Long Wickedly Poems
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Most of my classes suck (by that I mean they’re difficult). English is ok - especially the writing. I’d never want to major in English Literature though. It’s one of the hardest majors at Yale. It may be harder than Pre-med. They make it hard to discourage people from choosing it. If you don’t love literature, don’t live and breathe books and writing, you’ll *never* navigate the major.
Despite English being her third language, Leong is an excellent proofreader (which I need).
“Put an emoji in there,” Leong recommended, “it’ll show you’re chill and not panicking.”
“No emojis! I said, shocked, “This is supposed to be professional.” Still, every time I submit a draft the professor says it’s good (an “A”) and I’m done.
Sir Paul McCartney is at Yale today, talking about a book he wrote, I think. They’re piping his music all over campus. I don’t have time to see him, but his “Ram” album is one of my all-time favorites. I know people have their favorite Beatle, but I think Paul has, by far, the most lyrical solo career.
Lisa and I just arrived at the fitness center (in the residence basement) we’re the only three there. Peter (my BF) got there ahead of us, about 30 minutes ago. He’s been working out on one of the weight machines. He’s tall and fit, with black-almost blue hair and a new beard. Sweaty and shirtless, he’s a take-your-breath-away spectacle. The sight of him jangled up and down my libido. I felt myself groan inwardly. “Put on a shirt!” I said.
He comes over to where I’ve taken a seat. The sun is coming in at an angle which reveals that the air between us is filled with dust motes but now he looks like he’s a model standing in a spotlight. I just look at him and smile wickedly. “Why,” he says, getting very close.
“Because you’re distracting!” I answer laughing, as I push him away, “and I have a TON of reading to do.”
I like to read while I’m walking on the treadmill. He tries to nuzzle me as I step up. “Look,” I say, “If I can finish my reading (~200 pages) by dinner, I‘ll have something special for you.”
“Like what?” he asks, smiling and suddenly interested.
“Something for you to look back on when you’re a very old man.” I whisper.
“What are we standing around for?!” He demands, putting my chemistry book and water bottle on the treadmill and stepping away to slip on his t-shirt.
let me be clear. i need no compassion in this life. i've seen myself as a villain ever since i could understand death. exposed at a young age, i dove head first in the pools of mercy. when julius slipped and cracked his skull, his mother's cries rang through me. all of the blood and broken pieces made me question, "did i do this?" i was so young, the only way i could comprehend something so raw was by taking the blame. the angel of death. i stood by as my own mother ran to him and i smirked, and i knew, it was that instant, i was no good. rotten to the core. don't misunderstand. my soul is good. there is something inside that is fighting so wickedly to be released. when julius died, something clicked inside of me. i wasn't afraid of death. it didn't catch me off guard. i never asked the questions to prove i had heart. i processed everything internally and i still do. i told myself that even if this were my doing, julius would have died anyway from heart attack, car crash, cancer... the world is a trap in which living is a death wish. i understood, but never found myself overwhelmed by the blood. it wasn't for weeks after the accident that the images started. i'd see him in my closet each night with fresh blood trickling from his brows. he rarely said anything, but when he did speak, he asked me, "why didn't you save me?". but for the most part, he was silent. he stood and stared and i wanted to walk to him and tell him i was sorry. i knew if i got out of bed he would vanish. i didn't believe he was real, but each night i'd wait for him. the guilt behind my eyes was unearthly. it all comes in flashes. the screaming, the blood on my mother's shoe, the fall. like a nightmare experienced years ago that can't be forgotten. i see his face everywhere, reminding me that death is not reasonable. death doesn't care for age. i've seen the best, crumble into the reaper's arms. it seems only the good attract the tragedy of living. only the good are mourned indefinitely, with fresh roses each november on a grave to remember how much love they left behind. the good are saturated with the tears and the sorrow of everything they touched. maybe it's why i wanted to be bad. to have no one cry over a soulless body. if no one missed me, no one would ever feel the pain of losing me. after julius, i knew there was no silver lining in death.
Ella Cuthbert lived with her husband John, in an age of twinkling stars;
They had a little dog named Alfie, who loved riding in pretty, swift cars.
