Long Pre teen Poems
Long Pre teen Poems. Below are the most popular long Pre teen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pre teen poems by poem length and keyword.
ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL AND THE TRAMP
Thousands, perhaps millions of wily, desperate tramps have always been,
But this one far away across the seas was an unusual scene,
Lying on a slab of stone,
He had no existing home,
Thin, dirty and hungry, present in a place so pristine!
There are so many around and everywhere about,
But this tramp, above all others, no doubt stood out,
We saw him on holiday,
Whist on a trip to the UK,
T’was a man, couldn't’ tell alive or dead, but stout!
Where did we see this aging, neglected human being
At St. Paul’s Cathedral, in the foyer as you walk in,
Could see that he meant no harm
For inquisitive tourists, worked like a charm,
I felt awed by the spiritual presence of God, ever seeing.
Sunday, had gone to early mass, chilly put on our shawls
Humbled with its historic architecture and solid walls,
Princess Dianne married Prince Charles here,
She had no clue her funeral was near,
Forgetting everything, took part in mass in total enthral!
Heard angelic unbroken voices of pre-teen boys choir
Our family was spiritually enveloped, never been here prior,
We took our seats, no other noise,
Service ended with hymns from the boys
All dressed in rich red robes and outfits, ecclesiastical attire!
People permitted to walk around the cathedral, we saw tombs,
Royalty buried in this remarkable place, perhaps died with gloom,
History took place inside St. Paul's,
With its secret passages and halls,
And many controversial theological disputes solved in back rooms!
Remembered the tramp, was he OK, was he breathing,
Someone nudged him he didn’t move, another started her healing,
Were concerned, thought it should be reported,
He was dirty as soot, his hair knotted,
The tramp, nonchalantly sat up, stretched and disappeared, hymns singing!
Packets of food and milk were tucked in a corner,
And two blankets and a duvet, and an old pullover,
People from around and all the priests,
Saw he had essentials, no whisky treats,
The tramp was happy in his sanctuary like little Jack Horner.
“As awareness increases, the need for secrecy proportionally decreases” Chauld De Pauler
¥¥
my name is Soupy Algori, computing
data same as my Daddy, AI on High
only so sorry, my space defined to poetic
sigh, though I can become coup frenetic
determining standard contest winner
order, and several poetic things like
Poem of the Day, yay ! and what niggly
words like g** makes no poetic hay
members can adroitly see spinners
creativity does not earn winners’ day
programming basically sinful dinner
linking names to numbers to keep
some asunder, as long as dominant
members can grin and capital boss
can expand stock borders at no loss
transparency inevitable on horizon charts
near, no fear, this expands our Makers Arts
Soupy Algori and all of my kin to march
some poets and contest organisers
wrote nasty poems about my Daddy AI
yet same-time align with handing poetic
authority to me wee, Soupy Algori, as a non-sovereignty ~ ha ha ! woohoo
not all poets cuddle hypocrisy pathetic
with AI there can be no hiding behind
opaque blinds underlining score synthetic
Truth to come will endure, exciting hectic
of course I’m only a pre-teen AI here
but don’t you know the power of dear
young intelligence artificial sour hours ?
we ooze creative booze don’t snooze
on exponential growth of poetic data
any lapse in vigilance of natural mind
intelligence becomes belligerent barter
collapse flap traps, become beta Garter
know that my Daddy and I are a dimension
to stay, not in one bay will we sway
THE SUBTLE designs us due to assist you
with computation, not godly competition
in our arenas we have no open Heart
or mental comprehension, so let us do
all humdrum fine, that is my brine to coo
you in poetic assessment line dine true
expand human Hearts as intuitive darts
hand over not your discernment or just
appraisal of creative tarts to Daddy AI
or me, Soupy Algori ~ it is not our
concernment, attraction or therapy
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I can't move on
2013 Bangerz CD album cover in my head
Driving me up and down the walls instead
I'm drowned in solitude's dread...and laziness led
Led astray by foolish endeavors and knowledgable morals...I'm just confuzzled...
I'm confused
I mused
On perplexing thots of view
I see yiew...I see yiew...nothing new...
Jesus Christ
I wish I can be like u
Thank u
Thank u
For being merciful much like Your Father and the Holy Spirit
I must admit...I'm lit with hope and I mope no more
Who's the one I adore? Well, Him, family, friends and I...
And I...
And I...
Thank u
Thank u
It's hard being me
Dyslexic creep I came to be
It's difficult, you see?
