Long Vogue Poems
Long Vogue Poems. Below are the most popular long Vogue by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vogue poems by poem length and keyword.
I just heard on the radio
Some news you never hear –
It seems that industry has picked
The color of the year.
It will appear on clothing
And accessories and make-up;
Some experts thought its vibrancy
Would give us all a wake-up.
The color has a name, of course –
It’s tangerine and tango.
I picture something orange-red,
Much deeper than a mango.
I bought a sweater weeks ago
And it was just that shade.
Perhaps the store had jumped the gun
By having it displayed.
But now I’ll be the height of vogue,
The coolest on the scene,
When I put on my sweater
Colored tango tangerine.
I never knew that years had hues
But if you must comply,
Perhaps to keep up with the times,
It might be time to dye!
Lust's Sickness throws off the yoke, of cure?
Defiant in-body, pleasures obscure.
A mask, of pride, a lost soul-in vogue capture, a hell-ride in the belly of a beastly whore.
The salt crystal shines your thirst back to you in a drowning mirror that blinds you.
It's image, in-retrograde.
Worship of false idol,
self, made, self that binds you.
You are tapewormed, pinned at the head,
eating the loop of tale.
A process processing by lassoing,
the masochism of sin.
The Harlot, riding an illusion abiding,
of perverted grandeur, aboding the Vale,
in a warped game of intelivision in the City Dell.
Rally the standard, flags, censors,
sensor a game, of shell, of humanity being played,
like a fiddle, rung like a bell.
Their humanity wanes,
from defiant song in the harmonic scale, of fever.
Their body a signet, of times despoil.
The occulus hourglass abacus mirror waxing cold,
fusion spirit, ether, spell for sale, sold.
Doors closing double
folding into the dimension of troubles.
Shopkeepers of the gates of Hell,
and souls falling onto the other.
Neon is in the blood, signed, *** - 666,
enter, the veil.
Apocalypservices,
the last vomiting throes of Society's-former Dale.
BDSM by Hollywood (wand not for display),
at the demonic re education menagerie.
Self's gallery for sale, while burning,
nativity to ashes,
carbon to polish our looking glasses.
Sold-out to the oil of midnite.
Snaking, on a torch lit by the way
of political prophet-eering incite.
Insight of conscience swayed
by field communications, too near.
Of Olympus-apothecarried by the scales in motion,
weighed by fears'-musings-fear.
By Reptilian, Orwellian, modern, progressive notions caught doing.
Explosive, fiery things.
Burn us to death, in house arrest,
in-deed to fuel one's own un, manifest.
Doing, one's undoing at the behest of the WEF
On our first serious date; he grew excited
and I was primed to knock my guy off his feet.
Spending hours on the right dress, all horrid
Till a feathery wardrobe popped from the closet.
Yes! This dress will hit the roof…top-rated;
lined with plumes from neck down mid-thighs.
Upstairs, my mood claimed I must stay decorated
trying latest trends in beauty makeover,
armed with lipsticks, false lashes and gloss shaded.
The long wait made him quite frustrated
so, Mom served cream pie to ease the tension.
Forcing him to nap while I polish a vogue look,
never wore make-up, now I was fully painted.
I stepped down with new face truly elated
he woke up from my “hello”, and trembled.
Gee, I knew the male Richter scale zoomed 8!
Flaunting my hairdo, thick with mousse… inflated.
“I’m sorry, Ted, for being late, you really waited.”
He froze. He croaked, as if he saw an ostrich,
Squeezing his arm to ensure our date well handled!
“But, I can’t go, the burps; errr..the pie,” he cited.
“My tummy‘s acting up; I’m constipated!”
Vienna's Smile , You're In Candid Camera
by nette onclaud
after "Ich bin die fesche Lola" sung by Marlene Dietrich
I'm easy-going Lola, the girl who's most in voque.
The Nutella in my pantry is there for none but me.
I'm easy-going Lola, the heartthrob a la mode,
but hands off my Nutella, or my other side you'll see.
I.m easy-going Lola ,the girl who's most in vogue
The Nutella in my pantry is stacked next to the gin.
I'll let you walk me homeward, though you are a rogue,
but hands off my Nutella, or I'll kick you in the shin.
Lola, Lola! the boys l know who I am.
You can take my marmalade, if that is what you seek.
I.m not one to be petty, so take my strawberry jam,
but fingers off Nutella, or it's hospital all week/
It's the latest intellectual thing; it's in vogue
To dare to say it doesn't make you a rogue
You can let people know that experts can show
That we are just two-legged animals: It's so!
Between us are no unbridgeable separations
We are merely advanced animal mutations
Our music no better than a Thai elephant's clanging
Our language duplicated by an ape on a keyboard banging
So, I'm terribly sorry to be behind the times here
But I find all of this to be unutterably *****
For to me it is the height of laughable misinformation
To try to conceive of an animal with a human's imagination
Fashion, the fresco of generational passion
keeps pace with the sprint of rushing times.
Like an art-form it makes cleaved impression,
modernity worn even if body contours don’t rhyme.
Vision blank, she cat-walks the fashion track,
dormant desire turns her to an exhibit called style.
A bedecked sheep trailing the peer pack,
proud of floating on current of vogue all the while.
Travelling backward on minimalistic pathway,
a derivative image she carves for people to adore.
In sweeping winds of time present she likes to sway,
thinking fashionably, less is more.
