Long Shunted Poems
Long Shunted Poems. Below are the most popular long Shunted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shunted poems by poem length and keyword.
After debauched dearth of scorched earth & Aussie mirth
New Gay opener in the berth & Ollie back to surf the turf
Bazball less gall but more girth a rebirth but what’s it worth?
“Lack of nous is now notorious
More cat less mouse us furious
They say will try to do laborious
In house be bit more studious
About game’s history curious
No tantra mantra is spurious
“Bazball” is in the thesaurus
Moan it is prone to bore us
No more lone tyrannosaurus
Crazy tone like I am a Walrus
Toil of Sisyphus & boil of Icarus
Obstreperous schlep to leprous
Horn shorn a blunted rhinoceros
Hunted stunted shunted corpus
Sunken drunken hippopotamus
Wet beset with regret so porous
Raucous ruckus need new caucus
Mac attack Bull too full of Taurus
Cruel winter as they all lost focus
Plans to be a sprinter were bogus
Ken Baz & Ben splinter the onus
Dump us after screaming rumpus?
Key thick dreaming hocus pocus
Fans stick sick streaming mucus
So pick a well known local locus
Go to town not clown at a circus
Survives revives is a new crocus
Forlorn past forsworn vocal chorus
Reborn alive strives thrives..Lazarus
Our sown homegrown magnus opus?
I was Indiana, riding with rifle pointing ahead,
then Cassanova, lost count of how many in my bed,
as Sitting Bull, I looked down directing my braves,
I passed under an arch, giving one of Cleopatra's waves.
Tried to change history - it wasn't Custer's last stand,
as Columbus, I called America India, got mixed up with the land,
we couldn't have Captain Cook murdered by a bunch of savages,
Moses didn't take any tablets - just lots of stone pages.
We knew that Nelson was gay when he said: 'Kiss me Hardy,'
and Napoleon was shunted off to St. Helena reluctantly,
I prevented 'The Maid of Orle'ans' from being burnt at the stake,
Fagin asked me to pick pockets - it was more than I could take.
Then back to the beginning - maybe Tutenkamen would do,
which exotic personage could you emulate if it was you?
Who Beside This Atheist Doth "say" Thar Haint No Angels?
Two fatal head on
deadly automobile accidents
in quick succession at
Zieglerville, Pennsylvania
poetic traffic circle
killed me twice today,
this communique notated, recorded,
and transcribed adieu "say"
je nais sais quois eh
by divine angels, who aided
this deceased jay
bird, said winged
saviors didst sashay
in mine close proximity, this lifeless
badly damaged body
sprawled on the road,
when just by the "FAKE"
skin of my...er...dentures,
I whiz invisibly
whisked toward unearthly safety,
and (just in the nick
of time before corpse
of mine thorough lay
underwent aught top say),
this generic organ
donor and eBay
trader found himself shunted
into an expansive
cerebral, cerulean,
and celestial heavenly
gate atmospheric quay
king cosmic arena,
where Cupids practiced play
ying getting strangers lovestruck
when rehearsals debuted, yay
nearly finding this
wordsmith spell bound
yours truly with a may
zing starry eyed,
and stir craze zee,
the first female
(coincidentally, a head
over heels teenage crush)
aye didst yip pee
mon decaying flesh
felt WOWed, cuz she
never looked better re:
eternally sleeping with her
stone face, prithee
one, where death be
not proud did justice,
yet rules forbid fraternizing
with deceased, nee
(repudiating no exceptions
against gender bending
strictures) amidst soul asylum,
could witness punishment, nay
saying of guilty party landing
squarely into jailed
into the absolute
worst hellish clinker
back to the future as
joining every other
mere mortal upon Earth,
next best option offered
aside from (undying soul
reveling in immortality),
would be fate offered,
by Scott, sans the blimey
(hen pecking) road
less traveled me
disappointing fate,
where alternative possibility,
chosen minus collisions, and
absent adolescent
post mortem inamorata.
Everyone called him Great
The Kind soaked with pride
He blew his own trumpet
Was he the God’s own child!
His subjects lived in misery
He did not bother for their plight
‘Can’t drink water, drink wine’
He shunted misery out of sight
Darkness never mattered for him
Beautiful women lighted his nights
No opponents to challenge him
He took delight at his might
‘Who is the wisest of you all?’
