Long Smelt Poems
Long Smelt Poems. Below are the most popular long Smelt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Smelt poems by poem length and keyword.
a quiet walk
In the graveyard, I walked
I didn't take the dog in case she smelt bones
noticed even in death
there are three classes
I was drawn to the famous lies because
their place is more airy
big stones, with swada words in gold, nice
flowers and well-kept lawn
the dead middle-class people's graves were
nice to in black marble
I did come across a grave that told us
the dead had been a chief engineer
he might have been a cruel person
and would, if he could, be pleased that his
title mattered for his family
The poor graves tucked in a corner
overgrown grass hiding names, thistle too
had stings
They had something in common that made
them equal, death silence
The Queen of Poop
Some call her the Queen of Poop
but this I can report
I have got the inside scoop
from someone on her court
News from in the castle states
a porcelain throne her seat
A pen, her tool when she creates
as others soon retreat
For often when she’s thinking and
the door is left ajar
The strangest kind of stinking can
be smelt so very far
Though no one there will mention,
for you know she is the Queen
No need to bring attention
if they keep the throne room clean
The grunting and the groaning
sometimes echoes down the hall
And often times it’s moaning
as a big one starts to fall
While some of them will smile
and at times might even blush
Each handmaid knows her style
every time they hear the flush
For then she gets to show’em
why so urgent was the need
By handing them a poem
that they cannot wait to read
And I am right there with them
for it falls into my plan
To read a poopy poem
from our favorite poet Jan
Zoltar moved in quietly,
carried up the stairs by no one
I remember seeing.
At night, his gears murmured
through the thin apartment wall~
a soft metallic prayer
to whatever listens in the dark.
Occasionally,
I heard his cards shuffle themselves~
paper whispering secrets
it should not know.
Sometimes his lights flickered
under my doorframe,
as if he’s pacing,
as if he’s thinking.
One night,
he slid a fortune under my door:
The visitor arriving tomorrow
died twelve years ago.
Another one follows:
Your shadow will leave you
before the week ends.
At dawn, the hallway smelt
of burnt incense and cold metal.
His lights flickered wildly,
as if he’s arguing with something
I cannot see.
Then a final card appeared~
edges singed, letters warped:
Do not open the door
when you hear your own voice.
Isn’t it odd?
All of the little things
that remain in our
little brains?
One day, you’ll
be walking down the
street, just minding your
own business, when suddenly
you’ll stop.
A sight,
A sound,
A scent,
A memory,
Something you have
never seen, heard, smelt,
or even experienced before
will catch your incomplete attention
so completely.
And send you to
the most magical of
places.
Something from your
childhood,
Something from the
small town you drove through
last autumn.
Something from that
department store shelf
at that street corner you
never thought you’d actually
go to. But then you did.
Something from
a bad day.
Something from a
good one.
All of that energy,
all of that time,
and still, I can’t
put a name to what
that feeling is.
Nostalgia?
No, it goes
deeper than
that.
Much, much
deeper.
After a bit, you’ll
wonder a while,
and then you’ll simply
move on.
Maybe all it is was
grief expressed purely.
Because living
in a world where
things are so temporary
is a bittersweet thing.
Better times,
worse times,
doesn’t matter.
It all
sticks
around.
After a long period of time, there was an awful stench in the garage.
After ceaseless investigations, we were clueless of the origin of stink.
It smelt like dead mice, but there was no sign of any.
It smelt like gas, and we feared there might be a leak.
The Gas Utility came out; but found no sign of leakage.
Though we felt safer, I worried as the smell grew worse.
Some time ago, we discontinued using our second vehicle.
After some time, one day I pushed the vehicle into the driveway.
I do not remember the reason I moved it;
but it had nothing to do with the odor.
The vehicle was a very popular one;
The best selling SUV at one time.
We also grew older and decided that one vehicle would suffice.
So we dropped the insurance, ‘non-opted it’, and parked it in the garage.
