Long Vowels Poems
Long Vowels Poems. Below are the most popular long Vowels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vowels poems by poem length and keyword.
Rubber lover, Zipperella,
is not a brother or a fella.
He has false **** and kitten heels,
not a chest and ankles made of steel
His spiky rubber bag is old,
cleverly patched with a Marigold.
It’s been so long since he wore cotton,
and only zips, never a button
Zippy is a Tube commuter,
six foot tall in his Transmuters.
Lots of people stop and stare,
even more when he had pink hair.
Being a girl was such hard work,
every day another jerk!
Better to dye it back to brown,
play his fetish lifestyle down.
A little less attention is better,
when all he wants is bread n butter
Down to his local corner shop,
in skin tight leggings and a belly top.
He could blend if he wore a sweater,
or maybe brown corduroys would be better.
That’s what a woman would ask,
it had happened in ZIppy's past.
He’d had a wife who he'd loved dearly,
but she couldn't understand him...clearly.
Take off that dress, put on some trousers!
What about mother, think of the neighbors!
It went on like that for years,
lots of heartache, floods of tears.
Even though she was his lover,
he felt like they didn't know each other.
Then on a bight and sunny morning,
came the last, the ultimate warning,
‘Zippy, I want you as a man;
you’re turning me into a lesbian!’
He was forced to wisely choose,
the rubber-wear would surly loose.
He had made his vowels for life,
how could he just leave his (darling) wife?
The only decent thing to do,
was to be loyal, to be true.
But then depression set right in,
when all his beloved rubber was thrown in the bin!
Time stood still for a couple of years,
lots more heart ache, stress and fears.
For he missed rubber in his (now) sad life,
more than he would miss his nagging (dear) wife.
This could not go on forever,
he needed a friend not a jealous lover.
Maybe she didn't’t like his feminine side,
but Zippy loved dear Zipperella with pride.
So one sad day they said goodbye,
with no questioning or reasoning why.
It was how it was meant to be,
she was free, and so was SHE!
Alone again but not as much,
much more honest, much more in trust.
For Zipperella loves all things feminine,
now the woman he holds dearest lives within…him.
(Author Notes
fella: man
Marigold: washing up gloves
Tube: london underground
Transmuters: a brand of boots with frankenstein style heels with big studs)
Like a tumbleweed aimlessly blowing in the wind
across infinitely open and wide prairie home companion land
(which wasteland famously epitomized by T.S. Elliot)
a barren vista ravages metaphorical landscape
of one measly mortal malcontent male
bumping and scraping along accursed habiliment
just barely avoiding and dodging diabolical demons
mercilessly and unrelentingly ready
to seduce this somewhat sanguine Simian
who finds himself amidst the pitfalls
of a tortured and twisted existence
racked with pinions describe bing
a demonic dragon filled dungeon
damp, dark, demented domains –
a veritable no man’s land
impossible to escape no matter how fast I -
as a foo fighter flee
from the fearful, fierce-some phantasmagoric forms
figments of my imagination seemingly real
tangible as bone and flesh
who haunt sacred crowded house of slumber
transmogrify me into a loathsome madman
ranting raving senseless gibberish and sic gobbledygook
perceived as metaphysically n philosophically insane
as soundgarden syllabification
from one womanly World Wide Web wayfarer
which virtual vagabond venerates vowels
and possesses means and tees to till verse
akin to a sorceress who waves a magic wand
to produce supreme sentences
weaves tantalizing terrific tweed topographic tundra’s
that this admirer of her artful and colorful poetic endeavors
prompts me to accompany my mindscape
as a thought-provoking troubadour
amidst the information super byways and highways
along winding labyrinths of critical thinking
or simply stepping o'er rolling stones
of silly rhymes without wing less reason
all the while giving subtle egress
into that chamber of secrets
long kept shut tight to maintain
that sure footed stance of solitude
whose only entities happened
to constitute trappings of literary lugubriousness
those tombs of largesse identified
as great works and masterpieces of literature
yet careful to avoid complete intimacy
lest that cherished solitude shattered
and a heart rent asunder
twin tower ring inferno imp perils of loss that provide
an understandable cautionary tale
to the author of this rambling missive
a most profoundly perceptive acute Ape man
touched to the quick with a bit of angel dust
aware that this agonized and angst riddled arboreal beast
contents himself with the confines of cyberspace!
