Long Unpoetic Poems
Long Unpoetic Poems. Below are the most popular long Unpoetic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unpoetic poems by poem length and keyword.
A day’s routine so easily holds me captive.
I confess to mindless, museless departures,
Brainless unpoetic habits so unreflective,
That I cannot dwell in momentary textures.
But January ripens oranges on my neighbor’s tree,
Marking spring’s beginning in California.
Midwestern groomed; such play awakens me.
Fat, lush oranges tumble all over the area.
Bold bright balls, they must be painted,
Landing in my drive, my car mashes them.
With this mortal crush, I breach life sacred.
Yet, once I eat one, it’s no longer a problem.
Tree of oranges brings fruit reviving passion.
Luscious harvest renewal of vibrant conception.
~ Poetic Mind Renewal ~
Get busy and toss the mind junk out!
I know what it is like, to sink into a dark
cesspool of poetic funk.
Reading those who are soul crushers?
To put me down, or their other gambit is
to ignore me totally, poet mind shushes!
Go ahead, go for it!
The wise ones here write, they know prizes
are so very, very, trite.
You need another to tell you, your poem
is great?
I find that it so unpoetic, my dear mate.
You throw us a poem once in a while?
Even if you win howling recognition,
You are guilty of poetic malnutrition!
Pound those keys, show us what you've got!
The more you write is what makes you so
truly, deliciously hot.
Poets produce, they allow their pen to flow.
No excuses from a Muse named Joe!
Try all the forms you can.
That's what makes you a true poet, woman
or man!
Like Shakespeare, no, you need not be.
Being you in a poem, rings true for me.
Commenting over poetry, a dead end street.
I, personally, encourage you to think again as
comments though a tasty treat.. will never
expand your poetic expertise.
Some here have been writing for sixty
years!
Some, far less~ so what~ stop those tears!
9/3/2021
Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” ...
Leonardo Da Vinci
What if there was no poetry in this world?
Unpoetic world with no more poetry
No more perfumes to permeate flowerbeds.
No more glossy beads of petrichor cloying.
A blindfolded moon in veil hunts for solace
moving a canvas of craters, in clouds motionless.
Voice of unspoken words wilting away,
locked in deep thickets, an infinitesimal space
clog a lump in throat of breathless syllables.
reckless tender feelings transmute and displace.
No urge to transcend, No boundless and free...
An unpoetic world with no more poetry.
A lovesick heart no longer rambles
Only blaring sound in bleary eyes,
as known faces devour unknown shorelines.
No more open waters , no more endless seas
No misty mountains, No opaque night walls
Only sunsets fade into shattered dreams.
Butterflies swarm around in colorblind paths,
in search of red and green, they find no more.
No more rhythm ,
No more rhyme,
Only pattern of time ticks in twenty four
The Useless Joy of Poetry,
With us, she is no more.
Dated 24 th January 2019
Although the fire had turned to smoke
the old poet’s lips were still.
. The architectural trinity
. in the City of Lights lies wounded,
. the greatest roof in Paris has succumbed.
Words could not express what tears conveyed,
as he sat across from me in a reverent posture.
. Sacred timbers holding back
. the corrupted prayers of hypocrites,
. burned with the fires of hell.
As a young man, he had fallen in love
with her beauty during his first summer in Paris.
. The 800-year-old icon at city’s center
. now stands damaged,
. ashes covering icons of hope.
The poet nodded affirmation to comments made,
but could not speak.
. The lady’s ambiance is gone
. as secular light casts
. unfiltered rays upon her altar.
The poet to my left wept as our leader
guided the conversation.
. The man on the TV said there are
. no trees in France large enough
. to replace the mighty beams.
All the poets’ words that fateful evening
sounded unpoetic to me.
. The President stood before the mighty walls
. and broadcast
. words of courage and renewal.
The next day I see pictures
of people gathered in the streets.
. She may be wounded by exhausted wires,
. but restoration
. knocks on her great oak doors.
Words seem to elude me at this crucial moment
So I'll express this as unpoetic as possible
You aren't flawless, but their exist beauty in your weaknesses
And with the rejected and broken pieces of you, I desire a paradise that will have forever as it start
Beauty and brilliance in synergy
Virtuousness in a vision-veiled world
I'll be immortal to promise faultlessness
But in every dark moment ahead, never stop basking in the knowledge that this heart is decisively-incapacitated to bring you pain
I dream a time in tomorrow when you'll read this and smile with wordless joy
You've got me wishing you.
its very hard to say who i love the most
i love all poets from coast to coast
dickenson, poe, frost, shakespere
an endless line of poets i fear
but when it comes to real poetry
and some not all may agree
there is none better than sorrow or greif
to bring to life ones poetry
they awaken a ghost living inside me
holding my attention ever so silently
they share our spaces with a sombre pride
tell their stories with tears in eyes
they aim there words at broken hearts
and with a tired line they start
others unpoetic they wail
but all from abuse and death they hail
they bring the words that stir our equlibrium
make us cry when our spirits meet with them
laughter and happiness they have their place
but saddness and toil you cannot erase
i'll screem my sorrows as high
as the listening skyes
rage with anger as if my soul died
and with my words dampen every eye
inspire, unite, defy, denigh and teach
make it seem as though i preach
make them look up to the stars
and think about there own scars
(I would have won that contest.)
