Long Spouting Poems
Long Spouting Poems. Below are the most popular long Spouting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spouting poems by poem length and keyword.
The garden of plastic signs only blooms around election time.
Those two-legged roaches are spouting empty words.
They don't give a damn about our lives.
Where were these roaches on the Fourth of July?
I feel like pruning their signs, but it's a crime.
You can even do time.
But tear down Honest Abe, and they'll turn a blind eye.
Can't wait for the circus to leave town.
The neo-politicians juggling pins of our emotions.
Big-nosed ego clowns spitting tear gas in our faces,
Plastic flowers and empty vases they are.
Can't wait for the two-legged roaches
to crawl back into their dirty dark holes.
They bark at us to vote.
For what, A cock roach.
Why do you mock me so, yet label it as love?
I know love is so much more than a word, its action, blessings from above.
Why is the hand that fed me, now the one to make me bleed,
the voice that soothed me, now spouting lies to deceive me?
I thought, in time, my guilt would fade, old wounds heal,
yet I am reminded of my past daily, though you speak forgiveness.
How can you twist my words, say my feelings aren't so,
that my pain is just in my head, cast me out, with nowhere to go?
And yet I still defend you, in all honesty I have learnt to believe you.
I loathe who I am, wish for the torment I am subject to, to end.
I have only ever tried my best, and yet its not enough.
No penance, I do, will ever suffice, I feel surrounded,
thrust into a corner, with demons on all sides.
Yes, we had good times, but they do not absolve the bad,
kept locked up as if pest or dog, not child, your blood.
I am weighed down by guilt, I no longer recognise myself.
Frightened by more rejection, that I refrain from letting others in.
I wish I could say I am okay, that peace, one day, shall prevail.
My worth lies in tatters, like dust, my pain to numerous to measure.
One day, I hope my heart, now a burnt charcoal, will smoulder again.
To learn trust, to feel love, and know I am worthy once more.
05.01.2021
An obnoxious man in Texas
Strode into a Trader Joe’s
With his children and no masks
To cover any mouth or nose.
Though employees tried to stop him,
He refused to heed the rules,
Spouting much misinformation
To those he considered fools.
One excuse he loudly flaunted
Was his “disability,”
Claiming he was thus exempt
From laws applied to you or me.
Now, some problems may be hidden;
That’s a known and noted fact
That’s included in the ADA,
A governmental act.
But I really liked this comment
Someone made about his rant –
Merely acting like an a*****e
Doesn’t special status grant.
Poems tiptoe into my dreams and fill up all my sleeping space
Thoughts of mythical creatures, maybe a wonderful brilliant thing
They are swirling and twirling, each in own unique place.
Without any thought of my well-being, they banter and they brace.
Throwing out a plethora of inane ideas, without any obvious taste or grace.
Subliminal faerie clips,
float into my lavish fantastical dreams on an angel’s wing.
Unaware, I slumber on, my breathing at a quiet, gentle, meditative pace.
Knowing not what my early morning poetry will savagely or lovingly bring.
Poetry seizes me in my sleep, and holds me hostage even after I am awake.
Unaware while I am astral traveling,
but morbidly aware when I leap out of bed.
Her metaphors and nuances wind around my dendrites,
without a quiver or a quake.
Unbeknownst to my quieted essence, as I travel around moonlight’s silver lake.
Quickly aware, when I begin throwing out ideas and full passages
the minute I awake.
My imagination is spouting phrases and rhymes that seem curiously well-read.
Thoughts slither and sneak around me in teasing ways,
like the skin of a sleek snake.
My muse marches out lines of poems,
knowing my therapeutic need to be so fed.
Written 2-21-2019
Contest: Poetry and Me
Sponsor: Silent One
twixt and tween two torn out tongues in twos,
shrooms shouted out where snakes often snooze.
warlock wishes witching hour was over today
but we are sitting in Salem, so hey, hey, hey
Where witches stir, and mock and feast.
There are werewolves and wizards, west and east.
Spritely spellbooks are spouting spells to do.
The witching hour overtakes me and you.
We hide in the corner, hoping to not be found.
The only two humans in this insane house underground.
Witch comes in and says “I smell” children and we freeze.
It seems easier in books. Now I am nowhere in ease.
I shush you, Sister, please do not give away our spot.
The witch begins chanting as she fills in a pot.
Her evil laugh almost stops my breathing and my heart.
I will finish this tomorrow. Remind me where to start.
