Long Prodigy Poems
Long Prodigy Poems. Below are the most popular long Prodigy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prodigy poems by poem length and keyword.
My moon shun windows have been unhinged
and a panoramic mind binged on self deplore freed
Indeed by the defined journey I’ve moved through.
Through you the miraculous reflections of self-love I find
once blind, now bare to the rendezvous of this world,
of sound mind I realize my every breath is filled
as I am willed towards the prodigy I feel around me
I breathe…
and life is seethed by the seed that we breathe.
My solo soul drum beats its pure sound
of unbound rhythms found above ground as I stargaze
my eyes glaze over raving in shimmering light,
feeling every word that I write authenticated,
painted across my heart untainted…
I aspire to be a living love…
and I breathe…
as life is seethed by the seed that we breathe.
I am not alone with thought as I walk,
wobbling along the road of existence I implode
knowing another heart in hand senses what I feel
as though the wheel of vitality destined it to so be…
so it be…
A waterfall of awakening spirit I drink its sugary taste,
mingled around my space…that place you give me,
and a gift I graciously give to you…
my undistorted expression undressed I stand astonished,
forgiving regrets I’ve gathered on my shawl of shame
as if a new name within my name has unearthed me
and I breathe…
as life is seethed by the seed that we breathe.
The bird of dreams sang to me one morning I woke,
invoked in me the music I once spoke without doubt,
and now as you attract me out from my hiding place,
leave your unforgettable trace amidst my days
I find new ways to stroke my pen across this page…
Uncaged…an aged energy of new I feel within you
and I breathe…
as life is seethed by the seed that we breathe.
Beard looks weird,
that's a lyrical genius to be feared,
you wrote a 6 year song and got the facts wrong,
fired with the hair and safety still on,
I guess that scope's just a tele,
with sights and hopes on the tele,
Machine Bun Shelly,
initials, MBS, Caps empty,
Mostly Bull Sh……
a superficial sipping soup to his belly
or is it breakfast for a serial prodigy,
steadfast out selling cereal probably,
problems with his intellectual property
so he's just a prop to stop and see.
6'4 and standing taller,
picking on a man, his wife and his daughter,
who needs protection ay,
you're a big and bad ball-less brawler,
that's the shallowest level you can resort to,
and though it's none of my bees wax,
you did it to be witnessed and receive plaques,
but it was easy and witless like corny flakes,
the business doesn't need Autotune fakes,
forcing the rhyme like all you want is a smoke,
not literally you'd choke, that's such a weak joke,
clearly begging for your songs to be bought up,
as if we went from Shady please stand up,
to worshipping a hairband on a no flair brand corrupt
and yeah I admit some of it was good, generous, but look,
with 6 years to write it should have been off the hook,
this lame ass your best and you took as long as you could,
when your next hits out you'll remember when you last stood,
and you'll be mocked by the only line that was any good,
MGK can't stand up,
that'll get you like Cranbrook,
from Cleveland Ohio,
leave now and fly home.
Note the depth and the many double entendre in this,
written within an hour of hearing that diss,
MGK's peak, now for the diss-appearance,
I've heard you can't write your own lyrical sentence,
that's dense, how you ever gona go the distance,
now go into the distance with your spoon and bowl,
you had your 15 minutes so back to your hole.
Part 2: Picking the rhymes apart and taking a shot, on my page to read now.
* the second line is a double entendre,
a serious comment about Eminem and a sarcastic one about MGK, you know, cus rhyming beard and weird is amazing haa.
