Long Rave Poems
Long Rave Poems. Below are the most popular long Rave by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rave poems by poem length and keyword.
After the party most of the crowd woke up hung over
Bad breath foul temper and worst of all few memories
Some covered in regret and puke on sodden sheets
When it had meant to be a night to remember
Others were hopeful that the condom had not leaked
True extra-large man size only that was for sure
But drunken members do not live up to the promise
What’s the name of the woman and in whose bed
Truth of the matter is that the flaccid remembrance falls short
No morning glory either after the rave of ill-mannered bravado
Not much to celebrate with no ink in the shrivelled-up pen
Maybe his friends know what he has been up to or not
Jessica and Timothy had been at the very same party
Glowed at the camp fire and full midnight moon
Until drunken incoherence stepped over the mark
Their fireworks happened after the celebrations
Safely home they had one more pink lemonade on ice
Switched on the intricate Turkish lamps next to their bed
Caressed and cuddled and made love fully conscious
Reaped the rewards of temperance and had a ball of a time
At the dawn of a new day they went back to the beach
Swam in their ocean of love collected sea shells and pebbles
Where the tides had washed away debris and dissolute pain
It takes courage not to fit in but sobriety holds them together
24th June 2019
Some people say that God's a myth,
They don't believe He's there.
Others say that if He is ,
Then He just doesn't care.
They look at all the suffering,
Throughout the world around us.
Sickness, pain, starvation, war,
It fills them with disgust,
To think that there are those of us,
Who love Him and believe,
That The Almighty Father God,
Won't leave us here bereaved.
They want to blame it all on Him,
Though they don't think He's there;
But if He does not exist,
Why do they rail and swear?
Why hate someone who isn't there,
Who does not exist?
Why waste their time and energy,
And rave and shake their fists,
Just because we love our God,
Who is a God of love;
A God who is not filled with hate,
Who doesn't push and shove.
Other people worship gods,
That they must serve in fear.
Gods who threaten certain death,
For those who fail to clear,
The hurdles set before them,
By their arduous task master;
But people think them cool because,
They're different from The Master;
He who created all things good,
Surrounded us with beauty,
And gave us total freedom
To choose to do our duty.
If my God does not exist,
I've not wasted your time.
Don't take away my freedom,
By making it a crime,
To love my God as you love yours,
For we all serve a master.
I serve a God who loves me back,
Gives peace amid disaster.
I do not have to serve Him,
In fear and trembling,
And I'm here to tell you,
Such love is humbling.
You don't believe because you can't,
Or you just don't want to.
You have your rights and I have mine,
I won't lose Him just for you.
Judy Ball
Let's not elect a President to the White House that will make religious freedom a crime.
For Frank H.'s Contest "What I Believe Is Worth Fighting For"
the (better late than never)
free admission confession, exhortations against Ole Saint Nick
treasured untold shenanigans of Santa,
his elves and reindeer discovered only
by colluding via "FAKE" fluke
did I manage to worm winning the trust
among Christmas elves and reindeer
confident this generic guy,
would never breach scandalous
tidbits, into an underground impregnable
air-raid shelter, the Motley Crue
tied blindfold over my eyes, didst steer
me hermetically sealed,
which crawl space required me to hunker
sound (cloud) proof bunker
while ensconced (security detail munchkins,
who just so happened tubby *****
minded entrance portal)
only after getting the thumb up signal,
whereat nose pies planted
espionage surveillance devices
the chief head honcho and attendants,
Smoky and the bandits respectively,
magically, and handily did appear
and despite one hundred percent bug-free,
a whispered stance opted just to make sure
no unwanted eavesdropper could overhear
plus every participant swore an oath, cuz
any leaked real or “FAKE” information,
would spell imminent demise to be near
the upshot, sans grave emergency
describing clandestine arraignment
involving some rogue elf
(most likely at least two),
and a misbehaving reindeer
(names withheld to avoid any spoiler alert),
plus this entire kit and caboodle
necessary to help Saint Nick
got wind, (and subsequently reined in)
a rave party with orgiastic
sex, drugs and rock and roll
that a band-aided elf(ves)
laced with Pepper Minstix
(anonymously hashtagged Sodom and Gomorrah)
sullied pure as the driven snow repute,
when aliasing Sugarplum Mary (“FAKE NAME”)
detected snorting cocaine
codenamed Alabaster Snowball, while additionally
besmirching her virginity via coital cavorting
amidst a Bushy Evergreen
shaking as if frenzied
with feverish boogie woogie flu
which seductive, prurient,
and master baiter friend zeed
(spunky Gangnam style) Shinny Upatree
which could slay Wunorse Openslae reputation
as substance abusers,
and sex offenders if not worse.
Strobe laser lights fill the radiant air,
The room sways with fumes of excite,
Pounding with life full of colourful heat,
All through the deep and dark night,
As girls dressed in powerful colours of free,
Fluoresce with delicious hair spray,
And their eyes, nose, and lips, and all of their tips,
Glow on full public display,
At the local dance night of pure delight,
The seamless flow of electro jam funk,
All the people escape the life that they live,
And they all become a little bit punk,
Strobe laser lights form memories in haze,
Where everyone’s a musical slave,
Once every week in the underground club,
At the seismically colourful rave.
