Long Segmented Poems
Long Segmented Poems. Below are the most popular long Segmented by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Segmented poems by poem length and keyword.
Beyond the comprehension
of but one segmented soul
Lies the one intention
of the source to make us whole
Growing and all knowing
for us al to be a part
Each of us determines
how we recognize its start
How in the beginning
if there was one to believe
Wouldn’t we be grinning
with that knowledge up our sleeve
For some it’s God or Universe
Intelligence for sure
For some it’s not a rhyme or verse
there’s nothing to explore
For me, I keep open mind
respecting others’ claims
I just know I’m glad I’m here
not worried by the names
1/25/23
I watched the water shuttering on the table.
I was stunned as this seemed out off sorts:
an earthquake exactly at twelve, high noon
on 12-12-2012 . This is the day, that the
Priapus Award finalist had to have
there name in in order to receive the
nominations for Researcher and amatuer
Journalist of the year. Seven ordained people
had to dispute there works
but criticize them as Professional grade in
order to qualify for nomination. There own rebuke
of these people would then offer others
from competitive points of view to then be
nominated for the Award. This bought competition:
the day's earthquake only gave Priapus,
" the God of Journalism the platform to call those
in opposition of him "pagans and peasants"!
The forum was designed to allow amateur's to
show case there works, and gives them a platform
with criticism that has been selected to tame
the liberal hearts of "Attention Seekers". The
annual event has drawn a following: the Ceremonies
eiter are done on Christmas Day of New Years Day,
creating a place for people to belong and have security in
the areas of there works.Podcast platforms and Individuals
are all given an opportunity. Presentation is everything.
All religions are included: all sorts of topics are included.
The Pastors award is given to the Pastor of the year. A sports Award and Culinary Award
are also highlight features.
The areas of Music, Theater, Science, Art and Agriculture
have segmented recognitions to. " The Clipper Award in Podcasting,
"The Pull Quote" Award. The Alia Award in music, and Grappler award in Wrestling. Palooka Award in Boxing and many others. I sat stunned at the table watching the wave, while
the earthquake rattled the table. I directed my frustration toward being safe,thats how I bared
with the loneliness. "Biting on my style: me calling him a Playerist
may have been the Ego Tamer we were looking for!
evol-u-shun, a coronavirus poem
by michael r. burch
does GOD adore the Tyger
while it’s ripping ur lamb apart?
does GOD applaud the Plague
while it’s eating u à la carte?
does GOD admire ur brains
while ur claiming IT has a heart?
does GOD endorse the Bible
you blue-lighted at k-mart?
NOTE: In the segmented title “evol” is “love” spelled backwards. The title questions whether you/we have been shunned by a "God of Love" or by evolution. William Blake’s poem “The Tyger” questions the nature of a Creator who brings lambs and tigers into the same world. Keywords/Tags: god, love, evolution, creator, creation, creationism, coronavirus, plague, disease, illness, William Blake, tyger, tiger, lamb, predator, prey, brains, heart, christian, Christianity, bible, K-Mart, blue light special
Snakes sneak slow, spiral :
Startling !
Slender slim snake
slips showing small shiny scales.
Serpents stare sharp stern,
simply swallow sometimes
Sudden stunt !
Species are reptiles
Scorpions , so scary
showing strong sting
slip slide swift
shaking segmented tail :
Surprisingly scorpions
give birth to live young
and carry it on back
till it feeds itself on its own.
Special style.
Owls are clever, nocturnal,
drowsy, tipsy in the morning,
to sleep sound in day
and wake up in evening.
Shrill whistle to call each other
is the secret signal.
Expert to rotate neck completely on back :
Specific skill to possess !
Easy approach to catch poor prey
or spot hidden invader .
White owl : beautiful.
Pretty profile.
A screen door
creaks
small incursions
into rip and hole.
Unseen, a creeping grub and thriving,
chitinous mandibles
munch upon the desiccated dead,
thrive in the thrash and mingle.
Corruption forms its disorderly queue,
jointed question marks
walk on segmented legs
spindly limbs pry
where slick eggs incubate.
As time swings its metronome,
splintered chips
flake away, wood
cracks its rotting bones.
Internal scaffoldings
crumble,
mold multiplies,
mildew clings to
muck.
A festering wriggles forth.
"Honey, can you oil the back door,
it's creaking again."
I scrunch my butt deeper into the sofa.
"I'll get on it after the game." I say,
making a mental note
to get more beers in,
Tomorrow, slap some paint
over the wormholes
maybe.
Dim tunnels curve a segmented ocean.
Bat-winged feeding specters
browse glass. Scaly hulls
blow gas tanks. Rainbow skimmers
flick and soar.
A child’s sweet nose pressed
against a face so horrible,
bubbles of fear pop
in my brain.
Above us, jellyfish swim,
dendritic minds dangling.
tentacles of electric awareness.
Sharks circle waiting to be fed.
shark lovers, perhaps fantasying’
swimming in and out
of their bloody teeth.
It’s a movie - we gawp and admire,
shiver and savor
between margins of beauty
and grotesque gulping’s.