Alfie was loved by those who knew him, as red flowers charm adorers;
And he was the darling of their street, like rainbows, crossing borders.
The Cuthberts had many interests, and on lazy days they were content,
To rove summer streets with Alfie, wondering where blue violets went!
Friends do not go out of style, as the glittery, memory stars, flash lime.
They found fun activities for Fridays, when pearl moon began to climb.
Funky family visited feature-rich evening, in faultless days of summer;
Amidst feasibly fragrant, flambe flowers, swaying to sudden thunder.
Ella lived in a house of barking, at motley windows of Alfie excitement,
Where bluebirds and ruby butterflies met, on mysterious assignments.
Sea salt added flavor to sweet breezes, on the street of Port Goodbye;
That overlooked white sand and surf, where stars peeked, like a spy.
Nervous night and day were newlyweds, at the dawn of fading dreams.
Later filled with novelty and notions, and neighbors, amidst sunbeams.
'Mountain devils' bloomed wickedly red, in the beautiful Blue Mountains,
Aptly shaped blue puya blooms, trumpeted sunrise, near cool fountains.
Purple 'surprise lilies' were stunners, appearing abruptly the world over,
When the rare 'parsley fern' was savored, like beautiful, coming closer.
Eager Ella called Alfie one day, but was dismayed at getting no answer!
Yet, a hole under their fence said a lot, like a scented, blooming planter.
Crushed Ella and John went searching, like the spotlight of pearl moon.
Though posters offered a reward, they felt anxiety, on the edge of June.
Then woeful Ella finally uttered the words, that became a beloved rhyme;
Like when riotous spring blooms come early, sweetly ahead of their time!
After a week, Alfie was found at last, in the thrill of mockingbird evening;
When a lady chanced to read his collar, when pink stars were convening!
'Oh, where, oh, where
Has my little dog gone?
Oh, where, oh, where
Can he be?
With his ears cut short
And his tail cut long,
Oh, where, oh, where
Can he be?
Oh where, oh where
Has my little dog gone?
Oh, where, oh, where
Can he be?'
An evanescent bouquet of skewed briars,
is how a tinsel laden tawdry essence wickedly unfolds ,
scuppered signpost to a fetid human compost,
faint light pendant on soul crushed quantum migrant,
who might chortle at vivid veil flimsy vacuum,
skirt recklessly around bogus symbols,
peer behind the squalid limp sodden hedge,
mock myopic moribund mist upon boundary busting dawn chimera,
sneer at synthetic spectrum elastic in its irritating tidal wave surfeit,
cerulean fabric‘s milky way escape plot,
in a perilous quest for that eternal tape loop mantra,
the synaptic heart of that vainglorious horizon,
self-knowledge under charcoal moon and silver cloud veneer,
or feral waste rapid fire contagion,
the indecisive day glow dither on the margins ,
of fly weight feeble frantic dash,
that velvet shadow treason daubed pettifog,
known as tangential wanton cobweb fester creed,
the mind a bloated ripple vortex numbing in its scope,
golden mirage but faux fur real concoction,
against the banal backdrop of complex-ridden superficial eddy,
from floral garland poseur stricken en train,
some vox pop indignation mere shrinking violet showcase waver,
the gleam-hued truth has this dastardly demonic derailment,
that I brush aside as spiteful oxalic sting repost,
that deceptive mint green forest of chameleon cant,
sly nuanced molten maple syrup hint,
from out of kilter tree pierce otherworld,
unseen yet bliss-edged virtual garden of firm conviction,
not just from isolated enigmatic individual script,
such as torrid turbulence or mindless scattered rim shot,
when conventions can be altered in exotic prose,
human zeitgeist has this far too often penchant,
for silkworm rapt effervescent double speak,
whilst plain unvarnished uplifting utterance,
resides within the deep crystal spring well,
of us torch aloft emerald earthling sages,
please augment the rock buttress stark phrase,
whose bluntness is a carrier pigeon of candor,
devoid of muted gray cloud blind waffle,
aromatic sprig to giant spasm of bold pluck,
quandary of human race at hearth,
frightened cliques, hidebound yes men who yen,
to swim the azure gulf of august freedom,
to the Eden where lucid tongues herald pristine witness.
where values at the centre of our being should blossom
Blech - impossible mission to savor mug of ginger tea...