Hovering beside a group of words,
Strategically aligned to make them meaningful,
Primitive noises and symbols are constructed,
Passed down from elders who are wise with knowledge,
Taught to use them for powerful communication,
Emotions stirred into structured but stiff cocktails,
Irresponsibility is lost in translation,
This is what we're taught,
An education of destruction,
Behaviors we're to believe are normal,
While we unknowingly create chaos through vowels,
Consonants created equally as terrible,
As the groups we are controlled by,
They make us feel accepted,
love fills our bottomless pit,
With hope comes commorodory,
But We only find ourselves more alone then ever,
When we're no longer useful to the cause,
We're handed a red solo cup of destiny,
Being a part of something in a history,
A history that will be lost over and over,
These events elevate the mind,
There is no existing in time,
You are handed the gift of déjà vu,
Because you've already done this,
And it reminds us of the truth,
A linear universe,
A place that repeats itself,
Again and again it happens,
Unwilling to accept it,
We turn a cheek,
To save all we have,
The belief that we have a purpose…
The search for meaning comes up short,
When we focus on the meaning of life,
You miss the real reasons your alive,
We're not meant for this planet,
We should have figured this out when we were born.
We're given a name,
To help us with an identify of self,
The story of me begins,
And it ends,
In between is an awareness that doesn’t belong,
Experiences that are hijacked,
Given to us,
For a hypothesis of scientific purpose,
Like a conscious robot,
To see if we can feel alive,
We are living,
But we are abandoned,
Left behind by master,
What's your’s is mine,
And ill make you bleed for it if I have to,
Darkness takes over when we believe the story of me,
Mine is the war inside,
Killing anything in the way of my pleasure,
Leaving you as a short term memory,
Lossed to fires and eroded by water,
The legacy of you will never be forever,
You are a temporary tyrant,
Pursuing the darkest of evils,
The unknown,
The lessons of life,
understood as a behavior,
And tolerated because its nature..
M. Stefano/2017
" YOUR Signature ... "
( Genesis 1: 1 / Rev. 4: 11 )
YOUR Signature ...
Scrolls On Each Wave of The Sea
As It Starts To Signal
With The Smallest, Written-Water-Ripple
YOUR Beautifully, Bold-Signed Name ...
Is In Each Crystal, Droplet Initial ...
YOUR Signature ...
Reflects, Embossed Upon All Skies
Floating In Bright Cloud-Notes
and Brilliantly Arc'd Written-Rainbows
And In The Sun's Flourish-Omega-Flares
... YOUR Radiant Calligraphy - - Glows ...
And YOUR Signature ...
Has Atop Each Imprinted 'I' Or 'J' As Symbols
... A Capital, Comet-Dashed-Star
In The Consonant-Cosmos - - Rows & Rows
and In Each 'O' In Orbits & Global-Rings
... YOUR Silver-Lined, Signature Shows ...
YOUR Signature ...
Is Written In Autumn Leaves and Winds
and Cyclone Summer Seasons
and The Softest, Articulate, Evening Breeze
and Inscribed In A Snowflake's Misty-Breath
& Each Author-Rised, Airful - - We Breathe ...
YOUR Signature ...
Is Written With Moonbeam-Pens
... Upon A Book of Life, It Is Plume-Penned ...
& YOUR Pencil - Draws Golden, Treasure Maps
Upon All of Earth & World of Men
As Signed Images of YOUR Autographs ...
YOUR Signature ...
Sometimes As A Title of Position & Authority
... Powerfully Appears ...
And YOUR Signature Bears YOUR Glory-Fame
of GOD, LORD, Almighty, King, Father and Love
All As: Character & Crests of JEHOVAH's Name ...
YOUR Signature ...
Is On The Edges of Eons and Eternity
... It Cannot Be Erased
... Will Never Fade -- Nor Ever Brushed Over
When It Is Written - - It Is Written ...
and Authenticated - - As Owner ...
YOUR Signature ...
Carved The Majestic Grand Canyon Gorge
... It Cannot Be Matched Nor Forged
YOUR Signature Covers Now & What The Future Expects
It Is: Its Own Distinct Style and Collateral Dialect
YOUR Signature Signs All Wealth & Royalty's Checks ...
YOUR Signature ...
... On Covenants; Contracts - - In or Outside Our Margins
... Is Written, Stamped and Sealed ...
Waxed In Vowels, In Cursive-Cure-Ink, That Bled
Signed On Dotted Lines of Horizons & Our Hopes ...
YOUR Signature - - Is What We've Read ...
( Part One of Two)
Written & Copyrighted © : 5/8/2014
by: MoonBee Canady
Anyone can write…
and drown in their self-delusions;
from persons into personifications
lists of passions, glorify self's illusions;
down those lists,
most veiled by incomprehension
one's passion is most often expressed
as the byproduct,
of misconstrued personal emotions;
therefore, in these briefs that follow
rest some seeds for those
whose mental fields lay perpetually fallow…
Xenocrates, his gods being unity and duality
i.e. episteme, aisthesis, and doxa
are lost to US,
by rue of epistemonike aisthesis;
Mersenne's numbers,
to Eratosthenes' sieve
Erd?os' factorization,
and Archimedes' constant conceived;
Holy vowels expressions!
