Long Subpar Poems
Long Subpar Poems. Below are the most popular long Subpar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Subpar poems by poem length and keyword.
Doctors (particularly biomedical engineers)...
really trolley train hard to keep track of patients
Eye tell ya we (spuds)
pulled up stakes after four yar
and zero scores ago living in Bryn Mawr
salutary heart and lungs figurative
storied Main Line Health medical network
latter part of June tooth thousand seventeen
approximately July first
same year bidding au revoir
bid good riddance account
to slumlord - hood did spat and spar
moved to Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
unsafe to ride bicycle without handlebar
economical, geographical, practical...
subjected by Grosse and Quade tyrannical czar
dom low income facilities housing
nattering nabobs of nihilism whose intellect subpar
candidates vetted by Jaclyn Geiger registrar
courtesy nepotism unexceptional manager
thanks be to her papa, she drives fancy car
unlike this pauper and the missus
limited to schlep near and not far
afforded by rattletrap motorcar,
no driving prohibitive number of miles,
crossing sketchy territory warning signs
picturing dangerous avatar,
(especially during inclement whee thar)
determining risk to forego
top manic kin Michelin
money grubbing cannibalistic
surgeon's earning equivalent silver star,
or comparable civilian rating touting specialists
while bonafide topnotch indivisible tailors swifty
stitch ink, viz tattoo back parlor shop whar
exemplary Patients Matter Always
buzzfeeding, inoculating, kickstarting...
healthy medical network,
hobnob, kibitz, schmooze...
drown lackluster lovelife at the bar
parting paramour with such sweet sorrows par
for the course during pouring rain how bizarre
necessitated our lucky find locating physicians
supreme nsync with Google high reviews
receiving, scoring, nabbing,
incorporating... truevalue re: vector and scalar,
we veteran trooper seasoned renters
luckily blessed chance
cost us pennies on the dinar
general bang for buck amazingly
found yours truly strumming his air guitar
pleasantly situated among picturesque poplar
resort within Skippack Village, a tourist
mecca for devout or
secular gourmandizing, earning
catering and acquiescing savoir
ole mighty faire Benjamin
legally tendering expensive bazaar.
December.
My coldest winter ever.
My slow descent
into destruction,
my epic battle with the devil.
Thought I’d never meet her.
Wondered
if I would make it out.
Got so used to being cold,
the warmth I start to flout.
Stifling.
12 months
have slipped between
my fingers.
Lived every day
buried,
but never pulled the trigger.
The irony’s simple.
And I’m still not living.
All the days
seem the same,
they blend into
each other.
Didn’t see the
silver lining,
stop putting
forth effort.
I thought I was better.
Until my vision clears
and I see the
same four walls.
The amount of pills
gone the night before
getting harder to recall.
December.
The end of the year
that has faded so quickly,
I don’t know where I’ve been.
Close to dying,
running off,
the truth will make you cringe.
With the facts
in your face,
it gets hard to pretend.
The year’s
not the only thing
coming to the end.
December.
Couldn’t take it
any longer,
no more hurt to remit.
Think,
“At least I made it.”
Barely.
Feelings still heavy.
Dropped everything else,
left no luggage to carry.
Still wishing
I was faded.
Wake up
each morning,
count down to evening.
Dread the time
in between.
December.
Hate to see ya.
You’re my confirmation
that this is
reality.
My life,
three acts
stageplay tragedy.
Just a square
of blackness
on the cheap playbill.
The opening’s subpar
so it’s all downhill.
Casting was crummy,
the director’s an addict,
on paper
the parallels would
have been perfect.
December.
How soon
til it’s over?
But at least
I made the choice
to live.
December.
I get it.
The sign to
get this life together.
That I have to
wrap it up
to start fresh,
oh December
you’re so clever.
I have no choice
but to get ready.
The future’s creeping,
life is waiting,
depression’s pleading
to be buried.
Hello December.
Let’s redo
our introduction.