Galvanizing, never scrutinized; each moment falsely tabulated;
Slanted, polarized polls, punishing spiteful pundits
Spouting, spinning lies in frantic unison squawking
Ridiculous versions of fear mongering tales,
Meant to frighten, meant to hurt,
Meant to clutch and pulverize power.
It takes only a calm, rational thinking moment
To see through the maze of their foggy logic.
Nothing they say is fact checked or based in truth.
Spinning frantic webs to catch the unwary
To call forth violence with rage filled rants,
They push disturbing diatribes, provoking mayhem..
Drumming up revolt among the weak-minded minions ,
They still cannot cloak their hurtful and murderous intent.
President Trump has called them out, laughing in their faces.
Finally unmasked and stripped of disguises
There is nowhere to run, no more hiding places.
We see you. We stare at the darkness behind your malicious eyes.
Your fake news fiction will never again deceive us with your lies.
The pull of old habits,
and the failing interests.
A reliance on the will,
to corral the peak distress.
The attack of age-old fears,
willing to stand the test.
When a coup de tah rises,
breaking to a righteous crest.
Then the battle cries are heard,
and the do-gooders saunter,
The black hand group marches,
faces full of nervous wonder.
Then like the movies they portray,
the new owners change the story.
The winners lot instead of money,
came in what was called glory.
They were all forgotten soon,
in the shadows of a looming war.
And the world was preparing,
what would shake them to the core.
When crazy old men are at the helm,
spouting some contentious rambling.
And then billions of innocent lives,
the pawns of genocidal gambling.
That would be the time for action,
in the realm of Divine Inspiration.
For the advantage to be awarded,
to the person of previous indication.
Yes, you're one sexy witch, dear love, but now it's Halloween,
And I've a witchy tale to share, so keep your broom between ...
Five decades hence I knew the thrills of flesh, and did imbibe,
Yet there's but one that's apt to still pop up, let me describe:
It starts with just a tickled tip that twitches toward my toes,
As oft' can be a grandeur glitch, until what's grander, grows.
In dermal terms, my skin can squirm to feel infirmed and wet,
What fairer sexes call 'the glow', (we lesser-fair's call 'sweat').
Now when that glow has burst, I'm first immersed in finding you,
For you've the spunky junk to free the monkey from his zoo.
I'm damned if I can speak, my cheeks just bubble up with suds,
The things that hang or dangle, cursed to tangle with my duds.
I'm apt to find my fingers filled with zippers, buttons, snaps ...
And spouting things like "I love you", to fill the awkward gaps.
Those tickles turn to tingles and they mingle through an urge,
That brings our things together 'midst a single clinging merge.
Its fever gives new meaning to the old phrase come-and-gone,
And your sexy pose, (and fewer clothes), will always bring it on.
Now please don't fear, my vixen dear, when tickling has begun,
No stopping what is popping up, there's lots of hopping fun ...
The barrel of my kitschy gun has schemes it needs to hatch,
And when my love-lust itches, hon, it's you I aim to scratch!
Written and submitted on October 21, 2019
For the "Itch, Witch, Glitch, Or Twitch" Poetry Contest
Nina Parmenter, Sponsor.
It was the only fine day during a week
near Ullapool; a chance to launch for a sail.
Out off the Summer Isles a breeze we did seek,
being relieved there was no longer a gale.
Then half a mile to the north a splash we saw.
Was it? Might it be? Could one be found right here?
Then up came a spout and we were filled with awe.
Another one confirmed that it might come near.
We looked at each other – should we be afraid?
Around us there were guillemots, razor bills
and puffins, yet not one of them seemed dismayed,
so we relaxed and anticipated thrills.
So towards us it swam, breaking the surface,
spouting again, till it was just over there,
some sixty feet distant. No longer nervous
we reckoned its length to our boat did compare.
And so it passed south as we were held in wonder.
Ashore we determined the species of whale
was a minke, sure it could not be under
sixteen feet. I recount this memorable tale.
We eat and drink to stay alive
But we need more to truly thrive;
For though our drinking and our eating
Keeps that central organ beating,
We’re aware, despite each thud,
That hearts require more than blood.
With our brains, they intertwine,
Nature’s cleverest design,
Providing what we need to grow –
Only if we nurture, though.
Sustenance must thus be sought;
How to get it can’t be taught.
Each of us must find our way;
Some get lost and others stray.
Still, we struggle and we seek
For that which makes us each unique.
When we find it, we will bloom,
Spouting buds of sweet perfume.
Every being has the power
With some help, to rise and flower.