Long Ammonia Poems
Long Ammonia Poems. Below are the most popular long Ammonia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ammonia poems by poem length and keyword.
Envisions of a new world order
Have infected
My ideologies
Concerning political parties.
Apathetic to the suicide bomber
Clutching his holy scripture
As Jesus is turned
Into an aborted fetus.
Starving for liberation,
Feed us.
The refugee diet
Is to die for, try it.
Stomachs bellow
As anxious toes embrace dirt,
The ravenous pride of the nation
Echoes anticipation.
A scrambled breakfast
Governed by corruption
Served with a life time
Supply of fervent AIDS
Lunch smothered in rape
With a free side of abduction
For the main course:
Genocide platter
Mass produced for thousands
Guaranteed to be
The last meal you'll need.
Original recipe
Provided by Chef Hitler
Improved by Africans.
Honor roll,
Honorable
But when you're in the projects
Good grades
Don't stop strays
Or minimum wage
This is a power point;
Bullet points puncture.
Marauder role models
Personal drive
Is micro soft
Where are their goals?
Error: Can Not Find File
Link to ambition missing
No need to excel
Brain is a blank desktop
That's screen saver
Screams for a savior
Poverty striken hompage
Frozen
Black plague virus
No chance at
Socio-economic advance
Now tomorrow you face book
Crash.
A diploma and welfare check,
Makeshift teflon vest,
At best
Yet,
A mic or a round ball
Provides the best bet.
At ease soldier,
No questions vet.
We don't ask
You don't tell.
Afterall,
We don't even know
What your really fighting for
Or whether you aim to please
Or shoot to kill.
America was stolen from natives,
Built by immigrants.
Dear foreigners,
Thank you for making our bed,
Now sleep outside
Where the homeless won't
But beware of dehydration
Land mines
Barbed wires
And snipers.
P.S. Happy Thanksgiving.
Sincerely,
Your friends in America
I see society with my eyes closed
And wade for the truth.
Diving into the obscure
Pits of morality
Searching blindly
For enlightenment,
Butterfly stroke.
Inhaling the souls of slaves
Exhaling the souls of colonists
Civil rights submerged
Drowning at the border
Gasping for freedom.
This oppression is toxic.
Ammonia aroma
Intellectual paralysis
Socially concious coma.
Divided we've stood
United we'll fall.
-Stephen Kofi Opare Obeng
Just one dusk at the terminus,
the hourglass will shatter.
No more pain,
no more suffering,
just the silence
of a penance without sentence.
My feelings,
a procession of punishments.
My condolences
to all those victims
who drowned their vigilance
in the bowels of negligence.
No allegiance
to the urgencies of decadence.
The decay of my celestial spark
sanctifies its own downfall.
I am nothing but a coffin
of indelible scars,
bound to vanish into the darkness of the void.
I have known
the insolence of opulence.
I have tasted
the delights of misery.
My impure hands
have strangled innocence,
far from the spotlight
of condescension.
They learned
to cut hard drugs
to beautify the nightmares
of ill-omened birds.
I still have ammonia
in my brain,
baking soda
on my knuckles.
I learned
to handle weapons of war
in pine-covered forests.
I still smile
when I hear a Kalashnikov
sing the sinister symphonies
of retaliation.
I’ve never pleaded guilty
nor howled beneath flashing lights.
I absorbed
all the lessons of omertà
and the laws of the penal code.
My hair turned white
on a body battered
by irreversible damage.
I wish annihilation
upon all my enemies,
declared or disguised.
I adore darkness,
like those condemned
on death row.
I grew up
in the paradise of savagery,
under a bleak sky.
I bicker every day
with the devil,
over the rent
for my place in hellfire.
A few broken hearts.
My offspring
are scattered across the Earth.
I am a Sub-Saharan immigrant,
in love with freedom.
I did not come
to spread the good news
of brotherhood.
My phallus is circumcised
and I don’t eat pork—
just like Christ.
No money,
no equality:
humans
are not all equal,
even if the reaper
resets the counters to zero.
I am eloquent and elegant
like my demons.
I’ve traumatized my ghosts
with the clarity of a psychopath
with sociopathic ambitions.
I love to change time zones
for sunny beaches,
when the accounts are in the green.