Form:
Eulogy For An Unsung Hero ©
The late John Sidney McCain III,
now flies with Arrow Smith,
Babbitt, and Jefferson Airplane
five days shy of his
eighty second birthday,
taken down (to his demise)
courtesy, sans metastatic cancer of brain
defeated by an aggressive
deadly linkedin chain,
yet still earns kudos
no matter 1967 USS Forrestal fire
(during the Vietnam War)
his life source did
nearly completely drain
though purposeless prevails,
asper absolute zero gainsay,
no rhyme nor reason
can even feebly explain,
when approximately
a quarter million young men
(oh...yes, perhaps
some women too) perished
at sea, on land, or floatplain
sacrificed their lives for nought,
zip, nada nothing to GAIN
(my bald, billed,
and bold assertion,
a mere minor tirade
subpar class 1 hurricane
non-veteran civilian personnel),
nonetheless afflictions by said
United States veteran and,
subsequent Senator from Arizona,
what posthumous praise me expresses
merely mildly silly putty,
piddly, paltry and inane
as anti septic (of danger)
such as books
for children star
ring Dick and Jane
does disservice, injustice offends,
(perhaps descriptive word choices
might smack of hyperbole,
my humble apology if in apropos),
thus a more app pealing appellation,
could be Citizen Kane,
whose corporeal being got lain
to rest on a grassy hill
adjacent to the main
starting point of his storied existence,
the burial plot (right next to
lifelong friend Chuck Larson)
amidst a plain
extolling grandeur and solemnity,
where grim reaper didst slain
of Arlington National
Cemetery in Virginia terrain
concluding mine poetic epistle,
that didst wax and wane.
It gets kind of crazy living with 3 young boys, there’s always a mess and there’s constant noise.
Their mouths constantly running, their little legs too; they rough-house like tiny wrestlers, off the couch they just flew.
They never get old, those silly fart jokes; and the noise and clanking of those bicycle spokes.
They change costumes every minute from football to Batman; next it’s baseball then it’s on to Spider-Man.
You better watch where you step when you come through our door, there’s legos and Nerf bullets covering the floor.
They’re covered in mud, they’re covered in dirt; there’s ketchup and Cheetos all over their shirts.
They argue, they fight, they cry and pout; then they giggle and laugh after they hug it out.
Living with boys you never know what’s next, you better watch what you say, they’ll change the context.
Their imagination totally rocks; they can make anything out of a box.
Just give them some scissors and a glue stick; that box transforms into a Batmobile real quick.
They’re wearing their breakfast, there’s mud in their hair; it’s an act of congress to get them to share.
Their diet is subpar, all they want to eat is junk; and with three sweaty boys, you can imagine the funk.
We’ve turned into detectives, constantly looking for lost toys; we’re also mechanics trying to fix whatever they’ve destroyed.
Although these boys can cause us some undue stress; I wouldn’t change a thing to prevent their mess.
The house can be clean when they’re grown and they’ve moved out; so for now I’ll sit back and see what life’s all about.
I’ll enjoy all the noise and the mess on the floor; I’ll pray my feet are protected from the legos galore.
I’ll wash their clothes and clean them up; and be thankful I can fill all our cups.
Thank you God for my three sons, we’re thankful and blessed, and we love them tons.
This is written in defense of the contest sponsors who are being disrespected by a 'poet' who feels his entries were not judged fairly. In separate posts, he contested their judgement. They should never be publicly harassed by a poor sport.
Someone is disgruntled and quite perturbed
so, he wrote about it. Could be he is disturbed
Got some bees buzzing around in his bonnet,
but can he rhyme the lines in a good sonnet?
I find his poetry nonsensical, and often inept
but he must think it's worthy, and so he wept
for not being a winner, a fact he can't accept.
That shows conceit and for sponsors, disrespect.
"OH, WOE IS ME," cried the sorrowful dissident.
"I'm not appreciated, and wasted time spent
writing for poorly sponsored contests and lost.
My poems were read and then they were tossed!"
He thought each entry deserved a shining star
With vengeance in mind, he decided he'd spar
with contest sponsors and called them out,
so, acting like a spoiled child, he decided to pout.
"I'll show them and give them a piece of my mind.
My poems were better than some. They're blind!
I'll even mention them all by using their name.
for not awarding me prizes and robbing me of fame."
"OH, WOE IS ME." cried the sorrowful dissident,
Upon getting even he seems to be hell bent.
I doubt that his poetry will ever make him a STAR...
The KEY to winning contests is to stop writing subpar.
From a teen of 14 until this year 2020, I'd say that I had a secondary sanctuary. Being secondary does not by any means place this sanctuary in a
subpar position. My primary sanctuary, currently more meaningful, has always been 'me and my quiet place'. In both the primary and secondary, there is
always acknowledgement of 'The Sacred One'. There can be no sanctuary without the presence of both the 'Holy Place and The Holy One'. For the
first time in my life, my association with my 'secondary sanctuary' has been curtailed. The Coronavirus COVID 19 in 2020 has necessitated limited and
conditional 'church attendance'. However, the virus has caused a greater appreciation and utilization of my primary sanctuary. Early mornings, Bible in
lap, coffee in hand, sitting in my chair and watching the sunrise; Sanctuary! Quiet, calm, peace, poise, solace, stillness, and prayer that involves little talk
but lots of listening; Sanctuary! My sanctuary is more defined as a 'God- infused state of being' than a place. In Judaism, before there was a Temple
or Synagogue in Jerusalem, there was a Tabernacle in the wilderness.
