Long Wile Poems
Long Wile Poems. Below are the most popular long Wile by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wile poems by poem length and keyword.
It seems humour is much appreciated
In this troubled world we live in
So I will continue to send out the giggles
Seems like there's not a lot of us
That write with a lighter touch
Which matches my personal approach to life
We're all just rushing to that glorious meeting
Way up yonder amongst the stars
Well I've still got some unfinished business
Down here before I make that inevitable trip
I still have my final act to go
Believe me, I'm having the time of my life
I wondered what I was going to do
To wile away the hours when I retired
Poetry was the furthest thing from my mind
So with your blessings, once again
I shall continue to send out the giggles
Ad infinitum
© Jack Ellison 2014
Her vegetable vendor, ‘a nice man’,
Known for his wile nor sly, rather for smile,
Unaware of his cunning and sly guile,
Who proved the point: it pays to please a fan.
He was game to bid a round of bargains,
For return of tomatoes raw or ripe,
Brinjals less brown and onions not her type,
To let her feel: she’s right and always gains.
E’er ready to replace whatso any,
His customs were fond of his facile grace,
His hawk-like air hid by unhurried pace,
She hardly perhaps saw his rehearsed glee.
Rather his sweet and soft words, ready smile
That seemingly— not in truth— let her win,
He disguised well his demeanour so mean,
A chameleon as conceals disguised guile.
I suspect, he still makes good on slashed price
What with his weights that never weighed so well,
Aided well by his charming outer shell,
She scarce suspects Shakuni’s loaded dice.
From distance, this is what I tend to guess:
He’s so far played a well-rehearsed innings
That has proved well to go far on his wings,
His strategy for a win-win success.
And what a business strategy! So rife,
To make a case study for who so care,
Yet, all buyers are seldom like my wife,
Maybe, my observations are not fair.
_________________________________________
Tongue-in-cheek | 02.05.2012 | narrative
The Dye Area
I'm really glad that ewe dropped buy
Eyed love two come out and sea ya.
But Eye really hadn't oughta
cause eye got the diarrhea.
It makes four long and dreadful daze
and even longer knights.
I'm terribly concerned eye ruined
awl my Christmas linen whites.
I've opened every window
butt the odor's getting stronger.
I'm half the man as yesterday
Eye can't take the shits much longer.
From racing down the hallway
Eye got noughts upon my head.
The lights whir off eye couldn't sea
and eye think the dog is dead.
Excuse me wile eye double flush
I'm sew week eye can barely sea.
Should eye bee gone tomorrow
St John has come four me.
Tell those I've wronged I'm sari
give my penance two the pour.
I'm afraid I'll halve two sit write hear
until eye can't go know more.
I thought myself a strong man
but sew clearly now eye sea.
Never was a man on earth
as full of it as me.
Edwin C Hofert
time travel’n peace —
ought we find rather death,
war — tread on me.
funny the face, the companionship
of outer space, the innocence
of the sun and sky.
she still provides
the radiance of warmth;
him the blue or gray stormy eyes.
down ‘low discovery of weeds,
white and yellow petals, bitter tea.
commoners in chicory-chattering.
synchronous chattels, green and tarnished.
wile away withering hours, wemberlies
wheedle into every corner.
down to brass tacks, blowup buses
when school’s back in session
bananas in lunch pail...we’re all going
4/2/2020
wemberlies - worried
brass tacks - essentials
Written: November 10, 2023, For Edward Ibeh Contest
__________________________________________
As if to atone, I gaze into the obscurity of my soul.
When I glance back, I feel vulnerable, as in a hole.
A thrilling and ticklish time tumble in the future.
Whilst sorrow stitches, a suspect sears sans suture.
I still wear knit garments, worn with time and care.
The fights I've fought are icons of moxie and dare.
With the things I've done and how stout I've come,
A potent sight of mettle is where I'm coming from.
Whilst a place where shadows gleefully dance.
Where deception is woven in tandem, a prance
Fabrics of lies, woven from threads of deceit.
Embroidered by the demon aiming to cheat
Evil One, with his dirty lies and cruel smirk.
The worst delusion arises slyly from lurk.
A Janus-faced one stays hidden in the shadows.
Mere ambition to deceive and instill harrows
Janus-faced, dicey, dodgy, deduce the scene.
Ambidextrous by a sly smile, sharp gaze, unclean.
A cynical wolf in sheep clothes tricks sans shame.
Their fraud, plotting, and spite reveal obvious tame.
We can't hide the quilt of deceit, an art of smears.
Web grows with each knot, tying souls and ears.
A key prevaricator took delight in havoc, ruin left.
Only heartbreak remains in his wake, and bereft.
With an iron tongue, they lie naively and conceal.
Their faith is brief; it is phony, as they lack ideals.
In the gloom, they thrive with guile and strive.
Twisting and scheming with no regret or drive
But worry not, for honesty will always prevail.
Deception's weave will crumble into a false quail.
Pits of deceit shall cease, and lies will never last.
Truth will heal souls, as lying is torn with a blast.
A grim warning of vile traits shows guile.
Their souls are dark, and they generate wile.
Their authentic hues and pain will never heal.
Stay true and fight deceit with candor and zeal.
Wings cut, flesh torn, eyes burned and blind
Heart so weary borne upon a life, some say, unkind.
