Long Slants Poems
Long Slants Poems. Below are the most popular long Slants by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slants 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.
Back straight, shoulders down. Straighten the computer. Stop staring at the purple walls.
Light the candle once, twice, three times -- why won’t it light? --
before the flame finally catches,
filling the room with the scent of pine.
Breathe in, breathe out. Start typing.
Sunlight slants across my fingertips, and I turn to face the source
impossibly far from the window.
The clouds are tinged the golden white of times flown by,
of the yarn of the Fates that winds tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter in your chest until you’re suffocating, asphyxiating, gasping for breath, panic turning your body to crumbling stone.
The mushrooms know this process well. It’s been inscribed in their DNA since well before humans were graced with the knowledge of how to care for their dead.
Over the eons, they’ve befriended Time and Death alike.
What would I give to have such an intimate connection with the two?
To sit back amongst shadows that drape me like a blanket rather than grip me like a vise?
Too much time has passed. Too many seconds lost. Time, time, time, slipping away from my scrambling fingers.
Can’t grip the yarn; too silky, too precious. The Fates wove quality too fine for mortals to grasp.
Clear thoughts like an etch-a-sketch, sending fireglow hair flying. Breathe in, breathe out.
Start typing.
The words that appear are damn near incomprehensible, shrouded and hidden by
ghosts of memories that weave themselves through my thoughts.
A dark lake house lit by candles and the fire in my eye as I take my grandma “exploring”
over forest-colored carpet and around oak tables,
a land she’s already familiar with.
How do I rectify that vision with what’s facing now?
112 feather-light pounds of gray hair and fading eyes,
reality’s cruel reward for a life of purpose and love.
I’m scrambling to keep up with all the changes, but my grasp is slipping.
Suddenly she’s falling faster than we thought.
The heater’s white noise is the only constant,
the handfuls of M&Ms the only distraction.
I’m all too aware of the bills I’m racking up,
too cognizant that synthetic dopamine only shoves away what’s real,
but I’m crumbling too fast to care.
Shaky breath in. Straighten the computer. Stop staring blankly at the purple walls.
There’s too much to do; the future’s jumping down your throat and running away.
Start typing.
The flood waters had drawn back
Land made its debut
The past gone and over
With nothing but hope in view
Hard work and labor ahead
Building and creating...what
Grown minds can't forget experience
No matter how one sought
...to begin again
After a time of planting and pruning
Harvest came in fullness of glory
Lending God's blessing
To the legendary story
Funny how a flood can wash away life
But not bring one to self control
The father "god" released himself
To the lusts of his consuming soul
...in celebration of humanity
What did Cush know before
That seeped under the skin to once again
Reveal the nakedness of humanity
And the sepulcher of sin
Had LOVE been present with Noah
His response could not have been a curse
Forgiveness and compassion
Would have covered even the worst
....desires
He walked away with a fear of self
And exalted himself in fear and shame
He would never need that presence again
When he forged a powerful, worship base...of a name
He would create a world of debauchary
Where twisted passions are indulged
Men and women could experiment
And the nakedness of man bulged
...in plain sight
Kingdoms came and went throughout the ages
Merging and assimilating with one
Osiris and Isis, pagan gods
Yet "freedom" displays their symbols under GOD and GUN
All of civilization has been touched by failure
To respond appropriately to fear
Written history slants truth to serve agendas
With peanuts and beer
...with a wink of the eye
The system hides at the height of education
The breaking down of a flowing mind
Add a little "god" to the knowledge
And one can operate outside of the confines of time
Raising humanity above the sludge of soul
Into the heavenlies of a magical god
Using the terrors and horrors of the past
To make a paved road, much easier to trod
...to the ALL SEEING EYE
Education under the guise of religion
Is the perfect place to hide humanity's fear
We wonder if there is a difference, choice can make
That will bring down an all-consuming fire to sear
Man's conscience to perfection, the sainted election
Of those who will go into the next world, without sin
How can GOD deliver humanity, anew
Without ONE failing again...and again
...nothing new under the sun
Written by Trudy Schrader on 05-16-2018
Born into the lap of loneliness
Adam paced restless up and down
God knew he badly needed a mate
And willed the solitary man, a companion
Nonpareil in beauty and grace,
God wanted her to be the marvel of marvels
With wonderful craftsmanship,
God began working on His new creation
Seeing God laboring overtime
The angels in Heaven came in hordes.