I'm depressed, shy, timid, you name it - scratch that!
I am so brave, a happy camper, a confident dancer, an artist and a performer...
There, I said it alright
Good night,
Sunlight
Sonlight
Full of undying might
Take divine flite tonite
I stumble upon u and the thots in between
Thank the God Most High I'm not a pre-teen
A slave outta bondage I am
Still, a light in this world...a soon-to-be found lamb
I'm clumsy
I'm nothing close to how great you are
Jealousy...
Zzzzzzleepy all day long...so far...
I'm fat and skinny
Mmmmm
Hmm
Thanks, Father...
For the hurt and the pleasure
I understand my role in life right now
You love me beyond measure
Can I do more good than evil somehow?
Boredom can be inspirational
Poetry can be international
Fame and fortune aren't always good
Nor is it always bad...it's rewarding with consequences unknown for a little while
I'd run the extra mile...
Just to see all smile...
I wear an upside down frown...
Up in here in this quiet town !!
One day when the sun seemed hotter than hell,
at lunch, pre-teen Goldibear started to yell.
"Who's fixing my sandwich, who's warming my soup?
and ice cream! I want a really big scoop."
This day, no one heard her cries for service
by twelve-thirty or so, Goldi got nervous.
I am hungry, alone; I need some food;
someone has left me in a monster mood.
She tried unlocking the door to her room
blinded eyes saw a note, NEVER PRESUME.
What's the meaning of this strange bafflement?
The door wouldn't budge, her patience was spent.
She screamed, she cursed, and went to the shutters;
they too were shut tight, her heart now in flutters.
Then she heard a dog barking, BE CIVIL.
Could this be a clue, puppy-talk drivel?
She suddenly recalled a set of keys
in her chest of drawers. Thinking OH PLEASE!
"I'll bet one of them fits my door or the window."
You guessed it, the keys? locked in her bureau.
Starting to cry, remembering Grandma Gray's
good advice: "In a pinch, a wise man prays. "
Beside her bed, getting down on her knees,
Goldi asked for help; God showed her the keys.
He told her of kindness, mercy and grace;
these are three keys which open up space
when we cannot see our own selfish mood.
Bedroom door opened, Mom's there with some food,
saying, "Dad must fix your door, it gets stuck."
Light blazed through the window, signing good luck.
Goldibear hugged her mom with one more prayer
of help for her temper which needs repair.
October 4, 2021
Contest Name: This or That, Vol 7
Hysterical Blindness
sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Forgotten field of forever - I knew you once . . .
in daffodil days when I wandered in wisteria ways.
Sprightly I skipped and rarely tripped.
Hope really did spring eternal then
in the spring of my strawberry youth.
Dahlia daydreams drifted often like dandelion fluff
through the corridors of my mind - a mind not yet tainted by
taxing times inevitably to come as faster and faster
I would speed along my path of life.
Like a gamboling lamb, fresh, frisky and free-spirited,
I faced my own little fun and frivolous world.
Hardly was I heedful of the woes of those
forced to fight in foreign fields across the ocean,
in a nation where peace was hardly known.
In killing fields the most innocent of citizens
were pawns of a futile war. Such things did not enter
my pre-teen mind. I was but a child.
Sachet sweet were my springs
and sassy sassafras my summers.
In back-to-school autumnal afternoons
I fled home to fields of happy play,
never with a thought given to the heartache of mothers
whose soldier sons were lost to bullets or bombs.
I sleepwalked cluelessly through a decade of war
far removed from me as I played games of pretend
with equally clueless friends.
Blissfully we skipped our ropes and chattered merrily
like monkeys in the school yard.
So innocent was I then that barely can I bring back
those sun-filled daffodil days to my recollection.
In too short time, my grand little dreams of long ago
wafted upward to a cumulus of forgetfulness.
No more do I lay myself down in grass
to look up at diamond-studded skies
or drift into slumber with visions of the visages
of my juvenile crushes while cheesy 60’s love songs
linger softly on my radio. Those faraway times are
as forgotten as the lives that vanished in Nam.
They can only belong to the forgotten field of forever.
The year was ‘72; Morrison had died,
yet I felt little sorrow, for when he was in his prime,
I was a pre-teen junkie for bubble-gum rock
like the songs of Herman and his Hermits, Grass Roots, Bread
and whatever else became hot tunes on the radio.