Currently, it’s still a good and desirable vehicle.
But it was the choice of my wife; not mine
Notwithstanding, I was surprisingly pleased with it.
It became aged and began to wear with costly repairs.
One day I walked past the SUV as it sat in the driveway.
You guessed it. I smelt the same stink that was inside the garage.
The riddle was solved; the mystery was resolved; I found Mr. Stink.
He was in the radiator; I flushed and ran him out; he was forever gone.
09242016 PS Contest, Stink, Anthony Slausen
Sea Lions are funny creatures
I think they are mammals
They have flippers for feet
Not humps like lots of camels
Wouldn't it be funny
A funny sort of weird
If a walrus had a football
And a bunny had a beard
It gets even crazier
The more I start to think
If a monkey smelt like a skunk
And a skunk looked like a skink
The Zebra gave his stripes away
Sold them to a horse
If you looked for that Zebra today
You'd find him racing around a course
I think all the animals
In forests or zoos
Should stay exactly as they are
Not be silly and try to choose
Another animal's personality
Or indeed their looks
It would cause confusion
To authors who write books
The bowel of the earth deepens with
Saturated blessings of the soil, and
Down, down, the forces burrow in its
Caverns —creviced
Between day and night, I cannot decipher,
Yet it is the mind of the night, the strength of the
Arcane values, where the eyes, though
Blind, see through the darkest chasm
Syncopations thrive —the mind and the
Soul of the hides, the metallic occupation,
The throbs from animal faculty in desuetude,
And hallowed cadences of chants.
Darkness and light, I do not know
But behold, in the strength of the day’s looming eyes,
Cormorants, in elixir, hover at the mouth of vigilant cliffs
Beneath the earth’s balcony, chattering loosely.
Chants, chants of midnight-hour Africa,
Feeble metaphor for the softness of leopard skin,
Innocent voices parched like no globule of water
Has streamed past their distressed throats in ages
From the riots of drums underneath the exhausted earth,
Skeletal frames of distinct horn-like sounds
Surround the warm rage of ceremonies in volcanic appeal,
Enough for us to grab and interpret
The rubbles of the crust, smelt in the heat of
Confused processions, charm my eyes
The earth rumbles, mirages occur so pronto, focusing their
Lens on the revelling clouds above.
Chants on time and chants on the spine of the hour . . . .
Seen through the heat-haze of the swelling day,
Beheld in the webs of the night as in the stately
Prowls of lurking, visiting silhouettes;
Chants of gestures, of initiations, of primitive
Religions, of the invocations of rain after a stifling drought,
Chants of accelerated tempos from drums and flutes in salutations
To the returning reincarnated souls.
Let the restlessness of the spirits begin now —but with supreme bliss
I could have borrowed steadfastness from the moon and the sun,
For perpetual energy and unending flow of unseen waves of clarity.
From the dark nights, I humbly request their star-studded witness.
There was a long serving counter, high revolving chairs, and café smells.
There was a special taste of hamburgers served at this southern segregated café. My first encounter with the café and the tasty burgers was more than 50 years ago during those Jim Crow days of my childhood.
On a very busy block of a street called Issaquena was an eatery with two sides; one side for whites and the other for blacks. I never heard otherwise, but I would be shocked if those tasty juicy hamburgers had any stench of segregation in them. I’m confident that they were prepared by the same cook and equally fantastic on both sides.
I could never forget that little café and its mouth-watering burgers so memorable from my childhood bygone years. There’s a slight chance that it might still be there. But maybe not. Maybe the little café with those tasty burgers is holding its own against the likes of the Big Macs and the whoppers. Or maybe not. Perhaps it had to give way to new development or an urban renewal project. Or maybe not.
One can only hope that some things are forever. The fast food burger chains of today can never replace the taste of the homely hamburgers that I came to love. Those were bygone years of a time before hormonal injections, when people never asked, “What’s in this meat?” or, “Where’s the beef?”
