Long Readies Poems
Long Readies Poems. Below are the most popular long Readies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Readies poems by poem length and keyword.
(following on figurative heals
sans, l'amour,
i.e.,and that bastard conception
of life, liberty, and the
pursuit by George - Marshall ling, Grant
ting, and Bing Frank.)
Expectant motherhood generates aurorean
sonogram x-ray zooms
bringing developed fetus
healthily shimmering viz,
quasi hologram seen
glowing halo, inducing
jubilant kickstarter lil bean,
administering capitalone
earthlinked joyful lyft,
natural pheromone readying cerulean
tommorrows, venerated ecstacy doth gleam
zinging bounteous
dizzying feelings hormones houseclean
jackanapes leviathon nestling
pinterestinly interocean
reaching terminus vista
xing zee birth canal mien
doctor readies Fallopian tube cutting
helping jiggle little nymphean
possibly ranking...
as future topnotch venerated Olympian
fast forward to joyful loving neuro
logically plain resplendent teen
knee weeny tiny
vaunted expanding zing
baby dripping Vasoline
like goo fully gesticulating
happy jolly newborn.
Which miracle whipped
purely by chance
given reason to the most orthodox
to sing and dance,
sans said singular biological
phenomenon does enhance
freshly minted parents,
or the mommas
and papas genetic
copy wrought grants
who already passed along
to a brood of offspring
gushing with excitement
akin to fire hydrants
spewing forth fountain head
treasuring such Kodak moment,
cuz such instance
and subsequent tender
wonderful blessed
Instamatic reverent cherished instants
will zip at greased lightening
via speeding hurled lance
sing remembrance of things past
during twilight years,
an eye blink those yesterdays,
when my troubles seemed so far away
and upon being centenarian,
doddering fogie gripping hold,
hugging intensely, indubitably decrying
how quickly of
decades long ex pants
didst elapse, when tendering
to a coliciky, finicky,
inscrutably lemony snickety offspring
wishing infant would grow up already,
now onset of autonomy
Das Agean sea sunned
father or mother
hood doth rants
at father time, he doth access
without a word an excel lent
power point demonstration
with near vertical line brevity
of how mortality slants.
Ballet of Death
As trumpets prepare emotions
This sordid art knows well
My hooves stomp impatiently
Raising clouds of dust
Enshrouding my entrance
With shouts and whistles
A crowd's tense moments
Engulf this gladiator's arena
Demanding courage and blood
Far away
The grassy hills
Of his Ganaderias estate
Stands my sire
Now out to pasture
Erect and proud
Amidst sadness retirement brings
Once close to arena fame
Determined better as stud
He raises his head
The air has changed
He knows the scent of fear
The distance it can travel
He scrapes the ground
The matador awaits the pageantry
I shoulder my pen bars
Holding back muscled power
Energy primed for destruction
My challenger readies his cape
I squint at the sun through dusty air
A beast's freedom that might have been
Were not this
My first time
Most likely
My last time
Such brutal grandeur awaits
Stage one Banderilleros
Astride proud mounts
Parading to applause
Preparing to tempt my will
Their colorful presence
To test my vision
The picadors await stage two
Armed with lance
Saddled atop padded and blindfolded steeds
Ready to break my will
What will their first piercing feel like?
Will my neck be numb for the rest
Or will it but set afire my zeal to live?
