Long Readers Poems
Long Readers Poems. Below are the most popular long Readers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Readers poems by poem length and keyword.
Winkin Blinkin And Nod, Sans...
Wonderful World Of Dreamland Furloughed!
Hours elapsed since I did sleep off
and feed my belly from the trough.
What...the...creaking screech re: sound
ding, (an unexpected pro noun
sub bull mashup attributed
to partial government shutdown
point middle finger at dented prez clown.)
The night of my spectacularly
exhausting seventh birth,
I dreamt about an amazing fictitious place,
and taint nope pull lace on Earth
cozily warm like a wood burning hearth
where embers snap,
crackle, and pop with mirth
best show in shutterfly REM
hmm...memory wool worth
(at least for near future) stayin alive
whiskey indeed no comparison, dip pin dive
ving into subconscious realm, and drive
ving devotees mad, 'specially when bing
a barf hull lie ("FAKE"),
thus wide awake temper
aerily perhaps til five
(more minutes), when buzz zee as bee hive
honey combed noggin will cease to jive,
and crown jewel will suddenly seize
gnome hatter, hatter how hard I strive
to stay awake
for no particular rhyme, nor reason
won during, how far
this chap can push himself to break
king point, which presently me make
foolish poem just to slake
hun heed to slather palaver
which yukon leave or take,
since essentially nary a clue
handy dan dee blues zee drew
pea senseless blather
basically (AWOL) din flue
zee brooked stream of consciousness
writing whatever zaps glue
pee bobbing sponge with grayish hue
cranking out words as they snap,
crackle and pop to this Jew
dishy us scrivener knew
dulling in an attempt
to splash unexpurgated lue
nah see gobbledygook, yes
sigh hug gree quite loo
pee, yet this long
(in the dent chord tooth) fell hoo,
he experiences silly (NOT solid) state
ready to moo
myself to supine pose new
matter, an unusual burst
of energy recharged
ordinarily inactive cerebral queue,
hence maximization left no time to rue
rationality upended in
frenetic attempt to spew
until...capacity to type another letter
sputters, a dog send to you
and all otter readers within
the webbed whirled wide human zoo!
I love a psychic fair; I doubt anyone loves them more than I.
There are readers of all shapes and sizes. You pay money to be read.
Some of them are spot on, others are a waste of sixty dollars.
I never know.
At one psychic fair, I pointedly avoided a woman wearing all white.
She had on a white hat too, and I practically ran from her.
Two of my children were as drawn to her as I was repulsed.
They reported I had to go see her.
She smiled when I approached.
I felt your energy when you came in, she told me.
I actually looked up and I instantly knew who you were.
I sat down, and somehow knew her too.
You were my teacher in a past life, she told me.
Now I can be yours. This made sense in some way.
I began taking psychic classes from her.
it was the start of a new development in my soul development.
Second Thoughts**
Falling in love with someone you can never truly be with can be haunting. We hide behind filtered photos—wearing a smile, using body language as our shield. As poets, we feel deeply; we observe and express our emotions through the words we write.
My heart is weary—so weary. (Elizabeth Browning) Our tone reveals more than we realize, and readers often interpret it in unexpected ways.
Endless love can inspire gratitude, but it is peace and happiness that nourish my soul. Do I trust myself enough to open my heart to another? Loving someone who remains out of reach is perilous, a slippery slope indeed. Once more,
I question whether I can surrender to another based solely on a smile. Should I confess that I have fallen and feel unable to rise again?
Ah, Divine influence, it has come to many, so they say,
as to their nameless or named God’s they do pray.
The light came to Carroll, he said he could see,
for raised by a Vicar at Christ church was he.
Dodgson was his surname an apt moniker
for he veers of from his father, made math his liqueur
Lewis was Charles tongue in cheek, he wore hats
and from his birth place, he transformed Cheshire cats.
Lewis Carroll wrote “Alice” sure, he was also Charles Dodgson
but who wrote the marrow, now that’s where the God comes!
Now, many men wrote the Bible or so we surmise
and the pages they garnered came in random sizes.
Yes they picked, they plucked, these men were right scary
and what do you know, left out the Book of Mary!
