Long Whiny Poems
Long Whiny Poems. Below are the most popular long Whiny by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whiny poems by poem length and keyword.
All those who dwell in their own dream land,
Find themselves on a reclusive lofty stand,
From where they could see all things so tiny
And dwarfed in stature to suit the bits whiny,
Distanced,set live-dolls waddling across below
As on a play board of power and space to wallow
Life of work,warmth and solace of devout order,
Regimen or virtue has never a barrier or plodder;
The fancy world aye has full soaring flights wild;
Fleeing away averted, all encounters are foiled !
The alluring charm is a sort of potion of marvel:
Sensed longer,to massive forms still it doth swell
The pursuit of fond desire is like a futile chase
Of the wavering,ever shifting shadow:only a craze,
A relentless,avid quest for the infinite end,elusory
To win over the lost game with the hope, illusory;
The invincible Mirage too never ceases to bewitch
As the drive within rides the faith, false yet rich !
The scorching soul, and the parching dry throat
Add to the irate misery, leaving nothing to gloat;
Things.seem to retract into the trap of rigid drear
Every choice move gets lost in a bowl of cold fear
Whims often override the wounded dismal soul ;
Absence of a steerer might pave way for the foul
You say the there’s no need for grit,
that acting tough is all ‘toxic,’
tell me I should learn new tricks,
that ain’t gonna happen, babe.
You think I should never have to grunt,
or speak of things direct and blunt,
nor go to the range to shoot my gun,
that ain’t gonna happen, babe
You prattle on about ‘feminine sides,’
then get mad when I roll my eyes,
say men should be more woman-like,
it ain’t gonna happen, babe
cause I’ve noticed all those beta-males
with voices that squeak in whiny wales,
just say their ‘allies’ to get some tail,
that's what I see happen, babe
And you’ve never dated that type,
you go for steak, instead of tripe,
with a normal man you sleep at night,
that’s already happened, babe.
You’re drawn to your male compliment,
we fill gaps that have paid dividends,
it can’t work without the masculine,
that’s what has to happen, babe,
if you want this to happen, babe.
Oh, you funny doggie, with that brown face I adore,
why are you now making that sound that I can't ignore?
Are you lonely? Are you sad? Are your paw paws feeling sore?
No dog whisperer am I, so sometimes it’s a chore
to understand your needs. My dog talk is so poor!
Already I have fed you. You surely can’t want more.
And already you’ve gone potty. I take you to the door.
No, you won’t go out! You sniff and sniff the floor.
At last I understand! It’s your ball you’re looking for!
Here it is, my doggie. Now what tricks have you in store?
Aug 16, 2018 for The Doberman Pinscher Contest of Edward Ibeh
Inspired by this video: Link A: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB9pVJ3mYcE
I was twenty when I was hired by the state
to watch out for fires that could devastate,
since the cost of flights was becoming too great,
up to the tower I go.
Now North Pennsylvania is a wild place,
to see it all burn would be a true disgrace,
and it’s an easy way to make my pay,
so to the tower I go.
Rumpled rows of ridges rolling to the south,
low, eroded hillsides of small mining towns,
and chittering squirrels, good lord they are loud,
when to the tower I go.
A carpet of trees, a scattering of fields,
a copse of white birches whose bark likes to peal,
anglers in a river, the long poles they yield,
high in the tower I go.
Most days I’m up here I do not have a care,
every half-hour I scan the hills and stare,
looking for stray smoke-lines or fire’s red glare,
why to this tower I go.
I’ve caught a few small ones, mostly lightning-strike,
helped find one started by a kid’s motorbike,
with three-sixty views they’ll not escape my sight,
when to this tower I go.
But mostly it’s hikers that I see up here,
uoung families with kids who play like pioneers,
and some of them will not come up out of fear,
but to the tower most go.
They ask me of mountains after their long climb,
what peak’s over there? Am I here all the time?
they’re so happy that I do not really mind,
within the tower they go.
The fathers all think there’s some value in this,
here in the clean air, no phones and no office,
and no whiny customers constantly pissed,
they have no tower to go.
But it’s no like the old days in small cabins cold,
come dusk I walk down and then drive to my home,
and I’ll get my work-out tomorrow, I know,
back to the tower I’ll go.