Banderilleros anticipate stage three
Their barbed banderillas
Flag-like with colored local papers
Held ready to weaken my neck further
My loins tremble with hope
Knowing my destiny is to charge
Expend my energy
Then... trample my own blood
As the magnificent matador and I
Perform our finite ballet
This dance of death
My enclosure's bolt is about to be lifted
Soon
Very soon
The matador's flourishing cape
Its crimson and gold tricks of ecstasy
Will swirl about and around
The stoic-faced tempter
Suddenly grinning with anticipation
While soiling himself
The piercing will come
I'll not allow pain any glory
I will drool
Defecate
Urinate
My legs will buckle
The sword now in my neck
The nerves failing my brain
Blood loss weakening my heart
Suffering passing quickly
I'll at last experience
Man's insane pleasure
My fallen passion
Bathed in blood
Dragged away by rope and horse
So many hours
So many training capes
So many horses taunting me
So many chances to fail into freedom
Chances to be respected
Like my father
Faithful father
I will miss you
As thephilosopher readies for his p soup anniversary
Remembering he found this place last Christmas Day
Surely the best gift he did receive
Now for some holiday fun, DON”T LEAVE
Denise Narayadu I can't end the line with her name
To mispronounce it with a bad rhyme would be a shame
Her writing has very much intrigued me
In her poems often it's myself that I see
Of Anne Lise Andressen what can I toast
She's in a contest of which Debbi G is the host
Of who Santa Clause is her knowledge has a lack
If she asked I could easily have told her it's Jack
I mean look at Jack, white beard, hair a jolly feller
If my put my original line here, I'd be locked in a cellar
Any American could mistake Canada for the north pole
It's cold, I've never been there and at times there's a lot of snow
Jack Ellison in his Santa role this time of year
Oh from the straight and narrow often does he veer
Constant approval from the p soup ladies, I know he smiles
If I was Santa his naughty list would stretch for miles
Andrea D secretly a hater of the Villanelle
That’s atrocious what’s my basis you say
She hosted a contest and a thousand forms she will allow
BUT a max of 12 lines leaves me saying CHINGADO
PD, the SWEETEST poet destroyer she told me
A philosopher asks how sweet a destroyer can be
The poet in me reads her work with much confusion
The imagery addicting but my understanding a delusion
Becca Lucas the girl who lost her muse
If she had schizophrenia she may have several to lose
However several other problems this would pose
If one of them was mean I may be a victim of her prose
FJ Thomas gave me the wonderful gift of the Fibonacci
She might deserve a song but my muse isn’t Liberace
She wrote the Art of Being Broken, a deep piece but not long
Did some guy really leave a comment quoting a poison song
And finally I will close with Richard Lamoureux
If you haven’t seen his clerihew read it TODAY
Quiet humorous, he pokes fun with affection
His first clerihew was a work of perfection
Yes on a few new names Wayland did call
Unfortunately he still hasn’t got to them all
Some he intentionally won’t mention
It’s Christmas Eve and he seeks no dissention
I’m a witch of the modern times,
Nay my caldron is not round but square,
It has four sides square, and it’s called a microwave.
No bubble, bubble toil or trouble, with this new
Modern age tool, I just add these mystical
Prepackaged ingredients, then sit there on my
Broom stick and drool.
Forget the bat wings, and the eye of nout,
I prefer the minute bag of hot popcorn instead,
Wouldant you.
I’m the wiz of a wiz with this squared box of
Miracles, from the mid-night munchies, to the
Commercial button pause freeze zone, on the
Talley blue screen.
There is no more a sacred sound ever heard
On this earth, then that dinging bell going off,
Then ever buddy scrambling to check out, what
Homemade goodies mom has cooked up?
Now the crook top is dandy, and the stove
Maybe handy for more flavor, or special
Occasions of the holiday persuasion,
But I prefer the minute satisfaction,
And gratification of this microwave
Magician.
My personal idea of home style cooking,
Is pierce the bags plastic top, and stir,
Then serve, boy that broke this fevers
Sweat, are you ready to eat my young ones.
Now in my spell books of cooking perfection,
There’s just no place to plug in this modern
Tools connection.
So these massive volumes are just dust
Collectors, but I have a dust buster for
This readies problem, I just have to pop
Dinner in the magic box first, before I can
Solve them.
So what will it be tonight my friend,
Pizza or Pasta surprise, with an Abracadabra’s
Ding, and a POP, I can feed a whole troop of soldiers,
Or a hungry family of five.
Just call me a modern wizard with technical
Support, the best invention of all times
My microwave caldron, with its four
Squared sides, excuse me please,
The bell just went off!!!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO MY DAUGHTERS AMANDA AND ASHLEY
And also to the inpatient animals of the world, thanks mom!
In the woods wonders a fool,
He walks along a sorrowful path.
His soul has fallen beneath the rule
of a vengeful woman’s wrath.
He begs forgiveness from the dark,
For that is all who can hear his cries.
Even his shadow refuses to hark,
as the tears flow from his eyes.
With his heart she stole the good,
and crumbled it into the dirt.
As he begged, broken he stood,
wishing for a way to stop the hurt.
No second chances, no more tries.
She couldn’t forgive him once more
No amount of tears nor alibis,
could wash away the bottles on the floor.