Time will come and go, knowledge gained or lost;
Rivers change their flow; summers die in frost
All that’s proud and full of fury in each person’s story
Sunk beneath the fathoms of depressions veil.
We humans sought to reawaken, but did fail.
I will write a word or two about a pear that clings
Frosty morning air anew, as summer wanes.
When autumn sings I shall turn the other cheek,
Jot some mental notes and such then turn to sneak a peek,
Were it not for noise, I would not glance back
Nor halt to hear the frantic fray; to enter then this play.
Character cast, twice remove; something by each side to prove.
Lyrically lay with lantern lit, composing each and all of it
In metaphoric style; lost of wit, but never wile;
I fracture to repeat, upturned sockets sweet.
Sumptuous undertaking of loved and all beloved;
Splendor in the Eye for taking all whom I may meet.
Hoping to move and by them all be moved.
No trouble here, noble poets burning.
Turn back to the fires you're tending.
And all that you’re unlearning.
Pass up the gauntlet to those returning
No more yearning; no more ending.
Satisfied to write the wilting flowers praise;
Documenting endlessly, natures endless days.
Casual observer thus inclined
To take up simple pen - of simple mind;
Talk of flowers and butterflies flying
Then maybe the flutter of wings
Will drown the sound of dying
Each voice sings..
Some men remain conflicted,
some men are justly bad
Some men are deemed to stay confused,
some men forever sad
Some men will strive for fortune,
some other men for fame
Some men will choose to be alone
some live their lives in vain
Some men will cast their seeds
upon a desert hot and dry
Some men will start to questioning,
forever asking why
Some men to wile their time away,
lamenting where its gone
Some men to live entire lives,
not knowing right from wrong
Some men will cry when milk is spilt,
some men pick up the glass
Some men to try a different ilk,
molasses hardening fast
Some men will try to say hello,
wrapped in a last goodbye
Most men will die alone in bed
—ever wondering why
(Dreamsleep: June, 2019)
I never really realized
How crucial friends can be
I used to think that one or two
Would be enough for me
But now I think I'm changing
How I view this need to share
Good things and the heartaches
With ones who really care
We moved here from the city
With a group of folks like us
To wile away our golden years
To relax and avoid the fuss
Since moving to this paradise
I'm now a different man
I welcome conversations
Bout neighbours and their plans
To share each other's happiness
And cry when losing one
We're all so very much alike
No matter where we're from
It's not a competition
To see who wins the prize
It's all about companionship
To feel the bonds that tie
Now if I were just to count them
There'd be twenty-five I'm sure
Some more close than others
But all of them top drawer
So if you see me walking tall
And whistling a happy tune
It's because I found life's secret
And it takes me to the moon
WILE E. COYOTE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With ACME’s ludicrous gadgets galore, in the desert Wile E. Coyote plots
Builds rockets and traps that his nemesis, the Roadrunner, inevitably spots.
*“Beep! Beep!” Road Runner zips past with a dare, and with a tumble and crash
Wile onto the desert does splat; undaunted, he sends ACME more cash.
Poem written for and submitted to Cartoon Characters Clerihew Poetry Contest, Tania Kitchen, sponsor, August 11, 2025
*Note:“Beep! Beep!” This onomatopoeia is commonly associated with the Road Runner in Looney Tunes cartoons featuring the speedy-yet-flightless bird and his constant pursuer, Wile E. Coyote.
(Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beep,_beep_(sound))
where are your eyes in the 11th hour?
do they roam to and fro, roaring
with insipid power, baiting the hook,
fishing for retractable men?
where is your nose in the 11th hour?
is it sniffing out a cesspool of plots,
hanging with odious men by the fire,
drawing in men with deceptive smoke signals?
where is your mouth in the 11th hour?
are you rambling out rhetoric, grandiloquent smut,
smirking, curling your lip, your serpentine tongue
slithering and snapping up every adamic crumb?
where are your ears in the 11th hour?
are they trembling with vibrations of horror,
jingling change from restless legs, harkening to
every pandering pain - every wicked wile?
where is your touch in the 11th hour?
are you reddening faces, tenderizing
every black and blue artery and vein,
darkening the skin of Eve like a cancerous cloud?
~ ~ ~
in the 11th hour, her kind eyes shower,
with rainbow tears, leaping upwards,
bowed in reverent fear, insightful and wise,
vigilant and circumspect.
in the 11th hour, her nose drawn to scents,
yes of honeysuckle and baby powder
but also the downpour of the poor and sick,
attentive to the stench.
in the 11th hour, her mouth soothes
with compassion, just and good,
sensitive to worn out souls, smiling
tenderly, speaking at chosen times.
in the 11th hour, her ears ever alert,
pierced by the outcry of Eve’s children,
drawn to lilting laughs, lullabies and psalms,
anywhere a helping plea sounds.
in the 11th hour, her touch gentle and soft,
changing diapers, dusting off tears, foraging food
for her family and the lonely, handing out hugs,
midnight feet tucking in the sheets.
~ ~ ~
Indeed, the 11th hour is here,
a time where good is called bad
and bad pronounced good.
In the overcast skies,
the spread of candlelight
like stars, so mercifully bright.
As midnight strikes,
each star is gathered like wheat,
the sun and the moon fall asleep.
4/2/2019