Long Prevarication Poems
Long Prevarication Poems. Below are the most popular long Prevarication by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prevarication poems by poem length and keyword.
Lucifer The Fallen Angel
Written: by Tom Wright
4/29/2018
Lucifer’s mouth is an outpouring of empty pledges,
And he can’t support the prevarication that he alleges.
His sole intent is for man’s thoughts to begrime,
The biggest lie he tells is that you’ve plenty of time.
Lucifer unseals many doors but much to our chagrin,
It stimulates us to view things through the lens of sin.
If “we have the peace that passeth all understanding,”**
We experience life finding our days less demanding.
His promises melt like Gummy Bears in summer heat,
Painting sin to look enticing, but results are bittersweet.
His tongue is that of a viper leaving you with naught,
A pretender he is, until such time that we’re caught.
The prince of the air’s reign will be the bottomless pit,
If we die lost, God in judgment for our sin won’t acquit.
The devil has succeeded we’re now eternally entrenched,
“Where their worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched”. *
*Mark 9:48 KJV
** Philippians 4:7
I think its plain, there is no gain..on prevarication
About white powder on a plane.? Another plane
Of parliament, created to sow unity and cement
To foster benefice encourage accord, for there a
Nazi to applaud.?? I speak not alone of my deep
Affront.' But of those who were murdered tortured
By the brunt.. Of fachist thugs infamous men that
Ran amock in europe till the end, of 1945 we know
Think well.? thats over may it ever be so.! The Jews
And Roma, and physically/mentally afflicted also
And homosexuals i raise
That issue.' I really must.! I say never again and place
In God my trust.'
My "FAKE" Genealogical Knighthood
Unbeknownst to me if royal
gilded crests comprised
my rusty dust caked coat of arms
hence, I take liberty successfully farms
productive crop to contrive fictitious
Medieval Age forebears
with favorable charms
strong agile hands
hurling crude accouterments
centuries prior to invention of firearms,
which weapons (of mass sieve construction)
privy to proto gendarmes,
this inventiveness of mine conjures
courageous knights in shining armor,
perhaps monogrammed,
hammered chain metal,
nonetheless such endeavor quite a chore
where love's labors not lost,
viz hub bully accepting, condoning,
and employing embellishments extempore,
whereby solar rays alight,
flickr, and glint glore
re: us astral motifs, the stellar
craftsmanship one (even a poor,
indigent destitute beggar
like yours truly)
could not ignore
exquisite baldric, exotic, and heraldic
trappings incorporating magical lore
aesthetically pleasing
fascinating, and appealing to one poor
uneducated disheveled rhapsodic bohemian
incumbent jibber jabbering, hallucinating,
and fancying deplorable basket case to restore
himself, the legitimate true heir,
who could double as
courtly jesting troubadour,
whose slain grand papa Aaron Harris
violently ousted during Uber Vodafone War
constitutes dreamy gotcha your
attention fabricated and
facilitated to Zoar,
an actual ancient city
anachronistically inserted here
thanks to Lot, whose Biblical reference
Google made me aware,
which ye probably care
nary a fig about, but
placename linkedin mere
to allow, enable and provide bare,
lee tenuous appeal dare
ring me to trump
poetic formality near
rolly returning full circle (one tough Job)
manufacturing prevarication
recounting "FAKE" heir
essentially envisioning, imagining,
and jimmying gallant
high in the saddle career
timeless lifeline chess piece
of centuries gone by
enshrouded with reverence by this air
rent considerably less provocative
then missives by Baudelaire.
(buzzfeeding, kickstarting, needling darn noggin)
An effort to recall word, phrase,
musician... indigenous tribe...
most frustrating literary
endeavor to das scribe
aggravating enough to sub
bourbon spur teetotaler to imbibe
and/or nsync, whereby soul searching
devil's advocate demands bribe.
Lil brokeback Engelbert Humperdinck
(born Arnold George Dorsey) bent edict coercion
(think sexual mores)
scaring stripes off blushing zebra
bunched unencumbered vice pliable straw
aforementioned pablum admittedly "fake"
birthed within cerebral tenderloin
of impractical joker,
whereby fifty plus shades
of gray matter (mine)
chafed and rubbed raw
prevarication playfully did overdraw
and tax poetic license writ courtesy this paw
poor putz offal declension
sprouted within mum maw
noun tent to verb (bull eyes - red) to draw
flak, but merely to harmlessly entertain
so accept apologies (mine)
verses calling strong (lanced) arm of law.
I (garden variety poetaster) reckon fair game
media personalities grist for rumor mill, though lame
explanation given (funny first and surname)
adopted by supposed "finest middle-of-the-road
balladeers around," who co opted his stage name
from authentic Engelbert Humperdinck; selfsame
prodigy circa 1 September 1854 –
27 September 1921
German composer, who wrote, I gently exclaim
the opera Hansel and Gretel - a Grimm fairytale
actually frightful saga - read countless times
setting me boyhood imagination aflame
with mailer daemons, who haunted dreams
(mine) 'course in retrospect material tame
compared/contrasted with current pandemic
analogous as if mother Earth -
a metaphorical dame
experiencing long overdue reprieve, cuz shame
on *****sapiens belching pollutants
at any price to garner fortune and fame.