I’ve had the chance
to wander across four continents.
I am a chameleon
with skin rich in melanin.
I am not intelligent,
I’ve just travelled a lot.
Oxygen saturates the skies breathing fresh air in my lungs and helium resting on my shoulders beckoning the universe to come. You can see hydrogen running down the street with pressure mounting in its knees and two atoms fasten together to solve the oracle before summer.
Formula O is standing strong with oxides buried beneath the earth’s crust, the animals depend on it and human cannot live without it. The plants cannot survive if they don’t get it. Formula O is getting scarce as the heat is raging in the atmosphere, respiration has come to a standstill and the sun is burning up all the beautiful daffodils.
N2 the diatomic gas filling the atmosphere with all that it’s got. Plenty of it is found in the solar system and sometimes it makes the lights grow dim. You can find plenty of it in the Milky Way and you can find it screaming in your DNA; the RNA has it too and it saturates in energy deducted from molecule.
I can see the cycle moving in the atmosphere and the birds are running around in despair, the sun is casting shadow on the ground, you have to know which path to run.
Ammonia acid, organic nitrates and cyanides, containing nitrogen is shouting from the cockpit and nitric acid, is waiting for you at the boarding gate so get the grey hound, the Caine, German Shepherd, Border Collie, Belgian Milionis, and Labrador Retrievers at the boarding gate before it is too late.
No confusion or disruption just gets a team of unmarked security to conduct this operation and disconnect the cords discreetly.
Many compounds are erected from the ground and industrial fertilizer is all around; they pollute the water system, block your drain and are causing pain but the tranquil skies are smiling at me.
The tranquil sky is releasing good amounts of energy so absorb it before it is fades; remove the obstacle and get rid of the debacle, and when the day is done you and I will have fun, when you throw your ring in my “cap” that will be a wonderful plot.
My friends say this magnificent rose
Gives off the most wonderful aroma of spring
I am catching a scent somewhat obscure
As yet no recognizable thing
For I'm losing the sense
Of smell in my nose
Perhaps what I'm smelling
Though peculiar and unselling
Is this lovely flower
This most fragrant rose
Most likely it's the pasture
Expelling natural gas
Which is nostalgic and familiar
With its hint of ammonia and pungent aroma
But, I fear, even this shall pass
There's the most angelic sound in the meadow nearby
That is what my lovely neighbor conveys
She jots down the melody with each bar and clef
For I cannot hear it
I am practically deaf
But I do hear the shrill voice
Of my neighbor's young lass
Which is nostalgic and familiar
Though disconcerting and frightful
And never delightful
I fear, even this shall pass
The most beautiful creature stops at my house
It arrives every day to feed
This is just what I've heard
To me it's all blurred
For a new pair of glasses I need
But I do see the glare
From a bonfire of grass
Which is nostalgic and familiar
Though odious and weedy
And noxiously seedy
I fear, even this shall pass
My neighbor is bringing a dinner she will baste
Which others around highly praise
The sensation for me is hardly a meal
I have lost the better part of my taste
But I savor the peppers
She always brings me in mass
Which are nostalgic and familiar
Though indigestible and spicy
And especially dicey
I fear, even this shall pass
I fondly remember my wife's gentle touch
But this sense too I now lack
If it weren't for the fall
I'd have no sensation at all
But, for these sharp piercing pains
Down my back - Alas! Alas!
While nostalgic and familiar
And though crippling and painful
It is nothing disdainful
And I fear, even this shall pass
Now when I'm gone all will be quite sublime
I will have transcended to the sixth sense
I will be free as a bird
Free from the limits of time
Reunited with the Lord of Providence
I was in my chemistry class (lecture #2) and the professor was asking a series of questions. At first, hands were flying up, the answers were easy. But as questions got more complex, and the odds of being right fell off, confidence and raised-hands faltered.
I sit the front row because I film the lectures on my iPad, and there I was, doing my usual bit - taking detailed, color coded notes. If the lecturer mentioned something, I noted it, with my #5 mechanical pencil, but that something could become a heading or a bullet-point in a larger tableau. Those, I would color code with one of several gel pens - tracing carefully over the pencil. Later, in review, I might hi-lite these points with neon, phosphorescent highlighters. (I have a strict color coding system).
