Long 81 Poems
Long 81 Poems. Below are the most popular long 81 by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long 81 poems by poem length and keyword.
THE NEWS
____________________________________________________________
Life Defined by Moments Blindsided
written by The Broken Hearted
Read the news today. There is blues Obituary
today. Agony in whatever we choose His life was extraordinary.
today. Is there no other way than Proud family, wife named Glory
to escape the day? Why did you have His children Edward and Tory
to end your life this way? Too many Died Monday first of July
have to question there own sanity Police give no reason why
taking your own life, is it vanity? Service will be held at one
Trying to control your own calamity? a potluck diner after it is done.
Why didn't you just converse with ________________________
somebody? Isn't that how it is
suppose to be? No one is suppose JOIN THE ARMY
to feel so alone that they end their
own life. What are we going to do A Bright Future
as society? It is paralyzing to think Awaits YOU!
of what could be, when we take to
the destruction personally. It is not ______________________
suppose to be that way. Pages ripped
away, the book is close and can't be oil change
replayed. A story over and its gone. 14.99
___________________________________________________________
POLICE BEAT
Police arrived on the scene shortly after hearing a gun shot fired on the second block of Hayes Road. A male was found deceased with a self inflicted wound to the head.
Cat in a tree on Main street. Firefighters, paramedics and officers dispatched. Cat is safe without injury.
_____________________________________________________________
WEATHER Lottery Numbers
Partly cloudy with chance of
thunderstorms. 85 degreess 6, 42, 66, 81, 89 01
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Folded away, tossed aside, no longer in view.
Nothing else printed, nothing else said about you.
We'll probably move on, we'll probably heal,
and we'll never have known what you feel.
EVOL UT I ON ... NO 1 TU LOVE
(The Eden Agenda III)
I have loved most everyone, yet so few have loved me back.
So much good I have done, but suspicions aroused, they attack.
How I so long to drown my sorrows and drown in a tank of arrack.
Is it that they are taken aback, or is it ‘true love’ they truly lack?
How can one with so much love get so little love back?
As long as I have lived, I’ve lived to love so long as I’ve loved to live.
But how can I live for long in a world that does not love to give? ….nor has love enough to give?
Surely I must grieve.
…Or perhaps I shall evolve to no longer believe in all that I perceive.
Therein lies the urge for the surge of my dirge.
Rejected of love, subjected to hate - now dejected with life.
So sensitive that my soul is sliced by the blunt end of a knife.
To whom shall I turn for bandage for these emotional scars?
Even in moments of desperation I’ve looked up to the stars
For out there [I’ve been told] is that which is the Sea of Tranquility,
All I have here is a Dead Sea - in which to drown with my vulnerability.
My shadow refuses to be seen with me - it’s nowhere to be seen at high noon,
Come setting of the Sun, it runs further from me - and stretches out for the Moon.
Why do I not shine such that the Sun beams …and perhaps even squints?
Why do the vultures retch? ….and away from my carcass, the hyena sprints?
I have looked up to the raindrops from heaven - simply yearning to be kissed,
But even they, with accursed stealth - my sad lips they missed.
Who shall cut me a slice of love?
Please apportion a portion.
Who will pour me a cup of warmth?
Please don’t ration the passion.
My spirit is broken, the Spirits have spoken…
The daemons mean to take my life as a token.
Let ‘Caution’ throw me to the wind, I pray;
Havoc, please invite me out to play.
Misery, won’t you hold my hand ….everyday?
Loneliness won’t you be my friend? …Please stay.
Oh, how I feel so low, so lifeless. But then, who cares?
Just another life less….
….another life less
…just another lifeless.
The evolution of my life, I’ve looked at from back to front:
……no 1 tu love.
The creation of my life, I’ve looked, from on high to low:
…….Love from above.
(The Fg 81.5.8)
SNIPER
A yell “ man down;” then zing, pock, pock,
pock, pock against the sandbag revetment.
Down on the plain is a man in a spider hole,
he is well hidden and armed well enough,
smokeless powder provides no clues.
Binoculars and spotter scopes range and scan.
The wounded soldier moves arms weakly,
asking for help, hands exploring a bloody chest;
each attempt to get to him more whizzes and
pocks follow the movement of desperate men.
Zings and pock, pock, pock of sand bags hit,
in the distance a light echo of a rifle report,
a light pop reverberating from every where.
81-mm mortars inside the defensive perimeter
fire volleys of patterns mushrooming dust,
some air bursts for downward shrapnel,
these metal fragments might penetrate shelter.
The dust cloud shields medics and helpers
dragging this first victim to relative safety;
the dust-off flight already hurrying inbound.
