Long Xix Poems
Long Xix Poems. Below are the most popular long Xix by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Xix poems by poem length and keyword.
EARLY POEMS XIX
Bound
by Michael R. Burch
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground,
I have lost what I once found
in your arms.
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes,
I have remade all my chains
and am bound.
Published as “Why Did I Go?” in my high school journal, The Lantern
130 Refuted
by Michael R. Burch
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red ...
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 130
Seas that sparkle in the sun
without its light would have no beauty;
but the light within your eyes
is theirs alone; it owes no duty.
And that flame, not half as bright,
is meant for me, and brings delight.
Coral formed beneath the sea,
though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me;
while your lips, not half so red,
just touching mine, at once inflame me.
And the searing flames your lips arouse
fathomless oceans fail to douse.
Bright roses’ brief affairs, declared
when winter comes, will wither quickly.
Your cheeks, though paler when compared
with them?—more lasting, never prickly.
And your cheeks, so dear and warm,
far vaster treasures, need no thorns.
I believe I wrote this poem as a college freshman, age 18.
With my daughter, by a waterfall
by Michael R. Burch
By a fountain that slowly shed
its rainbows of water, I led
my youngest daughter.
And the rhythm of the waves
that casually lazed
made her sleepy as I rocked her.
By that fountain I finally felt
fulfillment of which I had dreamt
feeling May’s warm breezes pelt
petals upon me.
And I held her close in the crook of my arm
as she slept, breathing harmony.
By a river that brazenly rolled,
my daughter and I strolled
toward the setting sun,
and the cadence of the cold,
chattering waters that flowed
reminded us both of an ancient song,
so we sang it together as we walked along
?unsure of the words, but sure of our love?
as a waterfall sighed and the sun died above.
This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. I believe I wrote around age 18.
Keywords/Tags: early, early poems, juvenilia, sun, red, lips, seas, light, flame, fire, oceans, roses, thorns, winter, cheeks, waterfall, daughter, rose, roses are red
Rules: Use at least 10 candy names from those listed below.
(30 candy names used)
Tomorrow we'll explore our Galaxy,
not just by space ship, but with 'space nerds' too!
We smarties, gifted Mike and Ike, with me,
will start our marathon and journey through
the Milky Way, where now and later we'll
be called 'Three Musketeers', the best, bar none,
to capture live a star burst with great zeal,
or see sno-caps on spheres far from the sun.
We bet each other a full 100 grand,
that we'll make history on this space spree;
discover whoppers, things we beforehand
knew zero 'bout those sites we couldn't see.
We're on a rocky road, since asteroids
can put an end to pay day...must take 5,
and watch our every move like paranoids,
not air heads, if we want to stay alive.
We'll take along some good Boston Baked Beans
with hot tamales and Ike's Charleston Chew,
a snack his mom bakes filled with good proteins;
and frozen Swedish fish will please us too.
Okay, we're off to Club 5th Avenue
for a good meal before we board for flight.
The Jolly Rancher hamburg, or Dots stew,
are lifesavers to please our appetite
before we're stuck with whatchamacallit
food, Mr. Goodbar, cook, packed up to go.
Goodbye for now...from sunlit to starlit,
please wish us mounds of luck from down below.
Sandra M. Haight
~5th Place~
Contest: 'Screwed XIX
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Judged: 01/02/2019
Candy Bar Words To Use (choose 10)
Dove, Chunky,100 Grand, Bar None, Galaxy, Marathon, Milky Way, Mounds, Mr. Good Bar, Pay Day, Rocky Road, Skor, Snickers, Take 5, Whatchamacallit, Zero, Skittles, Jolly Rancher, Starburst, Smarties, Three Musketeers, Tootsie Roll, Kit Kat, Air Heads, Boston Baked Beans, Charleston Chew, Dots, Hot Tamales, Lemonheads, Nerds, Slo Poke, Sno-Caps, Spree, O Henry, Whoppers, Swedish Fish, Butterfinger, Lifesavers, 5th Avenue, Mike and Ike, Heath, Goobers, Now and Later
(alternately titled one me silly more till manufactured
from go win addle American
non refundable private parts)
each set of twenty three chromosomes
the basic biological building blocks
of life came out cervix
when second hand of analog clocks
barely and scarcely swept across dial,
wrought offspring appearance
as a pier a docks
closely resembling a monkey
perhaps...hmm...