* Hair and safety clip on
* Just a tele, a telescope
* Initials - cus MGK initials but Eminem doesn't M&M
reacclimating after the climatic gavel falls
after sunrise and sunset and flamingoes
after wood, Rembrandts and aluminum
after prodigy, prodigal and guitar strings
and chatter. after all what matters
is chroma-splash, illumination and surrender
a soundless cacophony of instruments
and muses deliciously dancing
dripping from a litany of brushes
Y O R
e r e
l a d
l n s
o g
w e
sea blues, teals, whales
swoosh…swoosh
the presence of fame
God is a fave…
time’s talent from only one of his fingers
i figure, in heaven’s palette -
won’t we forever be astonished
7/10/2022
Brian Strand’s Premiere Contest
"The Living Soul Retrieved"
The spine is bound
Inside the pages
with each turn a new leaf
the living soul is retrieved
Inside the pages
there is heartache and grace
the living soul is retrieved
imprisoned, innocent footprints are traced
There is heartache and grace
to judge inverted another’s crimes and place
imprisoned, innocent footprints are traced
she turns behind to see in his eyes her face
To judge inverted another’s crimes and place
She sees a child full of hurt and fear’s disgrace
She turns forward to see in another’s eyes her face
Blue Sky’s white doves beat at windows, Pain's for escape
She sees a child full of hurt and fear’s disgrace
The prodigy between two people, the truth is seen for what it truly is
Blue Sky’s white doves beat at windows, Pain’s for escape
Pages of conflict nobody has won in the bad dream
The prodigy between two people, the truth is seen for what it truly is
The Book slowly opens invisible the hand to receive
Pages of conflict nobody has won in the bad dream
The child looks to Heaven, the Christmas of her life begins to be sung from new seeds
The Book slowly opens invisible the hand to receive
Sensate the Soul begins its dream, walls of a book papered from torn bark a Blue Ghost tree bleeds
The child looks to Heaven, the Christmas of her life begins to be sung from new seeds
Red courses through each leaf, her beating heart, delivered through veins of faith and belief
The spine is strong
with Love it is bound
never broken, it is read beginning to end,
seen and heard, it is sound
the living soul
in its truth,
there is found
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
for my daughter, Georgia,
Christmas 2019
with love, your mother.
“The Book of My Life” / Sting
https://youtu.be/pBu_EKugl_Q
"Feather in the Wind" / Mindy Gledhill
https://youtu.be/b2_ILTd91OU
This country is young when compared to some
A prodigy though now I do declare
A one time she took in all that would come
Then said go west explore this land so fair
There were inventers here like Edison,
Tesla and Bell, writers like Clemens too
It's a land were freedom has surely come
It's a country were I can worship true
Sometimes we have spats like any family
But we come out stronger then we were 'fore
To build a land that so many envy
That guards are needed so our borders secure
I love this land that I have always known
It is were I cherish what I call home
8/31/18
Entered in the "Your" Country Tis Of Thee Poetry Contest
and the New Sonnets Only Poetry Contest.
B C 25 ooo FLATFOOT ROADSTER 700 Sold by Solid ROCK MOTORS
Took 77 years to get this technology;
A brillant automotive prodigy;
Floored imparted, technical passages;
Thrown in free extra peticures and foot massages;
Two foot-ten toed manned-powered...
Hard callis bunion brakes stops ya;
Hundered year waranty;
Across roads shoes not needed guarantee;
On the streets goes from “0” to “30”;
Don't look up, close your mouth, watch out for the birdies;
Easy on gas! Just flatulence if when coasting down hills gets dirty;
Priced just right! 4 holes in the floor;
Framed animal skins for doors;
To stop, N break putting on breaks place your feet so;
Drag you must;
Stop you shall, running in place have you'll go;
Racing, leaving others around you in dust;
1,000,000 BC Fred owned original still no rust;
The very first Fred Flintstone's auto a 25,ooo B C FLATFOOT ROADSTER 700
Sold by Solid ROCK MOTORS car runs like poetry in motion;
YABA DADBA DO!!!
FOR CONTEST: Poetry In Motion
SPONCERED BY:
3/1/18,
2018©
WOLS EKPHRASIS
Tachiste,blot and stain,spontaneous of
the moment ,like life itself can so often be.
Small scale in composition,compulsive
unrecognised at the time,yet literal and
long lasting,are the memories we see
Inspired by Wols ‘Composition’ c 1950
PALMER EKPHRASIS
In a Shoreham garden,scent
of blossom fills the air,a white
blaze of spring to make every
heart sing.Impressioniste before
its time.A profusion of clouds
or blobs,dabs &extravagences
per se.This stylised enigma
proliferacy in a pastoral wood
by a once-upon-a-time teen-age
prodigy..made good.
