Long Prolifically Poems
Long Prolifically Poems. Below are the most popular long Prolifically by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prolifically poems by poem length and keyword.
Life for the Aged
Old age comes with an eighteen wheeler’s load of hurt.
Old age comes with the rest of life, permeated with pain.
Old age comes with loads of memories, experiences missed.
Old age comes with loads of memories, experiences to relish.
Old age becomes moments for reminiscing, looking back into the past.
Old age becomes the catalyst that brings one to memories that once were.
Old age becomes the walls that block one from experiences, no longer able to be.
Old age becomes the barrier that prevents many from living the life they once did.
Old age becomes the obstacle to journeys, to adventures once prolifically brought light.
Old age becomes the impediment that has brought life to these very unfulfilling moments.
B. J. “A ” 2
October 12th, 2022
None rankle me like a parent so blind,
he or she that see what they choose to see.
O readers, I beg of that rudest kind
must they breed so damn prolifically?
A time to be seen, a time to be heard,
such should be the nature of kids and kings -
and patience tempered with an ordered word
in the battle of wills and childish things.
All I ask of you children of the corn
is hold your quicksilver tongues as a rule,
but every minute a jackass is born
who will play up, play dumb, and play the fool!
Thus a child not chastised in transgression
is schooled in misdeed and not the lesson.
Written: June 1991
Improve or fix something in your immediate surroundings.
Prolifically - (Like your life depends on it)
Submit your entire attention, will power and physical action to it.
Harnessing, directing and converting energies of internal emotion (raw creative power)
however dark they seem - is how to turn our inner demons into inner strength.
Lead into gold! It is our rocket fuel to paint pictures, climb mountains and fight tigers. Free this imprisoned power. Do something with it! Or it will escape jail and terrorise you and those around you.
The effects of acting now come swift!
The risk if you don't could be dire;
Nothing else matters in this moment, other than gaining inner control... You cant help anyone until you help your self.
The quicker you act, the sooner relief should come...
The energy needs converting into physical or creative action, it needs an outlet or it will escape and damage.
It will Leak.
Creative power coming through distortion creates destruction.
Creative power coming through clarity, creates progress.
Creative power will create regardless.
That is its nature.
You can choose what it creates...
Find relief. From Belief. In your Self!
(Take Ferocious Action!)
Music helps ??
?? Best wishes - U.P
I have roles in from the depths of pain;
Relive my life knife games;
Random promises of broken flames;
I was bitter and embarrassed:
I should have prayed;
Mother was in pain one Saturday afternoon;
So prideful filled with hurt and void;
I chose to relief and relish in my pain;
Mad at God because He took later that night;
Deep deep in my heart;
I hurt what to believe in why, how I thought to myself;
I should have prayed
The sacrifices of this polluted world;
Spiraling down to be unfurled, frolicking, prolifically, wondering coasting down the stairs ;
Whom am i to fear;
Step by step magically disappears;
When all the heathens gather together and all the saints;
All the passion all the pains seldom Glitters Humanities in pain Humanities in pain and I wish;
That I could have changed all those sins;
I committed so humanistic footloose let loose and cursed;
I went right instead of left, left in reverse;
It didn't hurt;
Because I've learn to put Jesus first;
I should have prayed;
Sin nature full of fun;
Later pending on your outlook on life or death;
The wars here but endangered species only ones left;
The poor riots dying innocence;
Shootings, robberies, murders this is;
And the say, what should I do what can I do..
Well
Guess we should have prayed
There is an antique writing desk
in my little study
handed-me-down
from generations of would-be
writers in my family
And there are ancient creatures
from days gone by
living in this old desk still
evil, larcenous little creatures
envious of literary skill
This explains much
Lately, I have caught them unawares
aghast, thought I imagined them
but they are really there
surly, sinister, repugnant creatures
in my writing desk
There's a putrid little jerk,
called Pernishicus who lurks
behind the piles on my desk
glorying in the mess
a malevolent, grimy-mauve gremlin
Who preys on newly created works
stealthily spraying them
with foul feculence
as soon as I commence
my writing-
...Sometimes missing slightly
and tagging my hand
making it hard to stand
myself (much less my writing)
for days on end
Then there's a creepy
mesmerizing fiend
they call Spelbadger
a translucent thing, quite obscene
who shifts in the shadows and purrs
With dark eyes deep- constantly changing
like stones from mood-rings
set in his skull
he psychically bullies,
intimidates and muddles
until my poor brain
is worn and dull
And perhaps worst of all
is that one, Grumblesleaze
with pale, glowering eyes diseased
a gray-green, mangy looking thing
whose famous quirk
is that he has the gall
to grouse about my work...
As he viciously shreds it
then glunshing and munching
greedily devours it all
leaving no note
or trace of remembrance
of my past brilliance
behind
Oh, out of spite
he might leave a few
of my ill-penned
unfortunate lines
I planned to cut anyway
or pull my worst attempts
from the waste-can
and lay them out
to remind me of my failures
Yes, this explains much
For there was only one before
our one lone ancestor
who was able to write
at this desk prolifically
tapping out volumes rather heroically
'Though tiresome and tedious
dry history and drivel
which, no doubt, shrank and shriveled
and lulled these creatures off
to sleep for years
Until we woke them up
broke their hibernation
with more interesting stories
and imagination, colorfully crafted
ingenious, piece after piece
Clicking and clacking away
on typewriters, keyboards
generation after generation
of irritatingly gifted writers
disturbing their peace
it had to cease...