Now you modern readers just might take a note
the resemblance twixt Alice and Mary's no anecdote.
Dogdson, yes Carroll, knew Mary so it seems
yet, Alice sweet Alice is who came in his dreams.
Carroll clothed Alice and it's no surprise
that in Chapter 3:21, her dress he seeks dried!
For Alice, dear Alice, did not wish to die!
“She would catch a bad cold if she could not get dry.”
Carroll being the kind creator, he would
had the mouse read to Alice the driest of books.
Again and again, his benevolence is shown
when he sends Alice a rabbit to soon lead her home.
So, we are lead on in most delightful detail
to Chapter 4:15 where her flight is curtailed.
As Cain slew Abel, so the Queen beheaded prates.
Yet, she’d no power at all, over bodiless cats!
Now, Chapter 12 is truly my favorite, as you may surmise
Lewis Carroll has dreamed much of caterpillar size..
He dreamed a whole world full of goodness and villainy.
As anyone can see, men will see what they see,
and the Looking Glass has as much meaning to me
as the Bible may have to the Christians, let be.
An old man plods slowly down the rutted middle
Of an ancient dusty country lane, unmindful of his steps.
His calloused sandaled feet know the way,
As he has trodden this path to market for decades,
Or centuries perhaps,
He no longer tries, or cares, to remember.
Time has lost all meaning.
Bowed beneath the heavy weight of years and toil,
He wears the mantle of his life,
Not proudly as he once did in his hopeful youth,
But now the way he bears his cumbersome burden
Of broken limbs and sticks and twigs,
With a resigned and weary sadness as immutable and maimed
As the arthritic stumps and knees of old cypress trees,
Or countless other old withered and withering men
Like him.
Author's note: This piece, dear readers, was inspired by "Man with a Sack of Wood", a sketch by Vincent van Gogh.
Unsolicited, revered, and praised
potential literary fete,
(yes a bit hyperbolic),
sans mine posted poems that perambulate
such feedback, whither donning trumped
("FAKE") facade, Oriel sincere
twittering, nonetheless tis great
for an ego striving to maintain
hum bull modesty, yet I hate
to be misperceived as
arrogant, boastful, pretentious,...wait
et cetera, cuz honestly,
these conglomerations create,
themselves, via some inexplicable
literary process which generate
prestidigitation soon after
affixing wired thinking cap,
whereby positioned electrodes exfoliate
on scalp yup thence, off miniature oblate
spheroid (suddenly barren) of golden locks
most soup Priam wantonly depilate
(envision candidate
undergoing biofeedback,
or...captured as bait)
by...yea (of course) alien invaders curious
to experiment, and subject a random pate
with out of this world tests that agitate
most precious anatomical accouterment
'bout size of average poe tate
toe (actually...almost same consistency)
okay...sorry, this chap doth relate
such comparison to
his own cerebral aggregate,
where he starkly realizes
neurological concentrate
takes a permanent vacation
to distant Palatinate
essentially leaving a void, ah...just
perfect for cosmic outliers to allocate
(no...no...no noninvasive, i.e.)
their laser like gizmos scrutinize how
(albeit unwittingly) to ameliorate
writer's block, thus
glad tubby ("Guinea Pig"),
and let abductors amputate
my killed expense trumped ("FAKE")
noggin pulp struggling to articulate,
(hence quite a relief,
you cannot imagine), dear mate
when fiber optic threads of light
essentially painlessly
(rather ticklishly aspirate)
clump of useless gray matter,
yours truly does implicate
as complicit to cause unnecessary
difficulty to associate
with *****sapiens, an extremely
strenuous task, thence joyful to dedicate
(without being headstrong),
an organ minimally missed at any rate
long last free to babble poppycock
oblivious as ambitious readers berate!
GERONIMO, FEARED APACHE WARRIOR, DEAD
Human Tiger, Merciless Slayer of Mexicans and Whites
His Own Family Fought Government Efforts
to Provide Medical Treatment
Fulfilled His People’s Prophecy
By Telegraph to The Times.