maybe mother mated with a chimp
assimilating chromosomal flox
genetic combination brought about add hocks
viz bouncing baby boy skinny and fair game
as a pluperfect future target for jocks
when I took first gasp of air sputtered
like an old engine that knocks,
now just easing into ma deuce score
and xix year with hair reed locks
twittering, snorting, rattling nonetheless
became precious human dependent
with mat chew anti body mox
see for father and mother
to care despite expelling nox
shuss gas out derriere, which profuse flatulence
natural immunization
kept away infected kids with pox
nicknamed little buttock blaster
now sits in a comfy chair and rocks
reminiscing about boyhood
and a pooch named Socs
who told time applying faux paws vox
like tum make sounds resembling tick tocks
Nowadays every potential mom and dad
disappointed unless offspring(s) feverish follow fad
decreeing qualified as gifted birth of lass or lad
go wing great lengths to prod and push
progeny until a genius to be had
rather tubby thankful and gratefully glad
regaling robust surprise
packaged traits of yore
inheriting genetics descended
when early apes did de tour
terrestrial virgin earth
anatomically complete store
reed awesomely astounding miracle from spore
sized fertilized ovum (healthy
and sound baby boy or girl) hood roar
if lionized, which feline bellow mew might mean
change my dye ya pore
and pamper me sum more
gnome hatter wailing mama or papa ignore
thence nurturing baby pipes por favor
kinship knits omnipotent bond evermore
where tis instinctual to adore.
Unquotable quotes: Nurses – XIX
A nurse well-dressed is a nurse well-thought of, even if she administers the coup de grace.
Prick a nurse and she’ll pamper you; pamper a nurse and she’ll prick you.
Displease a nurse and no doctor can save you.
Report a nurse’s malfeasance and you’ll find yourself on a stretcher at the morgue’s entrance. (This is from personal experience.)
A nurse a night can make a patient feel much better over-night –
since the bed is paid for already for the price.
Always address a nurse as “doctor”; she’ll not think you need a doctor.
Always make it a policy of hoarding the presents you receive on your hospital bed; the nurse will almost certainly help you lighten the load.
To relieve the back psychological itch, always ask the nurse to scratch your back facing you.
When the nurse is absent from the ward, so is the ward doctor.
Always ask the nurse how she spells her first and last names while pretending to write on a pad; you’re bound to raise her hopes about the contents of your last will and testament.
Always remove the ring on your third finger whenever a nurse enters your room.
In the presence of the nurse, always remark aloud how the nurse’s uniform fits her Brigitte Bardot form.
Never fail to attribute the low humming and buzzing sounds emanating from nurses around hospital beds to Maria Callas.
Whenever a nurse approaches your bed, just whistle: “Jeepers, Creepers, Where d’ya get those eyes?”
Must the percentage of patients dying in hospitals always stay the same when nurses go on strike?
Marry a nurse and become an eternal patient.
A nurse in need calls a Hemingway to arms.
A nurse in bed raises the Dead.
Nurse a nurse and you’ll always be fed…..up!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
We were just moving in
And our neighbors down the hall
Decided to act neighborly
And invite us over for a visit
We were due for a break
Their apartment was cluttered
In an interesting museum-like way
Obviously the result of downsizing
They introduced us
To little winged patients
They were nursing back to health
It was therapeutic for them they said
As we were handed a drink
There was a curious serenity
About them that I quickly
Attributed to age
But there was something
Almost unearthly
In their listless eyes
Their exotic flair was palpable
We shook our heads
When we were mentioned
They had left California
To settle up here
Turns out
Paradise
Had lost its appeal
When they found
Their son in their garage
Lifeless
With blatant evidence
Of merciless torture
The rest of the visit
Was a blur
We left shaken to the core
I had the taste of his fear
Primal in my mouth
And felt trapped
In a lingering fog of terror
Not knowing what
To make of their inconceivable ordeal
And the price they must have paid
To attain this zen-like state
While their heart had to
Still be a fresh open wound
I suspect they were just really counting
The days till they met again
It so happened that
I never saw these neighbors again
But the memory
Will forever haunt me
Horrifying and disturbing
As if I had seen for myself
The deep-rooted primal fear in
Their poor child’s eyes
AP: 1st place 2020
Submitted on December 31, 2018 for contest SCREWED XIX sponsored by ROB CARMACK
and on September 14, 2017 for contest FEAR II sponsored by DEBBIE GUZZI
Being a God-blessed Coffee tree
I have a privilege status in my country
Aside from being functionally free
I’m sought-out as Christmas fixture for December glee.
This year, I’m a decorated Christmas tree in an Orphanage-home
And I’ve witnessed the Lord’s love exercised inside compassion’s dome
Along kindness with packed gifts upon comfort’s foam
For youth who once in the streets did wantonly roam.
Delighted am I to behold blessings shared and given
Making abandoned kids receive provisions in their new-found haven
Merrily unwrapping presents tied with care, constantly proven
From donors contributing cheerfully, verily joy-driven.
