Long Usual Poems
Long Usual Poems. Below are the most popular long Usual by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Usual poems by poem length and keyword.
the long day and Hitler
It is Christmas Eve the TV has nothing to offer but sentimental
crap, where the rich rescue a Christmas for the poor and everyone
in the park and sing while bells chime; no one has bored anyone
by pointing out that it is Jesus’s birthday today.
Flicking through the computer’s many sites, I came across Hitler’s
drawing of Father Christmas, a haunted face casting a side glance
not sure, if someone is making fun of him, the eyes also tell us of doubt
over his profession as a clown.
Hitler didn’t travel much, once he stayed in Liverpool for two years
worked as a waiter serving bangers and mash to the local population
the famous sense of humour from that place didn’t rub off on him.
He left, and there was a rumour of him and a pregnant scullery maid.
The next time he journeyed abroad, he went to Paris to see the usual
tourist sites, he didn’t enjoy Paris much took the first train home back
to his mountain retreat, where he played with his dog, went for long walks
and lived in peace until the bombing began.
By Jove...Zeus cleft Eos tacit alibi
pact wrought since time
immemorial bye and bye
temporarily, symbolically,
and unwaveringly
superstitions, phenomenal mysteries
jaw dropping eve vents out of sky
explained where within fie
foo fighting mythological
pantheon, the dualistic forces
of light and dark
didst die whar,
yours truly did e'er lee ask why,
and simultaneously warily eye,
whence no idea why
aboot twelve hours prior,
predictable regular
tug of war try
ensued, when twilight didst sigh
leant lee enshroud
the dusky sky
light speedily seeped away,
hence nightly raiment
of Astraeus predictably quashed,
nee wrested with nary a cry
this September twenty ninth,
unusual wakefulness state
crafted golden opportunity
didst nudge me fort hoo try
to maximize spate of bright
tailed and bushy eyed,
state, which rare
quotidian event, I
unfortunately rarely espy,
cuz my circadian rhythm
usually well nigh
finds me sound asleep at least
til mid morning this guy,
thus flush with more
energy than usual aye
make a feeble (minded) attempt
to nudge, kickstart, and coalesce,
viz nebulous thoughts within my
fog enshrouded noggin
unable, unaccustomed,
and unwillingness
relented for me to pry
opened tightly shut – cubed bricked
hermetically sealed
steel trap eyelids
ocular orbs didst defy
Herculean dramatic attempt
yielded futile tussle,
where outcome brought
stellar surprise high
hoe, a spectacular dawn
scene rarely seen by this guy.
Four Letters Spelling Blah...
generally define mine anatomical phooey zook
corporeal status, essentially feeling like gook,
not my usual babbling brook
self, thus finds yours truly whooshing, he
could wave a magic wand (all thee
while exjaculating abra
cud dab bra, or whatever
applicable spell -
spot on - to re:),
vivify mine pathetic sluggishness,
hashtagged with nauseous
tsunami waves, and inxs,
where these nada
so lovely brittle bones,
and atrophied muscles free
quint times this day
feel robbed of lee
ping lemurs (yule
grant me hyperbolic
indulgence) spirited energy
versus experiencing hypersensitivity,
which head toot
hoe soreness analogous
(ache and burn'n ken to
contracting the Amish Flu),
where this jumpy,
manicky, persnickety, rickety,
and totally tubular ancient
tomb mess scent body
finds ordinarily endeavoring
scribe this moment tub bee,
a little horse and bug gee
(in other words), aye
experience over sizeable
(bare ten able) boots
of dizz zee
ness (as if pitched to
and fro on rough sea),
where webbed venting
helps this wordsmith
to sum men strength
tube (boo hoo)
himself from bing nsync
king mode, sans (10,000
leagues...in Dave vee
Jones locker) as a dee
pull lore hubble skidrow re
sid divest news junk kee -
do dilling with zero hap pee
go luck key
ne'er do well bummer, I...he
barely exhibits signs
of life breathe
thing inaudibly inhaling
and exhaling wei
zing all the while
with pronounced je
nais sais quois nasality
emitted racking prithee
moren slight lee
jarring with achy breaky tree
men dose skeletal pain,
thus fuhr re hiss lee,
heavily relying on wing,
and broken prayer hope fool lee
fully helping this
old codger (yepper me)
do magical wonders to re: captcha
lapsed la pas suh zoo lee
infusing this corporeal being i.e.
once again me
with spirited resurgence.