He sipped past his final excuse,
He lost her love now once for all.
Now he walks to a lonely noose,
Haunted by the demons call.
Love has turned her face away
the pain now takes control.
There were no silver words to say,
That could pay this poor fools toll.
As he wanders deep and deeper
his sorrow is overthrown by rage.
Now as he awaits the reaper,
his heart is stabbed within its cage.
Addiction has poisoned and made him ill
It’s blackened his heart and stolen his sight
His anger it boils and readies to kill,
Demons have awoken in his heart tonight.
A transformation has taken place,
tonight a monster has been born.
An evil slithers across his face,
flowing from where his heart was torn.
In the woods awaits an angry fool,
love has left him and he rots in pain.
He hates the living like an evil ghoul,
and death runs through his every vein.
In the dark by damnation's gate
He sits alone and lingers.
waiting for that woman’s fate
to fall into his fingers.
He wants her to look into his eyes,
and fear what she has created.
He wants to kiss her as she dies,
and whisper why he’s waited.
He wants his life to be rebuilt,
He wants the heart that she stole
He wants to be free of the guilt,
He wants to regain his soul.
Rugged moss-covered rocks scale the ancient mountain
To slumber in the vaporous mantle of cloud, crystal icy water cascades down
Fine mist settles upon my face, I cup my hand to water and take a sip
A meandering river of opaque glassy emerald waters plunge then dash on by
Waters burble, drum rolls over beaten rocks, natures crescendo plays
Crisp air clings, then dances through the hazy hills, to twirl, then gently dip
Each step my mind captures the moment, rituals of village life
A girl stirs indigo water in a barrel, so I stop to ask how and why
Points to tiny purple flowers, vibrant colours leap from the purses on display
Nearby, goats perch precariously chewing, oblivious to people walking by
Salivating smells of chilli chicken, coriander waft lazily through the air
An elderly man squats, cigarette hangs off his lip, quietly readies for the day
Visitors desire unique experiences, risk to go where no one else has been
Breathe, the intrepid driver hurtles, churning mud, on the slippery road
Dashes past villagers and temples so I can walk amongst the clouds
Guide Ly Thy Ly takes me to her home and before the family altar
Feel spirit connected, I am humbled, every day they give thanks and pray
Tribal woman shares her heart, stands tall like the mountain and just as proud
Misty peaks, tumbling waterfalls, granite mountain ranges
Splendiferous from the earth to the sky
Natures wondrous beauty, stirs all my senses and curious mind
I learn, we love, we share, we take our place in the world
A spirit nature flourishes in your heart and in your soul
Simple is a way of life, so be gentle and be kind
Written on 11/07/2019
Entered in the "Tri-Con contest"
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
TO KNOW THE WHYS OF A COW
IS TO KNOW WHY GOD CREATED MAN
A cow looks at the full moon standing on a sloping hillside
it looks straight at the moon as if it were waiting for an answer
the beast does not move but keeps staring
looking for answers that are not forthcoming
The moon offers no response
the cow bored ambles down the hill, bell around its neck clanging
nobody will ever know why the cow stared at the moon
waiting for wisdom that would not come
Rosebuds turn rusty brown and yellow before dropping groundward
the difference between the cow staring at the moon
and the rosebuds falling simultaneously is slight and incongruous
certain occurrences in life will remain a mystery
The quiet of the Thames estuary is still today
save for the ganders fretting about in the mud
the world appears calm on this day of our Lord
unfortunately humans abound so calm is suspect
Half way around the world evil forces stir
the Bear (Russia) restless gets up from his slumber
ready to do combat on the small of its kingdom
ready to shake the world with pretense
Somewhere else maybe towards the west
an Eagle makes ready for war, it always stays ready
inevitably, chances are they will meet in battle
with dire consequences for all living things
The Eagle readies for the fray
always preparing to be up for the task
there’s one thing the Eagle always has on his side
the willingness to hang himself with the rope he bought
As eagles will do when catching prey in flight
they’ll cling to their quarry even if it means falling
and killing themselves on the rocks below
they will never let go
This is one mystery of nature’s dichotomy that forever befuddles cows.
Vostok 1
Within the time allotted
of eighty-nine minutes,
to orbit the planet
at 17,500 miles per hour;
The Russian Cosmonaut
inside the Vostok capsule
espies the distinctive
features of earth,
from two hundred miles above
its surface.