Soon APCs roar by, their armour impervious,
tracks clanking the treads tearing ground;
carrier troops dismount and walk searching
investigating odd bits of clumps and weeds.
Nothings found he is too well hidden,
how did he ever dig in under watchful eyes,
how did he hide the signs of digging.
Now everyone moves about with this new worry
each movement cautious with little exposure;
careless soldiers leave trails of pocked sand bags,
one fellow gets ripped along his flack jacket,
too close a strike earning an unwanted souvenir.
Mortars continue to pound patterns on open ground,
this all to find a veritable chaffing grain of sand,
a grain that throws an inconvenient hail of bullets.
Our snipers and spotters set their own lairs;
hunting scopes by day starlight scopes at night.
The days are long as this deadly duel continues,
nerves are sensitised, some are shattered;
each move brings a buzz or whiz of near death.
Then there are no more shots, no more shooter,
perhaps the mortars got him or the gun ships,
perhaps he earned the NVA version of R & R.
Still every one walks, heads hunched, hair on end,
one sniper with a few dozen well place bullets
keeps one company sized position neutralised;
a good example showing us the fine art of war.
I finished high school in the 60's, a decade of 'Change and Revolution'. Got married in the 70's, the decade of 'Accountability and Resolution'. Yes, I became a man in the 70's, a college graduate, a father, a voter, a missionary pastor, and a homeowner. The decade of the 70's was like building a foundation and a platform in anticipation of the decade of the 80's.
The 80's was a decade of 'Reconstruction, Reconsideration, Reconciliation, and Revision'. The 80's, also a decade of Fiscal Responsibility, Vision, and Expansion, gave birth to the formation and rise of the Reagan Democrats. I suspect that Jimmy Carter was no match for the 80's because the 80's ushered in his defeat at the hands of Ronald Reagan, who also took on The Air Traffic Controllers and weakened the hands of America's Strong Labor Unions. The Spring of '81 brought us the failed assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan who nearly died but recovered and went on to become a great president who said to the head of the Soviet Union, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall". There were great catches, great runs, great tackles, and great touchdowns as the 80's brought the rise and reign of the San Francisco 49ers. In the late 70's, Americans were captured and held hostage in Iran and released in the early 80's. My first vote for a Republican presidential candidate was cast in 1980 for Ronald Reagan. Our third and last child was born in 1981, and after moving to Sacramento in '86, unable to find work in Sacramento. I commuted to San Francisco for two and a half years. The Aids epidemic broke out in the 80's, and suddenly the sexual revolution was being brought to, if not a halt, at least a pause. Early on with very small attendance, an Aids Seminar was held at our church.
10132018PoSoupContest, Remembering The 80's, Michelle Faulkner
The Bad, The Ugly and The Good (aka: Bad, Badder, Baddest)
The Bad
I am the gun-toting, God-fearing Ganja Gangsta.
I’ll smoke you, pray for you, then have my daily siesta!
I answer to no one, and fear no man; No Sir!!!
I answer to only One Master. That’s Heaven’s Prime Minister.
I am the player-hating, man-baiting Sister Disaster.
I’ll woo you, thrill you, then …kill you; true that, mister!
I just swagger thru the city with my ‘Ghetto Blaster’,
I don’t mean sounds, fool!!! I mean my ‘piece’ … to blast ya!!!
I am the mean-looking, menacing Monster Mobster.
I’ll cut ya, shred ya, and have me a pasta fiesta.
I do not boil ‘em…! No sah!! I’d eat a live lobster!
I’m so mean ….Hey! ..I’ll even steamroller your hamster!!!
I am the fast-talking, Bible-bashing Pastor Imposter.
I’ll bless you, fleece you, then sex-up Sister Disaster
I’m just a shyster - but please don’t tell the Menacing Mobster!
She’s the God-fearing Gangsta’s wife - and the Mobster’s sister!
The Ugly (Badder)
I am the flesh-eating, life-sapping, Cluster-Sinister.
I am impartial; care not for class, colour, creed or gender.
I am microbe, but not a person-respecter; ask the sex inspector.
I am sorry, but for me to survive, you have to become a spectre.
I am the tear-jerking, game-changing, people-Prankster
I get called ‘*****’, ‘Sod’, …some even call me a ‘Mater-Conjugator’.
I don’t like Gangsters, Mobsters and especially that dodgy Pastor
I may get mad, or even get even; Call me ‘Life’, or call me ‘Karma’.
The Good (Baddest)
I am the Beginning, the Alpha/Omega; Heaven’s only Prime Minister
I wrote the Good Book, but look inside, I have never been a Jester!
I carry fire and brimstone to bolster my holster - you’d better helter-skelter!
