Long Pronounces Poems
Long Pronounces Poems. Below are the most popular long Pronounces by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pronounces poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s Saturday morning, and even though it’s Thanksgiving break, Lisa and I are in her bedroom, in NYC, studying.
“Ok,” Lisa stops, looks up and says, “give me a 5ex symbol.”
“I.. I don’t have one on me.” I say, apologetically.
“NAME one.” she clarifies.
“Are there “5ex symbols” anymore?” I say, with air-quotes, “Who’s “Marilyn Monroe” today -Kim Kardashian - oooo - or Kendall Jenner?”
“I read Emily Ratajkowski refer to herself as a 5ex symbol the other day.” Lisa says.
“Is that the model that said she was groped at a photo-shoot?” I ask, as I google her.
“Yeah,” Lesa nods, “but it was a music video shoot.”
“Do you think I could model?” I ask, as I pose vampingly. “Be unflinchingly honest.” I request.
“Hhmmmm,” she considers, framing me in a finger rectangle pretend camera. “You’re like Marilyn Monroe,” she says, “in a training bra.” *We burst out laughing*
“Back to the subject,” Lisa says, “name a guy you think of as a 5ex symbol.”
“Humphrey Bogart!“ I say.
“Humphrey Bogart?? No!” she rejects him, wrinkling her nose, “too old-timey and dead, besides, he was a MOVIE star - come ON, a real one - SAY!”
Michael Gandolfini!” I offer.
“??Michael Gandolfini??” she says, sounding stumped as her fingers google him.
*I make a dreamy “mmmm,” yummy sound.
“Oh, my GOD,” she says, and looks up for confirmation. “Humphrey Bogart and Michael Gandolfini - HONESTLY, you have the WEIRDEST taste!”
I was shocked, “No, seriously, don’t you think Michael looks kind of soft, cute and.. LUVable?”
She groans, “You’re going to marry an ugly man someday - aren’t you?” She pronounces, shaking her head.
“AM NOT!” I responded, throwing a pillow at her head (a pillow fight ensues).
Crispy leaves curl from aged to fetal
As time pronounces every petal done.
A moment in the lasting breath of summer,
When beauty flicks from every flower flung.
A burst of color paints our eye
Across the newly frosted sky,
Beneath a showering rain of leaves.
Then summers gone, and nature grieves.
Within our aging gardens a whispered crunching
Meets our ear, as leaves become
Nature’s cornflake breakfast
Quickly eaten, disappear.
Footfalls briskly whisk the hours away
Every breath carried by a northern wind away.
Within their reach small creatures teach us
Lessons Mother Nature seeks to tell.
The squirrels are first to read her poem so well,
Dancing to the wind and songs that tell of
Long cold days, with nothing left to eat
And so they hurry-scurry, shoring bastions to the beat.
Sparrows shiver on wires now,
Still-life vignettes hung, with frosted edges blurred.
Listening to the winter’s whistling howl
They know by way of instinct what’s inferred.
Hearts are sleepy-silent in the shortened hours,
Resisting natures shift to stiffen flowers.
We watch the season drowsy change
as daylight sinks in slow demise.
Fall, so like the lowered lids
Of closing eyes.
It’s boxing day (the Brit name for the day after Christmas) and Pamela, Lisa’s grandmother is visiting our little pandemic ark. Pamela’s a Cowboys fan so we’re watching them slaughter Washington - between commercials - but now a Tesla commercial is running. “Those electric cars,” Pamala says dubiously, “seem problematic.”
“You’ve heard of global warming, haven’t you, Pamala?” Leeza says? Leeza addresses everyone (even her grandmother) as if they were her age (12). It’s both seductive and lazy. “This whole system,” she raises her arms to include the apartment, the city and America, “will collapse - we’re DOOOOMED,” she concludes, as if speechifying to an eager crowd.
“Everyone’s heard of climate change,” Pamela says, sipping her eggnog. Pamela is as well informed as any of us and seems rather envious of the future, even the coming awfulness.
“Leeza’s her own theatre,” Her mom says, grimacing indulgently.
Leeza’s full attention was now on the pastry tray - having spotted two small eclairs under the bear claws - she'd lost interest in the conversation and saving the planet.
“The system won’t collapse,” Will says. Will received his early acceptance letter from Harvard the other day and now he knows everything. “We’ll lose Florida, South Carolina and New York,” he pronounces calmly, “so there’ll be some.. migrations.”
“Thank you, professor,” Lisa says, rolling her eyes as if to say ”Harvard people.”
“I think the Covid might get us all - before climate change,” I say, in the spirit of the holiday.
“Well,” Will says, grinning, “that’s what ALL the people at inferior colleges think.”
Leeza, passing by my easychair, curls into my lap like a cat, gently petting my hair. “Don’t be mean to MY friend,” she says, purringly - I was suddenly her possession. Lisa comes out of her chair, a sly smile on her face, to lay crosswise atop Leeza (and me).
