Long Rudest Poems
Long Rudest Poems. Below are the most popular long Rudest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rudest poems by poem length and keyword.
At my doctor’s clinic, I again encountered “Bot1”;
nearly running over people in front of me.
It seemed to be coming towards me;
to its whims I’d nearly succumbed.
No, “excuse me”, “Lookout” or a
“Kiss my big rubber wheels”.
In front of me, it turned and stopped,
screaming, “Clear the hall, I have things to do!”
I tried to go around the bully but,
it spun around and screamed again;
I said back, “You’re in my way now,
you spinning bucket of tin!”
“Bot1” blinked red lights,
backed away and backed itself up;
turning into another room,
it sat there, seeming to have given up.
As I walked past the door, I felt it leer at me.
I sped up my pace and looking back I saw it
rolling out again; oh how I wanted to flee.
As I neared the exit, once again it screamed;
this time it was picking on someone else, it seems.
Humans are supposed to control that “Bot1” but,
I doubt one was that day;
it was the rudest monstrosity I’ve encountered any day.
So if you encounter a clinic, “Bot”,
don’t let it push you around;
just feel free to insult it back and
stand your own ground.
I was walking straightly along the street,
Eyes of unknown were saying their warm greet.
Feels like that I was being stripped,
Eyes of unknown were trying me to grip.
I was walking straightly along the street,
Grins of unknown were offering me a treat.
Feels like they were inviting me,
Grins of unknown were seducing me.
I was walking straightly along the street,
Touch of unknown was a soothing sprit.
Feels like they were pulling me,
Touch of unknown was really trying me.
I was walking straightly along the street,
Words of unknown were their rudest kit.
It feels like that they were treating me bad,
Words of unknown only made me to run hard.
I sat on a chair completely nervous
to know where I would do my youth service.
Then came the rudest shock of my whole life,
I'd have to go up north where strifes were rife.
I didn't even try to change the posting,
I was downcast as many were boasting,
that they'd have a pleasant year of favour.
Me, it'd be a year of wasted labour.
At the camp, I hated all that I saw,
Even my strangeness was greeted with awe.
House flies may probably be their best friends,
because they surround their foods in their tens.
The harsher weather was too much for me,
Even, with dressing one can't be carefree.
Everywhere I went there, there was tension.
Trouble seemed to come by its mere mention.
I resigned to fate till one fateful day,
When my surname sake came to where I stay,
to ask if perchance we're from the same place.
And t'was a family tree we could trace.
She then introduced me to her father,
who knew my father without much bother.
So, in a strange land where all hopes were lost.
I met my lost cousin without a cost.
None rankle me like a parent so blind,
he or she that see what they choose to see.
O readers, I beg of that rudest kind
must they breed so damn prolifically?
A time to be seen, a time to be heard,
such should be the nature of kids and kings -
and patience tempered with an ordered word
in the battle of wills and childish things.
All I ask of you children of the corn
is hold your quicksilver tongues as a rule,
but every minute a jackass is born
who will play up, play dumb, and play the fool!
Thus a child not chastised in transgression
is schooled in misdeed and not the lesson.
Written: June 1991
Speak not to me of Edelweiss,
Come share this scene;
Cast jealous eyes towards Lucerne;
For by it’s banks, in verdant calm;
There reigns the White Angel supreme.
Mis-stepping tourists, hounds unleashed,
The rudest climes;
She only bends towards the east;
And when she’s plucked, unreadily;
Soon, phoenix-like anew she shines.
For those who pass but see her still,
Do ken her worth;
Unchallenged purity pervades;
For as she sleeps through daylight hours;
Displays her brilliance on earth.
As Night descends the Angel wakes,
Now magic shows!
Her dark interior unfolds;
She fades into Night’s majesty;
Swayed only by his rhythmic prose.
One whispers of her origins -
A gypsy's fate.
I only know that since I glanced;
Medusa bound, my lifetime’s spent;
Fixated in her mystic wake.
Tall and narrow,
the houses stand,
wall against wall,
hunched together
on the edge of the
cobbled street,
as if armed against
the unknown.
Tiny balconies
Where laundry
Used hang on railings
To dry, now bursting
With potted plants
Walls bright yellows,
greens and blues,
stucco and stone
mortared together
hundreds of years ago
by stout men in
leather aprons
with the rudest of
implements,
they lean inward
over the street,
which once ran with mud,
the contents of
slop jars, and wash water.
Now teeming with tourists
who hobble on the cobbles,
peering into first floors,
converted into tiny shops
crammed with hats
and shirts and sandals,
soaps and wine and bracelets,
postcards and paintings,
candy and local delicasies.
Oldtown suddenly finds itself
squarely in the middle
off the twenty-first century.
Feet still ache and shoulders are sore,
From the labors this night that they bore.
And still, a smile must they show,
To those who come to this abode.
With diligence and steady hand,
Orders are taken by others' command.
So to the fry of a kitchen hot,
They carry the message of who ordered what.
Then, again, they look for people anew,
Who come for service, food, and perhaps a brew.
When the fare is prepared, the kitchen bell will ring,
To beckon them to serve, as they dance with haste to answer its ring.
They wait to serve, then serve and wait,
They are at each customer's beckoning.
They smile to even the rudest ones,
And silently pray there be a reckoning.
So wait they will and wait they must,
Good service...and a smile upon their lips.
You can broaden their smiles at meals end,
Be generous with your tips!
I must be the last fellow
dedicated to a platonic love,
that makes me dream
while life flees
and just disappears
into the shadows of the evening:
forgetting that life
exists because of love...
These walls of cold stone,
suffocate me in a space
where my freedom
is an erring clone:
it will be summoned by self-esteem,
to let it lie there and die in scattered pieces...
Still treasured letters, unyellowed by light,
with a name which meant a trust so imposing
has lost its preciuos meaning;
a big heart drawn in red,decorated by roses
that weren't given for the passionate cause:
is as imperceptible as hypocrisy,
but the sweetened air,that my nostrils breath,
is confined by an hysterical guilt
and an insignificant fight
struggling with an unseen enemy...
I must be the last lover
of this remakable century,
whose eyes resent
the shallowness
and awkwardness of reality
when faced by the rudest reality,
while my perturbing questions
demand an answer
and compell me to persist:
forgetting that life exists
because of love...