Long Ululations Poems
Long Ululations Poems. Below are the most popular long Ululations by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ululations poems by poem length and keyword.
A poet is a poem
A beautiful line pregnant with wisdom,
Crafted by the mighty hands of nature.
Birds beg him to sing,
In the middle of the night
And at the dawn of day.
A poet is a poem,
The history that's untold,
Sad tales and fantasies,
Touches of romantic nights,
Of life and madness.
A poet is a poem,
A serenade a lover sings
To her husband,
While watching the dawn star.
He's a lullaby a mother sings to her son,
To lull him to sleep.
A poet is the mournful song,
The ululations and groans of pain,
He's the victory song —
Yes, the trumpet of victory.
© MZEE MACH
Wordless worries wander wearily working wayward,
Towards thoughts transgressing truth’s textured tide.
As always acknowledging agnosticism’s appeal,
Essence easily evaporates, exeunt Emile.
Very virtuous violent vowels vociferously validate,
Sanctimonious sessions some subtly sacrosanct.
Is it in incrementally immense ingenious imaginations,
Or ontology’s omniscience overcoming oceanic oratory?
Roughly rallying rage’s recessive righteousness,
Quickly quartered queens quietly quiver qualities quoi.
Under unctuous undeniably Umbrian utterances,
An astute and acute awareness as always arose.
Placing plausibly proverbial prevaricating predications,
Many morose morally myopic manly mighty men,
Eulogize everlasting ephemerally entertaining evocations.
Insinuating incredible implications, insomnia initiates,
Notably nullifying notoriously negligible nihilistic necessities.
Lies lay low, linking lofty linguistic lessons like laws,
Of optional opportunities oscillating on occult overtures
Until underlying unctions unify ubiquitous unknowns.
Joyless Joseph’s joyful Joy just jumped, just jumped!
Killing killjoy knuckle kosher korma koranic krap.
And announce another anonymous anodyne appointment?
(Empiricism’s emphatic emission, enter erotic Eloise).
Having Heidegger helps, hope’s homunculi hunting human.
Get gone ginger guesses, go grope Ginger’s grapes!
Immaculately ironic inquisitions instigate immediate impositions.
Once onto opaque ominous orbs, obey Oracles open orders.
Framing funny fractions, flaming far flung frivolous fictions,
Death defies dollar damnations, deliciously done devaluations.
Usually uncle umpire understands useful underlying ululations,
Also affirming apples avuncular altruistic assumptions.
Creeds crave caves, charms calm cause, come conquerors,
Be belligerently bad, betray birth’s beginning, balance budgets.
Entreating entirely empty, emphatically elusive, existential entelechy,
Is, importantly, incommensurably idiotic, inexplicably impractical indeed.
The Choctaw
never taught me what the
Choctaw would’ve taught me.
The Australopithecine never taught me what
the Australopithecine would’ve taught me of.
The Memories, these Memories,
our Memories are fading songs in
an echoeless cave.
The listeners have tired,
moved on.
The choir sang, regardless...
...for a time.
And, in time, the silence overcame
the joys of recalling and the calling out
was no longer met with the
Response.
The ochre greened-over,
the iron dust fell from frost and
puddled dryly on the floor.
Summer winds, hot and desiccating,
soon scoured the walls and ushered out
the swirling cinnamon sand.
The drums beat to mineral-rich cave-dew,
on occasion. A sometime rain that formed cones.
They stretched with weatherings; sometimes taut,
sometimes loose. Their stories lost, nothing taught.
In time, their skins followed their long-lost bones into
the buried burned and carved, now-broken empty bones
Home. The silent tumulting earth. The cold overlay of the
Singeing Beneath. The singing stalled. The echoes bounced for a time from
voice to ear to wall to child to child to wall to stone to dust.
The stars never taught me what
the stars might then have taught me.
The dreams and dancings, the tremulous and then-credulous
tremolos, the inspirations of ululations, the song-stories of
peoples, of healings, of wilds, of ways...now silent.
This silence, in this echoless cave,
is the most wanting, most missing,
Sound.
Sound I’ve ever heard.
The cave never taught me.
The music never taught me.
The drum never taught me.
The dance never taught me.
The cave never taught me.
The fire is out, the embers lost.
