Long Billboards Poems
Long Billboards Poems. Below are the most popular long Billboards by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Billboards poems by poem length and keyword.
A little south of Heaven
On the Gulf of Mexico
Here in the Heart of Dixie
The living's easy and slow
The weather's mostly nice here
Round Mobile Bay
Sunshine when it ain't raining
It's beautiful today here in L.A.
Living in L.A.
Lower Alabama
Spanish moss, azaleas
A deep south panorama, Lower Alabama
So far south, can't get no farther
Off the map, feet hitting water
A little taste of the bayou
A little twang in our talk
Folks are friendly when they greet you
We say sir and maam and y'all
We love sweet tea, our chicken fried
Shrimp and grits, and pecan pie
And watermelon in season
Man, I love the smell of bacon
Smells like Sunday morning
Like America, tastes like freedom
Living in L.A.
Lower Alabama
Spanish moss, azaleas
A deep south panorama, Lower Alabama
So far south, can't get no farther
Off the map, feet hitting water
Now, some might say we've got it all
Hidden treasures to be found
Bellingrath and Mardi Gras
(The first one, mind you) and the USS Alabama
The stuff of dreams, music scenes
Golden beaches, island streams
Fresh seafood to die for
Piggly Wigglys, there's a few
Foosackly's, can't fake the Foo
A sea of Shunarrah billboards, oh Lord
Living in L.A.
Lower Alabama
Spanish moss, azaleas
A deep south panorama, Lower Alabama
So far south, can't get no farther
Off the map, feet hitting water
Alabam, here where I oughtta be
© 2017.
Thoughts drifting into night's allure
pace up and down, as day retreats.
A dark cloak of blackness saturates
slumbering towns and desolate streets.
Halcyon of ambient moon enshroud
hypnosis on drooping drowsy eyelids.
A sullen soul in shadow of it's splatter
odyssey of sorrow skates and skids.
Modulated in weight of volatile voices
that quarrel caged in raucous clamour,
waves of night usher beauty of dreams
An ocher sky of stars glitter in glamour.
Far from the melee of neon billboards
footsteps of stars in horoscope unsure.
Time waits for a black sea to turn blue
with thoughts drifting into night's allure.
Dated 15th August 2019
Sponsor Joseph May
Contest Name One In Four
Disembarkment hearkened a largely unknown universe
Melbourne's sky lifting grid hidden partially
Behind rows of giraffe laughing palm trees
He dinged his car in the line to leave the car park
Home now to brazen 20 year olds, brought both cars
Had booked accommodation in suburb 5 miles north
She was staggered by intensity of Tuesday morning city
Swarming people made beelines to their business day
Several close encounters with trams saw riled passengers
Drastic traffic presented fresh dilemma, stitched thick
Mounting queues in right turn lanes, a phenomena unfamiliar
Billboards blasted big messages, brothels among them
Heavy clusters of vehicles became the pair's detriment
Hives of continued light intersections caused separation
Having easy communication not possible without mobiles
Deviations from course happened dozens of times
Midday passed in a haze of befuddled frustration
Bemoaned youth of 2000 had no GPS to guide their ways!
Satiated by their eventual arrival at accommodation
Sun setting on a scary first day, unwittingly touring
Seventeen suburbs of mayhem monstrosity Melbourne!
For: All In A Day Poem Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
27th August 2020
We are tossed by every uneven street
And I try not to recall the ocean
In the heart of this great city-
The cobblestone! The church! The mansions! The soviet blocks!
Wordless stanzas.
Watch the ink
Scratch at half-utterances
World churning
In Grandma's kitchen
1998-
Memory please
Catch the hot wind.
I will be airborne
One day fly back to you
and patience
My virtue dies.
Billboards scream
But I have
Just
Like love, don't want.
My keyboard, the typewriter.
My hand quills
My two-lung stone slabs
Mindless etchings.
Faint anger
And the distant sound of you-
Singing?
(The Hollow City Cycle include:
The Hollow City
I Remember You -- the city speaks
Last One Left)
No footsteps echo on broken stone,
only wind dragging secrets through dust.
The city sighs—
its breath made of ivy and rust.
Windows gape like hollow eyes,
watching nothing, remembering everything.
A carousel groans beneath twisted vines,
still waiting for laughter
that will never return.
Billboards fade into ghost stories.
Sidewalks crack like old skin.
Somewhere, a music box plays
a broken lullaby
to the bones of joy.
This place is a tomb
with the scent of childhood chalk
and the silence of too-late prayers.
Whatever happened here
left no fire,
only
quiet.
