Long Rotund Poems
Long Rotund Poems. Below are the most popular long Rotund by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rotund poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh thee! Of feathered frock
Bird of paradise – thee are not
For you wobble when you walk
And gobble – gobble - while you talk
Oh thee! Of stubby legs
Neck hanging in a bag
Of skin that sags and sags
How can you face another day?
Oh thee! With girth rotund
With wings of nearly none
Your flight is but a funny run
Some chase you just for fun
Oh thee! Of feathered frock
Bird of paradise - thee are not
As you lie on chopping block
Ending up in cooking pot.
But come Thanksgiving Day-
Everyone will gladly say
You are by far - the finest bird
That God has ever made.
Author: Elaine Cecelia George of Canada
Memories accumulate with each passing year
Some dark with troubles, some marked with cheer
I would rather stay focused on the smallest of things
For these are the ones I can keep in control
When everyday problems have taken their toll
Outside the window is a little orange tree
The laughter of children is heard in the breeze
We can feel hearts surrender while looking at three
quirky round faces, that look back at me
There are three rotund oranges, lined up on the fence
Left from the children who were playing last week
They picked a few oranges right off our tree,
then painted small faces, … with smiles on their cheeks
They'll remain there, to remind us that the happiness never leaves
So strange it seems, some things are meant
such little things. of no consequence
are the very same things, that might soon fade away,
but remain close to our hearts, the rest of our days
______________________________________________
3/5/16
For United Colors: Orange Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
When the poetry is gone,
the world is melancholy, the wind
sans voice silences...
The night closes and late
again to be day...
The poet is a pendulum between
worlds, poetry marks-
step of life...
If there was no poetry,
the earth would always be dry,
and the sea would only be
an emptiness... the world it
would even fall asleep in
rotund silence and neither
world would be...
even another world
wouldn't be anything fresh,
it would only be limbo
of the agonies...!
Miss All That (MAT) came in all prissy; serious cooks laughed a scoff.
Dare this woman think she’d make the finals in the ultimate cook off?
Something wrong with her we decided; her waist was too thin for sure.
We are serious chefs, burly with shaved heads who create chili pure.
Slimy's secret ingredient gives you flatulence and burps galore.
Many cream their britches before they reach the bathroom door.
Believe it or not, more people ate his chili than the chili of others.
He has thousands of relatives, I think fourteen younger brothers.
What do you call that crap? Asked a newcomer named Surly Sue.
We did not warn her in time, and she was now headed toward the loo.
Slimy slipped his secret ingredient into the donut she had been eating.
She did not make it for customers were taking up all the toilet seating.
Mother Russia in the form of Rotund Roth began his concoction.
Kremlin always bought his chili to make money at their biggest auction.
You sign up to stand in the bread lines waiting for two slivers of toast.
Best quality is chili's persuasive ability to bend wills of man and ghost.
I pulled out all the stops this year, introducing the Super Power Slide.
Gives you a kick in the salivating glands that makes you want to hide.
You turn invisible so no one can see your flatulence propelling you.
Around the room twice, before letting you fly out the window too.
Miss All That asked about six thousand questions to every single cook.
I wanted to say "Here lady" and hand her my dilapidated cook book.
But instead, I fell into niceness mode and helped her like the others.
Her chili was named the best; for she slept with all of Slimy's brothers.
