we'll not conceal
what seems so wrong but feels so right:
for in love and in God we trust,
in them here in this psalm's main thrust.
With disregard and with scorn, dare
we stand and fight for what's our right
to love, work, live, and prosper where
e'er we are, hidden or in sight:
for in love and in God we trust
(in this great nation of the just)!
The case of caviar the Humpherts ordered
was missing from their mansion. What a mystery!
Could long-time butler Stephan be the culprit?
If so, posthaste the traitor would be history.
One Humphert child cried out, “He wouldn’t do that!
“Some stranger could have slipped in,” said the other
and swiped those little cans. Are they expensive?”
“Oh, yes, five thousand dollars!” said the mother.
They then recalled that when their goods were stolen,
the butler and his bowling team were out of town.
They told the kids, “You’re right. He didn’t do this.”
The stunning theft resulted in a weeks-long frown.
The kids now keep a secret from their parents.
They’ll never tell how much stray cats love caviar.
They buy them cat food now with their own money.
Stephan just smiles and nods while watching from afar.
Choice 2
July 15, 2022
entered in the One in Five 2 Contest placed 1st
Sponsor: Joseph May