Long Soup Poems
Long Soup Poems. Below are the most popular long Soup by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Soup poems by poem length and keyword.
Remember when that flash of insight
last self-ignited in your expectant thoughts
blasting away the fog of uncertainty, complexity and doubt.
A sudden aha Eureka answer, pure, simple, so succinct, beautiful.
To some this flash of aha is called duration, or a blink. insight, acumen, Eureka!
But, my friend, how, why, when, where, do these Aha moments arise?
Can we conger up more for ourselves, fill a treasure cheat with insights?
Or is this quest a waste of time, as no treasure map exits. But does it?
Can we ever know with what, and how, and when to cast the magic wand?
Does our search for meaning, inquiries lay the foundation?
Can we prepare the way ahead in some way or other?
Think back, my friend, did these gems
always spring up unexpectedly, and what occurred beforehand?
These aha Euekas cannot be scheduled or delayed,
cannot be snuck-up on, snared nor detected,
cannot be forced out nor guaranteed to appear.
Euekas are not rewards for hard work, perhaps the opposite is true.
How often does lazy and shallow wader get the creative rewards.
Chance is never fair in its rewards for hard work.
Often, an Aha taps us on the shoulder, we are least expecting it,
out of the blue, saying: "Look at Me. Look at Me".
When gobbled up with glee, it washes over and transforms us.
We are never be the same. It makes our day.
Does begging the question, ignoring the answers laid out
make it pop up from the soup into an inquiring mind?
Or does it appear when we raise questions to that have already been answered well?
Does it appear when we thin-slice the book to separate the leaves?
Often mistakes and errors have led to great breakthroughs
like penicillin, radioactivity, the color mauve and plastics.
What does this mean to you and your Aha Eureka pot of gold?
Should we be less careful, more observant for the unusual?
The Aha Eureka is a fleeting feeling, easily lost in the blink of an eye,
rampant, capricious, imperceptible, unbounded, elusive
like seeing something in the corner of the eye at dusk,
if you look straight at it, it's gone, look back again, it's there again.
For me it can be a matter of serendipity.
The more I see, the more I do, the more I explore, the more hits are triggered.
Many total restarts from scratch, often helps.
But, for me the one simple things
that works is lay me down to rest,
and to sleep on it!
I just wanted to thank Poetry Soup for, well, for being, for existing as a format for poets to share their hearts and souls. I can hardly believe it's been 6 years (gulp!) since I first posted a poem here--it was about that time that I started writing poetry again after a 30 plus year hiatus since I stopped writing anything in my early 30's. Why I stopped or why I began again, I don't know: Who can explain creativity? But somehow I found Soup and well, a community. So may I thank, on behalf of that community, all you unsung heroes who maintain the 'Soup'.
And as to all those who add their 'ingredients' into the Soup, let me commend ALL of you. In those same 6 years I have not read a single poem that was pretentious, egotistical, idiosyncratic to the point of being so obscure as to seem meaningless--in other words, so called 'modern' contemporary poetry as favored by a depressing number of lit mags today. I've learned at last to stop wasting my time submitting to such [and certainly not if they demand a reading fee] as I-- fool that I am-- continually strive to find meaning in both what I write and what I read. One editor even warned not to send anything that 'conveyed' a meaning, and in no uncertain terms did he want did he want to hear anything about the soul or the heart or-God forbid!- God.
I suspect this is why so many people are turned off by modern poetry today-- and who can blame them? Wasting time reading a bunch of big/obscure/erudite words strung together, only to scratch your head wondering what the hell did that all mean? The best poems are often very simple: 'to be or not to be', 'death kindly stopped for me', 'the Lord is my shephard' -- but they always take you SOMEWHERE [though it may not be a place you immediately recognize]. The best poems, I believe, increase awareness, not leaving you feeling confused, perplexed, frustrated ['what the hell did that mean?' ] This does not mean they give you answers --but they may suggest some. And as modern society becomes increasingly at odds with itself, at risk quite literally of fragmenting, some insight would seem as valuable as it is rare.
The contests are fun at Soup and many demonstrate how clever and knowledgeable Soupers are about the myriad poetical forms. I have to say, though, I wish there were more thematic contests--open to any form that served to enlighten the proposed theme.
Gregory
You made yesterdays news, invoking fears
You were found on the streets
Discarded and left to die alone
Thrown away like a piece of garbage with little thought
An inconvenience, as you struggled for your life
So many questions and no answers….
Your thoughts were dark and twisted and not appropriate
You did not fit the mould
Opportunities wasted as you oared against the current
The river washed you out and you choked to breathe
Your thoughts were numbed by substances
Chemicals that took away your sanity
Robbed you of your family and your home
Left your mother with a broken heart and tortured soul, struggling with forgiveness
Your father fought his own demons just long enough to remember your life
And then fall back into the abyss and darkness and forgottenness
Your friends cried as they thought of you.
Their scarred faces and souls with their big crosses around their necks
Their tattooed and tattered young zombie bodies
With their vacant eyes that bore too much pain to contain
Thin and remorseful souls
with the tears that fell down their cheeks like rain
They loved you, you were a good friend!
It was said you would give the shirt off your back for a friend
Your first love wondered how she could have helped?
Your grandfather has lived too long to see this day
One more funeral in his 88 years
A reminder of his son of 17 that was also discarded.
Your brother tried to honour and play his guitar that you gave him
Tears were shed
Beautiful memories shared and kind words spoken
A life too young
Fell beneath the caverns of a broken world
Aunts write poetry to make sense of it all, desperately writing to keep your memory alive
Unspoken grief all around with nowhere to go
One more forgotten victim of an epidemic
Bi-polar they said
Addicted they said
As they sat in their offices high above the streets away from it all
Making policies to keep you safe.
Safe injection sights to shoot poison to your veins
And kitchens with large pots of soup to sustain you until your imminent death
The great unravelling of a generation
You were loved by many
You were a beautiful soul, a good friend, son, brother, cousin
A beautiful child with big brown eyes and so much promise
Gregory always remembered
Rest peacefully sweet soul…
Grace Daub August 25, 2021 written after my nephew’s untimely death- homeless and on the streets
please lemme know and honestly profess
if profusion of words create a lingual Loch Ness
(when hens canst come home to roost
especially, encountering
the following conglomeration
in matthew scott harris patois).
He readily admits writing inventive
attempts usually ten tubby a literary mess,
thus finding innocent cyber cruisers
Angle fishing for Saxony fundamental fluidity
courtesy of Freudian stream of consciousness,
gabbling gibberish, muck not done on purpose
and certainly less
to impress.
Gnome hatter intent toward
cogency, fancy ingenuity,
levity, the inevitable
resultant wrought gobbledygook
fascination for Lingua Franca
feeble endeavor splutters, splinters,
and splatters Asia Yukon guess.
Paramour status analogous with twenty six letters,
sans En gull Lush Mother tongue confluence
finds me submerged (as an Arctic Monkey)
swimmingly enervated
via erotic laced sentiments
perhaps finds bravely daring soul madly
hollering, gesticulating floundering,
(in close proximity to Davey Jones's locker)
to avoid drowning at sea
perchance comprehending passionate influence.
Upon espying a signature poem of mine
forces one pre ponder ring lurking predilection
tib hush anonymous re:
dears (dares) adventuresome mettle
taking him/her to the brainy
(briny) deep brink
Icon fess
this (NON FAKE) pretense, why
aye metaphorically express
(via medium of ordinary Anglophile
alphabetic wanton soup,
or figurative egg drop bub
bling broth (el) doth brew)
pronouns Sibyl affectation
affliction sans plethora,
where each ladle full adrip with
richly flavor Verdana Font lee
and sincerely textured vocabulary.
Pluperfect mortals beings undoubtedly feel
(blindsided, how this hunger stricken author
suffers said sesquipedalian syndrome
particularly expectorating flashy
hoping tum bark on successful literary quest)
hyper aware aspiring paperback writers wannabe
might stoop to conquer, cheat, cadge
vis a vis plagiarize plethora
amidst storied plentiful English droppings.
Rather than succumb pretense feigning paucity
temptation to bask exultantly,
professed glorious unrequited love
announcing required sworn vow,
(el lye ding) avowed consonant covenant.
Form:
The land is soaked with blood
The sand is soaked with tears
Oh
How many barrels of blood must be spilled
to know that so many souls are gone?
How many basins of tears does it take
to have more than enough tears?
.
I am the voice of the little child
crying in the wilderness
I want to caress the flowers that spring
out of the ground of my homeland
I want to watch the ripples when rain falls
I want to play with my mates on the sand
along Chu Ngoke street
I want to sit at home and watch my parents returning from a bountiful yam harvest
I want to stand at the playground and watch the traditional wrestling
I want to hear the sounds of Egelege and Egoni talking drums reminding me of yesterday and a great future ahead
I want to chase away goats from eating the maize in my mother's garden
I want to open my mother's pot
and pick a meat out of the soup
I want to see my homeland
Sweet little home of ours
Please take me back to Alode
Please take me back to Alode
.
I am the voice of a man
Whose hope lies in shackles
Whose homeland lies in broken images
A town deserted and forgotten
I am tired of being a stranger
in another man's land
I am tired of begging for crumbs
When my barn is filled with yam
Mudskippers can still be found in our swamps
Please take me back to Alode
I don't want to die in another man's land
I want to die in Alode, somewhere in Eleme
I want to be buried near the grave of my father and see my ancestors usher
me home with a shinning crown
Take me back home
Take me back home
.
Take me back to Alode
Let me see the beautiful women that
toss about the streets
Let me admire their buttocks
Let me stare at their breasts,
those two round objects protruding out
of their clothes, breasts that could make me feel like a child again
Let me kiss Nyime Owa Eleme, that beautiful lady of my dream
Let me lay her down on my bedside and
make life worthwhile
I want to go back home and see
the sunshine with it's illuminous rays
and the tender droplets of the rain
Oh Please take me back to Alode
Please take me back to Alode
.
Take me back to Alode
Let me touch your borders
From Alesa to Ogale
From Echieta to Onne and
From Ebubu to the Onu Nmu where they say the hands cannot reach
I want to touch the land of Alode
I want to touch the Eleme soil
I want to touch the soft green grasses of home
.......
>Are the best things in life free?
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad Author
& Poetry Soup Honourably Mentioned
One of my cousin’s on Facebook one day.
Said the best things in life are free.
Then she wrote a list you see.
Well not you, as it was seen by me.
I had of course, to reply.
Well my writing bug did, I sigh!
1. Hugs! To have a hug that close honey.
I need deodorant and that costs money.
2. Raise a smile! For that I must clean my teeth.
Toothbrush and paste, they are not cheap.
3. Family! That’s not free.
Just think of the mortgage fee.
4. Sleep! Really need a bed for that.
They are not cheap. That’s a fact.
5. Kisses! Flowers, chocolates and all that.
Leaves my wallet looking flat.
7. Friends! No doubt my turn to treat.
Every blinking time at pub we meet.
8. Memories! Now that is the one.
Don’t need cash to remember one.
That was before all those things I did do.
You said were, ‘free,’ you did it’s true.
Sadly they were not for me.
The seven things you said were free.
So that’s all now, you’ll get from me.
And all of this, ‘was,’ blinking free.
ooo0ooo
Some of my Angels are on loan.
I say I have four caring for me.
Two in the day and night you see.
As my cousin was ill, you know.
I ordered two, too her go.
My cousin later informed me she was okay.
her operation done she did say.
So my two angels she thanked that day.
And bless sent them back yesterday.
I sent the following message on Facebook 9-8-15
I have trolled, you have been told.
And I don't know what to say.
Those angels I did send you know,
Are still not back today.
Did you tell them to travell by train?
I know their wings don't like rain.
I checked the air at Felixstowe.
Just in case there they did go.
Sadly there was no sign of them, you know.
You know I am a patient man.
Bet they are talking as angels can.
Expect they'll turn up, and when they do.
I'll tell you when to cover your ears too.
As the air here might be blue.
Bit like the sky, i'm telling you.
Oh yes! Hope you are well soon too.
Having released those angels two.
I'll clip their wings that's what I'll do.
And next time, send my men angels to you.
(TMA)
As we are both recovering the Angels are on stand by. Well you never really know when, or where they will be needed do you?
(***warning ungapatchka language ahead***)
Flush with rage the spouse will become allied
if reference made how she buzzfeeds disorder
altercation especially likely if divorce blurted
making me wish to experience (immediately)
bartered bride, when mine pointed finger doth
nonverbally chide markedly appalling untidy
predilection she blithely exhibits woeful scant
interest to maintain can-do spirit affecting plea
zing aesthetic humble abode ofttimes slacking
off cleaning trail of abomination, which talent
includes unwittingly cultivating qua primordial
soup possibly duplicating conditions when life
originated (bajillion years ago) on planet Earth
witnessed courtesy think gummy, groovy, gooey,
gloppy, (nippy, nap, noopy) protoplasmic slimy
oozing blob (starring Steve McQueen) amoeba
like swallowing small towns with names such as
Chester Springs, Downingtown, Phoenixville,
& Royersford hungering, hinting, and hankering
to hasten home hearing Harris harridan hooligan
hoopla conniption purportedly linked into order
issued courtesy board of health for hen pecking
wife to hustle & make house beautiful for Biden
(accompanied with hit parade) announcing (yea)
at long last Republican administration overhaul
which fête yours truly slated to host determined
(weeks ago), thus necessitating legally wedded
counterpart to apply elbow grease in tandem to
render spic & span where unsightly food scraps,
soiled clothes, scattered papers, et cetera strewn
helter skelter, the disarray the culmination of 4+
years occupying these digs in Schwenksville, Pa.
Upon being told "get the place in ship shape order"
she went ballistic like bupkis fired out me gluteus
maximus, (whereat I couldn't help but think ICBM)
yea, an incongruous thought as she rattled vitriolic,
colorful expletives coarse language enough would
make sailor blush shutting his yapper uttering before
he even uttered "shiver me timbers," hence clatter
and din created cacophonous noise as my fair lady
affected one woman siege warfare as pots and pans
flew pell mell thru air while I took refuge in fallout
shelter unused since total mortal kombat destroyed
major swath of webbed wide world, global debacle
our dear leader triggered (when in pensive mood) he
lobbed weapons of mass destruction after being axed
to "go back home" meaning his mother planet Uranus.
Never will another season bring so much joy
A feeling of love, togetherness and happiness
Ring out them festal bells and let’s be jolly
A savior was born, condescended, we are happy
We go to church, offer praise most joyful
Screams of delight, Children playing happily
Lovers holding hands gazing happily
At the beautiful sites, mountain's peaks, rivers of joy
Birds singing sweetly in the air, their songs so melodious and joyful
Every home, through their windows flowing sounds of rapture and happiness
The drunk on the street had one wish to make him happy
Give me some rum, he said, that will make me good and jolly
I played this song last night and it is so fitting, for the topic says Joyful, Joyful
It’s the season of good cheer, a time to give, to dance, to eat and be jolly
Only you can determine your level of happiness
To give of your means it is easy, but to give of yourself many cannot do this happily
Give without grudge, with no intention to receive, that's how giving becomes a joy
To exercise these gems will cleanse the soul; give warm feelings, make us happy
Laughter in the trees, laughter in the breeze, season of laughter, everyone is happy
Gift for baby, gift for mommy, gift for daddy, even the cats and dogs had to be joyful
What the world craves, so elusive for some, thank God in His love, we find great joy
Come one come all let’s jump on the bandwaggon, riding the coach called Super Jolly
The invitation is out, don’t settle in doubt, cast off your cares, ride with us, happily
Great people great love, warmth, sharing caring, all things good gives you happiness
Take friends, co-workers and fellow poets, toss in this great soup pot of happiness
Recycle love, make this world wonderful, song writer says, ‘don’t worry, be happy’
The world needs people who are positive, will see the best in others happily
A smile, a word of cheer, a few words of encouragement, make another’s day joyful
‘Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way’, what good is that if we are not jolly
The Lord has come, so unto this world be peace, love, and most important of all, joy
There is truth and beauty in the person with happiness, looking radiant and joyful
I would give my money just to be happy, to see my loved ones and friends real jolly
Luxury of life I would trade off hapilly, to have the thing the world craves for, joy
Theme for collaboration suggested by Tim Smith
Two enormous old toads crossed the road
On Tom’s back lounged Thomasina toad
Both are ugly and warty
Thomasina’s so naughty
As her bowels on his back she’d download
06-16-17
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
When Thomasina toad dumped on old Tom
He thought her poop explosion was a bomb
He hopped in the air
gave her a mean stare
shouting, "I'm not taking you home to Mom!"
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
Ribbit rubbit robbit 'n ro
this crazy toad has got to go
She's turning quite mean -
Fifty shades of green
No time to chat but still does crow
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
"Why don't we do it in the road?"
Said Thomas, the old horny toad
Thomasina hissed,
"Get a load of this!"
and a "blessing" on him bestowed
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
Thomasina was on a road trip
Her taxi was Tom's back she'd grip
But she strained as she held
And her bottom expelled
So she said "I've just left you a tip"
WRITTEN BY RAY GRIDLEY
Tom and Thomasina were the perfect pair
They were ancient toads without a care
He had a huge wart
She gives a mean fart
Anyone in her vicinity better beware!
WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y
Now Tom was an over achiever
He wanted the lady, not leave her
He sprayed his back with Scotch-Guard
and rubbed down with lots of lard
the dumper was now the receiver
WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART
Tom gave Thomasina the boot
Got sick from the smell of her poot
told her to get lost
right after he tossed
She gave him the one finger salute
WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER
Thomas and Thomasina loved to hear
the waterboatmen rubbing their gear
Thomas tried and started to croak
causing Thomasina to choke
you two will never get it right I fear
WRITTEN BY SEREN ROBERTS
When T'sina hopped on for a ride
Old Thomas reminded his bride,
"Though you're my sweet dish,
on the road we'll get squished",
"Just do it!" was her terse reply.
WRITTEN BY CRAIG CORNISH
Thomasina and Tom a heavy load
Lingered a little too long on the road
He could have kissed her all night
shocked at the oncoming lights
Croak and ribbit was heard; two flattened toads
WRITTEN BY EVE ROPER
PLEASE SOUP MAIL ME ANY SUBMISSIONS FOR THE COLLABORATION
06-16-17
Open up the Mask Drawer Please
I cackled delight as I opened up my mask drawer.
Naughty Wednesday mask was on top. It had a permanent stamp on it that said “Call in sick.”
Wednesday is the longest day at work, an extra hour every Wednesday.
In the back of my mind, I felt Purple. Purple I kept thinking. I know Sunday’s mask is purple.
I glared at yellow-green mask; distorted, ugly, hideously angry. I tried never to wear my
Angry mask. Nothing shuts children down faster or harder than Angry mask.
Being a school counselor, I know that it’d be better for me to stay home than wear Angry mask.
On a whim I throw it on the floor and began stamping it into the carpet.
My husband comes around the corner and says “Boo.”
So glad I had that can of vegetable soup in my hand. I am in such a rare form mood when I’m
Anywhere near Angry mask. Husband yelps, and wisely retreats,
In a small scared voice I hear him ask, “Where is pink mask?”
“Probably in the washer, because I’ll bet you forgot to DRY it TODAY!” Angry mask and I yell, angrily.
I can hear the pitter patter of a husband’s feet. Hear the dryer open. Happy mask is flung inside the room with us.
Angry mask and I glower at it.
“Come on,” My muse says. “You could try to change your mood.”
You’d think me being a school counselor and teaching children they are in charge of their own moods – changes, swings, etc. I could do this. I struggle to think of my best lesson for changing attitude. Aha!
Now I remember. I pull out stop sign. Hold it up to the mirror where a mean angry woman is glaring at me. God, she’s old! Much older than I ever think I am.
“STOP!” the reflection and I yell. “STOP! Your mood is up to you. You can be mad for a week, a day, an hour, or….” A buzzer goes off. Time to get up. I run over and slam the alarm clock into the floor hard,
Breaking off every piece I can.
“STOP!” the stop sign in my head yells. “STOP! STOP! STOP!”
I am taking a hammer to it now.
I really have to get off the steroids.
Too bad my choice is between breathing or sleeping.
And yes, Mom, I have NOT slept in 5 days, and do you want to fight me, really?
You are 84 years old, and I know you can take me out as well as you put me in….
Damn steroids.
I’d best go back to the doctor today.
I love my job, and I certainly
Don’t want medication to
Make me lose it.
I reach for Pink Mask.