Inspired by Samuel Pamer’s in
A Shoreham Garden 1827
Listen to me recite these ekphrasis on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro
darkness, like Jonah
held in the belly of the whale,
the end of a world;
closed-in time in dark spaces -
gives one, a hell of a time to think
in the belly of the whale
grew a whole world,
longer than 3 days and 3 nights,
the construction took finesse
and dare one say, a gauche fearlessness
to unravel that ball of light
eject it out of her universe
like a supernova,
like a titian haired prodigy,
far from easy, ostentum
to accumulate the life of it all
extend the regeneration in kind,
of a generational call -
each time an infant cries,
the occupant in an infant is re-borne;
they say, it will take
3 days and 3 nights -
to destroy it all -
the end of an unprepared
naive world -
who keeps tabs on the betting
of it all, the end of a world?
there’s always 2 sides to a game -
the dimensions, levels all endless,
split and perplex;
in your arms today, gone tomorrow,
the love and the purpose stolen,
the end of a world -
the cycle sometimes broken -
yet the perpetuation of life,
for all its worth -
continues,
light and dark
some more light,
some more dark,
some sit on the fence
in the middle, in-between;
the end of a world?
they say shooting nuclear rockets
into the Moon’s shadow
could be a valid reason
to collect unknown dark matter -
dark matter resides in us all -
why target the Moon and the Sun,
when we have bountiful supplies
within us all, human, here in this world?
all Jonahs, at some point, we are -
inside the belly of the whale
the internal infernal wars
of us all,
perhaps she thinks ...
she should cry like Jonah,
hmmn, not anymore buster, not anymore
she’s had a life time
to think on it all,
mull it all over -
more and more
the rise and the fall,
but, she doesn’t cry anymore
the philosophy
the mathematics
of the metaphysical
revolution takes over -
the futile banality of it all;
ostentum
the occurrences,
foreshadowing future events
borne from the belly of a whale
the ostentum,
goes about freely, now
watched from afar,
by the love of another,
uneclipsed,
in her own world
like a child
watched by a loving mother
Candide Diderot. ‘24
I rejected form.
I rejected meter.
I rejected editing.
I rejected reading.
I'm a flash in the pan.
I'm fueled by emotions.
I'm emboldened by scars.
I'm challenged by time.
I wonder how far I could go
if I took the time to study.
If I sat down and honed my craft
and took pride in my words.
I'm certainly no prodigy.
Every verse came at a cost.
Perhaps I'm finally paying the price
by stagnating in my growth.
I let my fingers write.
My mind is actually blank.
It's just a silly white canvas
that never blossomed.
I never once toiled.
I never once struggled.
If it was hard I just gave up
and deleted the verse.
I'm told I write prose
rather than true poetry.
Maybe I don't understand
what the difference is.
I never had any talent.
Writing was my safe space.
Now I have to wonder
if it was ever safe at all.
Admittedly I rejected effort.
I didn't want to actually try
When the minimalist approach
seemed to work so well.
I'm not a prodigy.
I'm not a genius.
I'm not gifted.
I'm not published.
I dreamed of the glass ceiling
but I never dreamed of breaking it.
Maybe I'm just damned to always look through it
and see writers much more dedicated than I.
I made omelettes without breaking eggs.
I created houses with no foundation.
I sang songs without reading the lyrics.
I baked cakes without a recipe.
I don't want to sound entitled
but my writing deserves to be better.
In twelve years I should have accomplished more
than using these poems as tissue paper for tears.
In 2007 I was just a kid
writing five to ten poems daily.
That effort got me noticed
and I shared my verse with crowds.
I was driven by ambition
and fueled by emotion.
All I wanted was adulation
when all I had known was the gallows.
This is the last flash in the pan.
Fleeting emotions can't guide my pen forever.
I do not know what the future holds
but no longer will I be complacent.
I am a writer.
I am a poet.
I am a lover.
I am a fighter.
This is the swan song
of my old poetic style.
With eyes on the horizon
My pen will ever be furious.
In youth's frantic clutches
Addicted to vapid touches
Love children spawned in shaded hutches
Existing on euphoric highs, painless crutches
In middle age, lust morphed into longing
Spent body in static sphere now belonging
Neglected prodigy seeking shelter in availing arms
Licentious, pretentious friends fled in swarms
Sins of youth girdle my deserted gates
Promiscuous flings my esteem deflates
Rebellious children their fealty abrogate
Venal lovers rue my chaster estate
In deep morass, my withered soul equivocates
Bridging divide of self pity, butressing hope inflates
Then residual pain with due penance heart conflates
Seeking self forgiveness; from others proffering rebates
Healing balm of inner resolve soothes empty soul
To wayward children unconditional love tendered not in
part but whole
To fair weather friends only distant compassion will dole
Forthrightly, to bring uplifting, sharing friends into my
foal