Long Backroom Poems
Long Backroom Poems. Below are the most popular long Backroom by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Backroom poems by poem length and keyword.
A crow struts into a bar,
it's a crow, not a native American.
There's a hot wind blowing through town
Texas Rangers are drinking on the job.
A young beauty is busy
capturing boys' hearts
on her I Pad.
A land Line rings loudly
from a backroom -
no one has the skill to reply to the call.
The sleek jet-black bird
commences to dance
on the dusty wooden floor,
neck back and cawing loudly.
A picture of Clint Eastwood
looks down from an adobe wall,
he is 150 years old now
but he is still the rightful President.
Some crusty old-timer
throws a ten-dolor bill on the counter.
Soon the crow is drinking
and occasionally playing the fool.
Outside, a mule bray's,
crow flaps up and leaves
for the past.
Hollywood is still slowly arriving.
Native Americans have been on strike
for a hundred years.
The Crow Nation brews its own beer
and rez cops take their share
and don't care.
Captured by your pageantry
Mask shielded identity
Bewitched my gallantry
Stole my heart anonymously
Such mysterious glamour
Eerie yet intriguing
Speaking to my emptiness
Replacing all my loneliness
Extravagant mystery
Shadowy history
Surreal and dramatic
Ornately enigmatic
Your life a deceptive dance
Role played romance
Cloaked intentions
And social masks
Lavishly concealed
Make your backroom deals
Trading hearts like tokens
With words softly spoken
The masquerade illusion
The ultimate confusion
Love but allusion
Self-serving inclusion
Bitter truth unveiled
Torn landscape surveilled
Love’s victim impaled
Your manifesto nailed
To my soul
even
more so
today what's
said must be to what
whatever society's censors
say may or may not be
but a term i dispise as
being "politically" correct
when
younger
i checked myself
by saying geeze instead
of jesus and the oh so visual
wording of h e double toothpicks
while playing
pickup sticks
then
the introduction
to pig latin 101 when
something so simple
seemed like Kaczynski's
written indecipherable diary
but verbally knowing
no one knew
a linguistic
magician's
slight of hand
putting the first letter
at the end then adding
an ay so now can you say
under which cup
the new word is
can you
fathom or
imagine the right
before your eyes and
ears what trickery i could
perform as my Mum gasped
me not grasping
she couldn't
believe
that i
knew that word
but also had used
that word in her house
and now i at the age of
thirty two
she slapped me
after
running
from out of
a backroom
when i so unso
phisticatedly spoke
not as Socrates being
Greek to me said
uckfay
Form:
Our Beloved Constitution
Our Constitution is a work of brilliance!
It shines as an example for all nations.
Two hundred years have proven its resilience!
Our country has exceeded expectations.
The Bill of Rights guarantees our Liberties!
And helps ensure domestic tranquilities.
Equal justice for all enshrined in our law!
Our Constitution should be held in such awe.
Despicable Party Politics
Party politics the scourge of our nation!
Putting party over people and the truth.
So clear to see with each Administration!
Policy flip flops and privilege abuse.
Resulting in loss of faith and squandered trust!
Party politics are less boom and more bust.
Bad legislation and sordid backroom deals!
No wonder this is how America feels.
One need only open an old chest, or turn on a light in an attic, to journey back in time. Every scrap of clothing, old photograph is a life and a history. Essence remains.
As I often write at night, while many of a more rational world slept -- pacing, muttering poetic phrases aloud in a possessed manner, to keep my marriage intact, a seldom-used backroom of our house has become my addiction sanctuary. Soon it was a habit of mine, exhausted after composing for many hours nonstop, my psyche too spent to carry myself the distance needed to reach our conjugal bedroom at the other side of the house, I simply stretched out on a tattered sofa adjacent to my writing desk, and quickly dosed off. Strangely I began having a recurring trance-like dream of an ancient tormented soul beseeching help. He seemed trapped. For it was male. Distressingly disoriented. I asked what was wanted of me, tacitly aware that our languages were foreign to each other, yet we clearly communicated through some indeterminable articulate mysticism of the mind? His replies were confusing, mostly speaking in haunting, meandering riddles. After this went on for several more consecutive nights, somewhat spooked, I finally told my wife of the strange happenings. Swearing to her that the encounters seemed ultra real~ too real, dreadfully fearing that it could not be merely sleepy imagination alone, but perhaps, manifestation of a demonic entity. Following lengthy, involved research, it turned out that my wife harbored some old Indian artifacts, long forgotten, saved in a file cabinet near to the desk where I wrote, a headdress and eagle claw necklace her cowboy uncle had acquired somehow in the late 1800's, obviously sacred items that once belonged to a powerful medicine man. Well, the next night, in deep prayer, in consultation with higher divine elements, I helped the suffering deceased Shaman, whose spirit was firmly yet attached to his personal earthbound paraphernalia, ascend to a metaphysical realm long awaiting his overdue blessed arrival. His spirit was the size of a mountain as he lifted from the earth into a seeming celebrating night sky.
