Long Qualifying Poems
Long Qualifying Poems. Below are the most popular long Qualifying by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Qualifying poems by poem length and keyword.
After we turned from Africa we first lived in Cornwell and I got a job learning to be a riding instructor with Heather Hunt she was a tough lady to work for but her training was excellent I went on to some excellent jobs mainly in racing stables it was great fun especially when on the gallops just imagine a horse full of spirit fired up beneath you one false move and you would be dust as they threw you off. But us stable hands had lots of fun and some heavy drinking sessions. We moved to the midlands for more land and I ran a horse yard with 32 horses 5 which were my own that I did show jumping and eventing with. I had some success, high light was qualifying for Wembley but I lost in the morning so missed being on telly.
I got married which was a mistake and only lasted five days I knew T had done the wrong thing when in his speech my father said I had been offered a job in Germany at one of the top jumping stables and he had turned it down without telling me first. I sold up and went to London where I had a wild time became one of the few ladies allowed to wear full hell's angels colours.
Next I got involved in the music scene and had some very wild times I was Alex Harvey's partner for nearly 10 years those were fantastic, were really wild years but before him I was down near the recording studios on Denmark Street when a man came called Mike he was with the Bow Street Runners and asked me if my tan was all over I dont know why as I was very shy but answered wouldn't you like to know he took a step backwards and then said yes he would. So we had a steamy one night affair he only went on to become Fleetwood Mac oh yes.
Then I met Dougie Jenkinson and went to Jersey with him and my dog Champ who got us thrown off the camp side when he broke the tent trying to follow us. we ended up on the cliffs in our own tent where we lived for about six weeks cooking over an open fire and using a hotel shower where a friend worked. When we returned to London we decided to go to Scotland and so we hitched with Champ and got there eventually. One night on the way there we were dropped in a village miles from anywhere and it started to pour with rain we took shelter in a church porch overnight was the vicar ever so surprised to find us in the morning but he did give us breakfast.
to be continued
I Asked Myself A Rhetorical Question...
Asper daily expounding fostering
inchoate manifesting mod
er writ writing quality,
solitary scrimmage tackling
undertaking, yielding whir
ring, sputtering, kickstarting, and
buzz-feeding at competitive, communal
crowed did metaphorical trough,
where household named author's
top New York Times best seller
tier, overshadowing under
rated genre bending, breakout aspiring,
story board qualifying,
opportunistic newbie man
use script artful dodgers
mere dust collecting drafts,
anticipating to stir infectious interest
incumbent - at mercy,
tripwire activating quint
essential key, which anchors print
ting projected uncertain
popularity first edition,
awakening, guiding, nosing
asymptote analogy steering
reader toward nascent
scribe, where paper
back writer wannabe,
toils away incorporating subtle
(hook, line and sinker) techniques,
(albeit apropos literary
ploys, a true test tum ment,
viz sophisticated gambits
to massage late tint
prestidigitation abra ca dab rah,
sine non qua cogent
see kant, and tangent triggers
modest mien fortified, exemplified,
and downplayed akin
to unassuming Clark Kent
in his cape ably nonchalant
transformation into superman,
and/or more pointedly,
some original heft leant
to set apart striking
poignant implement
exhibited by aspiring
writer daily revising,
albeit gal or gent
his/her uniquely obscure
trademark, but
eventually keen agent
assays non-boastful writing style
im prim mature print,
sans unassuming swiftly tailored
harried style seduces seek
curing sincere overnight reverent,
well deserved kudos
comically marveling
at thee most im portent
salient strengths, per
hops hue moored opulent
quality instigates
affinity toward nascent,
bar riddle be, bill leading,
bud ding scrivener,
not necessary alluding
to a hypothetical outlier
thus, any similarity between the
above statement and
a living person perchance named
Matthew Scott Harris
purely coincidental.
Oy vey iz mir, one day in the life of a common house broken schmeckle...,
who did pötschke
and squander many an opportunity
to become a mensch
instead he became persona non grata
condemned to a history of misery,
not unlike Doctor Hyde and Mister Jekyll,
where friends, Romans countrymen did heckle.
