Long Barreling Poems
Long Barreling Poems. Below are the most popular long Barreling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Barreling poems by poem length and keyword.
Unbearable thoughts barreling through my head
Decaying in this silent chamber...
Where I desperately cry for help
Words come out useless...I have no capability to yelp
They haven't collapsed in the hands of the unforgiving jail-keeper
This pain grows in my bones...making me weaker
No one bothers to consider me
Circulated by envious glory
That snicker at my carrion body as it drops in dripping failures
Dragged by the sickening thought of living with jailers
As if i had no outlook to life...
I'm still placed in this cold-heartened chamber
Because I'm drenched in silence...
haunted by the deafening atmosphere
sensing a load of terrorized fear
Shame embraced me, never leaving my presence
Cautious of the hovering thoughts,
transforming itself into my dreadful, panicky past
This hopelessness doesn't seem to matter
In this chamber of deceitfulness
Someday...hopefully Someday...
This silent chamber will shatter
For now, I'll abide in this loathsome,
silent chamber
Until God, My Savior, will shatter this wretched place
Into smithereens
Some cat entered my room one night
I thought it was a ghost
It smelled like something had just died
But I must oblige my guest as the host
I turned on the light and there it was
An obnoxious opossum at best!
Whoa! Forget my host duties, cous!
Take the room—I’m an unhappy guest!
I left the house with a shutter
Before I realized I was heavily surrounded
By cats on all sides, up and under
The house they had all just rounded!
In truth I was perturbed on all levels
That I began to realize in horror
That damn opossum had spawned these little devils!
And tonight I must end this terror!
I then ran straight to the kitchen
Aware of the opossum inside
If I give up the tuna and ditch um’
Perhaps I’ll escape this night alive
The persistent cats scratched at the holes
Those buggers—those meddlers!
They could have been thieves—if not trolls!
Their yowls would scare sumo wrestlers!
Worst of all in this dilemma
Tomorrow was grocery day
There were no more cans of tuna
All my fish had swam away!
Somehow one got in
And the rest came barreling through
I ran toward my room to him
The opossum looked so distressed and blue
The little beady eyes pierced my soul
And I knew from then on he was my friend
He only meant to hide from the furry little trolls
And escape a most pitiful end!
I made up my mind at last
And picked up my trusty broom
Come on in—I dare yah tah pass!
Ain’t no feline coming through this room!
Glowing eyes burned with intent
And the yowling grew loud as hell
The little bullies think they can take my guest!
They’ll fly like birds they will!
That night was a battle like none other
A battle I will proudly say I won
I gained the friend of my life—a brother
My pet’s a load of fun!
As much as I love a neighbor cat
They are a little scary as a race
Thankfully a broom will push them back
And put them in their place
My opossum is a sweet little thing
And I protect him with my life
I’ll never judge a critter again
Till actions bring it to light
Help me, I’m hopeless
Again, I’m feeling distress
You won’t knock me down
By your frown…your frown…
Help me, I’m helpless
Again, I’m feeling like a mess
You don’t need to hurt me so
By your ways of woe…woe…
Stream of tears roll down, down
My eyes…my eyes…I cry aloud
I shake and shake up in this town
Stream of hopes and fears seep through the crowd
Crawling inside my cranium
Is this feeling of numb
Crawling inside my cranium
Is this feeling of dumb
Stream of desires, graces and glories is my cup of rum
Help me, I’m making less progress
Again, I’m feeling too much stress
You won’t drag me down once more
You won’t allow me not to soar by feeling sore
Help me, I’m helpless
Again, I’m feeling like a mess
You don’t need to hurt me so
By your ways of woe…woe…
Stream of tears roll down, down
My eyes…my eyes…I cry aloud
I shake and shake up in this town
Stream of hopes and fears seep through the crowd
Crawling inside my cranium
Is this feeling of numb
Crawling inside my cranium
Is this feeling of dumb
Stream of desires, graces and glories is my cup of rum
You need to relax and be with me, be with me
We melt like wax in the sun of vivacious vanity
It’s a gift or a curse that you’re safe and sound
It’s a miracle or a tragedy in reverse to feel gravity-bound
Help me, I’m feeling too much emotion
Due to the many people and noise around me
I can’t stand the constant commotion
