Long Splotch Poems
Long Splotch Poems. Below are the most popular long Splotch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Splotch poems by poem length and keyword.
A conversation overheard between Shakespeare and his former muse.
"So many things hath turned to utter folly over the ages.
Hundreds of years since I've penned pages and pages.
What these ancient eyes of mine doth now conceive
plead, 'Return to thy grave, Bard, for here you'll grieve."
"In sooth, fair maiden muse, I know not why I am so sad.
Perchance to dream, is this a scheme or have I gone mad?
Enlighten me as to what's become of life as I once knew it.
Bitter dregs are coffee? Bring me tea or I shall lose my wit!"
"Fie to you and the darts of scornful glances from the eyes
of natives half-dressed. Is modesty held in compromise?"
It's accepted attire by everyone, nothing like in the past.
"I shall not rudely stare, but I find myself quite flabbergast.
What of the churl who spits venom into that man's face?
Doth women in this day act like shrews? What a disgrace!
Is not thy husband honored as both her lord and keeper?"
Women are equal. She looks at him like she's the grim reaper.
"The lady doth protest too much. That's what me thinks.
A goblet of ale tis what I need, and then forty winks.
That minstrel sings gibberish. Has he no pride in himself?"
He sings a Christmas song about an elf who sits upon a shelf.
"O, teach me how I should forget from whence I have come.
I do not belong here. I need a draft to sleep and benumb.
Romeo's poison was quick. Thus, with a tender kiss he died.
To chamber I betide to cleanse this stain I shall not abide.
Out! Out Damned spot! Thy splotch besmirches as if blood.
Begone fore I hear my heartbeats pounding with each thud.
On the banks of Stratford-On-Avon tis where I long to be,
rewriting Romeo and Juliet so in the future he will decree...
To Juliet when she says, Romeo. Romeo, wherefore art thou?
The lad shall reply, "What do you want from me, you cow?"
Dear Bard, you mustn't change a word of what's been written.
For centuries women have read your lines and were smitten.
"I shall nary breathe a word of this ill journey to the future.
Thine lips are sealed forever more without need of suture.
Back to the grave where I belong, most gladly shall I return.
In eternal sleep, ne'er to dream of such time I did spurn."
It is an important cake that I had to bake with out a rake so that it would be
real It has a special filling that the groom himself requested and has not been
tested a flavor that is also a favorite of mine no matter where I dine even with fine punch It must not even come close to being dropped nor even flipped
It is a family specialty both with and with out the decorations with not one
splotch not one drop of scotch although my watch seems to have been some
how misplaced plus every step retraced although perhaps it’s in the van with the
pans of sandy ham maybe even on the can of Pam- wherever it is I can not put
down the cake to look
My book when last seen was next to the cake which was nowhere near the
hooks my watch may have been there too when I was using my decorating tools
with out boos but wherever my watch happens to be I am grateful I have not run
into any yellow bees I hope I am not late regardless of the fee because I have to
make a delivery even if for free
Well whatever the time even if I only get a few dimes and limes this is a
special occasion so this better be the right destination regardless of
instantaneous regeneration of plants with out procrastination or any kind of
hesitation despite some close calls that would make it resemble the leaning
tower of Italy here comes the wedding cake!
Yes, it is unequivocally true, your beauty will fade. Your skin once tight, will start to drape and hang in unexplainable ways. Discoloration will begin to splotch and take place upon your once evenly toned body, and newly lined face. Your vision will get blurrier with every new age. Your hair will thin, and color change. Your wrinkles will deepen with every smile that stays a little too long, forever imprinting its frame. Your memories will escape from any accessible place. It’s a slow death from a life full of moments you meticulously made, but inevitably forget. Your heart's beat will lose rhythm, and sound slowly. In the end, we often regret because we were in such a hurry not to leave, not to age, not to gray. So focused on a temporary body, which we knew would expire one day. So yes, there will be change taking place. I like to imagine aging means we are that much closer to another energy state. So let it fade. Let the wrinkles and discoloration take place. Remember they are little reminders this body was never a permanent space.
ekphrasis
Five glasses filled with brew but only two in kind;
the bread is toasted lightly, portioned just for four.
Although the background’s hazy, something rests behind,
dim splotch of green? a clue we may be out-of-doors.
A meeting of the minds? just what shall we assume?
Simplicity. The toast and drink, an easy fare.
It seems the palate lacks variety, it’s true;
be careful, but move past the concrete things in view.
Which guest will do without the toast or maybe share?
Perhaps this scene’s a prompt not meant to be consumed.
Imagine artists gathered round, with tools all set,
each marking what he sees upon that butcher block.
A not so simple task, the brush and palette used
or words in lines employed so meaning is infused.
The artist/writer spinning thoughts which can unlock
the core of what is seen, our appetites to whet.
written by Reason A. Poteet
written 18 April 2015, for Giorgio's Ekphrasis 01 Contest
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poetry_contests/member_contest_details.aspx?ContestID=6243
Give us our daily bread . . .
We shall not mind if we
Have a daily milk,
Neither shall we take offence
If we have a daily butter to match.