Overwhelmed by awe and wonder
Rallying round Him, they asked in chorus
“Lord, you seem to take extra care
In the making of your latest work,
Have you any special intent?
God smiled a gentle smile
And said in solemn air
“She should be of a special stuff
Strong enough to withstand all the shocks
But delicate enough to bend and bow
Sweet enough to draw everyone to her charm
But tough enough to bear extra burden
She should have a heart very deep
To hold gallons of liquid love
And a mind patient enough
To forbear all rebukes
She should have a temperament
Willing to forgive and forget
She should be warm enough
To kiss away all tears
With the magic to heal the bleeding hearts
She should bear the seeds of progeny
And shall be the great MOTHER to all
Sister, friend, mate and mother- all rolled into one
The Angels were moved to surprise,
Over the attributes ascribed to woman
They wanted to have a closer look
And just touch and feel that hour glass figure
Unlike Adam’s steely frame
They found her to be of a soft texture
With projections and depressions
Curves and slants here and there
“Oh, she is so fragile and soft”
The angels exclaimed in unison
Not hiding their disbelief
They openly gave vent to their doubt
“With such delicate torso
How can she perform all her tasks?”
God replied in assured tone;
“She is soft, I agree, from hilt to heel,
But equally tough………
None can guess what she can accomplish!
She can fight to the end for what she thinks is right
She has such great power of endurance
And the gift of intuition, but…. but,
As nothing of this world is perfect
This woman too has one serious flaw
She tends to forget her own worth”
Thus God’s supreme handiwork was born
A marvel of creation, a miracle worthy of adulation!
March.29.2022
(I had written this for Beta Augustin's Poetry Contest. Sadly I understand now that poems in Ode form alone are accepted)
The Peterson Directed Handwriting System...
Tis beyond the depth and scope
of this electronic post,
and author, what triggers deliverance
housing bounty full memory absorbance,
yet no matter how many
heat sinks plumb cognizance,
most ordinary happenstance
often dredge up old nettlesome
rusty mettlesome names
of teachers forbearance
nearly half century ago
recalled in a flash,
and helped birth this poetic instance
break open literary
piece de resistance,
yet I will make
no subsequent reference
albeit once, about Peterson Handwriting
non cursively typed poem
filled with nonsensical abundance
dashed off viz seat
of my squarepants
typed, via strong arm lance
meant tubby considered pure entertainment,
so...,this rhyme merely hints
at cerebral imbalance
as minor rave and rants,
culled from convenient
20/20 hindsight stance,
while this quiet as bobbing sponge
minutely straddled across
space time continuum expanse,
and (analogously, invisibly,
plus quixotically perched circumstance
amidst wide webbed worldly metaphysical,
intellectual, and existential kants),
yet unable to disguise me
porous (poor ass) student advance
barely getting promoted,
cuz sigh re: Seine ed lee
imaged myself prince charming
to frolic and prance,
and dreamt about being in France,
when teacher called on me,
I immediately (whistled like
a little teapot) appearance,
whereby steam issued
out chrome dome
(scanned hull – i.e. numb
skull) affixed on
short and stout genetic grants,
which noggin always
(automatically) looked askance,
while me got alphabetically seated
from grades three to six
(mrs wells, mister stout,
missus shaner, and
miss rinderle respectively)
with absolute zero exuberance
(at Henry Kline
Boyer Elementary School,
I just recalled aforementioned
randomly accessed memory by chance
casually rifling thru
memory bank, freelance
sing, while pissing
away time performing,
"I gotta urinate dance,"
thus rendering painstaking years
perfecting penmanship style
(reference poem title)
executed with Liberace flamboyance,
whereat yours truly obsessively and
compulsively excelled at
duplicating signature compliance
plus crossing T's and
dotting I's with rapacious
perfectly ruled slants.