After all said and done,
I best have stayed
safe and sound in the womb,
or hopefully at the least honored after death
with a squadron of B-52s
flying overhead with vroom
while being enshrined in a tomb,
cuz the living years of yours truly (me),
one after another trial and tribulation did loom
which figurative weave
courtesy weft and warp wove gloom
ordained I experienced hell on earth,
thus an inescapable doom
left no option except to skadaddle
into the outer limits of the twilight zone
at the edge of night
courtesy magic broom.
Plenty of times,
I ate in a crowded house,
where the crawdads sing
sinking their teeth into cranberries, meatloaf
and red hot chili peppers
served with a side order of pop slop
don't be put off by the name,
which mishmash actually yum zook,
nevertheless cuisine fiends spurred a tussle
where flock of seagulls
who got into a spat took
sparring mates to the cleaners
with angry yardbirds twittering about xyz,
and tweeting when loosely translated
into English language essentially meant
much ado about floccinaucinihilipilification,*
(Sounds like
flaa·suh·now·suh·nai·uh·luh·pi·luh·fuh·kay·shn)
according to legendary interpretation
by expert ornithologist with keen insight
rivaling that of the eagles
known for their skill playing chess
ofttimes, use an upside-down rook
to designate a queen
under United States chess federation
rules and in casual play take a look
for yourself, rather than believe amateur
what might be considered poppycock hook
line and sinker qualifying as gobbledygook,
which utter nonsense I did cook
up, yet please feel welcome my gibberish to brook
*the estimation of something as worthless.
courtesy of management in general
and particularly Jackie Geiger
assistant property agent.
One benefit living social
at Highland Manor Apartments
until decrepit and bent...
constitutes qualifying for reimbursement
direct deposited into checking
as chump change event,
hence one generic grateful gent
feels self satisfied as Clark Kent.
After broken wing and prayer
granted courtesy The Flying Tigers
at long last located valuable information
issued December of each year
surprisingly enough exactly where
social security (2021) 1099 form
remained untouched, I swear,
yet earlier yesterday April 5th, 2022
at 1500 hours though very near,
and finally located necessary documentation
(think rental rebate) here
with unexpected discovery
birthed following poem aware
many if not all avid readers
will not care, nor give rat's a$$
regarding humdrum minor dilemma
involving one bonafide
*****sapiens merely
bruising himself – common Joe
garden variety generic biomass,
nonetheless, he fetes, lauds, tauts...
rental rebate tantamount
approximating financial reimbursement
without being unduly crass.
Thus reasonable rhyme
yours truly doth aire
without stut... stut...
stuttering, yet no guarantee
wordsworth their weight
in gold will ring clear
more likely receive
frosty reception everywhere
across world wide web,
perhaps with unwelcome glare,
yet profuse apology
if man with wit - me,
(i.e. Whitman) didst unwittingly interfere
with unwanted distraction
courtesy bobbing square
pants donned sponge
soaking up precious time (yours)
foolish longfellow rushing in where
one capricorn long since wed
not nsync, but alone,
cuz angels fear to tread
"quod erat demonstrandum"
forgotten Latin accessed
at least once year
when yours truly crafts poetry
more familiarly recognized as Q.E.D.
(shares close pronunciation
with ska quid word)
ditch costs extra nay saying
horse sense according to Ned,
whoop sorry, I meant mister Ed.