Dealing with feelings that are profound frankly
Help me, I’m helpless
Again, I’m feeling like a mess
You don’t need to hurt me so
By your ways of woe…woe…
Stream of tears roll down, down
My eyes…my eyes…I cry aloud
I shake and shake up in this town
Stream of hopes and fears seep through the crowd
Crawling inside my cranium
Is this feeling of numb
Crawling inside my cranium
Is this feeling of dumb
Stream of desires, graces and glories is my cup of rum
Nostalgic night is barreling in my noggin
I’m taming this fire of desire from within
Feelings of pure calm is worn like lip balm
Upon my ever-shaking, yet gently soft palm
A locomotive
Barreling through blizzard's tracks
The engines pump fiercely
Churning white skies into black
Hot with steamy rage
Its whistle screams into the air
Reminding all who hear it
A monster is drawing near
It doesn't care for winter
Or the snowdrifts piling on
It feeds on the very mountains
And breathes fire from their ore
And as darkness falls across the land
This train, keeps coming on
It's glowing eyes shining bright
Onto beds of steel and rock
I hear it in the distance, now
It wails into the night
And cast a chill right through me
More than the snow and ice
The ground begins to tremble
The air grows colder still
And I loathe that locomotive
That comes against my will
My bags I've packed with this and that
And family waits to send me off
Underneath the cold starlight
Where that train will soon be stopped
Then off to fight another fight
I've heard that call to arms
But it's this train I fear the most
For it takes me off to war
(Me slippery fingers slither,
slip and slide splashing ala
Jackson Pollock), sans slap
dash experimental, swiftly
tailored and harried writing
style, yes on par with purging,
spewing, venting...unexpurgated,
unexpressed, unexplained...
words, which this Engelbert
Humperdinck singer/songwriter,
(whose name inexplicably popped
into the mind of this Dadaist)
offers "FAKE" apology for any
self inflicted, or sadomasochistic
flagellated cranial contusions
out of utter futility to make sense
regarding following gobbledygook!
GOOD LUCK!
Mine groovy palmar flexion creases
forever moistened by porous size
damn leaking levees provoking deluge
outranking Biblical flood - handy history
(in miniature) replete with Ark keel
logical artifacts discovered by hall n
oats marked wainwright - about 10 stone and
5 pound huckster, circa Fin de siècle,
when callous ten hooks (calisthenics,
eh) caught without Noah shadow of a
doubt proof positive by Matthew Scott,
(amat sure his surname) linkedin to storied
testament rivalling epic of Gilgamesh,
nee the entire spoilers alerts since
dawn of civilization writ small impossible
mission to decipher indelibly etched,
(what appear as Egyptian hieroglyphics),
methinks his perspiration contains
preservative agent, (a natural formaldehyde
like substance) generated nsync to maintain
eternal youthfulness, which stumps
medical community, and earned him
hashtagged "hotmail" (eagerly sought
after human commodity), a blessing
and curse palms plagued with chronic
wetness, yet lines (little flushed streams
of consciousness) rowed by itty bitty
teensy weensy merry daydreamers harkens
back when life held faint promise for
scattered (contra) bands of bipedal
hominids fiercely competing with trumpeting
(Taj Mahal sized) beasts (donned tousled
windswept hirsute trademark) Euclid
heir'm barreling along barren steppes
all around the one straggly mulberry bush,
where one pensive monkey (protohuman)
chased the weasel all around the world wide web.
Every time I heard her cry
I would come barreling down the stairs
ready to square up to him,
both of us fuming on the edge of a fight.
As a child when you have yet to experience
the infinite pettiness of relationships,
right and wrong both have their pitfalls.
Parents had their cat and mouse games.
Father was a good man made weak,
worn out by doing the best he could.
Their battles were a joust,
their fighting had rules of engagement,
indistinct battle lines,
hard for a boy to figure out.
Boys and their mothers also have rules,
they agree to die for each other,
but how and when are never discussed.
Maybe I’ll buy a red velvet cake from the store.
Buying things is a chore.
I had money somewhere in my jacket.
Coins making quite a racket.
But when I tried to unzip my pocket…
Water spilled out, out, out…
Then I died.
I drowned one day.
Barreling past a stingray.
The last thing I saw was a deep sea fish.
I sent him one last wish.
That in heaven, the sunlight would bleach my hair.