I only be looking down now, looking inside myself now,
not head set in defeat but reflection, not the thoughts but the actual events that happened, wild flower child, yea right boom boy im a power plant, a quater-back serving audibles, wide-receivers run em in slants, run deep, swapping the rythym up, call it skill or pronounce them fiery darts of the devil, replay read a lot of fake words, deploy nothing but truths that carry troops, dead-zone drop-off swing wide scrape the danger, winged right there then, repairs upmost respected like I have a strong command of the english langauge, a strong sense of honor, PoW's plenty of wise men, plenty that u couldnt challenge on the battlefield, u better be ready to die when you walk in their battallion, Feel the valance the stealth, feel nothing feel what you feel wether its false politics American Goverment, I dont condemn my country, American people be the damn blindest, conditionally unseasoned , refutedly would he die in that war man? Well im a black speck in his eyes dying where ever it dont make a ****, you think a soldier gives a damn about being remembered, nah its about fighting your hardest, living longer, having your friends back, perfecting that last love letter, asking God for guidance, as waiting for it, Command given stretch the ammunition, permissions only to use your intuition, now i put a disatant on that idea's be balanced if you spot it u got it, six strikes 3 terrible battle plans, instructions be on a good heart. we life size- we realize it. we competition cams with a lope pulling deeper compression, true intentions blow up in your mind like mushroom clouds, like the repurcussion was a blast to the laws broken in an accident, cheap shells cheap never be Blaine c cheap s sweetlies b bashing breaking *****es, bullstrong. balls with the brillance, beautiful blows, brainstorming, bulls of bashan beaware the wheel of furtune turns quick ask me I slip out simple vibes I be on top soon. blanks broken hollypoints I keep one jax in the chamber, Bang baby I still hit hard with the power, bang *****es blaine me, can u blame me? Straight and narrow , not like in a false form, warfront back on a warhorse, back on the foremost thoughts of a man with a decision to make..
Form:
The cemetery is not silent.
It hums—soft and steady—
like a lullaby remembered
just before sleep.
This is not a place of endings,
but of quiet continuance.
Here, the earth does not mourn—
it holds.
It listens.
It welcomes.
Beneath the moss and carved stone,
beneath the careful flowers and fading names,
a family has gathered—
not bound by blood,
but by something far more enduring:
the simple truth
that no one leaves
forever.
They are not ghosts.
They do not haunt.
They stay.
In laughter that echoes
between leaves,
in the hush that falls
before the first snow,
in the way your name lingers
on the air
when no one else is there.
They gather in invisible rooms
just beside the living,
close enough to reach—
if not to touch.
A gardener still tends her roses.
A father still hums
as sunlight slants golden across the garden wall.
A child still plays
in the rustle of autumn leaves.
They remember us.
Not as statues,
not as names etched in stone—
but as we are:
messy, marvellous,
still learning.
And they cheer us on
with a patience
the living rarely understand.
At night, they light invisible lanterns,
and their joy spills into our dreams.
They gather under imagined skies,
telling their stories—
and now, ours—
folding our names
into their conversations
like old friends
preparing a place
at the table.
They do not ask for tears,
though they understand them.
They’ve cried too.
They’ve loved too deeply
to ask you not to break
a little.
But they want you to know—
they are happy.
Not gone.
Not trapped.
But finally, wholly free.
They walk beside us,
though we may not see them.
Their hands hover near ours
in moments of stillness.
Their voices echo
in the thoughts we trust most.
And when you laugh
without knowing why,
when peace settles
over your chest like a warm blanket,
know this:
Someone you loved
was thinking of you.
Still is.
Always will.
This is the secret
the cemetery keeps—
not sorrow,
but sanctuary.
Not farewell,
but wait for me.
And when the time comes,
as it must,
you’ll find them not asleep,
but waiting—
smiling,
arms outstretched,
your seat beside the fire
still warm.
You want to know its merits?
Very well, then. Daylight slants
deliciously across the boy's
inclined, thoughtful face.
His lace collar, crumpled,
houses valleys of shadow.
Or what about the Water Seller?
Look at that poncho's warm
woven woollen texture:
and isn't the rip in the shoulder fun?
And the dimples on the pot!
They scream "potness" at us.
Or the beads of water
clinging to the larger vessel,
whose horizontal striations
practically smell
of the potter's wheel.
But oh, that drinking-glass!
Does it seem possible to you
that unctuous oils and minerals
of earth, gouged from the soil,
can render the ethereal soul of glass?