I tell you all that because it describes how focused I get on my note taking in classes. I don’t usually interact much due to my filming.
Suddenly, I noticed an unusual hush. I looked up and realized, to my trauma, that the professor had addressed me. He was looking fixedly at me, bent over with his hands on his knees (he’s on a platform).
“Pardon?” I said, meekly.
“Don’t just mouth the answer,” he repeated (apparently), exasperatedly, “say it out loud!”
I thought back to his last question and I offered, “Magnesium nitride,” but he tilted his head like he was waiting for more, “gave off ammonia as it mixed with the water?” I finish the answer like a question.
“Exactly!” he said, standing back up after giving his knees a little slap with his palms. “Thanks for JOINING us,” he says, and after checking his seating chart on his lectern, he added, “MS. Vionet.”
I took a shocked umbrage at this (scolding?), my whole body turning a defensive, atomic pink. What did I do - I thought - why was he being so sassy with me?
I doubt he REALLY wants answers just called out.
It might be a long year.
They sheared and washed until they uncovered clean rosy skin
‘That’s more like it now we don’t have to cope with the ultimate sin’
Being different was not acceptable but now the sheep shivered
And the flock had been tainted before the firm rulers had delivered
How deplorable that this unruly animal claims to be one of us
A curse much worse than migration so this one is rather surplus
‘We hope it is not contagious because power remains to be white’
So they exhausted soap and even toilet cleaner to get this one right
All this ‘black is beautiful’ such nonsense not on these pastures
Maybe evil comes from the inside such is the reason for oils of castor
Ammonia to the rescue applied with gloves and a hard wire brush
That stinks more than the renegade creature who developed some thrush
‘Surely the gods sent guidance and providence to test our firmness
To achieve sameness and cohesion for the good of the nation in earnest’
History pointed to extermination for pure race creed and untarnished blood
What if sheep fall down and contaminate the soil when they roll in the mud
What if it’s a trap because now the offender was naked and more prominent
So they asked for a council of elders to reach a solution for agreeable consent
By now they were fearful of repercussions and tried to cover up their actions
Tarred and feathered the dissimilar bastard to revert to its original complexion
But a legacy of marginalization power hegemony could not be removed so fast
There must be heavenly purpose for keeping with conquest for good and at last
It never dawned on the farmers hypocrites bigots and misled vulnerable peers
That God might be a black women of beautiful colour and quite possibly *****
10th July 2019
How do you view yourself?
Steady gaze that drags you into the puddle.
The rains have unleashed what remains underneath the facade of metropolitan dazzle.
Puddles black as the pupils that gaze into the sewers,
Bodies descend into the horrors
Ammonia and methane, lungs that burn and smoke that becomes the breathe of life
Lives that await nothing but the blessing of death.
To scavenge the spiteful wastes of a society in haste,
A society that strangles its children,
Contamination and disease
Burnt crops and pain
Suicide harvest
The baskets of shame
And no better in the forests
Lie there evermore horrors
An adivasi caught in death's silence
Under the boots of the green menace
Forest and mineral,
Cages and prisoners,
Extra judicial murders,
Steeped in tradition of
Rape, loot and plunder, the culture of hindustan.
Where bullets are exchanged and the grip on the stones are loosened,
as they roll down when dropped,
So do the bodies.
the wails of wives and mothers,
Of daughters, of grandmothers begin to fill the sky,
the martyrs who are now sons of an echoe far and beyond.
Where ruby red drops fall on the snow,
Winter in the valley where the stench of the dead meet the resilience of the living
Yet every death only screams the victory of this echo,
The echo that will engulf us all
The echo of 'azaadi' long into the night
An incendiary chant of the people who will rise, out of the gutters, out of the forest,
And shall rise out of the valley of death and out of the shackles of the farms,
Free from the death grip of the land lords, free from the bullets of the uniformed assasins.
Free to hoist the emblazoned red into the sky
to usher in a new world, to shatter the old to annhilate the beasts that have so far reigned supreme.
You have led my course through fractured lanes.
Your groaning ballad my only light.
Kill blessings from stained lips safely float our steps.
Where would I be without you Michael?