Where ever the Israelites went, every journey they took, the Tabernacle was
with them. Sanctuary! And for my Christianity, where ever I am, God's Presence is with me. God's Presence and me! That's Sanctuary!!
081520PSCtest, Sanctuary, Silent One
I read a poem when but a youth
That inspired me to something simple see
When I was young and in poor health
A regular man I wanted to be
I worked and prayed to be the best
At the simple things in life I knew
My health got better and so did the rest
With the struggles in life I grew
Now math was my passion from little up
Though I had to leave school when only a tween
My learning continued for I wouldn't stop
From someday obtaining my dream
You see a dream that is followed
Will take you as far as you can believe
So for me subpar would simply not do
For I had much more to achieve
Now I would still get my schooling
Though I needed no school to learn
I would get the info from wherever I could
A high school degree in time I would earn
Now manual labor is all that I've done
To earn a living you see
But I am still working to overcome
For a regular man I still want to be
Now a regular man continues to work
To be the best that he can be
He doesn't give up when things get rough
But will overcome mountains you see
My life I feel is far from through
For there is much more my faith can see
I know with Gods help what I will now do
Yes a regular man I will someday be
Wrote August 11 2015 Written for the Childhood Dream contest.
merciless genocide
slaughter of native peoples
wrought with (super) wanton zeal
feeble ability to thwart
"discoverers" rapine wicked onslaught
merely ratcheted wrecked webbing
wrenched tribal unity,
violently rent asunder
vibrant indigenous linkedin weave
rendered sacred weltanschauung
decimated "noble savage"
woke wretched nightmare,
sans pock marked worsted weal
the Native American holocaust
shrouded in whitewashed veil
tragedy trampled truces
triggering tearful trail
scoped scattered remnant
snuffed out via surveil
futile sympathetic remonstrances,
viz rant and rail
hermetically sealed
dirty deeds done dirt
blunted, cheapened,
and deadened
lance armstrong to quail
most definitely coloring faces
of captive
American Indians deathly pale
into figurative coffin
got hammered
rusty nine inch nail
subpar critical population mass
for survival, plus storied "red man"
bereft of ample potent male
off limits to original proprietors
forced to hightail
happy hunting grounds o'er hill and dale
becoming desiccated bleached bones
devoid of awful, pitiful,
and sorrowful fait accompli
and roaming spirits
like banshees bewail
grievous shadow a blot doth cause me to ail!
Friends, fellow poets and countrymen, please lend me your ear.
I do not live in Australia, and I wish to make that perfectly clear.
I will not insult that country, for to do so I’d have nothing to gain.
To be so rude would buy me a seat, on Trump’s derailed a$$ train.
I am a patriotic American, this is where I choose to reside.
I love my great country, and by its laws I will always abide.
In our United States, you’re eligible to vote if you pay your tax,
giving you the right to bash Biden or ride Trump’s crooked tracks.
Don’t tell me my country is broken from over 8800 miles away.
You can kiss my grits for that slander! That’s what I have to say.
You dare claim America is broken? How would you even know?
Was it social media and Fox News, or did a little joey tell you so?
Your political intellect is subpar, your facts are drivel and fake.
Cut back on the amount of Gin used in your stale Kangaroo cake.
You make me laugh, attention seeker, because you are such a fool.
The blunder from down under is just a brash Trumpeting Tool.
I come to write, not to bury another country for its faults.
If you’re not an American, then it’s time your pen halts.
Stop the demeaning insults you keep slinging at our borders,
or people might start pointing out your disturbing disorders.
The caffeine on my desk
and bags under my eyes
are evidence of my faithfulness—
devotion to a beast
to whom I've pledged eternal fealty.
The ache in my knuckles
and the draining battery on my laptop
are the marks of a true believer.
The keyboard is my altar,
where I lay out my offerings.
She demands my sanity, my peace of mind.
Her twisted grip pulls me into Her,
and I stare at a blank page
considering my next sacrifice,
the next piece of me to chip off
arranging the scattered collection into words.
Will it be good enough?
Is it ever good enough?
Am I good enough?
I fret that every syllable is insufficient,
subpar, unworthy.
Every sentence demands redoing;
every paragraph must be stripped bare
and reassembled.
I have failed my Mistress—
She punishes me
by lacing my thoughts with poison,
injecting shame into each firing neuron.
She owns me.
Pride is laid at Her feet
and burnt so that the smoke reaches Her nose
and then,
when all is laid out before Her
in a raw and vulnerable showing,
only then does She smile.
I have done it.
I have written the next page.
She is never sated.
Tomorrow, She will hunger again.
I must prepare for the ritual.