Long Spurted Poems
Long Spurted Poems. Below are the most popular long Spurted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spurted poems by poem length and keyword.
Their baby girl turned out exceptional
Their baby girl is very exceptional
Her script perfect
She always had a book in her hand
Reading every spare minute
With a sponge like focus
At craft fairs, for example
She would hide under the table and read
At funeral services and church
She always brought a book
She would always read, read
For her birthday she wanted every episode
Of Criminal Minds, she never wanted toys
A book, or something stimulating her mind
To her was gold
She would also multitask her art
Oils and knitting, all self taught and really good
With her schoolwork
And sports
Swimming, karate and water polo
She was the very best at what she did
All through her schooling
Every single day
Every single day
She never received a grade less than an A
She was class valedictorian
She was phenomenal,
A swan that was always a swan
And recently she completed her first semester
At nursing school with a continued perfect record
Of all A's, all advanced courses
To me this is amazing
If I'm beaming the answer is yes
I spoke with, or should I say joked with the ex
Whose genes did she inherent? Whose?
Because It's neither of us
We laughed, one of the few times we did
I once wrote to my baby girl
Nineteen now, yet she's still my baby
I wrote to her a beautiful poem
About a blossoming rose
Growing to new heights, so elegant and beautiful
Nurtured, loved and cultivated
And she wrote back ... wherever they put me
In life, emphasizing they, I'll blossom that's my promise
I read her response over and over
In my mind, shedding tears
At her conviction, strong
I got to thinking ...
Her being uprooted earlier on in life
Watching her parents divorce, being hurt as a child
Having fears
Spurted her growth, ambition and drive
In my eyes it did
Affecting her in a way that she carried
A chip on her shoulder wanting to be the best
Proving her parents made a mistake in abandoning her
Just this past holidays, I can see a huge transformation in her
It's really noticeable, unrecognizable
She's matured faster than I wanted
Maybe she's dating, dipping her wet feet
But I see something different
I don't know what it is
She's not my baby anymore
connie pachecho
1/10/17
"When God given gift is mistaken as self earned power, people become arrogant and arrogance leads to fall" By Poet.
The crow we see, was once a beautiful bird
Sweet as a lark and white as a swan
The world stood in rapturous glee
As he poured out melodies with such elan
Proud and haughty over his gorgeous form
He reckoned himself to be the crown of creation
To all other birds he was a cynosure of charm
And he feasted on their praises of mad veneration
Presumptuously dwelling on altitudes high
He thought the world was revolving round him
Looking at others with contempt and disdain
He wanted everyone to dance to his whim
At morn when other birds twittered and chirped
And sang devotional lays in praise of God,
The crow refused to sing any song
As he deemed himself to be far above the Lord
God wanted to teach the arrogant bird a lesson
A messenger with warning from Heaven was sent
‘Unless you turn humble and with respect others treat
God’s wrath will fall and you shall lament’
Sneering at this and rebuking the terrestrial envoy,
With haughty arrogance, the crow went his way.
By dusk, he flew down to perch on a tree
Alas, the branch gave way to his utter dismay!
Losing balance, he slid down into a can of tar
Disappointed was he as he emerged all black
But hoped that a dip in water would wash away the dirt
And once more he would be, to his former self back
Soon God’s messenger with ire reappeared in a vision
This time, stark were his words of admonition
‘Henceforth you and your progeny will all be black
Ugly in appearance, scavengers you shall be known!
‘In place of the tuneful melody, you were blessed
Your sound will be sonorous and rough’
Saying this, the apparition vanished out of sight
And the crow knew his life ahead would be tough
He waited impatient for the dawn to break
Before all other birds were up and awake
He decided to try and test his sound
And was startled at what came in the wake
“Caw…. Caw…. Spurted the sound from his beak
Jarring and raucous, harsh and husky!
While other birds laughed over and celebrated his fall
The poor defeated crow was left grouchy and dusky
Host Nation Crass Action
It is downright embarassing to review a viral video clip...
Of a group of black attired chanting in unison to a beat...
Presumably they were out in full force as soccer fans...
Easily overwhelming the rival team and their travelling fans..
In their misbegotten zest to show ardent support to the national team...
They forgot about common courtesy and sportsmanship and behave so ugly...
They were dancing and chanting insulting phrases and unpleasant things...
Reviewing such a video clip and knowing they are fellow Malaysians, I am ashamed..
How much about Singapore do they really know, that they have to show....
Their animalistic bestiality in singing, Singapore Itu Anjing...
So very disappointing to see this, when it is merely a football match...
How could this ever has to come about, how could a host nation's fans be so crass....
Could it be decades of much lauded supremacy in race and religion in this nation...
Plus jealousy and animosity from unbridled misinformation about the Singapore nation....
That brings out this shameful animosity in crowd behaviour from a host nation...
The Singaporean nation has spurted head and shoulders ahead as a prosperous nation..
While the Malaysian nation has descended down the dregs of economy as if in a comedy show...