my thigh is left on the front
exposed to the silence
of unattainable wave
that ocean will keep another harbor wanted
your ocean
a deep lair
where all my thoughts become unsound
you left me in the front
hoping that sand will build a levee
above which my strength won't be able to envisage
prints of your leaving feet
my strength endangered your lust
that led us in a path
which sum us to zero
you left me in a dry
and kept coming like a flood
sealing my pharynx with your mud
so I couldn't even consider to breath
but my lips have taken over all that load
why isn't he calling
there is no message
maybe he's working
or he went to see that accidentally happened child
he must be in a bad mood
tired
there's no message
no message
none
he's out there drinking with his friends
or attending some hidden rave so he can peacefully float in unicorn's rainbow
where he'll find a new ride
free ride
you're ignoring my message
like
that will put shackles around my neck
and I keep staring in that screen
keeping my neck free
lips are sealed
but the neck is free
oh my fuc**ng god
I'm becoming your mother
breath
just breath
remember the lips under all that weight
remember the ocean
he covered your face with an opened palm
sterilized all your emotions
dried out your thighs
and cleaned your chest
in the end, you won't even remember the taste of his heart
but you've tasted his heart
it had a taste of
I know you
I see you
just don't know if I can bare you
I've tasted your heart
it can't be love
is it?
Without partisan doubt
the opposite of bliss
could be hate,
for bliss blinds dyspeptic,
double-binds synaptic
and fast-fades ephemeral,
as if it too soon
had never been.
Hate broods and breeds
festers and feeds
on past angry memories
fading forward future fears
of empty echoing
hot flowing paranoia
feasting on should have beens,
could have becomes,
if not for ruinous mortality.
In life's end,
defeat,
in our beginning,
terror of relentless trauma.
Fearing the opposite of my bliss
could be your rage,
blindingly synaptic,
fading back to slow-burning distrust
of animal life's long-suffering challenges,
anthro on anthro.
I don't recall rage
against the weather,
or mosquitoes,
or even swarming bees.
Rage,
contrasted to more generic angry fear-filled panic,
overpowers Earth's most triumphal terrors
then fades back
as if it had never been
any more than hyperactive mistrust,
bad faith
unsafely harbored in swarming seas of dissonant stress.
Blissful rave through hateful rage,
Earth's vast embodied stage
for feelings flowing like light and fading dark clouds
before sun and star light's constant witness,
waiting for Earth's multiculturing humane tribes
to learn full-octaved harmonics
like preverbal infants
learning which operatic brights
bring bliss,
which bring rage,
and what will outrageously radical raves feel like
to timelessly sustain,
living full-stretched crown and root
systemic MotherTree resonance.
My child the time is growing short.
We really need to talk.
There are things that you don't understand,
So you rave and rant and balk.
You want to captain your own ship,
Won't kneal before a Master,
Because many who have lived by faith,
Have met with some disaster;
But all men serve a god, My Child,
Be he low or noble born;
But it seems the more a man is blessed,
The more he tends to scorn,
All that's good and right in life,
And all that makes good sense;
But for showing such distain,
There must be recompense.
The sheep who stay within the fold,
Are fed, protected, sheltered;
But those who shun the Shepherd's care,
Are food for wolves and buzzards.
Come home to Me while there's still time,
I'll open wide the door.
Come home while I still reach for you,
Be strange to Me no more.
Judy Ball
This body ages, withers and dies.
The spirit lives on.
Being a baby of the fifties
musical sounds were always a rave
beginning in sixties with the fab four
Cliff, Elvis and ONJ were my fav
The seventies really got me hooked
the punk scene was originally vibrant
along with Kate Bush and Debbie's Blondie
this was time for seeds with a musical plant
In my reclusive days loved Dory Previn
really took me down inside of me
also loved country's Emmylou and Dolly
Cash man, Crystal and Billie Jo made me free
In past decade caught on to classical
Jenkins, Bocelli and Netrebko made superb voice
also love harp, violin and cello
hooked on Benedetti, Hahn and Mutter as my supreme choice
Also love sounds of guitar and trumpet
it brings such a soothing sound
calms one's nerves to zero
so a new person in you is found
There you have my musical world
effecting me in many a way
creating a mind to write in rhyme
bringing comfort and blessing to my day
Why are we so stupid, Lord? Why do we yell and shout, rant and rave,pillage and kill? Why do we cheat and lie, ignore and disdain, leave and abandon?
We could all be so close, so loving, so kind--we all share the same things:
the fresh air, the blue sky,and oh, the rich moonlit nights....
We all have the same fears: loneliness and sickness, poverty and death....
And we all hold fast to the same dreams: friends, family, a lover, perhaps
happy children whirling like small dervishes in their own little worlds.
A bit of praise, a kind word, work that goes well--that's all we really need....
I wrote this as a poem but it is really a prayer. I spoke it aloud so many times--
even unto the thick part of the blackest night until I fell into a deep, deep sleep,
the very deepest sleep, a sleep almost like death itself....
When I awoke the next morn, the mail had come early. I opened an envelope that strangely had no stamp. It was handwritten in unreal, almost unearthly beauty. It began quite formally:
Dear Mr. ( my name ),
I have broken my own rule to write you,
but you are so very persistent!
If life were easy, you would not feel alive.
If love were easy, you would not value it.
And if I were easy, you would never seek me.
Faithfully yours,
God
From when we leave the womb, said Freud (or Jung),
until the day we die, life's one long try
to climb back in. That cold air hits our lungs
with such a shock, we cannot help but cry.
Her name was Pina. She could twirl her skirt
impressively. One evening, home alone,
twirling her nylon nightdress, unalert,
she caught the flames. That fireplace was a zone
forbidden her, but how could she resist
the warmth and light the gaping chasm offered?
The fabric wrinkled, melted, shriveled, hissed
and bunched between her thighs. She must have suffered.
A young, bewildered altar boy back then,
I watched her mother rage and rail and rave,
unhinged by grief. It took six burly men
to hold her back from leaping in the grave.