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.
Sounds of something somewhere sound so absurd
Silence in the section of the unspoken spoken word
Seriously over sensitive a silver screen scene everyday
Study the students social scale to see who actually stays
Separating the subpar scores standardizing who to select
Sensitivity can be sabotage so smile wide to all suspects
Saliva slips sliding out the mouth down to a slippery chin
Second place with so so skills so step it up so you can win
Sounds of something like this sheet still sound so absurd
Silence in this sections stanza of simple unspoken words
bmdavey@11/22/17
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.
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 the Earth to the Sun, from Sea to Shiny Sea
there's no one Brighter than me, for I Am Mohammad Ali
from the Wind to the Stars, from the Fire to the Sage
I AM EXCELLENT, Forever Anyways
by Divine Grace, I Ascend Most Haste
no one does it better for Heavens Sake,
Born of the Solar, for I am of the Solar
Born of the Lunar, for I Am of the Lunar
I Am the Greatest of the Greats, there where Greatness plants seeds
I Am Ever Higher, Soaring Higher, I Am Mohammad Ali
from the Stars that Scintillate to the Kingdom that Shines Within
on High Ground, where Trumpets Sound, I Shine down like Jerusalem
Never Subpar, I Rise Afar to Greater Excellence
Float Like A Monarch, Glide like Fervidus, I Soar in Benevolence
from the Rivers that Flow to the Eternal Sonnets
to Infinity and Beyond, my Breath is Everlasting even in Death
I Am the Greatest of All Time my Shine is more Sweeter than Sublime
I Am the Champion, I Am Ever Up High
by Mighty Steeds and Mighty Creeds I Endeavor towards Israel
towards Lofty Paradigms and Lofty Citadels,
by Solar Prowess I Excel towards Solar Supremacy
not by Luck, not by Hope, but by Destiny
I Am Triumphant, I Am Victorious, I Conquer All
by Swiftness, by Spiritual Riches, by Battle Scars
I Am Ever So Powerful, by Power I Attain
in Lion Ways I Unlocked the Lions Cage,
and so, They Came, They Saw, that I Now Can See
for I AM FOREVER MOHAMMAD ALI
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.
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
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!
Belly up to the table, our soup is well liked.
Just don’t drink the cool aid, I think it’s been spiked.
Come and get it while it’s hot, it’s the best I’ve been told.
Beware of the poets who like their soup cold.
Our table is large, there are plenty of seats.
You can sit for a spell and enjoy some good eats.
If it’s been a rough day and you are feeling subpar.
We have ice cold beer, on tap at the bar.
Everyone is welcome, come and give it a go.
You might become famous you just never know.
Our poets are diverse, each flavor unique.
Welcome to our club, come in and take a peek.
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.
grief— posture stiffened
blurred disheartenment
the visage of subpar
staring back, hopeless
guttural midriff reverberations;
sighs, tolerating platters
ultimately grasping—
everlastingly out of reach.
fury— condemned to observe
perfection elsewhere, nevermore
my own, imperfection a bitter
aftertaste of juxtaposition.
perpetual torture,
sickening phobia that
I slog a laughing stock, a
blissfully ignorant jester.
envy— offhandedly able
to swagger, bareless upper half
devoid of inner critique
waltzing a cruel shape.
Yet shackled slithers of
short-lived contentment for I,
unchained humiliating realization
that all click and stare mockingly.
anguish— social gatherings,
stuffed faces converse heartily.
nibbling, flavours burst,
overwhelming explosions
from bare toast. bated
belly hoping that it
can cherish too, but
terror. to the surface afresh.
futility— monotonous drones
“it does get better”
void promises, attempting
to blanket stark reality.
a piece of cake for them,
ironically unfortunate.
my stomach doomed to muse
what cake even is.
weakening, my mind asks me
“will it get better?”
as my bodily systems
shut down one by one
it never hears me
utter my response
just the empty grumbles
that never get cared to.