I mete out justice, and vengeance administer: you'd better pray faster!!!
(Fg 81.5.8 - January 2016)
It is a gorgeous spring day, there are greens on both sides of the road.
The smells are fantastic, and my hair is blowing like I’m on a cycle.
I’m actually driving my new purple trans am, windows down, music blaring.
The white racing stripes might have been a bit much, but
Not for me. The sun is beaming on us with magic happy.
BRRRR BRRRR GRRRR
Should I try to outrun him?
He’s gaining on me fast. I glance at speedometer. Swear.
82 m.p.h. This is what happens when I listen to the Oldies.
I pull off, waiting, heart beating fast.
Lanky patrolman pulls himself out of car, gets younger as he gets closer.
“Hi,” I say, brightly.
He says, “License and registration, Ma’am.”
He is carrying his ticket pad, and a pen.
My hands are shaking as I start stammering nonsense.
He studies my license a second, says, “Just a minute, Ma’am,”
Walks back to his car, slides in, sits down, spends an hour or two in there.
I get worried I might have accidentally handed him my big-limit Visa card.
My heart is thudding, as I watch him laboriously walk back to my Trans Am
Who is not feeling so fine and foxy now. “It’s your fault!” I tell her. “You did this!”
“You were going 81,” he tells me. Eighty-two, I wisely don’t say.
“I am giving you an opportunity to slow down, and today, I’m giving you a warning,” he says.
No smile. No expression. He could give a mannequin a lesson in subtle.
I cannot help it. “Why?”
A glimmer of an ant’s smile starts in the left corner of his mouth, for a second, but he quickly snaps it off.
“Here’s the deal, Ma’am,” he tells me. “I stopped this car yesterday, on this same curve. I wouldn’t feel right about giving you a ticket on the same corner, at the same speed after letting your 17-year-old daughter off with a warning.”
In my head I picture my adorable blonde daughter who was wearing white hot-pants yesterday.
As a last hurrah he says, “I’m going to be out here for another two hours, Ma’am.”
We both smile.
This is the best warning I’ve ever had!
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXXI - 81
IF ever I had a country, a country without even a single Shredding Machine
And if ever I were elected/nominated/appointed by the powers that be SPEAKER of the Lower House of Parliament whose power to shine however were to be curtailed by the Upper House’s sheen
A country where all laws were enacted without much heed to the rhyme nor reason of the Bard’s Stratford-upon-Avon’s mellifluous flow of theme
Where every legal analyst: Professor of law Attorney-at-Law entertained his or her own opinion as to what the Laws of the State: relating to the Chief Executive, Rules and Regulations of Proceedings in or out of officialdom: libels, torts, crimes, misdemeanours or even what the Constitution may mean
And if ever any elected official or foreign dignitary were to be invited or chose to invite himself whether by rights or not to address the House and read from a
« tele-prompter » or printed text that was obviously Ghost-written, I’d shred the Speech with my front-teeth and unkempt nails and jump up and down with glee as though I were dancing the polka on the printed pages as they most certainly blatantly comport ideas, words and expressions of some heinous GHOST come to tease, torture, detract, confound, contradict and condemn all that is decent in the human being which is not mean
And all this, so be it, I swear before the populace I can never be GUILTY of breaking the LAW should I shred the words of some GHOST who lies, distorts, turns on head some or all the TRUTHS held to be sacred in my Nation’s History since no ghost may rightfully sue me (Sleep tight, Peach of a Teach !) for having even stolen a measly red, yellow or green pea, pod or bean
And this, even if I were to be put through the piranha jaws of the Republic’s Shredding-Immigration-Machine
Even if I never ever had no country worthy of being shredded and pulverized in the Wall of Black Holes’s grinding-machine
(c) T. Wignesan, Paris, February 8, 2020
Bermuda Triangle
This event was terrifyingly true,
Out in Atlantic, on the ocean blue.
It was ‘81, after we left Fort Lauderdale,
Hoping for happy Bahamas vacation tale
Aboard chartered sailboat, ketch of 52 feet,
Even air conditioned for the Florida heat.
Three couples, all best friends, comprised the crew,
Plus hired captain, since to big boats we were new.
We departed on the evening tide,
Little knowing the captain had lied.
Planned sailing the Gulf Stream throughout the night
To see Bahama reefs in morning light.
We dined and drank and steered in shifts,
Light wind, sea smells coming in whiffs.
Suddenly I was shaken awake,
“Come help!” they shouted, real fear, not fake.
I rushed on deck to see the scene:
Calm breeze, slow rolling beam to beam,
Captain drunk, in funk, throwing up his meal,
Crew pointing to compass, no one at wheel.