When the entire mug awash
with floating leavings
by golly by gosh,
sipping said herbal brew
analogous challenge
to eat spaghetti squash
with one chopstick.
Earlier yesterday February twenty fourth
two thousand twenty four
found yours truly (me)
blithely consuming delicious
La COLOMBE DOUBLE LATTE
cold iced latte, complete
with a frothy layer
of milk and a touch of sugar.
Lower gastrointestinal war civil
immediately declared
because yours truly beleaguered
by lactose intolerance.
Courtesy veritable sweet tooth
(er...rather dentures)
craved absolute zero sum game yoking,
wickedly villainous, x'acting tummy
upsetting Pavlovian salivating, romancing,
quid pro quo woe pea pie us, orthodox,
conventional, nun habit forming (Lie),
mouth watering, lip locked, kickstarting,
Je Suis ill lust trios, hymn bracing,
gobstopping, feasting immediate laxative
inducing, decadent chocolate baneful
cake courtesy of adoring bubela, (the
same over stuffed ego freezer oft
mentioned counterpart, who unwittingly
prepared spot of tea), charming,
hugely overpowering tenderly loving
zee missus diabolically exuding
"FAKE" gracious humane insinuating
jabbering, knowingly ill loo man hating,
needful offal pestiferous quasi rip
snorting, tush under fire, violent
whooshing, expelling xyz lower
abdominal contractions, indubitably
kindling, jumpstarting instagramming
howling, fostering execrable, debilitating,
besieging posterior, automatically
clutching derriere, experiencing ferocious
gluteus maximus intractable jabbing, knifing,
lacerating, mutilating nameless oaf (me),
painfully quaking das simian, torturously
undergoing vicious wretched excessive
yawping worse fate than death!
Otherwise ass hide from irritable bowel
syndrome approximately
twenty four hours ago
from Saturday February twenty fifth
two thousand twenty four
me quite yawningly wonderful, uneventful,
sedate, quiet, ordinary, mundane, languid,
joyously humdrum, fabulously for
two whit tuss lee drab
characterized local buttuck blaster
also hashtagged endearment
as bubble butt.
Now shall I cut thee a slice of outrageously
luscious, keister jump/kick starting heavenly
gourmet deluxe cheese cake?
I faced alarming paradoxes
as I headed toward puberty.
First,
my King James Bible-belting parents,
extended family,
and all-hopelessly-WHITE farm community
taught me
God loves me
and all the children,
red and yellow,
and black almost as much as white.
That felt good
but then I learned God hates me
because I became queerly obsessed
with hot guys,
and not hot girls.
So, God restoratively created me
so He could retributively hate me.
That seemed like poor justice and peace planning to me,
and I was still in fifth grade.
Then I learned that God had given me two extraordinary gifts:
Possibly unmeasurable intelligence,
and so,
my grade-school principal warned
my evangelical farmer parents,
we were not to be surprised
if I was and saw this Earth
in a somewhat different way.
My second gift
was the envy of all good Bible-belting out and still-in teenagers.
I could sing with the angels.
So,
the God of Infinite Love
is my Creator
and I am His Frankenstein *****
with a mind and singing voice to soar,
full of Grace.
You and I might both be surprised
how long it took to figure out
Something is very wrong with this picture,
and I don't think it is just me.
It was merely everyone else I knew and trusted
in that Bible-belting time.
So I sang for them in full voice
but gave as little voice to my sexuality as possible.
I wrote papers and test responses
in full A+ voice
but told no one
I knew they were asking wrong questions
for me to answer with full-versed integrity,
Free to sing with David and Jonathon
free of magic superstitions
standing in for mythic polypathic wisdom
of Solomon
Not to divide innocent organic Promise
God has conjoined as Love
of and for children,
red and yellow,
black and white,
gay and lesbian,
bisexual and transgender
And, yes, even straight-faced
Bible-belted out and inward Hate,
Supremely Evangelical Christian Colonizing InBred Correctness,
while continuing to give birth
to hidden,
shamed and blamed ***** Grace
of a Loving God
polypathically immense,
deep and wide,
future through past
regeneratively just
and peaceful
and wickedly funny
Because if we cannot laugh at our egocentric stupidities,
then we must cry out for cosmic tragedy.