In my commitment this holiday to signify the Saviour’s birth-celebration
I stand with the conviction to serve my purpose, full of jubilation
Praising God that in my beauteous fortification
Special children courageously smile midst their difficult situation.
“Oh, Christmas Tree…” I hear such song addressed to me with prayer-ray
An ode acknowledging my usefulness in blissful triumphant way
Not only as a Christmas celebration-display
But most of all, to honour God* in my tasks every day.
*Judges 9:9 But the olive tree said unto them, Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honour God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?
December 12, 2018
12th place, "Screwed XIX" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Rob Carmack; judged on 1/2/2019.
The Heroes emerge within the storm, unforeseen not the norm,
Generals gather in their swarm, the pestilence prevails to preform…
One by one they will be seen, making miracles as they closely clean,
All is fragile like a figurine, upon darkened skies amidst quarantine.
Illusions gather in the mist, as masses frightly fever with their fist,
The front line soldiers shall resist, for all must covertly coexist…
They stand tall in their battle, as they herd the calamitous cattle,
Many will be pestiferous and prattle, raging in their ravenous rattle.
For hearts worn on their sleeve as many fall and do greatly grieve,
There are disciples that deceive, cataclysmic catacombs to conceive…
Bacterium builds the barricade as the dormant demons soon degrade,
The sheep shall become afraid within their sanity that has strayed.
Hark the hearts of Heroes, for they started amongst the zeroes,
In their strain of slings and arrows, looking thru wounded windows…
All has changed of blinking eyes, solitudes upon the sacrificial skies,
Inducive invitations to immunize as we reset to a new sublime sunrise.
Note: play the video first...then a few seconds later, listen to the poem
... let's give our prayers to all battling with Covid-XIX and deep thanks to those who are helping to prevent it...
April.08.2020
Winged Warrior...^WW^
The Wingster
XIX: Carefully preserved...
Carefully preserved it will always be
Always in the past, no future I can see
But will always remain special to the same degree
At least some in life value me for me
Today is a good day, feel no pain
Don't want to sink in that hole ever again
Never got a chance to get wet in the rain
But glad didn't get consumed, didn't turn vain
And yet again, another new day
Feelings unique, confused, won't go away
The heart won't let go, the brain may
No sunlight, no brightness, no hope, no ray
And pessimistic all over again I sound
Can't control the feelings that know no bound
The positivity fading, once I found
But what goes around, comes back around
XX: What goes around...
What goes around may never come back
Even the good times you sometimes try to hack
Need some magic out of Santa's sack
Need the train moving on the very same track
But Christmas is here
And no merriment, no joy I hear
Still holding onto something so dear
Never letting go, do I need to fear?
The heart is relentless with the chase
Keeps swinging back to the same old phase
Causing emotions to stir, expectations to raise
Though life will never gain the same base
And today I feel the same pain
Pondering all this while, what did I gain
But from negative thoughts I must refrain
For life will never be the same again
Variations on the Malay Pantun : The Old Man and the Short Story
for Georges VOISSET, the "Master Keeper-Nurturer" of the Malay Pantun
Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf
(The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf " Poietics of the Pantun ", pp. 49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad : Cyberwit, 2008, xix-244p.)
I
The Old Man often stops by the hedge or dark bush
His back to the World, the Youngster can hold his own
The short story is written through spurts in a rush
Not so the novel which calls for much breath word blown
II
The poem most write confines itself to the page
Cousin brother to the short story told in a day
Old Men take less time to leave the Wench in a rage
Not so the Youngster whose novels always end gay
III
Plays are staged with intervals peer to the novel
Essays take longer to read than the short story
The Wench smokes cigarettes waiting to stoke yell
Not so the Youngster whose next essay's more gory
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 9, 2018
Variations on the Malay Pantun : The Old Man and the Short Story - VII-IX Continued
for Georges VOISSET, the "Master Keeper-Nurturer" of the Malay Pantun
Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf
(The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf " Poietics of the Pantun ", pp. 49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad : Cyberwit, 2008, xix-244p.)
VII
The One-Act Play's the favourite Old Men's roman fleuve
Experience shows Old Men how to keep the Wench in hell
They know how to stoke the Imagination with love
They need no how-to softwares to write a novel
VIII
The One-Act Play they say is still Old Men's mainstay
Though on Freytag's Triangle they slip down climax
The Wench cannot make Old Men still come up their way
Not so the Youngster his horns gore Wench's false syntax
IX
The Wench always seeks to milk Old Men in side-burns
Old Men know One-Act Plays don't box-office burgeon
Nor drips invested in banks ensure big returns
Not so the Youngster who banks his bit in oven
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 11, 2018