He made the wise men fight
Rewarded the chosen ones
The rest fled out of sight
The king strode over a desert once
The Sandstorms put him in a bind
Thirst overcomes him, no water at sight
His soldiers flee, left him behind
No drop of water around
The king went wild
Like an oasis, he saw a lone old man
Walking afar, nothing to hide
The Kind appealed to show the way
Promised to give back anything in kind
The old man asked for his kingdom
The angry King made him blind
The old man laughed at him
Ego made the King blind
Rains lashed over his dead body
The soul was back in humankind
The first drops of rain, a herald
Of good things to come.
The mix of rain drops and dust
stirs...
The fresh smell of nature revives
the senses.
Natures cycle turns full circle.
The allure of fresh vegetables
Tingled up sensation of past
memories are revived.
It's a new season of fresh fruits
vitamins filled.
Natures cycle turns full circle.
The rustling sound of a mix of
leaves and rain alloyed in the
hushed melee.
How exciting the nature, change
produces.
Natures cycle turns full circle.
Hazy clouds billows spiralling
cloudward.
The sense of rain, sun rays shunted
out.
Hissing winds, swaying trees dancing
to the rhythm of the waves of the
wind.
Nature cycle turns full circle.
As dark clouds touch down mother
earth.
The release of sandy dust pellets a rain
of dust alas!.
At last the rain has announced its
permanence.
Natures cycle has turned full circle.
(Written 17th March 2015)
unjoined lips parted, breathing with a sigh
flowers stand for hours to undo
proving only the softest of petals
to brush a young cheek blushing
all vision lost this throat no worthy vessel
to release the stars to make a universe
where doves still dare not fly
still air fading Into night eyes become shunted
with the bending of the light
all sound an echo of two souls become a mirror
me becoming you to closer be
not grasping, releasing
not gasping, breathing
forsaking all the world for your touch
I cannot disappear and still exist
the finest line between
your shadow and our kiss
summoned by your gaze
my eyes see everything
my lips un-parted speak in kisses
deep enough to fill all oceans
all words could ever be
your lips my lips your heart becoming me
I disappear in you
emerging into life anew
unchanged this shameless Shaman
dancing to Heaven’s fire
with whispered sounds of background life
piercing softly deep beneath the edge
of wisdom’s knowing knife
bleeding out to disappear in you
so willingly would I become that which you create
forsaking life for truth, forsaking life for beauty,
forsaking all for this mad, sad cryptic moment
missed by all beheld by none
but now the bell tolls freely
as time renews the moment
and I must take such bitter pill, my leave.
Gods of glowing neon and gaudy screens
smile upon charming, charming patterns of heads.
All colors of hair, lit red, then green, then blue,
guided along invisible paths, crown heads
perspiring, chanting and glancing down
on marching, mechanical arms, then worrying
as they scurry along infinite, crisscrossing paths -
at once so ordered and so unfathomably chaotic.
Drums are rolled by hurrying feet
dictating the race of mankind.
A metropolis looms, adorned by a billion shimmering jewels -
electric jewels - and an apparition sways over the
bustle, silently watching, silently floating.
Giant chutes proudly puff out plumes of nightly black
and devils forged in impure fire do rise
to the heavens above, graced by the blessings of
the industrial revolution, in turn blessing humanity with progress,
imperceptible except as phlegmatic gasps
and the whiff of crisp green paper, distinguished by
wizened faces and packed in neat bundles.
Bulbous, aged fingers do trace from within
the sanctum sanctorum of a temple aged a thousand years,
charming, charming patterns of jewels
in intricate, frozen dance, carving out hexagons of perfect symmetry
from wearily cut marble windowsills.
The work of a thousand splendid hands
preserved by the unseen, dusty hands of time
did render the mosque palatial, its beauty heavenly.
The admiring eyes sing hymns praising the architecture, alas
they are blind, for the marble, white as angelic wings, is grey now.
The scientist appears, eyes hidden by thick glassy cubicles
yet shining through, lit by the endless pursuit of knowledge
and equally burdened by numbers, figures, notes
and the maddening myopia of man.
On the screen appears, against fresh white
charming, charming patterns of red, green and blue
sinking downward, worryingly as it would seem,
his uninflected pleas let in through one ear, instantly
shunted out through the next by the populace, to whom
the music of modernity rings sweeter.