Underwater, there’s a lot to despair.
I was swimming on the beach.
I had just finished eating a peach.
The riptide moved toward me.
Taking me to the sea.
I bought a red velvet cake.
One day.
I had money.
I hadn’t died yet.
I had pulled out a 20 dollar bill.
They took it and gave me back change.
My cake was a treat.
I had change left over.
And two slices of cake.
Maybe I’ll buy a red velvet cake from the store.
I found out that heaven has stores too.
Fresh home from therapy,
and resonate with zeal
tush air cerebral cogs a turn'n
analogous to and pinion wheel
hence attempt made to bare soul,
sans thru poetry re: veal
ling avidity, asper barreling neurological
daily kos loaded truck full
heading toward figurative
lifelong landfill deposits
on weekly psycho
logical session I unseal
manipulating bothersome issues
controlled via bot size thumbwheel,
which grave undertaking i.e.
professional counseling allows,
enables, and provides opportunistic
gradual process at selfheal
ling oft times necessitates
reviewing silent Virgina reel
comprising the story
of earlier life piecemeal
akin to a slapdash montage
chronicling existential ordeal,
now referencing adenoids
(removal first mention within
poetic endeavor, when young boy)
loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal
pseudo oral palate
highway tucking each meal
across miniature bridgework,
ma late mum meekly
acceded to doctors orders,
said operation sub
sequently deemed unnecessary
affecting negligible decreasing nasality
predicated on split (bifid
or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal
utterances finds me speculating
speculating now, whether taking kneel
ling pose possibly coo dove
wrought divine intercession
giving me super powers ideal
for fighting off being bullied
gloating this instant imagining
bringing beastie boys to heel
actual reality visit my kid self,
a most convenient scapegoat
socially withdraw puny size lad
internalizing hateful barbs glom
ming up significant emotional gearwheel
inferiority complex predominating
supplemented with cumulative
anger, a potent feel
ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition
courtesy chromosomal
(pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.
The quiet rain dispelled any thoughts of a rain out.
It was Fenway, it was Father's Day,
And within the sacred realm of wooden bats,
Unswung and dumbly waiting,
There is the halcyon hope of impact
This on our first day of summer
Like the first day with our father
When he slapped us on our day-old baby chests
To keep us alive, keep the beeps beeping,
Forcing life's tiny engine to re-fire,
Making love's literal labor rumble back into place
Like the slamming of the hood of the car or
The smacking of the hanging breaking ball or
The blowing up of balloons, in school, for winter's child
Who needs to see the swelling of life into vivid colors
So that he'll be tempted to speak through the tumors
And show me how even more not-so-small, slow miracles take form,
Like the oldest man on the team,
On the mound, leading the league in wins,
Like my father putting a lunch together,
A salad, asparagus, and sausage in three
Giant containers I could never fit in my work bag
So in a flash he grabs this nifty-sized paper bag out of nowhere,
(the nowhere where the cabinet and the refrigerator is),
That dark and unspeakable vertical slit
Where all things crawl to be forgotten
Except by my dad who hears nothing and attends to everything
Scrambling even now to get a lunch together for his
29-year-old son who slogs eye-blinkingly around the kitchen
As morning-dumb as the day of his arrival
With the first pitch, the first slap, the first symbol of love.
Father's guide us through the passing fog
Like a lighthouse with a hearing problem, on wheels,
Barreling into the future, keeping the ball moving,
Keeping the world working.
The father is our Sun, Summer's Eternal Boy,
Guiding truth (or his version of it) where it need go:
Another Red Sox win,
Another sandwich made,
Another reason to smoke a cigar.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
As long as you promise to keep swinging
I'll promise to speak up. (And answer my phone.)
Every time I heard my mother cry
I would come barreling down the stairs
to square up to my father,
both of us fuming on the edge of a fight.
As a child when you have yet to experience
the intricate petty traumas of a relationship.
The world is clear-cut, not a puzzle of pitfalls
where you must grapple with the right light
the way you would pull up a kitten
from a well.
Mother was no kitten, and a boy cannot save
a woman who plays cat and mouse games.
Father was a good man made weak,
worn out by doing the best he could.
Their battles were a joust,
their fighting had rules of engagement.
Boys and their mothers also have rules,
they agree to die for each other,
even when there is so very little to die for.