“One can get through any hurt, if the one who causes hurt shows sincere remorse and expresses love again” - By Poet
Like heavy boots on vacant streets, his harsh words
Rang in my ears. Never has he been so very rash.
Why did he my heart deeply pierce?
The whole night I lay crying, soaking my pillow.
In severe pain, my face was swollen and red
Next morning seeing my wan, puffed- up face
He quietly asked, so much concerned,
‘Did you have your usual migraine?
You look terribly tired and worried’
He seems to have forgotten all that he said
Gently applying balm on my forehead
In a tone of assurance, he said, “Don’t worry
In no time all your pain will be fled”
My mind, tangled and messy became suddenly calm.
When I felt his lips upon my cheeks, tears began to flow.
His silent kiss, stamped like love’s gentle whisper
Warmly and tenderly, at an unexpected moment,
After a slight brawl, when my heart was torn,
Had the sweetness of honey and I melded into him
Do you remember the day we first met?
I can still remember it like it was yesterday
Or how we sat up that first night talking and laughing
Then I think of all the sweet text that I’ve saved
I even catch myself going back thru them
Just to see every ‘I love you’ and ‘I miss you’
Letting old conversations replay in my head
How I ever let you go I’ll never know
What I would give just to call you mine again
Every week you leave me more and more confused
Last night you laid in my bed and there you stayed
All night long you held me in your arms
And I didn’t know what to say
For the moment everything felt so perfect
It’s the way you hold me in your arms, the way you kiss me, even the way you smile at me
It all gives me hope that maybe just maybe a part of you is still in love with me
And yet as usual we will go our separate ways
So many unanswered questions
So many things left unsaid
And I’ll spend another week
Wondering what it all meant to you
Or if it meant anything at all
But I’ll let you walk away
Without so much as an ‘I love you’
Or to tell you I wont stop thinking of you
And I’ll miss you every moment that you’re gone
Hoping that even if you don’t love
Even if you don’t miss me
Maybe just maybe I’ll cross your mind
And I hope that when I do
You know that wherever you go is where my heart will be
And when you look at the stars that light up the night sky
Know that I am looking at those same stars
Wishing I was there by your side
Baby I still love you
That never changed
I just don’t say it as much as I used to
Actually I don’t say it at all anymore
But I do still love you!!
The water from these sinks is cloudy.
Everyone is,
Creeping around.
Faucets leaking.
I could have fixed everything.
Horrible places like this one.
Horrible places.
When I wake up.
There are more.
Every speck of light out there?
From headlights to storefronts.
Close my eyes and see map dots.
I could be in a worse place.
The faucets are leaky in here.
They told me it’s fine.
Dripping drool in my sleep.
When I wake up?
I wish I could sometimes.
It’s cold in here.
My breath is more breathless than usual.
As if there’s no sleep left in the world.
She handed me a cup and a handful of pills.
Sleep, or don’t.
She shrugs.
When I wake up.
She’s gone.
An empty cup is by my bed.
The water in the showers is probably rusty.
You can’t see rust in the water.
But it’s in the pipes.
It’s on my hands from turning the faucet on.
I could have fixed everything.
But all I have now is a rust shower.
It’s in the pipes, and I can’t stop it now.
Everyone in here is creeping around.
Sluggish or floating.
None of the water here is fresh or safe.
I’m convinced.
It makes us worse.
But we drink, anyway.
In London’s gaslit, art-enamoured scene,
Lived two great wits, with egos sharp and keen.
The Painter James, with monocle and cane,
The Poet Wilde, who found in art no pain,
But only beauty, in a world mundane.
They vied for notice, ‘midst the social whirl,
Two shining stars, one butterfly, one pearl.
Their row, half-feigned for the public’s gay delight,
Was a rap contest in the fading light,
A friendly jousting for the bon mot’s might.
Whistler speaks, "Au cobtraire, you!"