Whither comes this open hostility to belittle and intimidate the national team from Singapore...
O, Where is the graciousness and sportsmanship befitting of our nation...
Or has the scourge of acceptable corruption blurred the values of this nation????
Update:
https://www.nst.com.my/sports/football/2017/10/297479/fam-cough-us56000-fines-offences-asian-cup-qualifiers-kuala-lumpur
Hohoho...
How it stings, when fans, players, coach and and FAM are punished for misbehaving...
Will this be the lesson to to mind all and sundry the need for sportsmanship...
“When the pen falls silent that once danced to the muse’s command and when the poet’s heart no longer beats with rhyme, we realize that the poet in us is dead. It is a sad truth difficult to reckon.” ~ By Poet
Far from the din of madding crowd,
And away from the bustle of city streets,
I withdrew into a solitary spot,
To turn my thoughts into dazzling verse.
Shelley and Shakespeare came in view,
Emily and Eliot fell in line,
Their verse ringing loud and clear,
Their energy fanning fire within
I dreamt of putting proper words,
To clothe my thoughts in striking notes,
Longed to pour my loaded heart,
In powerful verse to move the hearts
But as I started scrawling down,
All that I had stored in hoards –
Ebbed out into mere froth and foam,
Leaving bits of broken thoughts
I sallied out for a stunning theme,
And stroked my pen to put it down,
But topics eluded me one by one,
Unable to decide on what to dwell,
I rummaged my memory for apt words,
And dallied round with lofty themes
Yet nothing other than splintered thoughts,
And hackneyed phrases came alive.
I strained hard to give them life,
And labored in vain to make them rhyme,
‘The Blazing Sun’ and ‘the Brilliant Star’,
Both faded out with no trace of glow.
I envisioned before me the Sacred Mount,
To drink from the fountain gushing down,
But hot lava spurted out,
And the wings of fancy burnt outright!
No Muse appeared to enliven me,
Nor my fantasy lingered long,
The words that once flowed like honey
Dried up with no inspiration, coming to nourish.
Staring blank into the scroll in front,
Unable to scribble even a moving thought,
Like a soldier vanquished in war,
I put away my paper and pen.
I greatly lament the death of the poet in me,
And wonder if ever will have a rebirth!
Then Thisbe stole forth as agreed upon
Unobserved her head covered with a veil
Out of city’s bounds edifice well known
Waited for Pyramus near a fountain trail.
In the dim light she descried a lioness
Nearing the fountain with blood reeking jaws
With a recent slaughter to slake her thirst.
She fled dropping her veil out of fright.
After quenching thirst turned back for her cove
Renting the veil in bloody mouth on her retreat
But Venus won’t always befriend true love.
Having delayed Pyramus arrived there
Saw footsteps of the lioness in the sand
And found the veil all bloody over there
Crying picked up the rent veil in his hand.
Thought himself to be the cause of her death
Covering the veil with kiss and with tear
And said, come ye lioness tear with your teeth
Let my blood also shall stain your texture.
He plunged sword into his heart with a shove
Blood spurted tinging the tree with red color
But Venus won’t always befriend true love.
Thisbe stepped out not to disappoint him
She noticed the change in the tree’s color
In the agonies of death she saw him.
A shudder ran as ripple in still water.
She saw her veil and his scabbard empty.
He has slain himself for her sake only.
She said, “I could be brave and follow thee
Death alone couldn’t prevent my joining thee
Love and death join us, one tomb be our grove”
She plunged the sword in her breast near the tree
But Venus won’t always befriend true love.
Envoi
Such tale of the self-less love presented
The two bodies in one tomb were buried
Pyramus-Thisbe tale our hearts do move
Berries serve memorials of their blood
But Venus won’t always befriend true love.
===================================
Rhyme scheme : ababccddede Envoi- ddede
I always knew the cider mill was across the road,
Down a little ways from Grandma's house.
This day, it must have been October;
The afternoon sun was shining hot;
The side of the road was dusty.
A steady sound was chug-chugging through the air
On top of the sweet dusky smell of over-ripe apples.
I went to have a look.
The mill itself was a squarish box of grey weathered wood.
I crept along the path worn in the grass
Alongside the building and peered around the edge.
Two men looked up in surprise.
One was at the top of a machine with a crate of apples;
The other was bent over at the bottom,
Holding a shiny bucket.
Everything about them was brown,
Their sunburned faces and hands, their clothes,
Their flyaway jackets and felt hats jammed hard on their heads.
They froze still in their poses.
"Is that cider?" I ventured pointing to the few drops
Still dripping from the spout into the bucket.
The smell was really strong back here!
"Oh, yes!" They both jumped to answer.
"Would you like some?" Not waiting for a reply,
The bottom man put a rusty tin cup under the spout.
The other one pushed in some apples at the top.
Out spurted bubbly brown juice!
It fuzzed around the edges of the cup.
I took an experimental sip. It was totally good!
Sweet and warm like the sun! I drank it all.
The men were talking now.
How was school and how old was I.