Great Gobs of Goose shite, please!
release US from this context,
relieve this tumultuous tease;
probe Bertrand's Postulate,
exposing your thinking's
prime numbers seized;
however shallow, and wordless
your tongue tied thoughts do concede…
so many things are above me,
so many more lay beneath
my scratching, itching, and twitching
these are reminders of my simpleton's grief…
in this fiat before me
on these issues held, and in my beliefs
that my mind is much more
than the street corner tavern's
proverbial hat rack…
now that's a relief!
What is it within US?
that sullen darkness and introversion hides
those snide daily reminders
the eclipse of the sun
and or a debutante's swoon
a cheap parlour tricks wonder
or that pin-striped baboon's face
we each express as we howl at the moon…
Excuse me this meandering
but, it is my gut busting chortle
you now so surely conceive
that this little snippet from our dear William
does so help you believe
that we all live this one time
so as ourselves, do profoundly achieve
what your inquisitive conscience
exposes as your life's
most constant semibreve…
['Think of this life; but, for my single self,
I had as lief not be as live to be
In awe, of such a thing, as I myself.']
in conclusion of
this bit of confusion
do infuse this allusion
as your daily transfusion
of the smack of illusion
and the sole, blithe, transformational revolution
now necessary for your mindset's
ever changing and ongoing mental de-evolution.
Eating alphabet soup with a straw so you can play Scrabble with the leftovers
Lyrics from an obscure band is music to your ears
Shaving off the November scruff that was plastered on your face
Nightmares are less frequent yet still take their toll
Promises that I will wake up - drink some water - and fall back asleep
The medication makes my mouth arid
spitting out vowels and consonants and shaping them into poems
choking on the nouns and verbs that populate my speech patterns
laughing to oneself and thinking "Maybe I don't have an accent."
Raising one's glass to wish good health to a room full of people whom you cherish
breaking down into tears - but you're in the shower - so it all blends in
trying to remove the dirt from underneath your fingernails that you have anxiously chewed
dancing to a song that has been over for five minutes but the chorus remains in your mind
choosing not to look up the lyrics to the songs on your vinyl album
holding, breathing, remaining pure to the one young woman whose heart you protect
Remembering the words of your late grandfather who told you not to wonder too much - or you'll get lost yet I found the courage
to look into the eyes of Death
and say "Check Mate."
All of my dreams end up with me doing some project and looking down - just to find my exposed body
I even watch what I eat before I go to bed - but the raw and gritty details remain
to tell the truth - that things are terrific - I'll tell my therapist
I was born in the December of '92.
Walked this Earth for seven years.
Decided I know what I am destined to become.
Emerging from a crystalized coocoon.
I spread my wings and learn to write
Poems about loss, love, and human nature
Rearranging the pasta in my bowl to spell out
some SAT word I have only used twice
in conversation
laughing at my grammar, my spelling, and my love of the Oxford Comma.
Captializing Words That Don't Need Capitalization
because Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman did it first
Taking time to think things through and telling yourself : "You're stronger than you know."
My weakness: "Carbs and late-night with Craig Ferguson."
My strengths: "I am a writer and a Poet I shall remain."
Do we have any more alphabet soup?
I
I am disinfected, sanitised from touch and eyes
Do not hold me. I am Bakelite and you smolder
Sat solid, the wall cold against my spine. A back-rest
To concrete electrocution.
I am distilled from Suburbia and Bohemian at Brandenberg
Rigid and saturnine. Heavy lidded Lichtenstein moons
And ruby lip and cheek.
Dumb-flustered and silent rictus
Nothing changes.
II
She edges closer with ostentatious mute steps. Like a bride
And thrice as white with crimson orb flowing underneath
Her caped wings and paper hat. Tiny dragging movements
As though her legs could snap
This marionette matchstick girl unfurls her bouquet of fingers intertwined
And ruffles from her drapes fragments of paper and a tiny plastic cup
I do not notice her. The bleach sticks heavy to the throat and
She envenoms me to the core stomach
She speaks. It is static heavy and foriegn, black-lipped vowels and dull
Continuations of barely literate sounds.
My words are daggered brutes, any poetry the less of my expectations
Is instantly meaningless, crass, common, nauseous and disgusting
Her flowing prose was illegible on those lips. Sounding almost spat
I could have silenced nine decades to my two and circled her in criticism
She would never understand with her barely-English cold translations of her
Own English mother-tongue.
III
People are fascinating
Occassionally
I find I look at them and linger, I study them and calculate their complex algebras
Undoubtedly we are products of our parents and the less of us by-products
We are strings and apples and figs
The woman with her ghost-white face and dress. Her parents were too strict
You can see it in her face, how if you even turn away her eyes circle with bags
And she feels lost, she could cry a thousand summers and undoubtedly should trade my place.
