Long Puerile Poems
Long Puerile Poems. Below are the most popular long Puerile by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Puerile poems by poem length and keyword.
“Post Pep Comics”
In this time,
there are no children -
we refer to them as the 'undead'.
The young watch on
while their gods war on, it’s all televised,
committing abominable atrocities, war crimes.
Like ancient souls held in the palms
of the war machine they watch on
like zombies, vacant things
scrolling, weighing their relevance
against those dressed in designer ozempic scales, while worlds away
the third-class child attends their lessons in starvation,
surviving death and bullets
trafficked and war torn, raped and
psychologically taken,
click bait;
bleeding into the small tight margins
of Western comics where the Eagle always wins.
Archie and Jughead dispense their puerile rules,
rating us like commodities, stocks that rise and fall;
it’s all entertainment
after all.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
The world does not look now
like a place that I once belonged to.
Opening an atlas
the maps looks like nowhere I have ever been.
I pass through different windows now,
white rabbits lead the way.
Being older than I once was,
almost inevitably places have changed,
yet where I was born
looks like an alien city to me,
it seems like
a tourist destination for indigenous exiles.
The world was much larger when I was a traveler.
Chunks of the planet were only known
to explorers and scientists.
People were dangerous yet much kinder.
Now here in a corner of no-place-much
blancmange faces float in and out
speaking a language that means less to me
the more I hear it.
We once carried books around,
we loaded cars and pushbikes with travel books
and the poetry of adventurers.
We were old enough to be dreamers.
Of course the young were always dumb,
and the smarter they got the dumber they got.
Forgive me, the old have always talked like this,
our handbrakes are looser,
thoughts slip backwards downhill.
Yet we must speak occasionally
about the blancmange and the puerile,
the cheapening of what was once hard won.
I know I abide somewhere among this new world.
Brave or timid I abide half-hidden.
The land I inhabit now
has given me a passport, and I have an address.
I recognize once who I was and where
I lost maps I had once crossed.
Maybe I am too young at the moment
to forget or see where I should be.
Intentions fall akin to ashes on the pyre.
Of our procrastination quixotic fire
We've got a penchant for delay and distraction.
A puerile fear of routine and reaction.
But in our deepest hearts, we glow.
Time is a precious commodity to sow.
But we still apply it to just toss it away.
Thinking that tomorrow will start a fresh day
We piddle with excuses and justify.
Our lack of progress and letting scope pass us by
But the truth is, we're only cheating ourselves.
By neglecting our dreams and putting them on shelves
So let us rise from the ashes of our pyre.
And ignite a fresh flame of desire.
Let's attempt to alter our current reality.
And will cease to be hindered by frugality.
Life is too precious to waste away.
On diddle misguided play
Let us grapple with the day and bear it count.
If you live decently, the strain won't mount.
The Citgo pumps offer
the Smart Pay Option,
encouraging me to
be one of Them.
But if I don’t Smart Pay
what are the alternatives;
Puerile pay?
obtuse, sweaty
unclever, ting-your-pants,
half-baked, servile pay?
I could, of course resolve this,
go inside and link
my banks and credits
to this jabbering gas tap.
Complimentary Slim Jim’s
await my assimilation,
the consummation code to
be whisked upon the vows
to my Smart Phone
Which I do not own, rendering
me a scybalous, boogered
flip-phoner with pudgy buttons
and an infantile screen.
Maybe my Robot vacuum
tripped me up along the suck,
drew me under the Smart Mattress
with the dust bunnies
Maybe, had I listened to the
Smart News,
I might have known
what this pump bastard already
seems to know about me.
I see the Do-Gooders are out in force again
And this time it's the annual Christmas Coke Cola Bus
Stirring up the fuss
Crusaders against any and every cause
No topic to juvenile or puerile to rage against
They want to ban children visiting the Coke Cola bus
Because some children are obese
And as they see it this is there duty to stop
As it will somehow end and solve the crisis
Now correct me if I am wrong
But I have never seen a child
Buying or pushing a shopping cart
Around a Supermarket
With a Credit Card
Or am I shopping on the wrong child friendly day's
It's usually Parents who buy and choose the items in the trolley
And Parents who cook make or feed their kids
What is the point or to what end
Is banning the bus so children can't see it
Going to make a blind bit of difference
And why should everyone have to pay the price
Or is that old teacher's adage
You see now you have ruined it for everyone
Father Christmas
Santa Claus
In all its modern day guises
White Beard
Red Santa Suit
Is a Coke Cola patented trademark
They invented modern day Christmas
As we have come to know it
I know it is crass to say but
Coke has done more to promote Christmas
Than religion or church has
I wish all these Do-Gooding people would stop trying to fix us
Who actually asked them to
And why do they know best
Who anointed them saviors of the rest
The only thing good intentions have ever taught me is
Walk a mile in my shoes
Looking out your warm safe curtain windows
And your rose tinted views
For what its worth
You will never be the same
When you know what the reality of a life of pain brings
You cling on to the small things
Like the annual Christmas Bus
Beside Mum and Dad
Fulfilled and glad
Is that so bad
My childhood elm of outgrowth stout
Nourished His formative buds about
While holding me during youthful sprout
Yet far I fell from Him.