Crow mother lies broken at our hand.
Eyes, lips and tongue smeared on stone.
‘You are just like me,’ she bleats through shattered teeth.
Thank you feathered protector, my septic pedagogue.
Poisoned Papa gags as we grip him heart in hand.
Oesophagus glove binds wrist, forearm and elbow.
Pushing down to Hell, void swallows his crushed vena cava.
Dislocated mandible squeals leaving the path clear and final.
A baptism from a splintered bucket washes away our rusty halo.
We have built a fine church you and I.
Can you hear me Michael?
Are you there?
From Father’s secret chest, blades, saws and spikes are repossessed.
They are now our beautiful burden, our sanctified implements.
Ground and honed to a steely whisper that will glide down to the bone.
Beyond the door you beckon to me with your silvery, distant song.
Night air sears through our lungs like freezing ammonia as
Shifting constellations light our winding passage through London.
From Threadneedle Street to Guthrun’s Lane all dreams are devastation.
We select a lost tenement as a playground and trudge through stinking mud.
There is a family within – Mother, Father and Son.
They are the fruits of our maledictions.
‘Cry no more little one,’ his voice congeals in my veins.
Soon we will be clean, huge and stinging.
At my touch the door yawns like the prelude to regurgitation.
In the darkness soiled, saintly fingers caress a razor.
Taut, ablaze, locked.
Tonight we will sculpt what we never possessed and love what hurts the most.
We are Destroyer.
When she walks around this Rocky Mountain downtown;
With a pretty-in-pink style Mohawk;
She doesn't look like an eighties version of a bad hangover.
While she obviously indulges in ballet classes,
As well as the occasional psychedelic drug that circulates in her system.
These days the drug users prefer rubbing alcohol mixed with ammonia.
"Nail polish remover, anyone? Champagne with a hint of methanol?"
Welcome to our party!"
That's their raison d'etre.
Which of these should really be the love that dare not speak its name,
Instead of Morrissey's version of a fatal goodbye kiss man-to-man?
I feel like calling out to her:
"Nice leg warmers! They complement your ballet flats beautifully!"
I have a feeling that she wouldn't strike me.
Though I would get a dose of that lovable, yet snarly, punk attitude:
At least in this town, yuppies in suits haven't tried to take over.
The delivery of a punch won't feel as bruised;
As a heavily insulted heart that burdens the walk;
With an extensive, intricate system of weights.
This electrocution-in-the-making shortcuts the system;
That holds us up to the premise that we are victims.
Not exactly in the nicest way:
When image has become the definition of an inner deity;
No introspection for resolution solves this mystery.
When instinctive pleasures win over self-respect;
That candy stolen from a baby bites back.
So at least this girl has won a war:
Maybe she won't last the battle.
She refuses the enslavement of the fashion world;
She takes over her own identity:
No servant to the establishment yuppies or the fashion divas.
2000 miles is a long way, and 50 plus years is a very long time.
It spells the time and space that have separated me and my two best
childhood friends. Back then, whether it was hay, ammonia, cowboys,
sling shots, or rubber tires, somewhere in the mix were my two friends.
Presently, there is a loving memory of Dennis and Johnnie. They were
absolutely my best childhood friends and everyday playmates. Dennis
was called "My terrible looking friend" because he never kept clean.
Johnnie was the toughest of the three of us.
One of the beautiful things about friendship is that 'the institution
of friendship' ever grows and thrives. That is to say that we lose some
and gain others. The losses are not by design but simply a fact of life.
My friendship with Dennis and Johnnie, by no plan or purpose, discontinued.
Life happens and forces us in different directions. But new friends appear.
Relatively new friends like Ruhtra Serrot, who is a very good friend.
Compared to Dennis and Johnnie, I have not known him for very long.
I think that I have known Ruhtra less than ten years.
Some friendships develop and mature over time.
Some others seem to defy the very essence of time.
They form and fashion themselves into 'deep roots'.
That's the type of friendship that I am experiencing
with my friend Ruhtra. I'd say that he is 'Rare Air'.
All due respect for those who believe in luck, but I believe that friends
are a blessing from God, and still others are 'Special Gifts' from God.
I and my family have been gifted with such friends, and they are rare.
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