Long Whatnot Poems
Long Whatnot Poems. Below are the most popular long Whatnot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whatnot poems by poem length and keyword.
All efforts tabled on Nigeria;
Experiencing a fortunate miscarriage,
Feasting Aso rock- a pizzeria
But never admit it is the cause of this age.
Upon the solid manifesto,
That touches all sectors:
Picturing California's Barstow,
To cajole mandates of the electors.
Finally, all promises are working...
Nigerians are glad to vote SAI BABA.
How beautiful things are shirking!
Yet, we never cease referencing YORUBA's BONOBO.
Now, pebbles tear apart the wall to a lowland.
No sands dare last all days.
Though, the wall can not withstand
The test of time come the apartness of clays.
The crevices in the wall:
Is an awaiting lost of hope;
One day, the wall will surely fall.
Just like acrobats won't last all days on tightrope.
The time is no longer right;
The poor and his rights are wrong,
For there's no one to stand by him.
Those beautiful hearts; pure and young
Have been battered and their loves' lights dim.
Buhari's reign is like what?
Revelation said it well in his whatnot
And if that be the truth,
Should we believe, lazy are all youths?
Why do we fear actions and love words?
If we never mind, our hens can fly like birds
But we keep living in reliving,
The leadership orbiting the Africa GIANT's sun outliving...
The societies expectations--
A reason millions are invested in educations.
When shall we be tired?
To relieve those supposed to have retired.
Just like the withered leaves bring
Blessings unto tree to renew its strength.
The odd flowers introduce the spring
And relinquished fortitude to breath.
The detached withered leaves
That have been laid to rest,
Can never regain life's airfoil
Than enrich the top soil.
What are meant for backups,
Ended up been the beautiful ups.
One thing unsure is the extent of our grieves,
All are mere satisfying best.
Of course, sun shall rise and shines bright on the green lushes,
Blessing nature with its radiant nutritional solar energy.
As the aiding glimmer blushes,
It shall promote unbelievable synergy.
But if nights tarry for long,
Mornings shall come with the healing birdsong...
Youths, light the nights;
Cohorts, best their rest.
Mum, The Financial Advisor
‘You are the tea leaves I am the teapot, I the tiny snowflake and you the snow’
Thus sets the stage of similarities and whatnot, lighting the mood for the afterglow,
The morning after, we see what had been taught, not much but the status quo,
You are the cream and sugar, I am the coffee, I the beehive and you the honey,
Taste has sweetened, well-brewed and lofty, firm prospect meaning money,
More meaningful, and the setting more warmly, gainfully significant and carefree,
Ergo, breakfast entertains calmly and promptly, ending in a financial apogee,
Good morning moments, familial time, satisfyingly, and a future that was meant to be.
2020 February 24
*2nd Place*
Poetic lines from a Poetry Soup Poet - Maria Williams
~~Silent One
Midnight boom town streets have this allure
imagining an uncanny venture
eavesdrop veil surround but dark as coal
how I love my after hours stroll
Secret worlds unfold their impish plot
mesmerised entanglement a tiered whatnot
black crush velvet sky we must extol
how I love my after hours stroll
Gilt fantasies that float across each lane way
fluorescent gremlin from some ghostly parking bay
gust on salt ice pier might buttonhole
how I love my after hours stroll
Snow clad mall whistler gaffe prone
while wandering the ink hue urban zone
a chapter lift and snatch from begging bowl
how I love my after hours stroll
Traffic signals stellar stoic stance
heartbeat of nocturnal moonlight dance
frozen digit signage reeks of twinkling North Pole
how I love my after hours stroll
I was helplessly lost in a quaint little town,
frustrated and floundering, wearing a frown
in the MARKET for oddities I’d heard about
from a friend who’d raved, “Bill’s Thrills will please you, no doubt!
I recall how to get there–I think. Write this down!”
I was careful to write down each minute detail.
I’d set out feeling positive I could not fail.
Since I had full directions, I knew I’d soon find
Bill’s Thrills, but then getting lost blew my poor mind.
My heart beat too fast and my face grew so pale,
.
Just when I’d given up on locating that shop,
an unusual SIGN on the right made me stop.
It said, “We Know the Way”; and an ARROW, bright green—
and quite curvy—led me to a most puzzling scene,
a small shop—almost HIDDEN on a mountaintop.
I bought two picture frames and a Disney whatnot.
Then my strong curiosity made me ask what
was behind the shop’s name. He said, “It did quite well
as Bill’s Thrills, but I changed it when I started to sell
these TomTom’s. They’re popular; I sell a lot!
Then so gladly I paid for a TomTom and learned
how to program it. No longer lost, I returned
to my house. Now quite often I think of that night;
in the middle of nowhere I witnessed the height
of IRONY that took me a while to discern.
March 25, 2018, entered in Julia Ward's Hidden Market Contest
We would be getting married tomorrow.
