Long Sorties Poems
Long Sorties Poems. Below are the most popular long Sorties by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sorties poems by poem length and keyword.
Tomorrow I’m eating fries, Marion,
It gives me full of pep,
Yellows, walleye, salty,
I will eat hot fries.
Tomorrow I’m eating fries, Marion,
Belgians, sweet flamingos,
Walloon girls, redheaded girls,
Out of the oven, all hot.
Eating fries is not stupid
English, golden, or Norwegian,
The fries it gives a hell of a peach
Tomorrow, Marion, give me the fries.
Demain, je mange des frites, Marion,
Ça me donne voyons, une sacrée frite,
Des jaunes, des dorées, des salées,
Je mangerai des frites chaudes, moi.
Demain, je mange des frites, Marion,
Des belges, des flamandes douces,
Des wallonnes, des filles rousses,
Sorties du four, toutes chaudes.
Manger des frites, ce n’est pas bête
Anglaises, dorées, ou norvégiennes,
Les frites ça donne une sacrée pêche
Demain, Marion, tu me donnes la frite.
The battle of wits who’s quickest to the target
The Referendum becomes our battling ground,
To silence the tongues that vanity took apart.
Saying little or nothing and have no command.
By force of nerves all generals pitted and plotted
Referendum vote drummed out the matted voices,
Tweets on either side of the house in cyber-chatted,
Europe left with misfits and the approving choices.
The referendum matter leads our nation into battle
Conquering minds gallop in haste to beat off time,
Waiting around for baited fines of further tittle-tattle,
Make allowance for doubting putting firms far behind.
Bows in the left hand; poison arrows fight in the right,
A momentum pursuing no safer place but heaven,
Parliament eyes have it, smart sorties smitten by night,
Watch the big nations squabble for refuge mitigation.
Then Europe and the people that’s in it can dream,
But every nightmare release the creepy dark shadows,
Frighten fools, using outdated tools for a referendum,
Keeping our identity to chase after the distant rainbows.
Could the appeasing bung taken worth smarter living?
Begin to outrun the distances of our silent conscience
Before looking back over on our humble beginning
With Protestants breathing the ambiance of silence.
Santa Clauses were to be molten and reshaped into Holy Cross bunnies
on a mega 3D printer but then the app somehow went wrong
Chocolate trickled and trifled and mixed with fake season’s greetings
King Kong and Godzilla leaped off the assembly line with
Witches on lolly pop brooms and then the whole show went viral
Mephistopheles aliens with marshmallow ears danced merrily
Suddenly truffle snakes in seductive icing sugar bikinis tested tempted
cotton sugar candy apples as big as paradise vowed and allowed
They all swirled swished and tumbled to cacophonous tunes that had
to be labelled as retro and neo-modern-classical rap-sorties
At the exit of malfunctioning malls the Easter display went a tad pear-shaped
as soon as the rabbits slipped out of their hats and mounted the chickens
The mistress and master of ceremonial clangour had at problem at hand
and some egg on their faces thus they squirted and squinted
They pondered and squandered with no solution untouched for the task
how to make more profits and be politically correct just the same
‘Megalomania’ and ‘Mega-High-Money’ the respective CEO’s of ‘Turn water into
wine’ and the start-up ‘Chocolate Merry Go Round for the Soul’
Could not fail in this venture as not to have their heathen bonuses
dissolved into cocoa mousse splash
After meetings and brain storms pilot studies and polls they decided to craft
a whole new religion (the Independent Unseasonal Reformed Epiphanists)
Fortunately the United Philistines of Consumption were too busy to notice that
the newly created faithful were simply rehashing an old dogma of money
What a shame that those lovely chocolate coins have gone out of fashion and
That Buddhists would not want their spiritual model to melt under the fig tree
09th April 2018 Written for the contest Easter 2018
the onset of emotional nadir,
where ballistic ordnance bombed away
fancy free, innocent, naïve boyhood
decrying, detonating, and describing me own Pigs Bay
Allied, linkedin, and synced Luftwaffe
and Panzer division invasion that clay
like materiel within southern cerebral hemi
sphere inroads usurped no delay
riding roughshod via synapse straits sporting
scoring sorties using every
axe n newer on dread did Swiss hide dill naught
to decimate with Sherman determination tuff flay
leaving not one iota (oft times) referenced as gray
matter unaffected quite aware
of rebel voices yelling “HOORAY”
the following quite quirky epistle may not exhibit the ordinary characteristics of poetry, but i decided to share this self made challenge (where every word begins with the letter "S" - no explanation can be offered why such self cerebral torture imposed, nor what motivated me to focus on the nineteenth letter of the english alphabet at the exclusion of other noble vowels and consonants.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Sunday September seventh started seemingly same since...silver screen show secured seventy seven SeventhSeals.
Soupy Sales supreme salient strengths (starring smart pet sidekick Springer Spaniel Socrates) salvaged sagging sporting sorties. Slap stick stereotypical swashbuckling shticks supplied shipshape shenanigans.
Spartan stage set spurred spontaneous simply stupefying solution. Suede shod schlemiel. Sartre seasoned scenes. Sharp sticks supported sphere. Seats situated semicircular semblance.
SPCA, Siemens, Sears sponsored soiree. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious shouted satirically 'specially Saturdays seemingly sellout. Spontaneous spritely Shogun Samurai sangroid stance satiated slipups stripping stellar seasoned Skidamarinks substitutes sacredly, seminally, silently, slipstreaming soulfully saving saga.
Sometimes silly spouse studiously sought spurious strategy stringing superlatives showcasing senseless sophomoric soporific skills specifically spelling storybook sassy sharpshooters supposedly sleuthing shapeless seated sideways (sic seasonal slate smug spotified snapchatting skippers selfishly scooped sloop-ful seasonal six-packs) sinister Swiss scalpers sat sometimes squatted.