Oklahoma, Feb. 18. – While returning to Ft. Sill from Lawton, the infamous savage known as Geronimo fell off his horse, drunk, and lay in a water-filled ditch all night. He was discovered in the morning and was taken by his people to Loco’s Camp where he developed pneumonia. His family initially rebuffed attempts by Army officials to transport him to hospital for medical treatment, believing only those condemned to death are ever taken to hospital. In time, he was forcibly conveyed by ambulance to the post hospital where he expired a short while later, fulfilling his people’s prophecy.
Readers of this journal should note that the town of Lawton, Comanche County Seat, was named in honor of General Henry Lawton, one of the daring Army officers responsible for tracking down and capturing the elusive Apache. It is fitting that the memory of such an illustrious hero be so honored. As for the name, Geronimo, if it is to be remembered for anything, may it be as a synonym for cold-blooded murderer. His face always did seem, to this humble scribe, to be sinister and expressionless, like an icy desert morning. The unrepentant heathen infidel will not soon be missed.
The whispers in your ear,
whimpering’s fit for dimming lights
Only prayer, fasting, and sacrifice, shuts down
the presumed unholy whisperer,
Slow speak, soft spoken
For there are no magic leaves here
Only its moral decay
For decades sharing spilled ink,
ill-favored mouth-print
on a bleached blank canvas
Or a slight splash of color for takers
made up of whinifestos, declarations
to sway the reader to their point of view
Whilst, peeking inside invariably
leads down a rabbit hole~
As the attempts to share
what seems like owned reflection,
cast out onto readers
Promises designed to indoctrinate minds
by literary whispers in the ear,
direct aim to sell souls,
I too, revolve around the feeling
that a vast web of conspiracies
helmed by the devil himself
laid throughout pages to word
in any attempt to sway hearts away
and with no intention of quitting,
b u s i n e s s is g o o d
When the enemy whispers in your ear,
be quick to hear, the lure
Mentors fuel, in their minds they sanction,
the method, the vision, the purpose
it remains to be seen
The influencer seems
assured to continue
dispelling the brightness
…of the day
In my lonely times,
I feel crowded the most.
In my sad times,
I feel happiest the most.
In my crying times,
I feel playful the most.
In my hurting times,
I feel healed the most.
In my stormy times,
I feel calm the most.
In my chaotic times,
I feel peaceful the most.
In my happy times,
I feel troubled the most.
In my hyperactive times,
I feel less concerned the most.
In my sorry times,
I feel wronged the most.
In my loving time,
I feel rejected the most.
In one's living time,
He feels dead the most.
In one's dying time,
He feels life the most.
In the presence of my mind,
I feel absent the most.
In the face of many readers of mine,
I feel numbness in my pen the most.
There’s nothing better than the sigh
when the first draft’s finally done,
the emptiness that comes to mind
after the marathon is run.
What started as a fun notion,
an idea that you thought was neat
became a swim through an ocean,
that leaves the soul tired and beat.
On and off for nearly a year,
searching for the right things to say,
forever living under fear
that no one will care anyway.
Some days you push a thousand words.
other day its barely sixteen,
wondering if the plot’s absurd,
if readers will miss what you mean.
Loose threads abounding everywhere,
must work them back into the weave,
show just the slightest lack of care,
the reader will cease to believe.
Knowing that once you are complete
the internet waits with its fangs,
they’d never attempt such a feat…
but sure love tearing down a man.
Wondering why you still do this…
it’s a crap-shoot to make some cash,
undertaking all of the risk,
exposed to the critic’s tongue-lash.
But what would you do otherwise,
with the stories growing within,
that soon push everything aside
’till they fill your mind to the brim.
Something from nothing, insistent
that others know that it exists,
wants to be something permanent,
I guess that is why we persist.
Maybe we’re arrogant to think
that it means a damn to the world,
maybe full of it to the brink
to think our words are precious pearls.
Odds are we’ll be fast forgotten,
all our efforts will be a bust,
so why do we still do it then?
no other reason than we must.
There’d be no peace within ourselves,
no real fulfillment in our life,
and so the stories we will tell,
the novels we will have to write.
And even now, when it’s all done,
a new challenge is forthcoming,
I’ve wrote the book, I’ve had my fun…
now how do I sell the damn thing?
Hmm…