Woof
Translated: small package
Four legs, four paws, big jaws,
fancy ears and a long tail.
My dog is from the pound.
What did I expect?
He is six foot at the shoulder,
Reads books, on Saturday nights.
But, sadly he won’t eat generic brand fudge cycles.
Only the best bunny ice-cream will do.
He was tiny really, just a bitty thing.
Slowly, slowly… Overnight! Life became all too real.
We laugh and talk, and it does not matter, now…
I work two jobs to bring home the bacon, and eggs and
chow and a cow, and, but still.
The surprise of my life, was a furry friend,
that gives more than I can.
God loves dogs,
big, and tiny, whiny small,
all.
Here comes
The petty man
Who hums
A silly scan
He thinks
In awkward urge
To link
A whiny surge
He dwells
On brilliant stuff
To tell
More than enough
He drools
Upon loose thought
To pool
What fancy plots
He smiles
As if to show
Deep style
In rust that grows
He wears
A profound face
And bears
A mellow trace
He feels
That not much more
Can thrill
An empty core
He knows
So much of truth
That grows
Sheer ample proof
He runs
Along such bits
That sun
Such cryptic wit
Here grime
Greets dense profound
Trips rhyme
To seize odd bounds
This man
On the sad verge
Can blend
A cranky purge.
Leon Enriquez
23 April 2017
Singapore
Mighty proud was I
with me lumber in one hand
my brick me carried in the other
I placed the brick in the barn yard
tall side for gained height
balanced the lumber board on top
I am silent and of Scottish temperament
You see folks
my feathered pet cock
was cock a doodle do-ing all day long
yapping and yelling
ranting and raving
the other farm animals had all had enough
action demanded
I place the ol koileach
at the end of one side of the board
all while smiling at the brainless duine beag
immediately I jumped on the other end
sending that whiny ol cock mid air
into the sea
he drowned
Ah what a wonderful day ladies
I shall meander onwards
among the heather and moor
my brick magically transformed
to fine woody scotch
oh what tales I shall tell
if tomorrow ever comes
If you walk into classroom 314
You will see the perfect image of pristine
An iron statue, still and strong
A picture book motif of calm
But if you look just right into its eye
You’ll see just what it tries to hide.
Inside my brain a drumbeat pounds
And a screeching, whiny, anxious sound
Wood sprites bounce about my head
Two parts boredom, three parts dread.
Each anxious word I ever thought
Weaves an ever bigger growing knot.
My anxiety plays heavy metal
Nagging worries cling like nettles.
I think of all left to be done
I sit in stillness as if stunned.
There’s too much too much not enough
My brain is frozen and in a rush.
It’s the loudest noise you’ll ever hear
A heart left pounding in an ear
Screams and wails, they whine what ifs
Like grains of sand my sanity sifts
Outside the chaos and the noise
The statue sits with perfect poise.
Pick me, pick me
Said the little poem from the back
It has been in the line so long
Longing to be read
It knows that it is special
You can see it in its rhyme
It just needs someone to read it
Spare a few minutes of their time
It tries its best not to sound desperate
As no one likes a whiny poem
Also knows some poems are more meaningful
And just wants to feel like it belongs
It wasn't written by a famous poet
Like Dickinson or Walcott
But does it matter whose hand the pen is in
When you're jotting down your thoughts
As it now stands it'll stay in back
Waiting for the opportunity
To attract someone to take a chance
And give this little poem its read
Santa came down with a horrible cold.
Had to interview everyone – young and old.
Elves finally chose a frog big and bold
Whose steed was a hen from Farmer Mold.
What about a sleigh? Asked many of us.
This issue was foremost, we did discuss.
How can a frog do it? We asked elf named Gus.
Your complaining makes you a whiny cuss.
But a chicken? How can that be his steed?
Gus gave us an evil eye and smoked his weed.
He did not care who did it indeed.
As long as he could sit in his winter tweed.
Weirdly enough, the frog and hen did fine.
So, I stopped my grousing, no longer a whine.
They stopped for cookies, ate the orange rine.
It was fun to see them arrive in plenty of time.