Captain staggers, slurs we must now turn back,
Crew plainly having a panic attack.
VHF just scary static in dark night,
Compass dial wildly spinning, such a fright!
Direction finder showed same signal all around,
Everyone worried about reefs, running aground.
Only Power not Sailboats, the captain had known,
He’d let us drift too far north, his cover was blown.
Now lost in Bermuda Triangle of fable,
Stars blocked by clouds, and no navigation table.
Crew whimpering aloud on the open ocean,
Just soft sloshing and a random rolling motion.
Despite Captain sniveling about being hired,
I took charge, yelling that he was now fired,
Then lashed the steering wheel tightly right
So that we’d ram no reefs, come what might.
Four hours later, shortly before sunrise,
Compass began working to my surprise.
Radio and RDF receiving like new,
We were no longer sole boaters on the sea blue.
Proceeded to West End, docked safely in slip
With no word from ex-captain, not even a pip.
Crew cheered our mystery adventure, what a great trip!
May 17, 2020
Contest: Action Adventure
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Northside of Chi-Town is full of emotion.
In the ‘45 Series Cubs and Tigers are battling.
Sianis buys two tickets to show his devotion.
Is booted ‘cause his billy goat won’t stop bahbling.
He curses the Cubbies and causes a commotion.
But spring is rooted in fans' love and devotion
Like lush, green, yellow, crimson, ivy will never
Stop growing. Year after year fans fear
Hearts will shatter but remain forever
Faithful chanting “Wait ‘til next year!”
Generations grow up cheering with great emotion.
Generations grow old enduring gut-wrenching loss
Bleeding among Lovable Losers time
And again, but no Cubbie faithful dares cross
To the Southside—it’d be a traitorous crime.
In 2003, faithful fans’ love and devotion
Promises fruition as Dusty Baker
Arrives Northside heralded as the Cubs’ savior.
But NLCS Game 6 at Wrigley is a heartbreaker.
Cubs need five outs but collide with a traitor.
Steve Bartman’s still in hiding; his name elicits emotion.
Castillo’s bat aims grenade over foul territory.
Cubs’ fielder Alou springs towards the heavens to snatch
But when feet touch dirt Cubs land in purgatory.
Faithful gasp: Curse of the Billy Goat sets a rematch.
Since that fateful day in ‘45 exploding with emotion
Wrigley hasn’t seen another World Series.
Since Bartman's affair in 2003, Cubs haven’t won
A playoff series. But Billygoat yaks to Mrs. O’Leary’s
Ol’ Cow an’ scoffs at the new scapegoat’s unearned run.
In 2011, after 91-losses, Ricketts proves his devotion
Adding the sabermetrics guru who now values emotions.
Epstein arrives at Northside championing human connections
Rebuilds Cubs’ roster with players who reverse the motion
108-years and character solves equation for a winners’ resurrection.
Hearts ripping open is a crushing emotion
But fans never stopped believin' in near
Foreseeable future ‘cause they’re loyal
Lovers and nothin’s as good as baseball ‘n’ beer
At Wrigley for 81 games on your own home soil.
They were both afraid and madly in love, but neither he nor she would say goodbye. They fought back the tears for the longest time before each of them
began to cry. They met in Paris and fell deeply in love, whereupon the greatest dilemma was born. Yes, their emotional world merged, and the
romance began, but they were deeply torn because they lived oceans apart. The time flew quickly by, and they were duty bound to depart. There were
sparkles in their eyes, but there was a despairing lump in their hearts from the start. She was very rich and he was of modest means; and it would take
more than love to unite them together. They knew that their lives would not become one, but their friendship could somehow last forever. Or could it?
Realizing that they had to fly or sail away, never to be reunited on another day, they bought a hand held replica of the Titanic, a symbol of despair and
tragedy to give comfort to their malady. He returned to his home in Sydney, Australia., and she to Manitoba, Canada, 8,926 miles apart. They knew that
the likelihood of them being together again was as likely as the replica being placed in the Indian Ocean and reaching her in Manitoba via the shores of the
Pacific, or her replica reaching him from a launching in the Pacific and reaching the Sydney shores of the Indian ocean. Nevertheless, when they
reached home from Paris, they did the unlikely. Two love letters, their last and only letter, were attached to their Titanic and set sail. In Paris, she was 20,
and he was 21. Now, both are widowed and remembering each other. Jerry is 81; Mary is 80. Both Jerry and Mary had attached a strong red
cloth to their letter hoping that someday it would be read. But until then, the wait continues as their lives sail on. Apart.
010621PSCtest, The Last Love Letter, Mystic Rose Rose