The morning breeze
whispers through window.
and a song plays in my head
again and again and again
while a new poem yet unmeasured stirs.
I ponder the many ways
to say love and affection.
My mind’s eye sees
glistening lakes and fields
the highways that take me away
and me back
here where I find my time and place.
The clothes dryer in the backroom hums
as I glance out the window.
Last night I saw a photo of my friend
of when she was a bride
and now she is divorced.
I ask myself
how I can make
someone as beautiful as she
happy again.
She returned to work
and I was drawn to her
the time when she asked
if I was working the next day
as the night slipped away.
She was my happy birthday wish
growing more beautiful every day
and I was her valentine
the afternoon when
as she squeezed between
the time clock and me.
Someone else
who’d seen us together
said we were best friends
I showed my friend a story
and told her it was going
to be published in a magazine.
She said she was proud of me.
I showed her poems
and she read between the lines.
Now I realize
moments spent together
in the cosmetic aisle
and conversations in soft voices
were more than they seemed.
This morning as I awaken
my life comes back to me
as a bird outside my window sings.
Honey Locust Trees, perched precariously on
Ledges lost amid ruptured chasms of evil
Ant hills, protruding fistfuls of grapefruit-sized
Giant ants suffering remnants within sight of
Chernobyl, in the Ukraine forbidden zone;
Seemingly immune to the poisonous pods;
Literally dripping heavy ants clinging to juicy,
Waxy seeds as they climb and fall over each
Other feasting on spandrel sins denied by silver
Palaces adorned with backroom deals and
Shady hats glittering with guava-glazed
Toasted pecans, spun with rain-soaked
Clumps of blue spirulina hungrily engulfed
By the living dead...
Enrobed
In
Pock-marked
Palladium
Dark women and their softly lit shadows
haunt our days.
Men who dwell upon form and beauty,
are attracted to moths,
they grow too old, too fast,
their erotic minds
like over-sharpened pencils,
wear-down too soon.
Women who follow men
seeking the dangerous comfort
of strange desires,
blossom, then disappear into suburbia,
where they grow their fingernails,
de-claw their hungers
watching shopping channels.
Are we not all a portion,
and smatter of both these
gender frailties?
We live avoiding
the genitals of angels and demons,
yet the anatomic ****
of the over-sugared,
and unleavened breads,
grow ever stronger
in our backroom eyes.
To see forever
I left the ship at the industrial part of the island
my tour of duty was over and took a taxi to the other side
to take a ferry to town.
At the café near the ferry landing, I drank a few beers glad
my work was done thought about what to do in the coming
days of freedom from the confinement of life at sea.
Since I had hours to wait, I bought a fishing line, hook and
a sinker, as bait, I used banana skin (it was all I had)
The water was so glass clear it appeared limitless I could
see the fishes swimming about and the seagrass slowly
waved with the mild current.
Bending forward, so fascinating looking down into a watery
world, with water so pure, it was as if the fish was swimming
in the clouds, thought of the Maori fable when the sky and
water was one, and life had yet to be born.
Somehow in my dreaming trance, I fell into the sea, people
came running, falsely commiserating over my mishap.
In the backroom of the café, I changed into dry clothes.
Arm piece;
Piece of glamor;
A bedazzling jewel.
Parade of fancy flesh.
Kind to his eyes.
Soft to his touch.
Mindless merchandise
Fallen breast.
Eyes swollen;
Damaged by
Reckless owner.
Invested in the flesh.
He has stashed away
Yesterday’s
Pleasures
numerically.
Stored
in backroom boxes
Of subfuscous
treasures.
Women
Tucked away
As for yesterday’s booty.
Serves now but as an
Unattractive prize;
Weighed with eyes’.
and lustful hearts.
For her, no fresh start.
Ahh!, but for him
New glitter sachets;
As she parades
In her fine attire.
She has appealed
to his recent desires.
Maids and maidens’
He added them;
Subtracted, them
From the human collection.
Once attractive royalty,;
No longer appealing.
Pleasures weighed
By false measures.
Determined by a heart,
“wholly without loyalty”.
whose fault?
I say…
“Her fault totally”.