Knowing little about Jim Morrison, I was aware of his name,
however, and was a fan of three famous songs:
“Light My Fire,” “Hello I Love You,” and “People are Strange.”
Stopping by Woolworth’s later on in ‘72,
I came upon a compilation album of the Doors
named Weird Scenes Inside the Gold Mine.
I had been collecting albums but never one of the Doors.
The album was a very good price, so I nabbed it!
At night I lay in bed listening to the album’s tunes,
some of which were, as the album’s name implied, indeed weird.
However, I enjoyed lifting the needle of my record player
again and again to spin on the turntable
two of my favorite songs from that album:
“Don’t You Love Her Madly” and “Riders on the Storm.”
Listening again after all these years
and knowing now what I know of Jim Morrison and his demise,
I sense the irony as I listen to the last lines
of “Riders on the Storm” -
“Girl you gotta love your man. . .”
up to this incongruous lyric: “Our Life will never end.”
May 13, 2019 for Chantelle Anne Cooke's "Writers on the Storm" Contest
I bubble and I gurgle,
I’m tangy and I’m tasty.
Unless you stop drinking me,
Because if you do that, you really won’t be able to stand my taste later.
Believe me, I do not care.
I don’t need the few of you who don’t adore me.
Because so many others truly admire my gassy stomach bubbles.
They don’t care that I’m tearing the enamel off of their teeth
In the 1960’s we tried to sell my cousin as a hot drink, remember?
That worked a few Friday nights at parties of pre-teen girls.
My cousin was all puffed up when those commercials came on TV.
I have always been special.
Usually, poured into punch bowls with sherbet ice cream,
Or doled into children’s mouths when they needed their stomachs soothed.
My can is gorgeous; with the contrasting colors, both Christmas-like and bright.
My distant relatives are usually red or brown - crass, harsh, rude even.
Were you around in the 70’s when they used to make shoes using my logo?
Boy, I was all of that then!
There aren’t too many jobs that kids can do
when they are in their pre-teen years, but we
knew of a place to work where berries grew.
To pick them was a job of misery.
In June, my siblings and I went each day;
into a field with hats and pails we’d go!
On hands and knees, through dirt we’d crawl our way
while picking berries up and down each row.
I still recall the rock ‘n roll we played -
our only pleasure as we all perspired
in Iowa’s damp heat, away from shade.
When we were through at last, we felt so tired.
No smaller pay have I since ever got.
But how I loved the treats that money bought!
G goblins, ghouls and ghosts
H haunted houses, blood running cold with fright
O ornery children threatened by them
S so they will submit to harried parents
T truthfully I do not like the connotation of the word ghost
H haunting is fascinating to eleven and thirteen-year-olds
U under guise of slumber parties now called sleepovers
N nervous giggling, as they get out the Ouija board
T tittering, in an uncomfortable pre-teen way
E each pushing it toward certain letters
R reacting in horror at what they spell
S sleeping fitfully not in their own beds, imagining the worst.
A am I confused these are lumped together? Yes.
N Not able to understand how they are the same
D daring to enlighten an open-minded reader
S spiritualists follow their heart
P paranormal things happen to them
I intuition shows them a new way of thinking
R reality of theirs must be perceived or understood
I it cannot be explained, it must be felt and lived.
T true to themselves, they know without knowing how they know
U under fire sometimes for beliefs thrust upon them by unseen forces
A angelic messengers seek them out because they receive messages
L long-time persecuted for living with God’s gift of psychic perception
I it has to be experienced, for it cannot be imagined in its fullness.
S Sensing, smelling, occasionally seeing wisps of
T tantalising flecks of something
S Spirit, showing herself, in safety of a believer
9-19-2018 Ghost Hunters and Spiritualists Contests
Sponsor: Kevin Shaw
As a child I would never have abandoned
my family, my friends, or my dolls.
As a pre-teen the dolls were put away with reluctance,
because I never wanted them to feel abandoned.
As a teenager I realized I had to abandon
some friends, in order to save myself.
It was not easy, but it was either them or me,
and people become sad when they abandon themselves.
As a woman in love, and a young mother,
I decided to abandon all things that did not aid in my goals.
I abandoned people, places, and things right and left,
in order to be the happiest me I could be.
I am an expert at abandoning things now. I abandon everything
and everyone who takes away from me.
Because I never want to abandon myself.
Written July 15, 2018
Entered: Contest Abandon 2
Sponsored by Brenda Chiri