The handprint remains on a wet wall in a dim corner in an out-of-the-way
scree-field crevasse just past the Cree field impasse.
The teachers are gone.
The ancestors quiet.
The cave never taught me.
The silence may
yet.
Surrounded by four walls.
I feel disgust and despair.
Why can’t I snap out of it?
For listen: The city hums with listless life.
Hospitals thrive with dying patients,
oft with self inflicted excruciating pains,
more often meted out by egoistic humans
in pursuit of hedonistic pleasures,
of self satisfying needs.
In a quiet moment at the end of the day
sometimes I pray. Alas my heart
is enveloped in inky darkness.
Instead I hear the cries of domestic violence,
of children desecrated,
women raped,
men killed by other men.
I flee my loathsome house,
merge with mindless humanity,
in streets displaying their dirty linen,
intransigent in their cacophony
of indomitable bellowing ululations,
until I reach the quieter periphery
of the endless town.
The night is ebbing. The first rays
of the rising sun touch a silvery dome
reflecting its rays straight into my eyes.
Instinctively I shade my face
yet the light persists. Is it a sign?
Could there be hope for me?
Perhaps there's sense in creation.
So I close my eyes and pray.
Fiction
The sun mounts over crumpled roofs and streets,
Beats from machetes and trombones disconcerts the air,
Brides and husbands-to-be bosa nova where joy and gossip meet.
Little ones run run past stalls,their joy sharp as knives,
Grandmas share gossip,drinking Joko Tea in chirped mugs.
While dear uncles sway,remembering old wasted lives
Smog billows from grills where meat roasts and fry,
Fires burn,mixing ululations and cheer,
Even the emaciated township dog pauses,ears to the sky.
Hubands-to-be jive,hats tilted,praising feats of might;
Ladies-in waiting in skirts that sparkle under sun.
Every furtive glance a nod and a story of delight.
As night comes,lanterns flicker in houses and alleys;
Music is tender,hearts stay buoyed and awake-
In hoboland love and joy endure amidst the pain.
First day of our life
The mother is ecstatic
Finally her pains and burdens are over
Ululations and congratulations are on
Could even be the next president
But father is in tears
Camouflaged as honest joy
Another big mouth to feed
Second day of our life
The priest is ecstatic
Finally another person in line for tithe
Could even be the next pope
But mother is in tears
Camouflaged as the touching by the word
Village thugs and whores praying for you
Another statistic of robbery without violence
Third day of our life
The teacher is ecstatic
Finally someone to be the Aristotle to their Plato
Could even be the next Einstein
But priest is in tears
Camouflaged as tears for absolution
Lawyers and politicians consecrating you
Another greedy scholar on the rise
Fourth day of our life
The couters are ecstatic
Finally we love being in love
Could even get married bells ringing
But teacher is in tears
Camouflaged as being proud of you
Another dumb romantic who never learns
Fifth day of our life
We are very ecstatic
Finally we made a new life
Could it be the need to sustain bliss human mediocrity?
But our sweethearts are in tears
Camouflaged as being happy for you
Another one escapes dying alone
Sixth day of our life
Grandchildren are ecstatic
Finally someone else full of laughter and ambition
Could it be their I-phone is the only new thing under the sun?
But we are in tears
Camouflaged as pain in our backs
Another generation who don’t know how short life is
The last day of my life
The better angels inside my head are mourning
Finally I am someone who lived in this world
Could it be because I will be forgotten?
But grandchild is happy
Camouflaged as tears for losing you
Just another man without legacy gone
Shoot! Nothing like killing spree to bookend August 2019!
The latest homicide,
where gunman(men) slew
dirty deed done dirt cheap
half dozen innocent people drew
minimal horrific gasps, now a new
month (September two
thousand nineteen)
where goldenrods yellow
with morning dew
encompassing human zoo
welcomes unsuspecting killer(s) true
to form - predictably
will undertake to fire bullet(s)
setting calibrating counting queue
as month nine allows brisk business
bereaved will final adieu,
whether gentile nor Jew,
perhaps including
child named Caillou
instantaneously slain, who
knew
not what felled them
engrossed amidst social ballyhoo
ex post facto registering grievous hue
pallbearers accentuating somber view
eclipsing most recent prior massacres
similar to previous you
ululations yesterday's sorrows
without handy dandy blue's clue
motive explaining
cold blooded slaughter
unsurprising discovery
firearms Jane/ John Q.