“Ugg,” I managed to say, squirming to get comfortable, then “Akkkk.”
Lisa says, “Leave my poor roomie alone!” and starts baby-kissing my head.”
Will starts in our direction like HE’S going to pile on. “Egggg! I shrek, “HELP!”
Pamela whoops with glee as Dallas scores another touchdown.
“Like beating a dead dog with a stick,” she says.
The jaws sing
As the drip, drip, drip,
Of the petroleum chorus
Dances across
The inverted aluminum
And the hissing starts
And the hissing stays
Its smell a warning
A final omen
Like the last rose
Of summer
Or the fragrance she wore
For that final goodbye
The teeth tear inward
Like the regret for today
And the regret for yesterday
And the lament for tomorrow
Its promise broken
And your khakis red
And baptized
A stigmata
To self infliction
As the music plays constant
And the rushing you feel
An emptying of sorrow
Onto the crushed ceiling
Of a dream in reverse
Of all life in reverse
Until two arms grab you
And you fall from the sky
And you fall from the sky
Waiting
For the ground
To coronate the outcome
And for one more answer
To a ‘why’ unquestioned
And to love you one more time
But the lights are now dim
And the voices muffled
As an organ can be heard
And store bought flowers smelled
As an old woman cries…
And a young woman cries…
And a stranger pronounces
What you feared the most
They didn’t know you
And couldn’t know you
The exit sign flashing
But there is no door
“There is no door”
—and then the music stops
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
-Here comes Father Pedro
To say High Mass
And drink his fill of wine
Of that local red wine
Which he consecrates and elevates
In a chalice gilded inside
Silvered outside
Up to the ceiling of the Church
In Carbonero el Mayor
In the province of Segovia.
My father and the devout men and women
Who go to Mass every Sunday
And holy days of obligation
Tell us that this priest
Doesn't consecrate just one chalice
But three with a drop of water each
And that, when he elevates the consecrated host
You can already tell he's a little tipsy
Because when he pronounces “God’ Lamb”
He says “White She Lamb.”
In the Sermon, before finishing it
He stops to talk with the parishioners:
-How are you, Delia
With your happy delivery?
-Listen, Teresa
With those sins you confess
The Devil is waiting for you
With a sweet erect stick
Longing to shove it up your rectum.
Tell me, Constantina
Sad and afflicted woman
How is your husband?
Is he dead or alive?
Tell me, Daniela
Is your husband still lingering
Along your prolapsed womb?
When Mass ends
Don Pedro runs out
Wearing shoes seven leagues long
Because the village lads
Shout to him, but he doesn't answer:
Father, we want your hide
To make a sheepskin jacket.
Your head to make a lantern
To light up from September 5th to 9th
Our festival in honor
Of the Virgin of Bustar
(Bustar: pastureland)
Virgin of the Charcoal Burners.
Your donkey teeth
For our grandparents
Who need them so much.
Your fingernails to catch crickets
And black cockroaches.
Your tail to make a fan
For Your daughter
Born to the widow Gervasia
Your ever-present friend.
In the afternoon, after coffee
A glass and a Havana cigar
Don Pedro heads to the village bar
To play a game
Leaping and skipping
Along the Eresma River
So he's tired.
They play Mus
And, during a break in the game
To have a round of coffee or a shot
His companions ask him:
-Tell us, Father
As a card player always a friend
What do you say to the young women
When they go to confession?
-When they go to confession
Because the flesh is weak
I always tell them:
-How I would love to see you give birth
And see God in the heaven of your !
The honorable widows
The lovely young women
How beautifully they dress to come to Mass!
The mason left
three stones
beside the wall.
Nothing
prevented him.
The wall
had merely ceased
to require
his hand.
For years
I could not.
Each thought,
arriving,
claimed
precedence.
I convened
an inward assize,
awarding
credence,
reprieve,
exile—
until my days
became
the jurisprudence
of echoes.
Meanwhile
rain
never argued.
The ash
added one leaf
to the wind.
A blackbird
crossed the morning
without ambition.
Roots,
beneath the path,
advanced
through darkness
that required
no witness.
Then,
while the kettle
raised
its small republic
of steam,
a thought
called me.
I did not answer.
Nothing followed
except
what had always
been following.
Steam
ascended.
The bird
completed
its silence.
Evening
entered
every object
equally.
The thought
went on
without me.
There,
if there
it may be called,
Silence
relinquished
its ancient misnomer.
It was never
the absence
of voices.
It was
everything
that had never
petitioned
belief.
Then Observation,
long usurped
by governance,
remembered
its elder office.
Not to choose.
Not to refuse.
Only
to behold
that Reality
had never once
competed
for my attention.
The mountain
remained
where no distance
could improve it.
The sea
arrived
without travelling.
The stars
required
no heaven.
Since then,
whenever thought
pronounces
my name,
I wait
for what
has never
spoken—
and it is always
first.