~ IN THE STYLE OF NICANOR PARRA ~
I write as my heart dances or cries
whatever I like whenever I want
______as crinkled leaves fall from trees
undressing twigs for winter’s battering
only to dress up again in pink
blossom
sap lubricating lips
I write anything
I want to breathe again
words shower from clouds
form as homes when I’m cold and hungry
unsheath when window panes
suit me not ….to fly forever and away
it is only that my veins need to run clear
and joints not creak when oil is sparse
may my poems strip all pretence
all contest…all division
poetry and physics
embracing where existentialism floats above our heads
so we may root flesh in ground
and a l l eat bread fresh
So let my verses trigger or
soothe as cream we sometimes lick
soles still touch loose sand grains
wrinkled skin blemished by dark of turmoil
or knots or waiting _______
run on lines with ancestral winks through seas
docks, spaces, ages, blotches, steps
— —+++ to jam sandwiches
I seek no pomposity or accolades
let them fly on raven’s gloss
I greet you always in the name of the unelite the unpoetic who trample sidewalks
barefoot poets
splotches in air….. sun damaged
with alphabets singing far or near
let each poem hasten unpretense
hail margins of cities, farmyards
where aged and hungry hold back the waters of tomorrow
sucking seconds of time in threadbare
trousers
take it or leave it …
so may all despair swallow this poem
my care sleeps now
Because my brilliant hooks read indirect,
But bait directly one illiterate,
They likely slip stripped fish-net intellect,
Thus, now, I’ll lure completely different:
Just like the redwood trees that grow sooooooo tall,
Gapetto’s puppet’s nose Pinocchios,
And since I’m not a strung-out ancient doll,
I guess it’s you who picks the snotty rose.
You might believe you harness magic string;
The pixie dust of Pan in Neverland;
But don’t forget what came of Gollum’s ring
Once Frodo lost a finger from his hand -
It was rewound, re-reeled, forged gleefully,
Forever lost in false reality.
3/18/2017
Note: In keeping with John’s “Something Completely Different - Monty Pythonesque” theme I wrote this after randomly pointing to 14 different words in a Hustler magazine article that I then forced myself to integrate into a sonnet, one per line, in the order they were selected and implemented a rule of “no-edits” after a line was complete. The list went like this:
hooks, *****baits, fish-net, I’ll, grow, nose, strung-out, guess, harness, never, what, finger, glee, lost
An Opinion
Does "old age" have its own rewards?
I have reached a point in my life when
I am inclined to say: yes. Yes.
Often, old age is accompanied
by aches, in body and in mind.
Our youthful vigor is long gone.
We miss those no longer with us.
Age does not magically bestow
mythical "wisdom" as is trumpeted.
I am not very much wiser at 81
than I was at scarcely fourteen.
Somewhat slower on the uptake, I'm
no hungry sponge absorbing input
without loss of clarity or of comprehension.
Aged, I have hearing deficits, "mental fogging",
and don't control strange stray thoughts.
Even my delusions aren't as vivid.
This is due to hormonal changes as I age.
I'm greatly bothered by absence
of family, treasured friends...and lovers.
I mean all those I myself have loved,
platonically or otherwise. I do not tout
a rapid end to life. Despite discomfits,
it's much better to be alive --- save
for agonizing pain -- than to be
unrevivably dead. Living in others'
memories is poetic but isn't an
incentive for terminal departure.
I've listed my unpoetic opinion.
I encourage all: live life. Have no thought
or wish to speed its end. Nonexistence
is permanent, ever looming -- unavoidable.
Live and derive pleasure and some worth
from our unique (but very common) human
process of growth and aging. At all its stages
life's much more than paltry preparations for
an ending. We are lucky to be old, human, organically
still viable. Live with the intent to thrive!
“The Legendary Adventure Moments of Doctor Hermione Baggins the Reddish of Winterhold, The Master Sith Rainbow Lord Lulu Pucca, Cloud Kitty Carla Chandra the Ruby Rose, and Rand O'From Equestria the Darken Raw Snow vs The Strange A.A. or Perhaps B.S. Educated Scotties Homer Pilgrim’s Search for More Resources by Destroying the Galaxy to Make Way for a Interstellar Lightspeed Railway or Was It a Fishing Pond?”
Apathetic the game will continue on anyway
“Bidet,” a person points, "first door on the right in the hallway"
Celtic orchestrated melody commences to play
Drastic the GM in a serious voice proceeds to convey
“Exotic treasures will be rewarded at the story's endplay
Frederick and Scotty have threatened to destroy the floodway
Galactic dragons will soon have control of the realms gateway
Heretic man wearing the scarlet hand is on the highway
Icteric smiles seeing the party ‘do you have an issue?’”
“Judgematic paladin, what course of action will you do?”
“Kinesthetic, I'll flash step next to him and use my kung fu”
Laconic, looking over at the monk, “not your turn Lulu”
"Majestic I promenade over and address this mildew"
Novelistic I say, ‘the dragons, and mage, I must melee’”
“Optimistic the NPC rolls a 16 and tries to outplay
Panic soon kicks in as the druid and monk cross the pathway”
Quadraphonic sounds play as the initiative ensues
"Rollick, the monk and I go over, but I just rolled a two”
“Slapstick the heretic encounters the paladin’s swordplay
Tragic it's late and we must stop the story right here today
Unpoetic I know but we'll pick up again next Wednesday"
Updated 5/14/2019
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