Public kept stashed loaded, deployed...
guns up the kazoo
cocked, gauged, primed...
for unleaded opportunity
to unleash barrage
invariable generating hullabaloo
to curb bloody violence
trumpeting predictable brew
ha ha alloyed against National
Rifle Association almighty
Republican supported lobbyist crew
versus increased uproar
protesters chorus nearly few
tile opposition pitted grand Poobah
despite alarming statistics shew
plus increasing fresh gravesites dug
amidst freshly mowed fescue
attesting to wanton shell shocked
headlines indiscriminate brew
tilly assaulting sensibilities
without rhyme nor reason
yet, yours truly doth boo
leave rampant hatred
directly linkedin to
"FAKE" commander in chief
whose rabid vitriol hue
man fountainhead few
ming and frothing
lathers up right wing supremacists
greenlighting smoldering new
bile radicals hot headed
volatile mindset whereby
self anointed anarchistic Guru
possibly fuels global warming
evidenced by displaced Eskimos
flooding courtesy melting igloo!
I hear them often now…sometimes they’re deafening…I never know how long they’ll last…sometimes they come in whispers…these echoes of the past.
I hear them in the woods…voices from long ago…from people I cannot see
often in the quiet of my solitude is when these echoes speak to me.
I sometimes hear them in the early morning…usually at first light…
but most of the echoes…the loudest ones…come to me at night.
Most times the echoes are from family members who seek me out when I’m alone…
but lately I’ve been hearing echoes of people I’ve never known.
I hear echoes of Native Americans…their young and old ones who were slain…
ululations of their suffering…echoes of their pain.
I hear echoes of slaves being torn apart from their family
Echoes of their grief…their screams…echoes of their agony.
I hear echoes of women, Japanese Americans, LGBTQIA+…echoes oftentimes repeated…echoes of anyone no longer here who has been abused, oppressed…mistreated.
Echoes of disappointment, misery, frustration…echoes that cause my heart and soul to ache…Echoes with one message…please…please learn from your mistakes.
Echoes of babies, children, teenagers, young and old…women and men…
Echoes pleading don’t forget us…and never let this happen again.
And I wonder why am I hearing these echoes from people I don’t know and cannot see? Why of all the people in the world have these echoes chosen me?
And then I think perhaps these voices are always echoing…that I’ve always been close or near them…and for whatever reason it is only recently I have chosen to hear them.
Which means we all have the ability…knowing on the wind these voices are forever cast…to take the time…to stop and to listen to these echoes of the past.
It is up to us…to listen to the echoes…of people we did not know and cannot see
to make sure their echoes do not disappear into the forgotten shadows of history.
To understand what the echoes are telling us…
to be more accepting…more generous…more kind
to change the course of history by the echoes we leave behind.
And though we cannot change the past…
knowing the wounds of the dead can never be erased or cured…
perhaps they’ll rest a little easier….knowing their echoes have been heard.
Hendecasyllabic Alliterative Pseudo-rhyming Abecedarian
Artfully arranging all attestations
Breathlessly bringing bright beautifications
Carefully constructing clever contraptions
Daringly, dauntingly delving deductions
Eagerly, easily ending extractions
Fancifully forming flirtatious factions
Gustily grasping gigantic gradations
Hazily having harsh hallucinations
Instantly inking imagined infractions
Jarringly journaling jacked judications
Kindly knuckling known keratinizations
Lightheartedly launching lame litigations
Misguidedly making mean machinations
Noticeably needing noninterventions
Obnoxiously outing odd operations
Pensively perusing past permutations
Questioning queerly quixotic quotations
Relentlessly razing rare restorations
Sneeringly slinging snarky salutations
Thoughtfully triggering true transformations
Unduly uttering Ute ululations
Vibrantly voicing verve versifications
Willingly working warm winterizations
Xenophobes x-ing xenotransplantations
Youthfully yearning yak yarnifications,
Zany, zesty zebra zombifications
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Hendecasyllabic (11 syllable lines), alliterative Abecedarian employing pseudo-rhyming
Yarnification ought to be the process of making yarn or tall tales :-)