Long Sophisticate Poems
Long Sophisticate Poems. Below are the most popular long Sophisticate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sophisticate poems by poem length and keyword.
Gianni is only seven and his mind seems so mature,
doesn't he amaze everyone when he talks and smiles?
We all thought that kids had a different nature:
to play baseball and ride their sturdy Turtle bikes!
How can a kid with gorgeous and innocent eyes
not make us laugh when he spills a glass of hot chocolate
on the carpet and whispers, " Sorry " twice?
He surely deserves a big hug not loud words that irritate!
Gianni is learning new skills daily: like walking as his proud dad,
imitation or not, it's spontaneous and very comical;
woe to his mom if she makes fun of him by shaking her head!
Ah! He thinks is a grown man and can climb a wall!
Yesterday's kids weren't that smart, they spent more time playing with toys...
blame technology for their knowledge or us for being fashionable and sophisticate;
we have everything at our command, but children like Gianni have become boys:
soon they'll be men with ingenious ideas to build a world that we can only imitate!
What battle-worn baby boomers lived through
Gentle Gen Z rug rats don’t have a clue.
Growing up street smart in subdivision
Without much parental supervision.
Boomers devoured books and magazines,
While Gen Z distil life thrills from their screens.
Going outdoors? Too much hassle whereat
Life downloads faster in an online chat.
Boomers had to climb to reach the summit -
“Too long to bother”, say Gen Z, “Damn it!”
Boomers’ love connections - hard at first sight,
Compared to Tinder swiping left or right.
OMG! Gen Z dares to attach
To someone who, in fact, is not a match.
With boomers arduous life played hard to get:
Before achieving breakthrough, break a sweat.
Gen Z have it all savvy and clever,
Their creed is wifi speed, faster than ever.
Solutions to life hurdles? Browse the net!
Sophisticate AI - better yet.
In short, the generation gap in place
As history repeats, fast forward pace.
But we unconditionally love you,
As grandparents and baby boomers too!
He lay upon her bed, his slender face
supported by one palm that cupped his chin.
His other hand turned pages in a book.
He’d come there to escape the downstairs’ din,
for only in her room could he find peace.
She’d said that he could read there on her bed
and then collapsed to take her little nap.
Next, all the others left to see their show.
(he wondered why he’d not been asked to go,
while she’d declined to go when asked at dinner).
Now all alone with “Miss Sophisticate”
was he, the one that they all called the “Shy Guy.”
The silence of the empty house awoke her.
Her breathing changed; he sensed her body shift.
Her eyes stayed closed, but he could feel her inching
much nearer to him; then the slightest nudge,
and tingles down his thigh began to run. . .
and still he felt compelled to turn each page
though print beneath his eyes began to fade.
He knew her eyes had opened to a gaze,
two emeralds that almost seemed to blaze.
He didn’t say a word, and then he heard:
“Just what’s so interesting about that book?”
He looked, and then she took him by surprise.
She whispered, “Shy, why don’t you study me?
Don’t tell me that you haven’t felt the vibes.
We rarely get to meet, but when we do,
I see you watching me. Now we’re alone!”
Just how they came to kiss he can’t recall.
Perhaps they’d talked a bit. He doesn’t know.
He only can remember tender lips
that whet his appetite for something more.
A burning had begun, by her inspired,
and how would he extinguish that sweet fire?
For lost, he momentarily forgot. . . .
He touched instinctively her budding breasts.
She moved his hands away from them and said,
“Shy, I think you know this can go nowhere.”
He felt the flush of guilt she must have read,
for then she added, “Please let’s not feel bad.
Although I guess down south we could get married,
it’s best we second cousins just be kissin’!”
It's awesome how the meaning of a word slowly changes.
It is awful when it changes too fast.
Today a person might write the new meaning,
but be taken to mean the mean of the past.
It once was nice to be simple and foolish;
over two hundred years it was dainty and precise.
Pejoration, usage - assumptions in common;
and more centuries turned something horrible to nice.
And yet a fine balance must be struck when defining
our terms - for definition itself may need terms -
and we teeter above a near infinite regression;
and no-one should eat such a diet of worms.
Some may sophisticate to bludgeon opponents
while others will wallow in Orwellian speak,
yet anyone using these devilish devices
reveals an ankle that is Achilles and weak.
What on earth did I do to deserve this fate ?
From my insouciance I awoke much too late.
'Tis to Tomi now in exile on the Black Sea
Augustus in his wisdom has condemned me.
Julia's company and that poem where I erred
Removed me from the leisured life I much preferred.
And now my sorry assize I needs must thole
With only my wife's tenderness me to console.
This crude and inclement clime I must now call home
Sequestered so far from my distant beloved Rome.
Surrounded I am by dull furs and guttural sounds
Where in my mind life with bright togas and verse abounds
If I am not to lose my precious muse
Their language I must learn and use.
Caesar hopes me to have metamorphosed
From sophisticate to rude yokel indisposed.
Yet my Epistulae ex Ponto plead for his mercy to contain
Hopes for my return to Rome, though that all looks in vain.
If my poetry cannot soften his implacable heart,
Then perhaps others will appreciate my art.
Enchained as I am in this Hades of a living tomb,
My poetry must transform it into my Elysium.
Where Rome was once my sucus et sanguis,
Tomi must now serve as my grand palace