Red and blue squadrons
of directional floor arrows,
lead us out into the light -
a place that some believe
is a safer landscape.
Marvel at her huge size,
the stuff of nightmares,
motionless she hangs
in the center of a universe
of her own emission.
Her legs, segmented, like stalks
of grass, test vibration
Hanging orb-like above
a tiny male that awaits
his destined peril-
because to devour a mate is not
exclusive to the Black Widow.
Another male in-waiting,
at the web's perimeter,
came too late. His will be
a different fate
to pine for an encounter,
he’s far better off without.
Her ‘itsy- bitsy’ children
exist like tiny drops of mercury
hanging from single threads
Let's hope she mistakes their motion
for a breeze.
Danger - their only option
They are scavengers of tiny bugs
from the woven edges of her den
until they have size enough
to set forth on the wind
Knowing they will grow
to be like her.
No question!
Long nosed earthy bookworm knows 'bout Angler Saxon
Shell yours truly share hook line
and sinker, regarding how I nearly
fell prey to off fish shill
doom for umpteenth time?
Ya haint got no choice... to late,
cuz eyes already clicked bait,
though don't worry be happy fate
will find thee enjoying poetic tête-à-tête
rhyming Hors d'oeuvres
ain't no Shakespearean literary great
expert, nonetheless might interest
with special Labor Day rate
absolute zero charge courtesy
to mollycoddle principally
as figurative paypal pit tate
ting gently massaging your pate
anyway don't get doggies in a dimple
yawping personal ambition
of this doggone puppy not to create
literary accomplishment appraised great
merely to fritter away time possibly
unexpectedly, unknowingly,
unwittingly... titillate.
Herewith follows "FAKE" off fish hill
anecdote without wallowing
in self pity and deemed gill
tee of slimy overkill,
whereby fisherman seeks likes of me,
who favors lollygagging
within Brooklyn rill
frequented by Jack and Jill
ice cream in vain
when riled, poked, nabbed...
courtesy angler England Bill
unaware his carping cavil
never fooling this ever will
fill squiggly... d'ya phylum me?
As proud Annelida where trawler
(accompanied with boating mate)
blithely tosses yours truly into catcher's
reel tin can - grim fate
ah, but survival skills include
ability to regenerate
in thee event mine body electric rotate
headed, chopped, perforated, segmented...
evening, increasing, licking... odds
laughing to myself, which doth not abate,
cuz I outsmarted, thus aye state
with modesty if perchance just a sliver
lopped off, destiny cannot eliminate
opportunity not to agitate,
but rather duplicate, replicate
unisexual worman hood
without need to feign
being irate, thus
pretend to equivocate.
Within the shadow of the crystal spires,
Where plains are painted by the frozen fires,
The field-logs track a monument of mass:
The heavy monarch of the golden grass.
Magnatropis vitreus is cataloged and known,
A living fusion of the quartz and bone,
A mountain walking on a six-fold frame
Of polished obsidian that no tool can tame.
Its segmented chassis, wide and heavily set,
Is wrapped in a translucent exoskeleton net,
A diamond-hard carapace, shimmering clear,
Through which its strange organs and vitals appear.
Its blood is a coolant of sapphire sheen,
Pulsing through valves that are easily seen,
While its eyes are bright clusters of compound gems—
Red ruby lenses on low-slung stems—
That do not track distance or predatory flight,
But map out the currents of deep quantum light,
Perceiving the drift of the space-time strand
As it sweeps through the grass of the perfect land.
Yet this titan of armor and crystalline skin
Is not built for malice, for war, or to win;
Its purpose is vital, a biological gear
That stabilizes the local biosphere.
Along its ribbed flanks, where the plates interlock,
Are rows of deep pores carved like vents in a rock.
It breathes in the nitrogen mists of the night,
The volatile vapors that choke out the light,
And filters the toxins through chambers of stone
Deep in the vaults of its vitreous bone.
With every slow breath of its massive domain,
It breathes out sweet oxygen over the plain,
A massive, organic, atmospheric pump,
Clearing the air with each heavy-set thump.
As it browses the plains where the light-flora grows,
It crushes the minerals left by the snows,
Its six grinding hooves tilling silicate sand
To scatter the nutrients across the ground,
A peaceful leviathan, quiet and grand,
It is the gardener-beast as it moves around.
Charley Dinton said
that everyone has a secret name.
A bad person’s name
might be long and segmented
like chopped jellied eels,
or spat out in gobs like phlegm.
He was old when I was young.
I paid him little heed,
yet it was said of him
that he had a special sight.
Grownups listened to him
when he spoke of certain things.
He would sit in father’s chair,
and dad didn’t even complain
but offered tea and biscuits,
as if mum had forgotten how.
Halfway through a story
he chuckled at a thought:
'Jer know wha e cawl imself?
He was talking of a person we knew of
who’d been jailed for rape.
E cawl imself, ‘Jack the Rabbit’..ty old bugger!
I saw eaz weal moniker mine you
Saw it in is mauff clear as dayligh.
People got all sort ov idden names,
some names
wou make yer bleedin air curl.
Devils turds I cawls em.
That’s what Charley Dinton said.