Mist, Mist..
Why not whisper, why not speak?
When upon thy shrouded depths,
Thou knowest truly, what we seek
Darkness, Darkness
Why be quiet, why not be shrill?
When your hoot and squeal and growls,
Shivers our spine, with unbidden thrill
Cat, Cat
Why be fair, why not be black?
Then your hackles and caterwauling,
Sends us scurrying, to home be back.
Hag, Hag
Why be frail, where is your broom?
When your ire and witchy hex,
For wayward kids, spells dreadful doom.
Road, Road
Why be lively, why not be lone?
Your dark stretch once cast shadows,
Dancing wickedly, with the wind’s soft moan.
Moon, Moon
Why be normal, why be so pale?
When it’s your ghostly light and full visage
That sends the night, to howl and wail.
Trees, Trees
Why be silent, why won’t you creak?
The touch of your twisting limbs,
Will send us running, though knees be weak.
Bat, Bat
Why in flight do you shy away?
When your flap and eerie screeches,
Bolts us upright, from where we lay.
Statues, Statues
Why be still, why don’t you blink?
When your lifelike and weird stare,
To morbid fright, makes us sink.
Where has thrill, and childhood fear went?
The dread craved, without any harm meant,
Remembering…
The simple fire lit stories, From whence one conjured,
The demons of the night,
Feeding eerie appetites.
For now this world, has darkened indeed,
With the very evil, that is man’s own deed.
With horrific crimes, atrocious and vile
In contrast makes sweet, the bitterest bile.
Woe for ‘tis sanctified no more, the domain of life,
Taken cold blooded with nary, a conscience’s strife.
Children though chaste, with this horror not spared,
Man’s grimmest side, to dire fullness bared.
The great divide, between men and monster,
In these darkest of times, exists no longer.
That is why…
My mind whispers and hoots and growls,
Caterwauls and moans and howl and wail,
Hexes and shies and stares and blinks and sinks...
Down, down, down.
For I pity this frail humanity,
In its sad, sad, sorry plight,
That ponders why innocence has gone,
From scare’s warm embrace,
To TERROR'S cold arms.
- Originally posted as TERROR TERROR.
Copyright by the Olongapoet,
George Daniel Anos Oct. 12, 2008
Swan Song
Stealthy killers have crept
Their secret bullet
Reaching this empty nest
Swans too unaware of attack
Arms aimed riffles
Pleasure hunted
Shock
Smile
Blast
Exhilaration
Death
Only one reflection now
No other dark gaze looks back
No other gliding ripples
All reassurance has gone
The lake of desolation
Coaxed her half hearted rage
Bleeds from a crooked corpse
Pathetic winds stir dead feathers and reeds
To animation
No gentle neck arching
Wings now absent haunt the breeze
She is a pose of fear
The air to void to fly
No other yellow bill or back glinting eye
None could vie with her chosen
White beauty now unmoving
Scarlet slash wickedly marring
Maiming her heart with sudden isolation
The ballet of the dieing
Cannot see the cruel eyes prying
Exulting in the deed
Do not hear her lament
Joining in a pact a spur of black
Still mournfully beating
Madness flapping struggled with reflection
To lift his head from under
To breathe till breath would burst her lungs asunder
But lower still he seemed to fall
Days shot sound echoed constantly
Unmoving nights which found her
Till dawn would bring its shadows
Illusions born by sorrows
Sends haunted dreams
In madness before her
Cast the moon in images of death defied before her
A phantom wrapped in eyes of night
And side by side they glide
Mourning on the silver tide
Three nights and no more can the moon contain
In her heart the spur of black
Lay barren ready for a violent ice caress
For paths to cross just once
She vowed in her willingness
To become in her will an ice sculpture of
Vengeance
So harboured deep in proud beauty
A malice in hatreds empathy
Prayed for fate and chance to shake hands
And there on the shore
The assassin stands
Gliding wistfully she
Using all her grace and beauty
To bind her quarry
In her natural mystery
Slipped over the stillness
Approaching with coyness
Mesmerizing light in water gleams
Her fatal white and an arrow beak
Fixed the man by her darkest dreams
Opening wings
Sheds intent glare beguiling
Her neck an arrow javelin
Unleashed her fury broke true and deadly
With lethal intention
And
For her mate
She launched her self upon him