My given name is of no consequence.
You can call me Spider Girl.
It’s an appropriate name, I think.
I’m indistinguishable in many ways
from billions of other creatures just like me.
(Character building experiences
tend to breed cartoons.)
I might appear pretty easy to step on
but don't underestimate resourcefulness
and long legs.
Anyway, I’m going to do my
darnedest to weave something
worthy of your attention
or whatever you will end up spending
to buy this comic book
because I’ve got a daughter to raise
and let’s face it: long legs alone
ain’t gonna pay the bills.
My enemies vary:
Thugs who crow too loudly,
evil geniuses (they tend to keep mum),
crime bosses,
even monsters who are out of this world.
I share a universe with heroes, too,
some I used to run with –
although “with” sort of works as
an elaboration of the truth.
A prevarication.
A provocation.
One should not provoke me.
I don’t quite know what I’m capable of yet.
Mommies of all species will kill for their young.
I’ve heard it’s instinctual –
but, what if that’s just an excuse to
step over the line,
take a seat,
cross one’s legs,
look tough,
and watch someone else suffer?
It’s that violence
the drug I crave…
Are you frightened of me yet?
Good.
Maybe you should be.
you perm and prime you shun;
You polish up your own stone;
You talk trash and jive;
You shine of uncertainty;
While yet you continually promise me;
Heller Shelter relish tones;
Cut my landline telephone;
Imprison me where you say I belong;
give me plenty of accreditation;
Concrete placement prevarication;
Who is my judge, where is my jury;
Placement on "HOLD" it's my mister-minor, huh!!
What is this a joke,
And just what is a JUKE JOint?
Fancy dancer, Chicago headliner;
Broken deflated football from Lincoln/Omaha Nebraska;
What is thing call "the CORN HUSKERS"
By chance the populace can remember
Bob Gibson, Robert Boozer who...
Maybe Gabriel Union who...
And just where is this place
What is this space that home to about 400 million
From the hood I understood, from Tech High I held my pride;
In the ghetto was that fellow teachers said He ain't gonna amount to nothing
1970's Black power you perm and prime you shun;
In the ghetto inner city polish up your stone;
Speaking Swahili you talkN trash and jive;
Politically correct master target you shine of uncertainty;
While yet you continually unpromising me;
Heller Shelter relish tones, still haten Deacon Jones?;
Cut my landline telephone on Facebook unfriend me;
Imprison me with closed eyes and mediocrity
Where do you say I belong, not here son...
git on, get gone;
give me plenty of accreditation;
Concrete placement prevarication;
Who is my judge, where is my jury;
Placement on "HOLD" it's my mister-minor, huh!!
What is this a joke,
Your life's been revoked,
Even Lucifer wants you gone
Too much heat for him, ha ha!!
Chicago's the best...
Nebraska (what) is next...
So stop playing over and over again
Curtis Mayfield and pull on the WINANS
yet I still feel even in trouble times then the best decade was the 1970's
A BROTHERLY LOVE VERSE TO MY BROTHER Freddie Robinson Jr. a brotherly dedication
8/16/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
The haunted train of Schwenksville
After dark every Halloween
since living social in Perkiomen Valley
for seven long years,
a shrill whistle train whistle
(often compared to the sound
of a bird's call, particularly
a large bird like a hawk or a crane,
due to its piercing, high-pitched
and long-lasting whistle-like quality)
soundcloud heard
from afar clear as a bell,
yet nary a train present
since locomotives stopped running
through Schwenksville, Pennsylvania valley in 1976,
when Pennsylvania Railroad
gave up its rail assets
to Consolidated Rail Corporation (Conrail).
However, some passenger "rambles" took place
from Reading to Schwenksville in the late 1960s.
Matter of fact beginning at the junction
of the Schuylkill River Trail in Oaks,
the trail uses much of the former rail bed
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.
The Perkiomen Trail
created in 2003, often called, the “Perky”,
the trail rolls down the valley
of Perkiomen Creek,
which may have been a reference
by local American Indians
to the surrounding cranberry bogs.
The northern end of the trail begins
at Morrow Pavilion in Green Lane Park,
where trail users can find parking and restrooms.
The 20-mile Perkiomen Trail
follows the route of the Perkiomen Creek
from Oaks to Green Lane Borough.
It connects to the Schuylkill River Trail
and the Audubon Loop.
For most of its length, the "Perky,"
known by many, uses the former rail bed
(as iterated earlier)
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.