Who amongst you will give his child
A stone if he demands for a bread?
Who amongst you will offer her child
A serpent if she request for a manner?
Legion ,they are today in the globe.
Who is holding down our daily bread?
Who is hoarding our daily milk?
Who is selling our God given freely manner?
The men with Capital in all our capitals
The men with the tyrannical order of Capital
The men enslaving us for more Capital
Even in the nooks and crannies of rural towns
As hunger and poverty hovers round the cities
Even amidst unprecedented Capitals.
The more we gnash our teeth crying for our
Daily bread given by Jehovah Jireh
The more they replaced it by daily stone.
The more we complain of hunger to Jehovah
The more they laugh at us and replace our
Daily bread with splotch of taste and famine,
For they known we are springy to sufferings.
The more we lament of the men in Capital
The more they turn our daily bread to serpent
Striking us forcefully even in hunger.
The more we beg of them for Capital
The more they kill us for surplus value
For their fiendish drive for more profit .
Tell the men at work to beg no more
Tell the men in Capital we shall beg no more
Tell the men at work to arise and unite
And stop them and their unending lush luxury
To forge ahead to the barricade and
Seize the mace off the corridor of their hands.
Then ,only then, we shall experience hunger no more
And our daily bread shall be “tead” and “buttered”.
Alayande Stephen .T
16th of April,2006
6.30pm
Conceptualization of the sufferings of the masses
All over the world in the hands of the ruling Capitalists
Despite the abundance given by God. Demanding for workers
Solidarity throughout the world to overthrow this endemic Capitalist system.
Form:
Decadent perimeter a decorous
tray doth betray
Polished cart a nubile mask doth
display
From black, coiffed locks baited line
doth sway
From slippery, glossed lips a sweet
nectar doth spray
In dark corner, sleek, painted lashes
lustily fray
On cheeks, hearty splotch of rouge,
as sparkling rubies arrayed
Powdered, satin neck a smooth,
silky route doth relay
Below, a swinging gait with nimble
legs that teasingly play
While regal, surface stream my
passions do tap
My mind longs heart's deep
reservoir uncap
The silted mine's exterior allures
with its glittering scrap
But I long the buried riches of soul's
deep crevasses to unwrap
The tender juices from heated lips
flow like sap
But my burning desire is to
navigate heart's ventilated gap
Your soft, rhythmic words my
beating pulse doth clap
But would much rather your
subconscious strings map
Per chance reason's melded door
doth flap
Thereon, lust's sensuous screen
we'll strap
Idle thoughts have me replaying
the cry of an owl I heard
last night when half asleep
and swear it flew a silent course
through the center of a dream
and then, this morning,
I had myself picking a splotch
of sunlight from a leaf to hold
in my hand before it flew away
on a sudden gust of wind.
Then, off I went to break
a sagging spiders web hung
with beads of dew and stretched
across my path, a sticky wet cling
of thread finally letting go
to set my morning free.
One day, I fear, I shall
fold myself up and let
my idle thoughts metamorphose
into me, taking a room with a view
on the second floor of my poetry.
Carcinoma, melanoma sick twins
Inside their innocuous hosts grin
For surface tension brings no chagrin
Another, common diagnosis will time lend
Healthy cell structures to amend
Immune systems with guile befriend
In state of denial, journey begins
Signs not to the human eye hidden
But worry has healthy mind forbidden
Asbestos, carbon dioxide, dioxin
Immune filters will certainly fend
Smoking, over eating, years of gin
Only near life's end wages will append
Per chance through pore seeps pathogen
To rally antibody troops always an antigen
Discolored figment under skin
Bright pigment from allergen
A red rash can dry with benzine
Yellowish splotch need carotene
Brownish bump harmless toxin
Black mole surely genetic origin
Benign cyst lacking needed vitamin
Purplish lesion can cure with Neosporin
Small lump only a gland that's swollen
Goiter rarely takes malignant spin
"We are cute spring chicks with fluffy feathers that keep
us warm; real small, like to run, and we are adorable ! "
Quote by _Constance
On a bright morn spring chicks hatched,
as the first flowers of the season bloomed;
oddly, not a single chick matched,
their fluffy feathers delightful plumbs.
Each was silly, playful and gay,
they would run every which way;
often, they wandered the barn yard going astray.
Those sweet chicks had no fear,
sometimes, suddenly they would just appear;
and to their mother would adhere.
So whimsical and frivolous to watch,
and almost impossible to catch;
I love each fluffy chick's feathery splotch,
and have a favorite that I call Butterscotch.
Confused is she who believes she knows
herself. A splotch in the artist's worst work yet
calls herself a masterpiece. Not even the
artist notices her mistake.
The vibrant dark red blood of a swatted mosquito
creates the edges of her face, standing out
in the sea of white, green and a sky blue.
A simple coffee spill shades in her eyes,
a simple dirt spot on the canvas, her iris.
She is hung up beside a poor copy of
Bar at the Folies-Bergère. Not more than a
pair of wandering eyes grazed over her and the clammy
artist.
But that blink, the extra second spent analyzing that
crown of hair, meant to her,
that she was the centerpiece.