Perhaps like a lightning
bolt of clear out of the blue
rigor mortis (tenon and
three decades hence)
two thousand fifty nine if you
count from January 13th 2019, adieu
attest that day 9 months I did brew
in wound (of the late Harriet Harris),
now finds me loved ones
crying boo hoo,
after this stiff mortal
Earthling bid toodle loo
with symbolic casket
(carrying cremated urn of ashes)
remembrance attended
by gentile and Jew
sharing positive memories purportedly
about this nondescript
fellow they knew
mainly indirectly, poignantly,
and wickedly shot thru
with his insightful humorous scribblings,
plus magnus opus titled
"How do ye do,"
an informal rambling missive bereft
of any subject and
devoid with little clue,
the purpose of said hefty tome
out weighing The Federalist circa: knew
lee after American independence
Papers, written by true
purrs under the pseudonym "Publius"
but great (as a great doorstop), or
alight as tinder for barbeque
since many admirers never
read his text written in Hebrew,
fluency acquired spending
final years he grew
old, since automatic citizenship
granted based on genetic goo
plus Mediterranean climate helped promote
longevity to century his health did hew
thus naturally pronounced philosophy,
where he drew
quite a wide web asper the many
claims Matthew Scott did eschew
to maintain longevity (more
quackery than science), but who
could dispute glorious
principles, not to poo poo
analogous to placebo effect
harmless fervent coping methods,
whether to cure ague
interestingly enough he cited ack hue
puncture for a gamut of physical ills
as well he did advocate chew
wing food (after taking small bites)
until mouthful became pulpy slew
(proponent of Fletcherism), this to
exercise dentures in addition
to maximize stew
pen diss experience of simple
routine eating view
wing thoroughly good (by George)
said quotidian activity grew
tubby spiritual, similarly basic
functions in general did get skew
ward whereby meditation on intrinsic,
metabolic and scholastic
processes to name a few
added a dimension of enhancement prior to
exiting life into frontier mortals can only rue.
Rana's Legion Defends
Barbarians had won the city and slain all there
burned it down after stripping it completely bare
From the Holy city of Rome orders quickly flew
destroy these invaders now, your legion and you
Ten days hard march with never a long or great rest
no complaints for Rana's legion were always the best
Two weeks out chasing the savage barbarian horde
led by its barbaric , tall and savage murdering Lord
Time was very near because the trail was so very hot
Rana knew the enemy would pick their very best spot
Five more days racing forward at steady, deadly paces
soon legionnaires would see their enemy's wicked faces
Following day the huge enemy camp was found
across vast plains at base of a rocky mound
Rana rested his legionnaires just before the big fight
weapons ready , his brave men without any fright
Sun burst forth with a wicked gleam in it's light
legion ever so ready and looking so very bright
Rana checked each and every eager fighting man
reminding all of his clever winning battle plan
Spearmen six deep center of the advancing van
splitting right and left upon his first command
Archers firing quick volleys from fifty yards behind
raining down destruction upon enemy's failing line
Sounding horn sending in central reserves eager to slay
enemy routed by the power legion sent into the deadly fray
As Rana commanded his swordsmen to hack the enemy apart
find the tall leader and cut out his wickedly, black heart
Savage brutes tossed away their weapons and began to run
legionnaires raced forward cutting them down having fun
Rana came upon the savage Lord fighting upon the mound
rushed upon him so very quickly without making a sound
A cut to his left leg just below his unprotected knee
a jab into his chest as the brute turned to flee
Off with his hairy head as blood so freely flowed
victory won, the pride of the legion so fairly glowed
Rana's legion finished off the barbaric wounded where they lay
stripping all the bodies of weapons and spoils the very next day
Marching back to the garrison proudly to be richly rewarded there
each and every man to receive the bloody war booty, his fair share!