20 Line Poems Funny Poems With 20 Lines or More
25 Lines or Fewer
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     oh papa, to have you drift up, some part of you drift up through                       water through                       fresh water into the teal plate of sky soaking foothills, papa,                       to have your breath leave, escape you, escape the                       weight of bone, muscle and organ, escape you, to rise up, to loft,                       till you are all breath filling the room, rising, escaping the white...                       Let the Ponies Out
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     Could our first father, at his toilsome plow,                       Thorns in his path, and labor on his brow,                       Clothed only in a rude, unpolished skin,                       Could he a vain fantastic nymph have seen,                       In all her airs, in all her antic graces,                       Her various fashions, and more various faces;                       How had it posed that skill, which late assigned                       Just appellations to...                       Adam Posed
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     Break, break, break,                       On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!                       And I would that my tongue could utter                       The thoughts that arise in me.                       O, well for the fisherman's boy,                       That he shouts with his sister at play!                       O, well for the sailor lad,                       That he sings...                       Break, Break, Break
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,                       I all alone beweep my outcast state,                       And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,                       And look upon myself and curse my fate,                       Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,                       Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,                       Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,                       With what I most...                       Sonnet XXIX: When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     recycling Dr. Seuss                                           Some fish are sold for sashimi,                       some are sold to canneries,                       and some are caught by hungry slaves                       to feed what wealthy tourists crave!                       Farmed fish, Fish sticks, Frankenfish, Collapse                       From the Pacific to the Atlantic,                       from the Indian to the Arctic,                       from here to...                       One fish, Two fish, Plastics, Dead fish
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     Earth has not anything to show more fair:                       Dull would he be of soul who could pass by                       A sight so touching in its majesty:                       This City now doth, like a garment, wear                       The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,                       Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie                       Open unto the fields, and to the sky;                       All bright and glittering in the smokeless...                       Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     Tape hiss, Value Village, vibraphones. On fixed-gears scrubbed with salt and lemon, like the secret at the centre of a Magic Eye the witches, genderless as light, breathe green and lavender, appear and disappear, chanting your passwords in a round. Voices like dimes dropped in a bowl, blush ultraviolet, glittering auras. Skin so soft they move through walls they press against your window,...                       Trust Fund Witches
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     Death, be not proud, though some have called thee                       Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;                       For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow                       Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.                       From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,                       Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,                       And soonest our best men with thee do go, ...                       Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                     Gotta love us brown girls, munching on fat, swinging blue hips,                       decked out in shells and splashes, Lawdie, bringing them woo hips.                       As the jukebox teases, watch my sistas throat the heartbreak,                       inhaling bassline, cracking backbone and singing thru hips.                       Like something boneless, we glide silent, seeping 'tween floorboards, ...                       Hip-Hop Ghazal
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     Living, I had no might                       To make you hear,                       Now, in the inmost night,                       I am so near                       No whisper, falling light,                       Divides us, dear.                       Living, I had no claim                       On your great hours.                       Now the thin candle-flame,                       The closing flowers,                       Wed summer with my name, —                       And these are...                       The Wife
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     The lords of life, the lords of life, —                       I saw them pass,                       In their own guise,                       Like and unlike,                       Portly and grim, —                       Use and Surprise,                       Surface and Dream,                       Succession swift and spectral Wrong,                       Temperament without a tongue,                       And the inventor of the game                       Omnipresent without name; —                       Some to see, some to...                       Experience
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     A noiseless patient spider,                       I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,                       Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,                       It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,                       Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.                       And you O my soul where you stand,                       Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans...                       A Noiseless Patient Spider
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     The tide rises, the tide falls,                       The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;                       Along the sea-sands damp and brown                       The traveller hastens toward the town,                       And the tide rises, the tide falls.                       Darkness settles on roofs and walls,                       But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;                       The little waves, with their soft, white...                       The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                     What's it like at the centre of the AGO?                                           Hmm. Imagine being coloured, drawn, and placed                       in a wooden frame, another hung woman, positioned                       just so in the middle of a landscape surrounded by rocks,                       lakes, mountains, and trees, MacDonald to your right,                       Carmichael to your left.  Imagine being forced to look,                       ...                       Veronica?
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;                       Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow                       Through public scorn, — mud from a muddy spring;                       Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know,                       But leechlike to their fainting country cling                       Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow.                       A people starved and stabbed in th' untilled field; ...                       England in 1819
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                     for Roger Caillois                                           Water hollows stone,                       wind scatters water,                       stone stops the wind.                       Water, wind, stone.                       Wind carves stone,                       stone's a cup of water,                       water escapes and is wind.                       Stone, wind, water.                       Wind sings in its whirling,                       water murmurs going by...                       Wind, Water, Stone
                    
                    
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
                                                   
                  
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Source: https://www.poetryinvoice.com/poems/senior/25-lines-fewer
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