Anti-Poem — “Snaking It To Venice”
(Poet’s Instruction: Play “The End” by the Doors loudly, while reading this anti-poem)
it’s you and me baby inside this gliding duster
this ’74 green plymouth cruising machine blasting
spit fire and gasoline grenades into the LA sun
snaking it to venice on the santa monica freeway
passing pillsbury billboards and green verdigris
doors music playing loudly on the duster radio dial
taking us past the santa monica civic auditorium
our rock pleasure palace under the ocean stars
fronted by the six high dudes straight as spears—
pylons of steel drum solos and marijuana memories
standing upward like skinny giants waiting to eat
hippie dudes and the bongo kings stand out front
polka-dotted chicks smile and pass running joints
we’re riding the snake babe riding on main street
looking for the rock gods behind beaming glass walls
looking to hear boogie music with the mind jive girls
the van chicks craving a bong hit of columbian gold
looking to groove on organ sonics that weaken you
kidnap you with handcuffs for a ransom of lost time
now jim morrison shimmies into view with a beer
the boys play the end again in 1967 with amps blaring
the vox organ humming out electric mind lacerations
as Ray Manzarek sits upright again on the melting stage
dig it baby, dig it there are no tomorrows no endings
it’s just you and me baby snaking it to venice beach
passing the dream palaces lit up with phosphorescence
the sun pole-dancing there doing the cosmic bend-over
the ’74 duster blasting spitfire and gasoline grenades
Empty walls become the
out-of-focus billboards of thought.
Simple, seemingly insignificant things
become springboards of
flushing emotions
that cannot be quenched nor withheld -
impossible to ignore their swells
while headaches grow from trying.
Must I let it go where grief can sleep
with me in our own quiet place?
No ... these intense exaggerations of emotion
are not born from loss or death but
from love and life!
Look around and know
they will grow once more.
Our journey is here for now;
we will join our lost loves in good time,
but
we have more yet to love and lose ...
Where’s the beef? The old woman said.
I still see her bulbous nose, parading in my head.
She opens the bun and the hamburger is dinky.
My thoughts about this oldster are incredibly kinky.
Where’s the beef? Was soon printed on white t- shirts.
We were all naming the old lady, us Ethyls and Gerts.
Wendys was bringing people in by the busloads.
I was one of the easily led, coming in on all back roads.
Where’s the beef? Was on billboards against the blue sky.
It brought chuckles a plenty, none of us wondering why.
The old lady with a bulbous nose made us laugh until we were sick.
An advertising executive no doubt got a raise with that gimmick slick.
If Broken Were A City.
If Broken were a city, it'd be so far away.
No one would want to visit yet many there would stay.
Not by choices that they made but by love they somehow lost.
Oh how they long to leave, but can't pay what it cost.
The weather's dark and dreary, it rains there every day.
But no one seems to notice. Nothing matters anyway.
Flowers very seldom grow, when they do they go unseen.
Trees are stripped of leaves, the grass no longer green.
There's rivers all around it, there's no bridge that they can cross.
They can't swim the river, for the drowning in their loss.
The water races fierce and wide, but sometimes still and deep.
It's fed by the tears they cried on nights when they can't sleep.
The streets have names like lonely and there's one called sadness too.
With billboards to remind them of all that life has put them through.
There are no trains and buses, they never go nowhere.
Except a park called empty, where they just sit and stare.
No one there has much to say but if they talk at all.
Overwhelmed with their emotions the teardrops start to fall.
Their eyes are far from empty, you can see right from the start.
In the city they call broken, they all have a broken heart.
There's seldom any lights turned on, it's dark as it can be.
Because when you live in Broken there's really nothing much to see.
So if you find you're in Broken, you won't be bothered much.
It's void of all the things you loved, you can look but you can't touch.
There are no celebrations, people come here just to grieve.
No one knows until they get here, that they can never leave.
Don't send no cards or letters, no one ever gets their mail.
Cause this city they call Broken. Is just another name for hell.
Edwin C Hofert
To those who harrass; the yobos we call bullies
I'd gladly string you up by the seat of your woolies
Then from a barn rafter
You would hear my laughter
While swinging overhead from ropes and pulleys
I'd stuff each of your big mouths with a dirty sock
It's such a fitting punishment for you who mock
Twenty lashes at dawn
For you are Satan's spawn
More beatings if you crawl out from under your rock
You should be ashamed when you taunt and heckle
You have far less worth than a penny or sheckle
Your bite has no power
To injure or devour
You're nothing more than a blemish or a freckle
On billboards I'd paper your names for all to see
I'm pretty sure lots of PS poets would agree
Who'd swat you like gnats
And use you like doormats
Because your attitude is loathesome and beastly
*yobo is a synonym for a bully
November 4, 2020
Judged By A Jury Of Your Peers
Sponsored by: Mark Koplin