911
By Franklin Price
09/11/2024
Three and twenty years ago
Terror rang its awful bell
In the midst of New York City
The great and tall twin towers fell
Slammed by hijacked liners
Deviated from their flight
Took our independent nation
From the day into the night
Thousands died there on that day
At the Pentagon we lost
A field in Pennsylvania
Also added to the cost
There was no nation there to fight
These were terrorists with dough
Billionaires had funded them
What to do, we did not know
We went to war with countries
Targeted Iraq, Iran
To make it even better
We fought in Afghanistan
For over twenty years
We sent our soldiers over there
Many killed and wounded
And our fighting more than fair
Since we did not fight the country
But the terrorists within
We could not hurt the population
To damage them would be a sin
There was no way to win the war
We finally pulled out everyone
The terrorists took over
Now its worse than when begun
We are protectors of the world
Have been since World War Two
Give of ourselves to everyone
We should try out something new
Trillions of dollars is our debt
From giving everything away
We borrow bucks from China
Who may own us one fine day
Communism and democracy
Capitalism one and all
The ones who have the money
Will cause the other ones to fall
We've donated to our allies
Just to keep them as a friend
While our own go cold and hungry
Which has come to no good end
The USA's our country
Home of the brave and free
A promise land for citizens
That's including you and me
We welcome here most anyone
Who contributes to our way
Terrorists and criminals
Cannot be added to the fray
Our borders need protecting
Not to let the bad ones here
There's a qualifying process
For rejecting when they're near
We all need to pull together
Or we'll lose this once great land
Nine Eleven is still with us
We must address it hand in hand
MOUNTAINSIDE
Always, there would be darkness hovering through-
out the bushes and trees, massive sky and earthen ground
he tiptoed upon in shoeless stealth, machine gun slung
over one shoulder and, strapped across the other,
a leather pouch holding coded messages he delivered
encampment to encampment, their locations razor-sharp
in his 11 year old brain, in a body tall enough to be
mistaken for older. Tall enough to be made a Partisan —
a courier, and down the road, likely qualifying as
a full-blown saboteur targeting Germans and the war
machinery they were transporting through Yugoslavia’s
Mosor mountain villages.
(German soldiers, who, if they’d caught him, a Jew,
& partisan, to boot, would surely have beaten him
to death extracting every bit of information they could.)
Upon each return to his farmhouse refuge, the
communications he’d been charged with having been
delivered hours before and miles away,
the fear he’d braved began melting away. And,
in the moments it took him to hang up his courier bag
and machine gun, he felt ready for the evening meal
of pit-roasted mutton and stone-ground bread
washed down with goat’s milk. Then, a foot soak
(weekly, a full-body scrub), followed by deep sleep,
in a basement below a trap door — a peasant woman’s
woven blankets softening the wooden floor boards
and his heart. And when that heart rejoiced with freedom
in ’45, at 13 years old, is truly when he understood why
he detested the taste of lamb, no matter how gourmet
the preparation offered the boy he once was —
the boy who’d put meat back on his bones in Brooklyn,
and the gastronome he’s become — a content 82 year old
grateful for his hero Tito and the fact that he’s managed
to keep his Hitler-torn past safely locked away
in a tight-lipped box, he rarely chooses to open.
"I'm a vessel
I'm a temple
of the Holy Spirit
I'm a vessel
taping me feel me I'm a container
a receptacle
suppository a drum
have not any disintegrating bones and dust I am not call a urn
me with sign hand mold me shaping me
until I an imaged All Father grieving me to me
until design plans tell me about plans
give me receive I be for your purpose qualifying
quality used me for thy Divine Purpose
Kneed me mold me shape me
need not leave me 5 a.m. solidify me
My flawed forgotten or broken reshaped me
Mold me He chose me He's spoken wholeness and peace
Sweet release amend bend me mold Me Hold squeeze me never leave me in
Mme concessions hold me whisper to my ears I am a blessing
Dress Your Vessel God mode me Temple of the Holy Spirit
I am a vessel sleeping me fill me your container I am the drum
You're calling me I am insured I am endowed with just a drop of your power
For the Masters use
Use me for the Masters use mode me for the Masters use
and shaped me remake me absolute Oh! Lord
I Am Your Vessel
thoughtful inciting security exposed to the Father
you and words and works
I am a vessel
I am shaping I am filled I am contained with his ever-present
I am love I am just calling I am called on to me to be God's vessel
Into thine image All Father speak up into me
you mean much to me received me
I be will purposed I qualify with quality used me for thine Divine Purpose
may not leave me Father feeling flawed forgotten or broken
You spoken to speak wholeness in my life
and peace sweet release in my life
you molded me get a hold of me
if you squeeze me never leaves me but. Still, since of your calling,
you made me your son and daughter.
I Am Your Vessel! "
6/10/22
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.2022©
Born on a spring cyclone from Kansas' stormy rain,
awoken now in low growl, slowly reversing.,
down a low ramp, like a movie star rehearsing,
at new shore in sunshine with an exotic name.
Just like a kid in love all over again..
learning her games in many a winding curve,
perhaps proof enough I haven't lost my nerve,
shyly look back at such a refined rear end.