As of my own parents they probably loved me too much. Sheltered me and then
Stopped abrupt as death and cyanide fizzing
Suddenly trading my lineage into friendship and smiles and no, do silence yourselves
I am a maypole and the strings circle about me
Life and ambition they feed upon me, draining me in complex nervous disorder
I am a living question mark
I can feel it
Eating below my skin.
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can't we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in thought. Then it will go hard if we can't in practice. Our lives for it.
Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context- meaning-subject matter. That is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with metres-particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.
Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound to being a poem's better half. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.
Image of Black Sand & Sand provided by Pixabay.
The Hawaiianism of Ho'oponopono
A word, astir, in undulating waves surges and awash a clear open black shoreline of Hawaii nei, as it recedes in cycles dashing back to an instant, springing forth that word grasped first in mumblings made by a question from what comes later.
Hawaiiana has amongst the narrowed rudiments containing 12 alphabets; 7 consonants; H - K - L - M - N - P - W, plus 5 vowels; A - E - I - O - U. In its wake, Hawaiians have improvised their grammar by accommodating words to include more than one meaning, it is known as, "equivocal". A different way of supplementing their shortfall via letterings is by repeating words, whereto, two aspects emerge, firstly and the most prevalent variant of Hawaiiana repeats is, word pluralization, simply by adding the 's' at the end, sort of speak. Then secondly is word emphasization, or best to be known as, word empowerment.
"Ho'o" is an energetic prefix, in and of itself though insignificant in the Hawaiiana context as a stand-alone word, implying "to make or making". In this example, the base word, "pono", is an equivocal word. In no respective order, first; moral qualities, uprightness, and decency. Second; a clear understanding, completeness, and being thorough. Third; correctly fulfilled, proper procedures, and accuracy. Fourth; prosperity, welfare, benefit, and equity. There remain several meanings that essentially are extensions of the foregoing.
Nevertheless, when the base word is repeated, then "Ho'oponopono" basically means to, "make right a wrong". The Hebrews call it "Kaphar".
Back to mumbling and anticipation as a kid faced up to grownup legs. A worn grimace is yon about pause steadily. Quizzative looks around the room and tempts a peek past the formidable figure that blocks nearly the whole of him. The aged utter clarity, "E pule ho'oponopono kakou", (Let us pray for correcting our wrongdoing), afterward, an amended kid embraces the closing answer, "Ae, ho'omaika'i ia oe", (Yes, victory is yours). On the whims of a pendulum, Ho'oponopono wanes as a learnt man winds a clock up to speed.
2021 May 28
PANAGIOTA CHRISTOPOULOU-ZALONI
Poetess, novelist, essayist, painter,
Editor of literary magazine KELAINO
e-mail: tzina@otenet.gr
Address: Zaloggou 16, 13231 Petroupoli-Athens-Greece
Haiku in English
of Mrs Panagiota Christopoulou-Zaloni
=======================
Poem and love
With scented thoughts
Holy Communion
*
Lyres are starting
Divinely are chanting
I feel so happy.
*
Pain and sorrow
Filled is the heart
Sigh of blood.
*
My white roses
Same with my sorrow
They are so faded.
*
The snow of your Soul
A shroud to your dignity
Was a destiny?
*
White violets
For Christ’s Resurrection
I bind with poetry.
*
In my happiness
The clouds falling piously
Became vowels
*
Nostalgia’s music
On the leaves of time
It is twisting.
*
Crumbs from your kisses
Mixed up with memories
I am gathering.
*
For the resurrection
Of the “substance”
Crash yours “ego”.
*
Fragrance of memories
In the leaves of your mind
Icons hand painted.
*
The train of your life
The road carved by love
Has passed away
*
Was demolished
The castle of my dreams
Without any reason
*
Stars of diamonds
In your apron tonight
Feel sentimental
*
The white pigeon
On the great horizon
Writes “Freedom”
*
The cruel masters,
Which are hard dominators,
We deny them all.
*
Pale from sorrow
Looks upon to my memories
The moon of my mind
*
They are planted
In children’s smiles now
Cartridges of machine – gun
*
Night of January
Behind the barbwire
I saw light of hope
*
Lights on the waters
The kisses are gleaming
The shore shines.
*
The wind and the mind
Sure for eternity
They are running
*
Fear at wide plains
Love’s nets were ruined
The birds homeless
*
Mine sacred cup
I feel with light from the moon
And burn incense
*
Ungratefulness
You wore me the sorrows
Stuck on my body
*
I think of writing
Thoughts and words
With another ink
*
Will search and find
A perfectly smiling ink
And a pen of joy
*
Every morning
At everlasting time
YOU, ME and LOVE
*
I fix the poem
Cream rose coloured
I offer it to you.