It starts off with a familiar route
and follows a course of well lit streets
where the incline is not too steep,
takes you pass the local shops,
the bus stop and the entrance
to a park. Then it all goes downhill
from here, inducing a kind of hypnotic
state where everything
begins to unravel and float away
on sorties in search of meaning
and the more damaged
seek out a refuge and try to mend
what is broken. Words wander
the dark like lost ghosts to find what
is missing and a vacant space
each can fill and call its own.
Yet so much falls in between.
Animals are running loose
and the menagerie you keep caged
inside your head has been breached.
That flashing light up there ahead
is becoming ominous. Something
is closing in. Voices are everywhere
having escaped the throats of those
to whom they once belonged,
roaming the world to seduce an ear.
Time now to roll yourself up into a ball
and get smaller until you are
no more than a tiny dot
at the bottom of a page -
then get out of here
.
He ranked as de facto semiprecious,
tremulous and unanimous scapegoat
bullied by a bumptious, callous,
disputatious hippopotamus of a brat
infamous bruiser later in his life to become
forty fifth president of UnIted States.
Though documentation incomplete, the un
named subject referred within torn shred
recovered included signatory couching
ambiguous references to a tenebrous,
unscrupulous, and vicious wiseass initials.
Dee Tee quickly intuitively assessed
as one inhumane specimen, whose pugnacious,
pretentious, and pestiferous, persona characterized
impetuous, adulterous apprenticeship appetite
for erecting phallic skyscrapers.
This once pacific pilloried pupil, whose grown
son (myself), now recalls father's misty eyed
anecdotes dripping with acrimonious, curmudgeonly
grouchy, grizzly and crotchety old sorries,
viz refashioned abominable kamikaze
psychological sorties.
I can vividly recall (how painful unto his old age)
oft daddy's repeated quotidian taunts, whereby
that bad ass, acidulous, avaricious, contemptuous,
enormous, and grievous big boy trumpeting
bruiser exuded devious, heinous, libelous, and
parsimonious tightwad, though born into wealth.
I’LL NEVER FORGET WHAT’S HIS NAME
We went to different schools… together
walked on opposite sides of a street
that constituted an invisible border.
There were differences…..but not really.
We walked slowly, as if to spend time together,
assessing the others clothing, shoes, gait.
Eye contact was forbidden
as we had been warned…..about them
as they….about us.
Smiles were fleeting sorties into danger.
We found, as children do,
ways to challenge the guardians
a quickened pace….leading to
a foot race….a breaking from the norm,
a joyously shared connection
of shouts and flashing glances.
I am not sure who won the “race”,
I think we all did…us kids….truants
in the school of ancestral fears,
breaking the barrier of a paved border
streaking toward the finish line
stretched between two churches.
John G. Lawless
©9/12/2019
Fighting God?
God is not a “fighter”,
nor is He a lover as is claimed.
He is a coward
lacking courage or compassion
for the millions He has maimed.
God sends in his “seconds”
to pander to the minions,
grand promises to sell
a little taste of pestilence
a righteous song and dance,
the overpowering promise
a lifelong trip to hell.
So I must fight His devils
God’s best chicanery
the “whipping boys” of heaven
“It was them – it wasn’t Me.”
I tossed to God the gauntlet
to meet me face to face
to discuss his purpose
for our failing human race.
I’ve been told that I’m a sinner
a blasphemer, even worse
and if I wasn’t careful
God would visit me - a curse.
I fight God in the alleyways
of winter’s frozen streets
where too many sit in hunger
with blue tinged freezing feet.
I fight Him in the corridors
where “learned” men conspire
dressed in flowing robes
beneath a phallic spire.
I repel sorties by legions
who attack us “In His name”
tar us with the brushes
of remorseful guilt and shame.
Thus do I battle God’s malaise
heaped upon mankind
and wonder at each sunrise
if God has changed his mind
left us on our own
to tend a failing garden
left us in the darkness
to watch the dead hearts - harden.
And so I fight Him, every day
for one of us has lost our way
and if at times it must be Him
I’ll teach the fishes how to swim.
2/1/2015
submitted to – Fighting God – Poetry contest
sponsor – rob Carmack
Once again, the powers that must
In rise again in what we trust
An overseas conflict, another war
Just what in the hell are we fighting for
Families are asking, Korea has just passed
Generations again reft, how long will it last
A country in need, to rebuild again
Flags at half mast, in wind and rain strain
Once again into war, sent by the Washington Post
To send back reports to hit home the most
Military observers were the first to be sent in
Another chapter of man entering existing sin
I'm witnessing our ariel power, Lam Son 719
US planners determine their incursion, saying all will be fine
Along the Mekong River, we'll carpet bomb their supply trail
Tons of munitions and napalm, this spread surely cannot fail
Many sorties are being flown, for the wounded and the dead
Whilst Nixon and his cronies, aren't thinking with their heads
The news of losses has reached me, nineteen have been killed
Eleven missing, fifty nine wounded, more American blood spilled
Seven fixed wing aircraft, more sons in action loss
Whilst back at home more protests, fading the dyeing's gloss
To to this job that I do, I was never prepared for this
To witness such bloody scenes, and ignore that life is bliss
How can I write about a soldier, whose name I'll never know
Killed at nineteen years old, his family he'll never see grow
Or even explain to his parents, when carried from the AH-1
His body bullet riddled and limp, when lifted it bloodily run
I never went back to the theatre, called the Vietnam War
Having witnessed the wanton killing, what were we fighting for
This colonial conflict that started, us on the side of France
So many came back as strangers, many to live in trance
James Fraser's entry into the contest " WORLD OF WAR: VIETNAM "