?? "Sometimes you just don't know other times you should always know you must let something go the exhale of breath you know for in him there's liberty and in him there's validity sometimes you have to let go to receive or in Him there's always life abundantly you have to let it go to give in you have to give in to receive you have to open your heart's eyes to see spiritually what you receive is what you need cuz it all come from the Father
So kind, in love I find;
I find, in love I AM;
Alast! Mine Heart skips a beat;
Ever so sweet,
Liken a child I am endowed;
In God's sweet...
in perfect innocent!
So say you have to be circumcised the foreskin of your heart is hard and you have no capacity to realize that the hardness of your heart prolifically causes the fluid in you to be stagnant there's no flow yet you feel repelled to love unequivocally your heart beats so in tune to the angels Harmony your mindset is free you belong to the Almighty
So kind, in love I find;
I find, in love I AM;
Alast! Mine Heart skips a beat;
Ever so sweet,
Liken a child I am endowed;
In God's sweet...
in perfect innocent!
Sometimes you're unaware that your purpose is to share to care too act out and love to show your love to those who are unaware and so dealing and doing you care often despair but the love of God flows covers and guide you ever so and you realize your child at heart loving everyone in perfect innocent"
7/8/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2023
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a lot
rite alot
wright a lot
write a lot
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glisten as i listen in the mists that i have missed mystifying misfits
glimmer with this oil slick splinters blushing past/passed
through fingers gap tendrils of mist depart
Began during wee hours
of December first
tooth house sand nineteen
steeply self immersed
within insomnia, hence
sudden creative cloud burst
fingers slower than
fleeting thoughts, I cursed
nonetheless stitched,
doctored and nursed
the following continued
hours later with pursed
lips seriously, silently, and soundly
trying to craft lame poem, the worst
among feeble efforts,
among countless attempts
showcasing, (no rhyme nor reason)
yours truly versed.
Found muss elf unable to easily doze
haint no lamentable hallucination
found me froze
imagination begets, births and
breeds nightmare, whereby
humongous cannibal grows
name of Hannibal finally
an end to existential woes,
cuz every academic endeavor
yielded nothing but zeros.
Loathe blatantly outright
to turn toward life of crime,
yet I realize benefits
such as flextime
plus one functions
as independent consultant
off hours studying sign
language to pantomime
in the event victim
of unfortunate circumstances
deaf mute, or simply to
enhance gig being sublime.
Quite aware impossible
mission to succeed,
in the capacity writer,
hence quick income accrued
cash on demand guaranteed
apprenticeship provided with
on the job training indeed
course donned incognito
trumpeting, essentially greed
aware potential billionaires
minted he/she doth only need
venture capitalist to recognize
lucrative opportunity keyed
nsync with song that tops
the charts invariably lead
singer plus natural born
prodigy polymath, prolifically breed
ding all Forbes thirty under thirty
helping to buzzfeed
one after another cottage industry
flourishing analogous
to hardy ganja weed
allowing, enabling, and
providing ample time to read...
tea leaves predicting prodigious fortunes.
Dear Poetry Children
Born from a need
to be heard and understood,
my poems were at one time
like my children.
Their number was not large,
so they were precious to me.
Years passed, and then it seemed
I was almost grand-mothering
old stories and old feelings,
for they kept re-emerging
but in different ways.
Some came skating in iambic
as on and on and on and on and on
they came along.
Some could hang my moon
with the magic of metaphors
while many others
appeared plain-spoken
and crystal lucid like stars.
Others, feeling more like stepchildren,
appeared less rhythmically,
so different were they
from my firstborns;
I loved them all the same,
adopting their characteristics
as I experimented with my creations
more and more.
I took notice of and appreciated
other poets’ lovely children.
Meanwhile, new thoughts and
changing values and ideas
began to flow from me.
Small new poems
emerged from the womb
of my muse in the forms
of haiku, tanka, sijo, cinquain,
and so many others.
Laughingly, limericks arrived.
With sweet refrains came triolet,
rondeau, kyrielle,
villanelle, and quatern,
skipping right along.
It isn’t easy to continue
propagating poetry prolifically.
But as long as my mind
stays relatively fertile
with passion of sentiments and beliefs,
I’ll continue to bring forth
(sometimes with great labor)
The poetry children
I so much enjoy
creating in
my image.
Early summer flowering deciduous shrubs,
And I among them came and went with
Philadelphus virginalis,
Their brightening solar ships.
Its natural tendency is to grow vase-shaped,
Clipping encourages the plant to fill out
And become dense, and in my final spring
It performed beautifully, flowering prolifically.
Mock orange is not a heavy feeder.
It loves sun and reads memories
On cactus leaves with sideways glares,
Though on an "established" plant,
One should prune out about one-third
Of the old growth (the trivialities of life's Agur),
Allowing the gloried lightness of day
To seize upon bright green leaves.