The jaws sing
As the drip, drip, drip,
Of the petroleum chorus
Dances across
The inverted aluminum
And the hissing starts
And the hissing stays
Its smell a warning
A final omen
Like the last rose
Of summer
Or the fragrance she wore
For that final goodbye
The teeth tear inward
Like the regret for today
And the regret for yesterday
And the lament for tomorrow
Its promise broken
And your khakis red
And baptized
A stigmata
To self infliction
As the music plays constant
And the rushing you feel
An emptying of sorrow
Onto the crushed ceiling
Of a dream in reverse
Of all life in reverse
Until two arms grab you
And you fall from the sky
And you fall from the sky
Waiting
For the ground
To coronate the outcome
And for one more answer
To a 'why' unquestioned
And to love you one more time
But the lights are now dim
And the voices muffled
As an organ can be heard
And store bought flowers smelled
And an old woman cries…
As a young woman cries…
And a stranger pronounces
What you feared the most
They didn’t know you
And couldn’t know you
The exit sign flashing
But there is no door
“There is no door”
—and then the music stops
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
We were (Leong, Peter, Anna and I) eating at a popular Italian eatery (outdoors) and the check arrived - I swooped across the table and grabbed the check from the waiter. Peter whispers, “You can’t pay for everything the entire weekend.” “Why not?” I say, “It makes me happy.” “There’s no reason to,” he says. “I need a REASON??” I snort, which always makes Leong laugh. “Have you MET me?” I say, shaking my head dubiously. “I’ve met you,” he pronounces, “and you’re a NUT. Thank you,” he says, indicating the check exasperatedly.
Peter’s transfinancial: a rich man trapped in a poor man’s body. He has taste but he exists on a grant and a meager stipend. We’re just friends but I’m holding a bag and he’s not. Besides, he needs a new laptop - badly - and shouldn’t be squandering his grips on me.
Greek-life is on the rise. Maybe it's because those groups offer planned social events or because, with COVID winding down (covid smovid) there’s more going on. There’s a pressure here - to be your most authentic self - to be top academically, socially - to have your calendar filled out. There’s a frantic nature to it. I’m being lowkey rushed for a fraternity (for next year) but I love my roommate situation and I think I’d druther stick with this set I love.
Which begs the question about social time. Should it be methodical, relentless, super planned out? Super planned interactions can seem transactional and not easy going and natural. College social life is so different from high school. College life is so much more charged in every way. The range of people you meet, the broader perspectives, the available options for activities.
I find myself in a search for balance. Private time vs social time. Before covid, you’d go to school and then you’d come home to your room, where you could just hang out. It was a self-care place.
At university, a dorm room is less of a “home” where you can be alone and spend that healing time. You never know who's going to be in your living room and what they’re up to. I get claustrophobic when my door is closed so I rely a lot on noise-canceling technology.
A dorm room can seem like those covid lockdown days - there’s little or no separation between academic and private space. I’m just unpacking some thoughts. *shrug*
Slang:
set = click/group
grips: duckets/money
holding a bag = flush/monied
The name pronounces in a Chinese mind
Sounds similar to onomatopoeia words made
When hearts felt phonologically bored
By a misthought on linguistically decaying
Or a loss of ordered hilarious carouse
Anyway, I have been quietly with it for years,
With countless eyesight over my shoulders
It is a famous existence contrasting to mine
A neighbor to whom needless to talk to
But we are a collective name to represent
For a belonging of the people living around
A lake of water that is so clean and quiet
We've been staying as such for years
Having a short meeting with each other
Such as young men and women on blind dates
Full filled with shyness, reluctance, and desires
but we are so different from them by degrees
Both of the acceptance and of the integration
Included with people by their homes and lands
By ways of simple, obvious, and unconditional
I stay with this lake alike the pines on shore
With the algae in water, the birds overhead
While fish swim, shrimp jumps, and jellyfish dance
All between us are inclusive and simple
They are obvious no need to be garrulous
For apprehension by persons used to flaunt
The jaws sing
As the drip, drip, drip,
Of the petroleum chorus
Dances across
The inverted aluminum
And the hissing starts
And the hissing stays
Its smell a warning
A final omen
Like the last rose
Of summer
Or the fragrance she wore
For that final goodbye
The teeth tear inward
Like the regret for today
And the regret for yesterday
And the lament for tomorrow
Its promise broken
And your khakis red
And baptized
A stigmata
To self infliction
As the music plays constant
And the rushing you feel
An emptying of sorrow
Onto the crushed ceiling
Of a dream in reverse
Of all life in reverse
Until two arms grab you
And you fall from the sky
And you fall from the sky
Waiting
For the ground
To coronate the outcome
And for one more answer
To a ‘why’ unquestioned
And to love you one more time
But the lights are now dim
And the voices muffled
As an organ can be heard
And store bought flowers smelled
And an old woman cries…
As a young woman cries…
And a stranger pronounces
What you feared the most
They didn’t know you
And couldn’t know you
The exit sign flashing
But there is no door
“There Is No Door”
—and then the music stops
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)