If only December me knew what I know.
I would have put more thought into that
And realized I needed glossy, not matte.
Has my body forgotten your touch,
And my heart, that adrenaline rush?
Has my mind moved on from the distrust
From what always felt less want than must?
The thing we had was fun and free
But I think you lost you, and I lost me.
Now we’re finding ourselves out again
Taking time to find what we didn’t know then
And I could finally wake up and feel peace without you here
When I realized how long you had stopped wanting me near.
I’m relieved that we aren’t tying the knot;
It was never meant to be, and whatnot.
So tomorrow I think I’ll remember who I was
And be grateful for who I am with applause
There’s only One who deserves the credit
For the woman I am because of your exit.
I hope that you’re healing and doing well.
Hearts are resilient, our love gone like we never fell.
Tired of being nice
Tired of being taken for granted
They say do something good
Forgotten and unappreciated
Do something bad
They almost got it printed
What's good in doing good when it doesn't seem right
It's not about self-gain and whatnot
Just saying that one bad thing done, makes the million good things done wasted
So tell me, what's good in being that good
Talents, Intelligence, they all come with a great price
People support when you are beneficial
They congratulate, celebrate - not a single dot and shadow were there in tribulations
Its not about playing nice to please them
Sometimes we are just too much tired
To feel used, underappreciated, and taken for granted
Let alone be the bad guy when you make mistakes
Sometimes please consider that we are not AI's and generated machines
For once and all
We're human beings
Nov. 7, 2022
here comes the night,
a deep pitch black,
what's sharper than a ravens call?
I know not,
ruffled and bothered,
who hears the raven?
it's the witch who hears him,
when he squawks,
her actions are wicked,
as she cackles and cooks,
black ravens fly,
as she stirs the pot,
her fingers are knobby,
and disfigured,
in all of their joints,
but you needn't fraught,
it's the raven's claw,
she's seeking,
for her spell,
to call out black rot,
as bad as she,
the fungus will grow,
rotting the forest,
wherever she doth trot,
the ravens aware,
that she,
needs his claw,
he'll not be caught,
he hides among the trees,
the branches all twisted,
and disfigured like she,
her cackles within earshot,
the wise old raven,
positions himself,
directly above,
the boiling cauldron pot,
the witch blows in,
pointing her finger at him,
I've got you now!
she thought,
the raven squawked,
"look below old witch,
notice anything new?
I've moved your pot,"
with that he flew,
knocking the witch,
into her own brew,
where she boils and rots,
so listen without fear,
when the raven squawks,
he saved his forest,
and whatnot.
When is it going to be sunny again?
It's been cloudy for the past couple of weeks.
All grey and stuff.
Yknow I keep waiting for there to be a bunch of storms,
With all the thunder, and lightning and whatnot, but...
It's just been...grey.
It's not like the sun is gone;
Scientifically it can't go anywhere,
I know that.
Away at night, maybe, but it still exists.
Hiding.
Sometimes a little patch will poke through.
Just saying "Hey I'm still here!!", yknow.
"Don't forget me!!"
It's so easy to forget though.
Cause it's been cloudy for so long.
And sometimes I think I'm all alone;
That it's just me under this sky.
But I know everyone on campus looks up to the same clouds.
The same grey field.
I really miss the sunshine.
It is now winter in my Canadian world,
the ground and trees draped in pure white;
and the wind is frigid cold- howling a song,
yet, I bundle myself up for an ice-kissed walk.
Into the forest crisp and crackling I stroll,
to meander a solitary walker thinking;
and bare trees groan in the north wind blowing,
soon, I notice the abandoned birds nests hanging.
Hanging in the forks of bare branches high in tall trees,
last years birds nests hang abandoned leaving a rotting mess;
of sticks, twigs, leaves, feathers and mud and whatnot,
but, as I stand there I ponder these bird nests.
Thinking this mess- is like my past memories,
an assortment of ruin, decay, of pain and love twined;
oh yes, I have woven my own nest of sorts,
and it hangs from my memory swaying back and forth.
I wish at times a great wind would blow it to pieces,
but, I would probably miss the rotting mess;
all those pieces of me entwined so delicately over time,
for the strength of this nest of mine makes me who I am.
_______________________
November 17, 2019
Poetry/Narrative/This Nest of Mine
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1199-061-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
A beautiful thing, in these small farming towns,
Is the place where we dump all our trash,
The remote little area, void of people,
Where we can rummage around for a stash,
You see, the place is divided to a few different parts,
The rubbish, the steel and the wood,
There’s areas for trees, and for building debris,
Dumped, because it’s no good,
But to this little eye, there’s treasure in there,
My treasure is the shiny brass pot,
Or the old wooden chair, with a story to tell,
Tin drums, and other whatnot.
I love the short visit once a month, or so,
Where I can leave my rubbish behind,
And search around looking for thrown out wealth,
For the abundance of old stuff to find.