“Now Oscar, pray, observe my ‘Nocturne’ blue,
A symphony in tone, a vision true.
No moral burden, no heavy, social plea,
Just ‘Art for Art’s Sake,’ for the world to see.”
Wilde retorts articulately:
“Your art, dear Jimmy, is a lovely thing,
A shell where the ocean’s music seems to sing.
But tell me, James, without a hint of ire,
When you paint nature, do you find desire?
Or just a canvas for your genius’ fire?”
Whistler snaps back, playing a lyre:
“Nature, my boy, is usually wrong!
She’s seldom perfect and does not last for long.
I merely help her, lend a guiding hand,
To make her beauty understood, and grand.”
Wilde replies, with a theatrical strand:
“I wish, dear James, that I had said that line!”
Whistler’s eyes, with mock-offence, do shine:
“You will, good Oscar, you will, in your time!”
A stinging jest, a hint of plagiarism’s dart,
Which Oscar parried, with his usual art.
The playful jousting became a la carte,
Their friendship ended on bit of a bitter notary.
Whistler complained his ideas were filched away,
That Wilde had stolen his dandyish display.
He called him “middleman,” a critic, not an artistian,
Wilde, in return, called Whistler an “ill-bred” person,
A “venerable impostor,” to make the matter worsen.
The battle moved to newspapers, bold and crass,
Their lively letters, a gift to the masses.
“When you and I are together,” Wilde did opine,
“We talk of nothing but ourselves, I find.”
“No, no, dear Oscar,” Whistler quickly wrote,
“When we’re together, we talk of me, note!”
A final jab, a rivalry complete,
The war of wits, a well-known, public feat.
Wilde had the last word in his novel, Dorian Gray,
Where the murdered artist had his little say.
Their rivalry remembered, for the wit they shared,
Two sparkling egos, gloriously paired.
With or without snow falling,
there will be more Christmases,
more joyful carols for me to sing:
hoping peace will brighten all hearts!
I'll give the shivering beggar
a heavy coat to keep cozy and warm,
and to the hungry coffee and donuts;
there are rich people who care less;
and there are poor who beat the drum:
they will cry, they will rejoice!
The mean, the selfish and the ungrateful
close both eyes and go on living as usual...
as if fate won't tilt their full cups
and suddenly spill all of their riches!
What did Jesus say to the crowd?
" Be kind, be merciful and always seek God. "
Now, share each Christmas
with the lonely ones in need!
There will be more Christmases:
I've promised myself to stick to my creed!
There will be more Christmases,
stay near until the log keeps crackling
to brighten all that's not too cheerful:
why can't it be very magical
and bring us a joy so thrilling?
Why can't we smile more and worry less?
The hen incubated its eggs for twenty -one days, She didn't know that they were her own eggs, She refused to leave the eggs for eat or drink, And she acted aggressively if she was disturbed. She pulled out of its feathers on her belly, Her warm skin directly touched the eggs, She altered the eggs that had moved away from her warmth, And she pecked at me when I came too close. One fine morning, she hatched her chicks , She thought that they belonged to her, But they were tiny troublesome ducklings, And they were nearly six in number. The ducklings had grown very fast, And they moved towards the pond , They swam joyfully in the warmed water, And still she thought that they were her own eggs. Soon she couldn't control her dirty ducklings, At dawn ,they walked fast towards the pond, And the ducklings swam in the water as usual, But the mother hen roamed on the bank of the pond. Usually ,the chicks obeyed the call of her mother, But the ducklings didn't respond to their mom, The innocent baby ducks wanted to be away from her, Still she believed that they were her own chicks.
Like a can of pop overflowing,
Pent up emotions in me overtaking,
Old feelings saturating the newest feeling,
Afraid of when the table will start turning.
Like the cola soda covering
A table in which I am patiently waiting,
I am as usual finding my feelings confusing,
This metaphor is staining my well-being.
Like the cold hard thin metal lining,
I am lost again in my own mindscaping,
Chill to the core despite my inner shining,
Thanks to the sacred herb I was smoking.
Like my favourite drinks I'm always drinking,
Always recycling every thought and feeling,
Just so I can avoid telling everything,
Yet still hoping someone sees I need saving.