Lola isn't very patient or forgiving,
one who oversteers her with attitude,
puts her in a dangerous sashaying mood..
to cut short a man's simple days in living.
Let me tell ya what's so precious,
she purrs, just like a kitten..
tear'g through each firm shift given,
in silky thrusting gear meshes.
Oh, it's a fact.., she's known other men's hands
hit such dizzying heights on their track,
though promising never to look back,
my careful repair strokes her will demands.
Safe from boredom all my loving hands touch,
ev'ry square inch of Monaco White body showing,
hot turbocharged exhaust pipes ready and glowing,
hearts pounding in high revving double clutch.
Lola thrives on top tier 91 octane's heady drink,
sipping imperial ounces at each injection,
she's never known any salad days in rejection,
smooth cylinder walls bathed in sweetest crude oil and zinc.
Have you guessed at her qualifying past?
heart like a wheel.., all alone in a class..
smart dressed in Kevlar reinforced fiberglas
Hethel's english dream finally mine at last.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets
And little man, little Lola wants you
Make up your mind to have
No regrets
Recline yourself, resign yourself,
you're through"
* Whatever Lola Wants by Richard Adler and Jerry Ross for the 1955 musical play Damn Yankees
Four dimensions, yet three in one,
Location, space and time,
X Y location, space around, and in time,
We don’t consider an X as without a Y really.
So quantum mechanics stand to floor,
The claim of the atom’s indivisibility,
Because there’s always the atom’s nucleus to consider,
For qualifying it to be the smallest thing we know on earth.
What’s time’s beginning is made of?
Can be minuscule,
That subtle ignition of structure,
Which formed life’s foundations,
Set joy and inclination,
That lit truth’s mandate to do the right.
I was in hell when I was young,
But time was a friend,
Let me speak even when I couldn’t form;
Credibility is on time’s side by time’s identity,
As time’s the only form that can claim credibility,
Without having acted or done, functioned,
Only having been, only having presumed
Because credibility is the essence of that configuration:
That’s why you need to be a friend of time,
Because time’s credible without you,
And time will give you life,
Time will not demand respect.
I have not changed my view of time,
With ages, triumphs and tragedies,
But time has changed its face to me:
More friendly, more gracious,
More amorous.
But I needed people on my side more,
More trust surrounding my disability,
Sociology was not once nice to me,
When time was on my doorstep.
However, I could say it was my fault,
More determination would’ve sufficed,
More belief in two of us, not individuality,
And more trust in asking emotionally,
About anything, the physical.
Time is truly physical, when it’s analysed,
Because physicists inquire into it resolutely,
And so I will always have that friend,
Which I made as a child of recondite contortion.
(Note: This poem was written shortly after the 2022 Olympics and after Richard Branson and Jeff Bezos rode their rockets in a new space race for billionaires.)
Races
By Mark D. Stucky
Our country had a Space race
to beat Russians to the moon.
Decades ago, we left lunar footprints
and brought back rocks and selfies.
Rival billionaires build rockets now
for suborbital joyrides above.
We periodically join Olympic races
to go fractionally faster than others
for prestige and multi-metal medals.
Hosting countries spend billions
to applaud athletic bodies.
But for all that cash and hype,
we get no cure-for-cancer hope,
but viral spread and doping.
Our world needs better races
toward things that truly matter.
We require a Race race
to travel much faster
toward equity and healing
than ever gone before.
While we wish for a quick sprint,
a marathon is what we’re running.
Ending slavery long ago,
this race’s qualifying heat,
was just one stride
beyond the starting line.
Jim Crow still taints the track.
Systems still are prejudicial.
Supremacists still conspire.
Voting rights still are suppressed.
Vigilantes still chase and shoot.
Police still harm the unarmed.
This crucial marathon
has many miles to go,
but if we struggle to the end,
contenders might all be winners.
(Originally published in Small Town Anthology VIII: Entries from the Eighth Annual Tournament of Writers, Vicksburg Cultural Arts Center, 2022. See also my poems "Closed Community Prejudice (an Alphabetized Memoir)," "Weapons of Wonder," and "Hate Vacuuming?")
(Image by Braden Collum on Unsplash.com.)