Possiblity rolls rotund in your fingers
Hectic brain traffic makes way for intrigue
Direction indeterminate, insect lands unscathed
Careful spice simmers observations we can heed
Suspends apprehension, apprehends herd bellow
Stength encounters our sturdily built immunity
Intimacy emits permission to dismiss ridiculous
Slowly extending tip drops bits of significance
Currency exchanges notes of village productivity
Spice enters conciousness via macrowaves
Components of people create the places they live
Places mould the requirements of inhabitants
Unlike links of a chain, a structured semblance
Our recognition is dissected, stretched by us
Warnings examined in rotation's commitment
Alighted butterfly exposes pattern atop wings
Closure signifies opening, an opening poised
Assurance gives symmetry to lilypad hospitality
Dollop of tomorrow glimpsed in frog elastic instant
Proactive performers pirouette to new heights
Mother butterfly has limited tenure
Crouched firm against obstacles, she clusters
aspirations she has no time to share in
Your exploring hands unravel bound mystery
My decision, delicate as butterfly legs, is future led
Barriers break as caution's clutch is relinquished
Swollen perception unfriends refrain
Vulnerability becomes comfort in your closeness
Swaddled in hope, chrysalis flight transpires
Remnants of your pleasure mount missions
Illfitting questions increase chances for answers
Cynisism columns truth in civil rights twilight 2020
Untamed senses send a profusion of vines crawling
Words of neighbourhood nature joist global corners
Babel provides shared province when blood combines
Written : April 2020
Submitted on 4th October 2020
To Poetry Contest: Deep (001)
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer
As I study “Without Borders” it begins to rain and I drift in and out of reality. —quote by poet
MAX with rainfall
the hammer of rainfall
counterbalanced with bold
red round sun, nearly a world
within a world of color
white clouds like dancing spooks
across the rotund belly of impassioned sun
verdant green leaves mask the rain-
clouds…dim light
that boat appears
when my eyes drop
like rain, i feel
my mood change
i can see splatters
of red, yellow, blue
lightly hitting the river
headed for me
the hues are not primary
but rather
salmon, blueberry and banana-creme
—then the sails,
lift me above the waters,
smaller than the sun
but distinct
the placid vessel rests
as do i - no turning back
and the rains
have stopped
as i look away
4/8/2023
in heyday
making caramel apples
care-a-mel or car-mel
that waters the mouth
sticks to the teeth
deliciously wrapped
around a rotund apple
sour or sweet
my kids would unwrap
each kraft caramel
drop them into the pan
and wait for them to melt
we’d put the apples on a stick
and dip them into the gooeyness
place them on wax paper to set
of course we might just go
out to a festival and find
the fancy kind
but a kid must at least once
make their own
oh that first bite
the one that sinks the teeth
deep enough to go through the apple skin
and find the snowyness of pulp
that tangoes with
the caramel delight
in the heyday of autumn
with my kids
i could just taste
the way it was back then
10/19/2022
Fall Flavors Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Theme: Making caramel apples
How I wish readers miss me...
It has now been one year since he died,
What emptiness the poetic world feels!
His genius as days pass the more reveals,
His memories we hope would new pens guide
And his honest concern would be well billed,
Many a young mind was inspired by him,
All wonder-stuck on his poetic dream,
And his trademark style in this field.
In miles there’s no one to match his rare style,
He straddled tall alone as if on isle.
…And the reality
He sure carried a crazy little crowd,
He, more than crowd, was with his pen so proud.
We’ve oft seen him lost in utter silence,
And struggle, words deserting him at once.
Still, audience oft fell into rapture
Seeing his rambunctious rotund stature.
Fragrance there if at all came from flowers,
Not from blossoms of words upon bowers.
But that is how things go in today’s world,
More than song matter feathers of the bird.
About one year has gone by since he died,
On his pen’s silence few seem to have sighed.
Emptiness, nor is there any a void,
Many a new style have since been alloyed.
Yet, poetry field’s richer in this sense,
Not any worse in his absence.
And his so-called unique poetic style
Most likely might get buried on an isle.
No one flavour has ever ruled the world,
Not once has charmed for long a single bird.
_____________________________________
Musings |03.08.2014| poet
A poet imagines how he would be remembered after his death; what people would say, say after one year. The first stanza deals with this. Reality dawning on him, he then pens down the next.
Give me something round
Edges to life should be circular
Beware of the elliptic mystery
Rotate your marbles frequently
Give me something spherical
Two hemispheres in harmony
Held together with super glue
Solid to the core and spiraling
Give me something not Michigan
(Round objects are illegal in Michigan)
Balls and clocks are criminal offenses
Cops eat holes but not the donuts
Give me something curled up
Cylindrical in its composition
Rotund but not too obtusely cute
Circumferences should not be too cute
Give me something more articulated
Orbicular to orbiculated would be great
An object that orbits about itself and others
Held in both hands hollowed out loud
Give me something, anything with a shape
As long as it is not cube or rectangular
Squares and lines are grave mistakes
God forgives that which is angular
Give me something other than zeros
There must be light at the end of the tunnel
Ovals become more circular over time
Edges become less... once questioned
Give me moons surrounded by planets
Give me bald women who look ridiculous
We love them anyway from the bottom up
And the universe they came in on
Walking along a road, diagonally,
through someone's house briefly
and back out where there isn't a door
across their vegetable patch and
eventually over the bones of some buried
unknowns.
Cows are currently grazing in someone's
hallway, while a tree grows in the kitchen.
As I walk, I trample through a Roman bath
where in a different time a rotund, well fed
Roman is relaxing in his water.
My next foot down stamps the hand
of a warrior who has just fallen to the sword
As he, in his battledress and beard,
lays in someone else's hearth
where a herb-filled stew is being cooked.
I tread effortlessly over walls and pits,
rooms and murder scenes, above oceans
and below oceans.
These layers of time leave layers of life
which layer the ground silently screaming
voices and echoes of stories once told.
There will then be a layer to come
where someone will tread their feet
over my life, my house and my bed.