I do not remember the café’s name, but I could never forget that ‘longed for taste’ of those burgers or its location. There was so much history made and life being lived in that little area of town. I am certain that these dear people also experienced and smelt the aroma of those burgers as they lingered close by.
It would be great to see those people again. If I should visit that street again, I suspect that non would be there. For sure, I will be looking for the burger shop. But if not there, the burgers and the people will always be a part of me wherever I go. If that café is not there, I shall determine to stand where it once stood and say, “Thanks for the memories".
I feel for gentle hearts in this loud world,
Ever suspect, dismissed and derided,
For long has been the shy a songless bird,
That Darwin dismissed as ‘odd state of head’,
Jane Austin gave shyness a broader scope,
Calling it a ‘moral, mental disease’,
And Freud, his fame fending for men no rope,
With sub-conscious cladding, a twist of his
That smelt of ‘displaced love of self-scored goals’,
A simple disposition framed as law,
Oh poking fun and scoring birdie holes,
In matters straight, cobwebs of gauze he saw,
And sensitive violets were on blame,
Poor things, shrunk with self-deprecating shame.
Violets shrunk with disparaging shame,
And shyness drawn from society’s unease,
Scarce unto standard mould can ever squeeze,
O get condemned— a jade that could be gem.
Though sensitive nigh to a gawking gaze,
Here am I basking still in benign bliss—
A shy soul, they say, more inventive is,
And tolerant the more to worldly ways
That mistake plane shyness as being cold,
Aloof, and worse still, somewhat arrogant,
And value those that be loud, neddless bold,
I’m happy now that they were ignorant.
Let critics bask under ill-informed bliss,
I marvel, how creative this bird is.
Creative, this touch-me-not kind of bird,
Or call it a flower called violet,
An introvert of an easy mind-set,
One blessed with fecund skills, a bit absurd—
Skills lacked by too talkatively inclined,
While some greats confess to ‘fainting with fears’
Ere giving speech to some so-called speakers,
Some loners lack the skills called social kind.
I know, shyness has no one ever hurt,
But self that feels cosy under own skin.
Let shyness stay forever verdant green,
Let it never make me an extrovert,
That I live in my own solitude proud,
Innovative, gentle in world so loud.
_________________________________
Two recent books set my thinking bird brooding over bashfulness: The Man who mistook his Wife for a Hat, by Oliver Sacks; and Shrinking Violets: The Secret Life of Shyness, by Joe Moran. These books advocate that the shy should get a better deal, for they tend to be more creative. Here is the why: musing over, these three sonnets (crown of…) materialized that made me feel a bit elated.
Crown of Sonnets | 01.03.2017 |
As a love king,
You, my sweety I bring,
Praise songs for us to sing,
Trust me that I can't be wrong,
Just bring your true love along,
To jig the beats of my gong,
That makes you strong,
To fly with wing.
But I will not run,.
Till your trust I've won
Come rain and come sun,
I will stay strong on my feet,
The love you bring is too sweet,
And your emotions cannot cheat,
I eagerly await your loving treat,
Which will be a life long fun,
the best no one can shun,
On knees till done.
Where I knelt,
True love was kept,
There your love I smelt,
It makes my heart cloudy,
As if my love was there to cry.
And with care you said howdy.
A greeting to the morn' sky,
Making hearts to melt.
The spirit in it I felt.
After then I slept,
About you I dreamt,
What I saw wasn't rowdy.
But enough to make me fly,
Tho' looked just rowdydowdy,
To say I love you, I feel shy,
Yet in me your soul dwelt;
The way love is spelt.
Off I was swept.
My fate I accept
Without any safety belt.
But still my emotions crept,
All my lusts, I just have to bury,
In order not to look this shoddy,
And to avoid the morning fury.
That may harm my body.
But still no fault.
Long I've wept,
So grope more indepth.
I am waiting ready to marry,
My love there for you to embody,
It's just begging for you to carry,
So just shun that busybody.
Come! Let's just merry,
My only dearie!