For thoughtless Time forgives forgot
He waited for his puerile tot
My seasons passed far from his plot
And further I fell from Him.
Upon my adolescent spark
He let me stab his bleeding bark
With foolish whim, a lover’s mark
Still further I fell from Him.
While seasons passed with nature’s grace
And changed the lines upon my face
He kept my sacred vernal place
Still further I fell from Him.
Soon I was met with fortune’s snide
And chilling winter did preside
His thickened limbs He did provide
Still further I fell from Him.
When life bestowed my last defeat
For years of folly and conceit
My eyes beheld His sad retreat
How far I fell from Him!
That tree that held my girlish jump
And greenery once rich and plump
Was now a sickly blackened stump
How far I fell from Him!
I wept upon His tattered rings
For all the comfort He did bring
Throughout my vain and endless sting
I'd not ascend to Him!
Somehow He felt my tears abreast
And cleansed the faults I had possessed
He offered me His stump for rest
I did ascend to Him.
Form:
Songs making up for the lost rhymes
Careless trips to the golden times
Fingers lurking at the odd satin..
Boisterous spasms of pleasure pure
Wrecked buildings and their darkness lure
'Loving' in spanish, and latin...
Roaming around the rowdy roads
Missed call alerts and silent modes
Tossing technology at bay
Dwindling cries of the humming bees
Wounded kites, trapped in trees
Memories build and Memories fray
I see the world with freshly woken eyes
Puerile camaraderie and the grown-up goodbyes
Friends who hurt and lovers, forget..
People are not what people do
They, mere puppets off the blue,
Live in sin and are living late..
The weary ways of writing stories
Of passion, of faith, of honourable glories
Had never gotten into me
A happy bird in the clear blue sky
Over the hurt, pain, deceit, I fly
Racing the wind and letting things be...
It’s time, by now, we did away with nations.
I tell you, hand on heart beneath the flag,
This jingo jag has now become a drag.
Those puerile patriotic palpitations
had meaning only when we lived in tribes.
Today our people mix and mingle freely –
so can’t we now dispense with Horace Greeley,
and wetbacks, wops and wogs, and all those jibes?
Since nations never have a sense of humour,
it’s little wonder why we have these wars.
We need a change of heart. Embrace the cause:
don’t split us into gooks or spooks or squaws,
or hicks or micks or spicks, or baby-boomers.
One nation under God, we’re all consumers.
We see through different eyes—
A truth to you, another to me.
"Who is right? Who is wrong?" we ask,
Lost in a tangled web of thought.
We tug at our beliefs, push back and pull,
Each mind a different vantage point.
Context shifts like shadows at play,
And in this uncertainty, we sway.
Misunderstanding fuels the fight,
Its embers glowing in the night.
Arguments bloom like bitter flowers,
Yet the pain beneath is all ours.
Truth is a puzzle, facts can stray,
Lost in thoughts that lead us away.
Differences may divide,
But in the spectrum of views, we all reside.
Each lens shapes what you can see,
A filtered truth, an optics reality.
There is no single viewpoint,
Only the one from your specific vantage point.
Your unique view is a wonder to the world,
A singular magic, a privilege unfurled.
No other mind can share your path,
Or understand your aftermath.
The sharp pain of being misunderstood:
Your advances declared childish by her,
Your work puerile by a mentor,
Your thoughts defiled by an idol.
Your dearest says your views are obsolete.
But in this maze of clashing minds,
Your unique vision is profoundly sound.
So cherish the prism of your eye,
For every angle births a different sky.
The world is richer because of you.
Let’s tolerate the shades of our thought,
And embrace the battles we have fought.
For in this rich and living pilgrimage,
It's the difference in perspectives that gives us the stage.
Thank you very much Ms Tara Reade for confidin',
Your allegation 'gainst Jo-Jo the Clown Joe Biden!
Interesting that the fake news at CNN and MSNBC
Hammered Trump and Kavanaugh for like dallying constantly!
But from them regarding Biden, we hear not a peep
About the alleged assignations of this puerile creep!
Most of the time Joe doesn't know where he's at,
Nor can he find his butt with both hands, this wily bureaucrat!
Vote for him if you will this coming fall,
But if he is elected, God have mercy on us all!
(I suspect I'll receive vile flak from those with a different view - that's OK - fire away! I'm sticking to expressing my First Amendment rights!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired