Long Spectacularly Poems
Long Spectacularly Poems. Below are the most popular long Spectacularly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spectacularly poems by poem length and keyword.
At dusk, a brilliant western panorama
displayed off our seventh floor balcony.
Fluorescent colors, clouds of fuchsia, amber,
yummy yellow golden glazes across the sky.
So spectacularly spanning sentient space
a show of shows of unearthly grace.
Looming large clouds block the final moments
of light, tumultuous turmoils of my
little life reappear to slant the final view.
In contrast to my current mind of hope lost
for the future, the world closes in as I fell
into the despairing darkness of sleep that night
to awake in my dream to a gala porch party
on our balcony, attending was everyone,
my benefactors - Mark Twain, Martin Luther King,
Albert Einstein, Leonard Cohen, Rudyard Kipling,
Robert Frost, Maya Angelou and Dorothy Parker.
The "usuals" who would, could draw me close
but I'd have none of it, my mood morose.
Sullen, I waded disconsolate through the crowd
to the rail, reached in the basket I'd kept
for the long hemp escape rope, supple as a snake,
knotted it, put the loop around my neck
heart pounding, they gasped, chatter turned to fear.
Then a white dove flew under our canopy
and sat on Kipling's shoulder peacefully posing.
Clumsily confused, I climbed atop the railing
turned to look at the party - troubled, bereft,
speechless, said nothing, then jumped.
Oh the rushed flying feeling enthralling!
Soaring in the wind, all the while falling -
instantly, I was sorry it would all stop.
The dove descending on me caught my gaze
an iconic spiritual symbol that allured.
Through the dove's eyes I saw the party leaning,
a taut rope, a body swinging below.
Startled from dour slumber, back in my bed;
no breath, panting, panicked, tears trickling,
my wife up to hug me, save me from myself.
Shaken, I knew just exactly what to do
quickly to the balcony, opened the rope basket
to find all in place, then I noticed my hands,
palms bleeding, rope burned and raw,
pinned to my nightshirt was a piece of paper,
on it was this poem that I'd never written.
Bleary beyond belief, a surge force welled up,
a dove flies into the dawn sky bursting new light -
the otherness released finally from within.
I felt new found freedom from dream depths -
reborn, awake with renewed hope,
that memorable morning on the seventh floor.
Dozens of keys hung on a plentiful board
Vehicles belong to each one
Dangle of available engines ready to drive
Givers distribute accordingly
Matching mood to motor, transport taken
Varies dependant on your need
Givers freely unlock the car of best benefit
Travel happens without hazard
Journey allowed to boast assets conducive
Scenery flies by spectacularly
Road paved smooth by empathy's intersect
Softened by giver's closeness
24th September 2020
'Givers' Poetry Contest
Sponsored by : Regina McIntosh
Re entered for Chantelle Anne Cooke's
September NA Contest
The following reasonable obsolete rhyme
verst heard in my faux class (sic) lilting brogue
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19) rogue
wrought approximate sixth month academic hiatus
nevertheless September 1st, 2020
signals resumption of school year back in vogue.
Challenges abound as millions of students re:zoom
trudging off to..., yet another bus comes by... vroom,
whereby administrators establish
virtual and/or actual room
adapt to delegate assignments as reported by newsroom
facilitated by yours truly,
a bonafide married, yet unbridled groom.
Though mind boggling, death defying,
and harrowing scenario daring to crisscross
(dangerous information highway road)
will confront those most qualified to teach
impressionable minds to overload
nevertheless I envy those learning
courtesy high tech mode.
Golden (gated) opportunity
spectacularly presented to bridge,
kickstart, and buttress young minds
immodestly excited and
amenable to learn online
one old googly eyed
aging pencil necked geek
makes his poetically cameo appearance
crafting awareness about severe complication
hash-tagging those best equipped to teach,
which alternatives pinterest me
linkedin, trumpeted nsync with
tried and true methodology
(think white/blackboard
with markers and/or chalk respectively),
who by the way never got chosen to
clap erasers outside,
fold flag ditto after said
emblematic sanctified cloth unfurled,
nor serve as safety patrol.
Though born within baby boom generation,
I horrendously (nobly) struggled
to acquire cognitive consonance
floundered like a fish out of water
forever barely achieving passable grade
He readily attests de facto failure
if hypothetically enrolled in kindergarten today,
I would get demoted to preschool
(a slight bit of hyperbole),
thus both laments abysmal track record,
whereby attending conventional
schools of hard knocks
(situated within Lower Providence district)
emotionally fracturing psyche
until this very waking moment,
and moost likely mine
remaining tenure on Earth.
(Author’s note: This poem is a humorous satire on how a modern media mentality would view the story of Christ’s Ascension.)
The Ascension (with Rewrites)
By Mark D. Stucky
Look!
Up in the sky!
Not a bird.
Certainly no plane.
It’s super God-man!
Victor over gravity
as well as the grave!
The ascension was levitation
without benefit of special effects,
foreshadowed by walking,
without sinking,
on slippery water molecules
while strolling on the sea in a storm.
Miracles of physics.
Mysteries of motives.
Why leave just then?
Why leave in that way?
You canceled your ministry story arc too soon.
Disciples wished you had stayed for another season.
Think of the additional episodes untold and unsold!
You made a flashy exit, for sure,
but to a tiny audience share.
Why not soar spectacularly
over cheering crowds of thousands
and jump-start church conversions during lift-off?
Why not hover over those foolish Pharisees
and, with shock and awe,
rain fireballs down their open mouths?
That would also spice up the sequel.
The Book of Acts would need revisions,
and screenwriters would savor doing rewrites.
Your story could have been a blockbuster,
but you work in mystifying ways,
and your ways are not Hollywood ways.
(First published in Soul-Lit, Fall/Winter 2022. See also my poem "God’s on Mute.")
(Image by Josh Eckstein on Unsplash.com.)
Me To You To Me.
A heart of such gold
it outshines the sun.
Of singular beauty
there must be but one.
A luminous presence
that makes the heart beat.
Lighting the darkness
a once hopeless feat.
Desires imagined
long left behind,
flawlessly kindred,
two of a kind
A door never opened.
None holding the key.
enchanting the mind
spectacularly.
Kindness abundant.
As smart as is wise,
leveling worlds
without a disguise.
Resilience & courage
encompass the core,
raising the spirit
as none gone before.
Is this but a dream
of many made fool?
Which will it be,
exception or rule?
Emotions made ice
since long long ago.
Refusing to melt,
this all that I know.
Convinced in my self
I no longer care.
What nothing could be
if not do I dare?
So I'll play the joker,
and toss out a rope.
For it's truly the fool
that's given up hope.
Whatever the outcome.
However the end.
If not be their more,
forever a friend.
This is the woman who repeatedly told us for over two years Joe was as sharp and active as ever, there is no crisis at the border, Joe’s record inflation was caused by Trump, the bungled Afghanistan withdrawal was all down to Trump, Covid spread was all yep Trump, high energy and gas prices all Trump, the Hunter laptop was Russian disinformation, that they did not support defunding the police, the Jan 6 Committee was an impartial bipartisan investigation, that the DOJ and FBI’s legal campaign against Trump was not politically motivated, and on and on it goes. She was the poster girl for the Biden Ministry of Lies.
Ain’t it funny watching all the liberal media and White House staff pretend like they were all duped by a senile old fool for three and a half years. With all their access to Biden and his aides they couldn’t see what any sane person could. That’s corruption on an unprecedented scale. There’s your threat to democracy, there’s your constitutional crisis. There are many here on the Soup who believed it was all a conspiracy theory. That’s next level spectacularly dumb!
This odious woman is the latest to release a book to monetise her complicity and guilt with more gaslighting. The only reason she was chosen as press secretary was because she ticked all the right boxes with DEI. She got to lie to us every day from her pulpit because Democrats value DEI and virtue signalling over ability and integrity. Thus being a black immigrant gay woman was her ticket to the top job. In the real world most of us have to earn our way. Not so in the fantasyland liberals live in. Get your heads out of your ar-se, America.
Can’t wait to see who the next lying bottom feeder is to write a book.
My monocle, please,
or if you please,
my spectacles so
I
can attempt to eye
a book with both irises
and which book
to attack first:
the gigantic book of fashion;
it’s
not a lap animal, vegetable
or otherwise;
and the floral pages -
both have large print,
I think.
Oh, yes,
and speaking in tongues,
that is
the craft of language;
a book (oh, yes, quite funny)
on trees (aren’t they the funny things
that we write upon);
and murder!
Murder, you say?!
…those found in the bible.
“What!” say you…
First the death of pleasantries or
pleasant trees (funny, right?)
Then sibling rivalry to the extreme.
‘Thou shall not kill,” did Cain know this one?
or ‘thou shall not covet…?’
All of these emotions, quite the spectacle,
spectacularly so… So what is in fashion today?
Do we like a good murder, on parade…seems
too many do. Jesus flipped the script -really,
he handcrafted the language of love. Love
God first; and love
your neighbor as you love yourself.
Sins brought to the surface.
Love covers a multitude of sins.
It is a sin not to go to the library
and bring home so many friends
that you can listen to.
Don’t kill the messenger.
My monocle please!
Illusion of you
By Michelle Morris
21/05/2023
I put the illusion of you
On a pedestal
Our imaginary life
In a wishing well
All the secrets and lies
Hidden in graves
The dead can't speak
They tell no tales
But all that longing
Went nowhere
And all my wishes
Left me in despair
Because you moved on
When you walked away
Left me in tears
Destroyed in your wake
Why I still love you
Is quite the mystery
Because the pedestal tumbled
So spectacularly
The illusions vaporised
The heartache remained
Maybe I still love you
On another plane
© Michelle Morris, 2023
Winkin Blinkin And Nod, Sans...
Wonderful World Of Dreamland Furloughed!
Hours elapsed since I did sleep off
and feed my belly from the trough.
What...the...creaking screech re: sound
ding, (an unexpected pro noun
sub bull mashup attributed
to partial government shutdown
point middle finger at dented prez clown.)
The night of my spectacularly
exhausting seventh birth,
I dreamt about an amazing fictitious place,
and taint nope pull lace on Earth
cozily warm like a wood burning hearth
where embers snap,
crackle, and pop with mirth
best show in shutterfly REM
hmm...memory wool worth
(at least for near future) stayin alive
whiskey indeed no comparison, dip pin dive
ving into subconscious realm, and drive
ving devotees mad, 'specially when bing
a barf hull lie ("FAKE"),
thus wide awake temper
aerily perhaps til five
(more minutes), when buzz zee as bee hive
honey combed noggin will cease to jive,
and crown jewel will suddenly seize
gnome hatter, hatter how hard I strive
to stay awake
for no particular rhyme, nor reason
won during, how far
this chap can push himself to break
king point, which presently me make
foolish poem just to slake
hun heed to slather palaver
which yukon leave or take,
since essentially nary a clue
handy dan dee blues zee drew
pea senseless blather
basically (AWOL) din flue
zee brooked stream of consciousness
writing whatever zaps glue
pee bobbing sponge with grayish hue
cranking out words as they snap,
crackle and pop to this Jew
dishy us scrivener knew
dulling in an attempt
to splash unexpurgated lue
nah see gobbledygook, yes
sigh hug gree quite loo
pee, yet this long
(in the dent chord tooth) fell hoo,
he experiences silly (NOT solid) state
ready to moo
myself to supine pose new
matter, an unusual burst
of energy recharged
ordinarily inactive cerebral queue,
hence maximization left no time to rue
rationality upended in
frenetic attempt to spew
until...capacity to type another letter
sputters, a dog send to you
and all otter readers within
the webbed whirled wide human zoo!
How vast and pervasive is the Moon?
Hugeness hints there stand two
Orbs and a turbulent stream
Simply like the dawning sun
All over the half-moon horizon.
On the shore of credulity
The froth shed detritus and sea salt
Carving a path into level sand
Slicing the weft out of silk
By cutting across the fabric kernel
The waves were sealed on the scanty shore
The furor was in harmony with the dust
Pearl-like seaweed and scrubber.
Moonlight over the Sea at Dawn
It is ideal and so spectacularly tempting
The churning water bred white foam
I am enthusiastic to have the plunge
The tendons, sinews, and guts were all wary
A season invests these twilight hours
Fetch the ache and gentleness
Misleading magnetism
My inner mermaid is hopeless
The moon was merely out of the embrace.
It related me to a no-blue world
Spume was kicked by white ponies
As they did in our fourth year of dreams
Cantering toward the welling of time
In the utter stiffness at the two ends
Do not feel dire about shedding tears
The spectrum of the dull light
We never noticed.
Written: October 29, 2022