Every other time of year
outer limits of the twilight zone
spread dark shadows,
which creep along the edge of night
startling a driver unexpectedly
yet instinctually to veer
away from harm's way
courtesy a nocturnal creature,
now ghost rail activity heard to scare
the living daylights
out of atheists like myself,
who quickly utter a prayer
immediately afraid then jubilant,
cuz prevarication (housed within
a ghastly fashion) my métier,
which brilliant notion
sparked immediately, née instantaneously
after discerning unquestionable choo-choo
within a kiloampere,
a unit of measurement equal
to one thousand amperes.
An ampere is defined
as the amount of current
that flows through a conductor
when one coulomb of charge
passes through it in one second.
less than half a dozen hours
remain here in Lake Woebegone,
an idyllic enclave, where legal tender,
liquid assets, minted monies
by the metric ton
loot, et cetera replaced
with sharing home good humor spun
prevarication, or a pun
where this Norwegian bachelor farmer,
now sets timer counting down to the one
hundred and fifth International Women's Day,
hence dada's taxi service necessitated
(asper my own volition) none
forsaking a substantial block of time
to ferry (via 2009 Hyundai Sonata)
thine eldest (of deux
darling damsels doggedly, diligently,
and definitively) whose maternal hue
ma in instincts (staking out
vocational, interpersonal, Jew
dish hiss lee courting biological objectives
Since matriculating
At University Of Pennsylvania
she seriously eyed
the engineering curriculum,
and as an inherent
high achieving civilian, this rugged
cerebral terra firmae terrain
emitting a signal calling she knew
tubby meant foe her, thus this proud papa his new
wish availing self less father summoned,
pressed, and mustered joyriding
glommed within mental motor queue
thus despite experiencing a minor panic attack
(with nausea more pronounced than usual), aye
did not want Eden (her first name)
to feel disgruntled toward pop (hood rather die)
as opposed to slacking off where fatherhood
concerned strove to be a beneficial guy
especially before the stroke of midnight
will usher well nigh
till next year long overdue attention,
now bequeathed during these twenty four hours
when non gun shy
textile women (shunted subaltern
second class workers)
in New York (circa 1907),
but said event opened to dispute,
but less in doubt
historical records indicate
1914 International Women's Day held on March 8
since then continued along
a linkedin chain in case you wondered why.
(not really, but just wanted
to get your attention.)
Thus "NOT FAKE," but
poetic quasi true anecdote
infused fictionalized
by this ole goat
with prevarication
to enliven of no note
characteristic, and certainly
not worth quote
ting - for any future
reference material, imp poet
tent to sketch a biography
of one otherwise tote
tem mick drab existence,
that happens
moost would vote
as exhibiting blank pages,
which means no ghost
for me life story needed since
no words needing tubby wrote.
thus the crux of foraging
into how the missus
snorts in her sonorous way
the one repetitive sleepy tune,
that doth not
warrant a veejay,
nor and thespian to reenact
a zonked out spouse from
exercising at the
Y.M.C.A. today,
but each increment of time
imposes additional wear
and tear on the body electric,
thus no place...(except...
Swiss Side or
Willoughby), to runaway
from senescence process
so one must savor
to the maximum propinquity
of each moment
analogous as if one received
money for their
existence as being payday
before day of reckoning,
which could occur any
minute, hour, second...
with no noway
opportune time will
provide any leeway,
especially for those
ping folks immediately
at ground zero, where
husband or wife
kept awake from partner
mercilessly growling drones
hell bent on then simply jay
ping, when agent provocateur
awakens only to find
themselves bound and gagged
unable to attend the
Scottish celebration of hogmanay.
King Vlad is anything but Democracy’s man of the hour.
Rather, à coup sûr, he’s really Stalin’s nasty little boy
who ironically parades "svoboda" and "glasnost" like
he really means them—actually he means them not.
King Vlad’s political traditions and pronouncements
are well-known among those who are sadly aware
of his tapestry of treachery and deceit—oh so slovenly woven
for all to see, just like some of his fellow-gangster favorites:
Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev, and Andropov.
King Vlad is anything but a real world leader . . .
His "Kind" are an open book for all to see and understand
what they are and what they mean for all who strive
for openness, decency, and real compassion in the
twenty-first century world order.
King Vlad—just like his Dracula name sake,
is a man without a soul, without a conscience,
who shall never shudder, wince or cry
at the piercing death rattle of a Kalashnikov.
King Vlad is truly no friend of Democracy,
sounding even at times not unlike Hitler;
he’s a demon leader with innocent blood on his hands,
always quick with the old Soviet reply:
Lie . . . Deny . . . Accuse . . . Reject . . . Criticize . . .
all tools of this redoubtable master of prevarication.
King Vlad should know that the Heavenly Souls
of flight MH17 know the "bitter truth," gorkaya pravda,
surrounding his lies, treachery, and deceit—all pejorative
attributes to a man with the mask of a real monster who
had the very best Soviet teachers.
And so Generalissimo Stalin . . .
How do you like your nasty little boy now???
He’s right up your alley, right???
“Putin” has five letters just like “Devil.”
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (August 9, 2014)
(Free Verse)