It was a winter afternoon.
I'd gone along to the gallery
on the off-chance.
Standing before this marvel,
I found myself entranced.
But even as I gazed, the sun
(though never very confident in London)
stepped out coyly from behind a cloud.
Duck's-egg orange light, resplendent,
now fell aslant the canvas.
Surely this was harmful?
Sunlight bleaches (does it not?)
the colour out of things.
Alarm bells should be ringing.
I summoned a uniform attendant.
He nodded sagely as I explained
- but did nothing.
Why should he care?
Minimum wage is no great motivator.
An hour from now,
he'd be hanging up that peaked cap,
and be a person until Monday.
No point in bursting
a blood-vessel
over a silly painting. Later.
But I couldn't leave it.
If I stood just thus,
my human frame was just enough
to block the sun.
One little skirmish could be won
if I remained here
until the sun’s trajectory was done,
or the gallery closed,
whichever came the sooner.
So I did. On tip-toe,
spine inclined, quiet,
I crowded out the light of day
for more than an hour.
Pointless, you say.
I can't deny it.
The very next day,
And each subsequent foray
of Phoebus would
merely recreate the problem.
That's hardly the point.
Finding myself there,
I beat my ploughshare
into a sword and,
for that tiny slice of time,
I made the sacrifice,
bore the quizzical looks
with equanimity, quirky,
standing like a turkey
on tenterhooks
and saved the painting.
expectant motherhood
doth generate aurorean
glowing halo, inducing
jubilant kickstarter lil bean,
administering capitalone
earthlinked joyful lyft,
natural pheromone readying cerulean
tommorrow, venerated x2c gleam
zinging bounteous
dizzying feelings hormones houseclean
jackanapes leviathon nestling
pinterestinly interocean
reaching terminus vista
xing zee birth canal mien
doctor Fallopian
helps jiggle little nymphean
possibly ranking
topnotch venerated olympian
x-ray zooms
bringing developed fetus healthily seen
joyful loving neuro
logically plain resplent teen
knee weeny tiny
vaunted xpn 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 mommas and papas genetic grants
who already passed along
to a brood of offspring
gushing with excitement
akin to fire hydrants
spewing forth water
treasuring such Kodak moment,
cuz such instance
and subsequent tender
wonderful blessed
Instamatic reverent cherished instants
will zip at greased lightening speed lance
sing remembrance of things past
during twilight years,
an eye blink those yesterday,
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 offspring
wishing infant would grow up already,
now his tis aged father or mother
hood doth rants
at father time, he doth access
without a word an excel lent
power point demonstrattion
with near vertical line brevity
of how mortality slants.
The USA and Europe
By Franklin Price
07/05/2020
Today is Sunday and it's morning
And I'm watching Meet the Press
As usual it is leaning
Toward presenting leftist mess
What prompted me to write this
Was their latest Covid views
How we compare to Europe
And their Corona Virus News
Comparing to the U.S.A.,
E.U. Cases have declined
Although it has more people
I think there's something you may find
The E.U. is not one entity
It's an economic ploy
There are many countries
Independence they enjoy
Each has its own government
For its Covid to report
There is no central reason
To supply a false retort
Is testing on a par with ours?
Is there incentive there to lie?
Is Covid not discovered
Until they're about to die?
Has E.U. made Covid political?
Are they working to get through?
Each country is determining
What's the best thing it should do.
In the U.S. there's incentive
For some monetary gain
When diagnosis for the virus
Might be caused by other pain
May have gone to some center
For other predetermined cause
Then covid diagnosed once there
Should that make us think and pause?
I'm not saying all the cases
Are either wrong or right
But the longer it progresses
There is political delight
The media still slants the news
Reporting on half truths and lies
Saying E.U. cases going down
While ours are on the rise
If we take away incentives
That encourage some to lie
May find that Covid 19
Will make less, in the U.S., die
I'm only just one person
Who's concerned for our dominion
I think there's truth, I've written here
But it's only my opinion
If you think I'm onto something
Or if you know it's true
Pass this along to others
Might be something we can do.
Report it to your congressmen
And Congress Women too
Let them know, you know, what's going on
It's what your country needs of you