First Place, Charming Patterns Poetry Contest
Date: 16th October 2021
less than half a dozen hours
remain here in Lake Woebegone,
an idyllic enclave, where legal tender,
liquid assets, minted monies
by the metric ton
loot, et cetera replaced
with sharing home good humor spun
prevarication, or a pun
where this Norwegian bachelor farmer,
now sets timer counting down to the one
hundred and fifth International Women's Day,
hence dada's taxi service necessitated
(asper my own volition) none
forsaking a substantial block of time
to ferry (via 2009 Hyundai Sonata)
thine eldest (of deux
darling damsels doggedly, diligently,
and definitively) whose maternal hue
ma in instincts (staking out
vocational, interpersonal, Jew
dish hiss lee courting biological objectives
Since matriculating
At University Of Pennsylvania
she seriously eyed
the engineering curriculum,
and as an inherent
high achieving civilian, this rugged
cerebral terra firmae terrain
emitting a signal calling she knew
tubby meant foe her, thus this proud papa his new
wish availing self less father summoned,
pressed, and mustered joyriding
glommed within mental motor queue
thus despite experiencing a minor panic attack
(with nausea more pronounced than usual), aye
did not want Eden (her first name)
to feel disgruntled toward pop (hood rather die)
as opposed to slacking off where fatherhood
concerned strove to be a beneficial guy
especially before the stroke of midnight
will usher well nigh
till next year long overdue attention,
now bequeathed during these twenty four hours
when non gun shy
textile women (shunted subaltern
second class workers)
in New York (circa 1907),
but said event opened to dispute,
but less in doubt
historical records indicate
1914 International Women's Day held on March 8
since then continued along
a linkedin chain in case you wondered why.
It's six days since
the Hole was dug...
First frost clings now
to newly turned earth,
to shunted sod,
to stones, to pebbles.
A grave grows colder
today than yet it's been...
Hearts grow busy, too.
Supplanting last images
with happier ones.
The heart and mind curate
a story to tell and re-tell;
to tell ourselves. To hold back
the ghosts.
~~~
It’s a year and some four months
since its been six days,
today.
The field, once buttercupped,
had been for Iris to wander.
His field, unbuttered.
She ignored what he’d eat.
A square of yellow beside a square of green.
(If only you’d seen!)
Her white, stark, above the fresh-cut ginger yellow
field.
Then, in a month of summer, her field...
greened.
She a cloud above a lawn.
He a sienna burning in the
Summer sun.
His field daisied and hers green.
The yellow square now green.
The green square now white.
She in her place.
He in his.
Trading primaries.
Today, the buttercups began to return to his green-then-white
field.
The place where his grave is.
I notice,
through tears,
that none have grown over his grave.
Ghosts, perhaps,
are flowers.
The beauty returning,
from seeds buried.
When DNA shunted a tad to the right
And the very first man got his very first sight
Of his chimpanzee brothers, less upright, less tall
With rocks preselected he bludgeoned them all
Man’s earliest crime from man’s earliest time
Civilisation? A very long climb.
So kill to survive became killing to win
The first creeping roots of perennial sin
One million years on he talks so he lies
His enemy lives so his enemy dies
One million years on he wants so he takes
His smile and his friendly demeanour are fakes
No-one knows when or from where it came
He harboured the concept of someone to blame
He had God and Gods but the field wasn't level
So he grasped at the notion of something called Devil
For thousands of years most of the crime
Was blamed on the Devil most of the time
Man raped and man pillaged, man tore man apart
And all for the Devil was in his black heart
They’d told it, then wrote it, then acted on stage
Finally Hollywood explained the rage
The Devil, he’s Satan, he’s Lucifer too
So nothing you do can be levelled at you
But what happened next has modern man vexed
The Devil shuns Facebook, nor does he text
He cannot inveigle or instigate grief
When the man of today has little belief
God is what happens at Easter and Christmas
The Devil’s not mentioned aloud nor in whispers
Satanic movies and tomes gather dust
Yet man’s ill intent stands proud and robust
No caveman, no spaceman and no John Doe can
Refute that an evil resides within man
His guilt is his own, be it malice or passion
Now that the Devil has gone out of fashion
_ _ _ _
[Inspired by my partner, Annie, who, as we flicked through
The channels looking for a movie to watch, said...
‘The Devil’s gone out of fashion’]