And reflects upon
the physical violence
of energetic movement
that formed terra firma;
Then watches the sun’s rays
penetrate the atmosphere,
and thinks of the warmth
inside the magnetic shield.
He sees the beauty of the blues
deposited from frozen comets.
Out here, it’s so tranquil
thinks Yuri Gagarin,
first person in space.
“Cedar to Dawn,
I see earth. The visibility is excellent, over!”
His message relays
to the Soviet command station.
Then, the Vostok retros fire over Africa
for gravity to force re-entry,
and readies himself for ejection.
Four miles above the Volga River
basin drainage system.
***
Notes:
April 12, 1961: On April 12, 1961, Yuri Gagarin aboard Vostok 1 launched from Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan, USSR at 6:07 am local time. The total mission lasted 108 minutes. He was the first person in space, and the first person to orbit the earth.
In order to escape gravity, the capsule needs to hit 7.9 km/s or 17,500 miles per hour, which is orbital velocity (approximately 20 times the speed of sound).
Vostok: means East in Russian
Cedar (Kedr-Russian pine): Gagarin’s call sign
Dawn (Zarya): Launch facility call sign
On May 5, 1961, Alan Shepard was the first American astronaut launched into space, and John Glenn became the first American astronaut to orbit the earth on Feb. 20, 1962.
Written: August 31, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Each day the evenings will shorten,
My lawn never got vibrant in my garden.
Life shifts slowly as the sun sets low in the sky,
As summer bids goodbye.
Sunflowers start to hide their faces,
Their vibrant petals are now withdrawn.
No longer basking in the sun's warm embrace,
Their golden glow is now gone.
Morning dew sparkles on the green grass,
A reminder of the fading warmth.
Days grow short, and the air is a morass,
As nature readies for the storm.
Humming mower engines are quite rare,
There is no longer a need for lawn care.
Summer's melody has gone numb,
Now, Autumn's whispers are dumb.
BBQs are packed away for the following year,
Neither sizzling steaks nor burgers on the grill
Gatherings and merriment are unclear,
As summer's flame begins to chill.
After harvest moons, loud crickets crack-clack,
Their symphony begins to wack,
Nights sway calmer, and stars are brighter,
Summer's lilting tune appears to be lighter.
Beaches are vacant schools to replace,
Children's laughter fades away,
Yellow buses claim their place.
As summer ceases it's joyful play.
Lightweight blankets pulled to the chin,
As the nights grow colder and longer,
Bedtime dreams are tucked in,
As summer's grip grows stronger.
The buzzing harbor drones no more,
Boats depart the splintery lakeshore,
The waves now whisper their goodbyes
As September knocks their ways.
Farewell to summer's golden glow,
As autumn's colors start to show,
The world transitions; the seasons sustain,
But Summer's memories will forever remain.
In the late interlude of existence, a woman,
Readies herself to step into the celebration of her seventieth year.
She asks, has she found the soul's peace,
Fulfillment, the joy of life, or does she still wander
In search of answers to old questions,
Returning to "what if's” in a world devoid of echoes.
Her descendants prepare for her a grand celebration,
Her grandchildren, stars around her, shining to honor the occasion.
Are they the mirror of her pride?
Or is her heart weighted with ungiven time,
Persistent worries, endless wishes for better?
The extended family gathers, in this festive moment,
Yet she feels distant, a stranger in her own narrative.
Life has not followed her dreams; it has been a path of storms,
But from each trial, she learned to be strong,
To embrace her days with gratitude, to leave phantoms behind,
To graciously accept the unanticipated gifts of fate.
Once asked about future plans,
She dreamed of grandeur, yet found only silence in responses.
Now, with serene wisdom, she whispers her creed: "let it be",
Finding answers in the song of stars, in the breeze's caress.
Her dreams, unfulfilled, but never forsaken,
Urge her to dream anew, to reinvent,
To live each moment, to carve her own path of happiness,
For in the end, you are the architect of your own life.
Thus, this woman, free from the concerns of tomorrow,
Dances to rhythms of eternity, living in the present,
Changing with each day like a gentle balm,
Embracing life, in all its complexity, with an open heart.
Ahhh... to live each moment as an endless gift,
In this mystical tableau, where every verse is a melancholic sigh.