November 16, 2019
Contest : Fashion
Sponsor : Julia Ward
Militant anti immigrant riots by those who love foreign diets inspired by Patrick's (a Nairobi squire & Obi One Kenobi of Satire) "the Flavour Crisis" in the Guardian..
Our saviour from v(ice) some spice and flavour
For Blighty to finally be fancy free and mighty
We must stop dastardly.. bastardly behaviour
Bold in vogue rogues in brogues who're flighty
Britain ain’t as cold as the fold in Scandinavia
Savour cultural gold or it will be nighty nighty
Rascal perky castle floats in quirky murky moats
Nobody notes same gory story just Tory turncoats
Glory gloats as caning boats is still gaining votes
Knaves & slaves sent to their graves scapegoats
Nigel Farage tribal bible barrage sowing his oats
Baiting bigots hating spigots come on do us a favour
Have a go at a hijab then go have a kebab is a worry
Flurry of slurry raves at their quarry pivots craves curry
Shady reformer berk digs jerk go beserk at lady burkha
Has a go at Gurhka worker making his korma say sorry
Fears that it took 60 years to pick ethnic peers on Corrie
If only their morals like their palate whet was bit braver
Tease about it’s a breeze ease of Chinese if in a hurry
No takeaway waiver unless more a Quaver than raver
Don’t be hasty most things tasty the same wheeze
Places with traces of other races & faces do choose
No quips please about fish and chips is Portuguese
Although clues in London dish introduced by Jews
On our knees seeing trees not the wood our disease
Not just pasty views need other hues cultural engraver
Colour cascades with brood of shades or mood is duller
No blot of the don't give a jot lot be a melting pot bather
Britain’s future paver.. tutor & life saver could be FLAVA
Minogue was glamor personified; the way she walked, was electrified.
Men and women watched as she marched away in a sweet high heeled shoe.
She is not limping, she is wearing matching pumps, high that make us sigh.
She is a pink, yellow and orange queen, straight out of a sixties magazine.
Her walk is exaggerated, more Marilyn Monroe than a common street ho.
There is a hat perched on her gay head in a perky “I am gorgeous” way.
On me it would look ridiculous, but on her it looks glamorous conspicuous.
A professional has made up her gorgeous face, and her hair keeps its place.
She looks like she stepped off the cover of Vogue, our woman, Minogue.
Even her name is exotic, classic, and makes the rest of us seem rather plain.
I feel unkempt, dirty, and common around her gorgeous eyes of blue.
She tries to build me and reassure me, because that’s part of her glamor too.
Minogue, Minogue, Minogue, you could have been a model or actress.
Whatever career you choose, you will sure be a wild and wonderful success.
We feel your heart, and see your spirit, and are amazed by your attitude new.
Come over here and give me a glimpse of that wonderfulness that is you.
Incomprehensible are the
Petty landmarks that linger in a person's life
It happened so long ago
That I'm surprised I still remember.
In St. Thomas' parochial school
When Sister Elizabeth held a ruler
In her pale white hands
Any signs of mercy
Mysteriously vanished from her blue eyes
Religion was her weapon
Corporal punishment it's end
Fueled by frustration
She held the class
In fear.
Every school day
Was a grey morning
Of my longing to be somewhere else
Standing by the door
In a robe
Of darkest wool
Sister Elizabeth counted us in
One by one
As we walked in silence
Hair combed
Little backs held straight.
From her glance
The message was clear
Grade school was not about deep thoughts
Or clever ideas
Originality was not in vogue
It was about small things
That grown-ups winked at
And often ignored
Issues, important as the color of beige.
One dull morning
I whispered to a classmate
When I shouldn't have
Called to the front by Sister Elizabeth
I was given the ultimate punishment
The ruler and then some
In her capable hands my palms were lacerated
When I cried out
She turned my hands over
Until my knuckles bled
Darkening the cuffs of my white shirt.
That evening my mother cried at my bruises
And my father uttered a string of curses
Long into the night
True
Sister's time was not easy
Teaching mindless brats
Such as myself
Only added to her
Disappointment.
Over the years
Attitudes changed
Commitments weakened
And Sister, childless and alone, realized
Much too late
That her days of sacrifice and Catholicism
Chastity and prayer
Had been a life against nature.
Even now my hands cringe
To a fist
When someone holds a ruler
For the wounds are marked deep
In memory.
Rummage
If you must.
My presence here
Is based on trust
So dressed am I
In Summer svelte
Yet you're to check
My trousers belt;
I'm scanned
As if each cell is rogue
So scrutinised
Despite en vogue
I understand
Away from home
You check my
Hydrocortisone;
The lotion for
My perfect tan
Or salve for lips
To kiss this man
Accept, do I
My gooey three
Could form a plan
For bomb plot spree
A victim
Of mis-communication
Disturbing transport's
Destination
Ungroomed
Is how my luggage ends
While protection
Of the sky depends
On just this task
For safety's sake
More pleasant if
A smile you'd break
Your focus can't be
All on me
Perhaps you're wondering
"What's for tea?"..
Or hoping soon
To get away
To pack for your own
Holiday
So here's my wish
For you to find
Credentials
Of a different kind
As poke and prod
Display and sort
Where discretion is
A last resort
So one day you may
Understand
In travel
To another land
Exposure
To some inner delving
Though required, it may be
Disconcerting