And I talked, too, how much cider do you make?
Where do the apples come from?
Why don't you make it all the time?
Then I couldn't think of anything more to say
So I said goodbye and they said come again,
But I never did. I don't know why.
It might have spoiled it.
He talked in his sleep
the pages to his nightmare
started when they met
she was Gothic
always dressed in black
forever a countenance of gloom
how they met is a different story
he soon moved in much to her chagrin
like a spider spins to her web
to catch a moth
she became his fire to his ice
melting his bonds
his relationship with her was soon thinning
he was her catch
one night towards the end he screamed in his sleep
he was talking ... then yelling for his life
panic stricken, sweat dripping from his brows
he grabbed her hard, shaking her
his words spurted out, like blood
you tried to kill me with a knife
you were hovering over me
I saw you
I saw you
you tried to kill me with a knife
his words, spurting out more blood
I saw you
I saw you
She returned his look
eyes boring into his
uncomforting
with a smile
so wry, so real, so scary
His mind paused
for reason
It paused for the seeds she planted
The two Ann Rule Books on her nightstand
that he feverishly read,
blood spurting out of it's pages
both book's genres of wives stabbing their husbands to death
and he began to put the puzzle together
heart pounding off the charts
of crops that she wanted to harvest in his head
of her deep rooted quests
he looked back at her,
birds only singing her tune, so robotic
her eyes vacant but real
the wry smile was still there
he screamed again
connie pachecho
1/11/17
Fell out of bed upon my head
After dreaming I snapped this thread
Sorrow whispers filled me with dread
As I pondered what lied ahead
Stubbed my toe on a soul laid low
His wounded tale filled me with woe
Such remote hopes dashed long ago
The mountaineer climbed a plateau
Could not command my quaking hand
Raging from that pineal gland
Toiling through such mortal demand
So my liver could turn to sand
I spied a flea chowing foul brie
These perked insects still torture me
His scissor mouth tossed up a plea
Begging for some Omega-3
Blood spurted out from the sink spout
Surely there's no pathogen drought
Orders of saints began to shout
Till my bathroom was deemed devout
Fire and turmoil sparked up to broil
As my kitchen became the foil
That cursed stove offered boiling oil
While all the food began to spoil
Locusts and bees prepared a squeeze
Hoping to plant me on my knees
While they consumed fodder with ease
Their hairy legs proffered disease
Brats from the crown gathered around
To point fat fingers towards the ground
Corruption scrambled to surround
Yet quests for truth shoved most profound
That dreary day begged me to slay
To make those ancients start to pay
For tearing down this brave hideaway
And quashing our civil foray
You served as mage to quell my rage
Urging my logic to engage
The loyal keeper with his cage
So the fresh page can guide as sage
Far from the din of madding crowd,
Away from the bustle of city life
I withdrew into a solitary spot,
To turn my thoughts into dazzling verse.
Shelley and Shakespeare came in view,
Emily and Eliot fell in line,
Their verses ringing loud and clear,
Their energy fanning fire within
I dreamt of putting proper words,
To clothe my thoughts in striking lines,
Longed to pour my loaded heart,
In powerful verse to move the hearts
But as I started scrawling down,
All that I had stored in hoards –
Ebbed out into mere froth and foam,
Leaving only broken thoughts
Will my Muse be here once again?
Or is it better to leave my thoughts unspoken?
However, I strained hard to give them life,
And labored in vain to make them rhyme,
‘The Blazing Sun’ and ‘Brilliant Stars’,
All faded out with no trace of glow.
I envisioned before me the Sacred Mount,
To drink from the fountain gushing down,
Alas! Only hot lava spurted out,
And the wings of fancy burnt outright!
Sad, my Muse didn’t appear to enliven me,
Nor my fantasy lingered long,
I stared blank into the scroll in front,
Unable to scribble even a moving thought.
Like a soldier vanquished in war,
I put away my pen for the time being,
Hoping my Muse would come down soon,
To inspire and help me script immortal verse!
Jan.4.2023
My Muse Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Regina McIntosh
And it happened to be springtime
when I joined the militia
so when we brandished our guns,
there were light breezes overhead,
bird song in the air, flower sprouts,
and happiness that winter was
fled to her hibernation cave was
visible on every civilian's face.
It was not quite as terrible, then, to plug
a body with its fate-bullet when the
face seemed so modestly happy
about something, the weather,
a friend's engagement, iced pomegranate
drink, spring things.
Didn't they all say, “At least I died in spring!”
with their round, lifeless eyes, proud of
surviving another starving winter in the
famine-stricken desert, able to hold the
hands of all the children they began the
cold months with, bellies full enough to
last the scarcity of fuel rations and drought.
Washing out my uniform at night in the
river, I'd imagine the blood specks
that had spurted happily from whatever
orifice had been shot were merely traces
of confetti that had burst forth from the
eager soul's celebratory last moments.
This poem appears online at http://wordsareaneed.blogspot.com/2014/07/fuel-rations.html.