Long Binge Poems
Long Binge Poems. Below are the most popular long Binge by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Binge poems by poem length and keyword.
I saw the woman
sprawled on the ground,
her legs askew beneath her.
She was alive but could not move,
obviously in a faint.
Right in front of her
a small pram
squeezed to a wall
pinned by a truck
that had hurtled
down the hill
hitting mother and child.
No sound came from the pram.
The driver knelt down.
He cried, oh how he cried.
Did he cry for the child he had killed?
For the mother who lost her treasure?
Or for the license, he was going to lose?
Only he could tell.
A family ruined.
No one thought of the husband
who lost his child
who found his wife injured,
all because of a reckless driver
who was late for work,
drove fast, painted a wall
with an innocent child's blood.
Did he have a late-night call?
A drinking binge?
A lass to love?
Whatever it was
a child's life was lost,
a family ruined.
Nothing could turn
the clock back.
The ambulance arrived.
So did the upholder of the law.
Nothing to do. We move forward.
It is our destiny.
A true story but it did not involve me.
Tizzy spun ...
flitting star-to-star
paused for a moment, thusly
(moments being what they preciously are)
wrapped her diaphanous-yet-strong wings about the moon
and gave Heaven a luscious kiss ...
"Oh - you ARE sweet, aren't you?"
she winked and spun away, leaving Heaven to blush
Heaven was gifting her, you see
(though it had yet to discover so)
no worries, either, for it had many greater things
to consider than one silly pixie on a binge ...
"My little rainbow toesies are just tickled to pixie pieces!!"
she thought of Old Sol, who had cried and cried
when he'd heard of her plan ... oh, how thrilled he would be!
why, they'd never need to worry about him again
for to add balance to the day - oh!
she spun again, and before Heaven could wink back ...
she'd made a dozen trips across the sky
reach-to-reach, she flashed, like a shining, shooting star
spinning, wrapping, flashing, placing, again ...
and by the time Heaven had finally winked, she was done!
"Oh, Tizzy!" cried the moon ...
"Oh, Tizzy!" giggled the stars ...
"Oh, Tizzy!" she exclaimed to herself ...
even Heaven was happy, though feeling a bit taken advantage of ...
for Tizzy had done what the gods could not
she had given balance to the day!
she had stolen twilight from the evening
- stolen it straight from Heaven -
and given some to the dawn ...
oh, what a charm!
oh, what a talented Tizzy!
for now Old Sol would soon be smiling ...
and she ...
would be warming her pretty pixie wings!
Her Night
Santa is out of sight
It’s Christmas Eve
He’s on his reindeer flight
The elves are on a short vacation
Mrs. Claus stays behind to enjoy the peace and quiet
Having spent countless hours helping Santa and the elves all year
She looks forward to this break
This is her night to rest and enjoy whatever she would like
She fills a plate with finger foods and pours a glass of wine
She puts them on the table next to her lounge chair
After getting comfortable, she begins to binge watch
All of her favorite shows that she missed during the year
Eventually, she falls asleep
To awake to the sound of reindeer bells and Santa’s sweet kiss
My mom, she, when I was just three,
Would binge operas of soaps, and she
Tethered to the television, after her sail
Home from Pearl Harbor, would not fail
To hug and kiss our butterfly eyes and cheeks.
She’d store mama’s milk in freeze for weeks.
As we’d march off to church crammed in car,
Mom saw her binge as a sin and went as far
As to stop watching all three, especially as
We’d call them Mama’s Soaps. Her new jazz
Is God and the bible, and her church friends.
Some have kids our age. On weekends
We’d go to explore the beach, but then
We all moved and Mama said Amen.
My brother, once said, Mom, you’re not old enough to
knit and crochet. She said, Then how do we learn to?
Rolling eyes…as at some point, she
Started writing, took up poetry.
Those rolling eyes and whys, recorded for posterity,
She reads to us one, two, three - her peculiarity.
My plate is always piled
yet my fork has nothing on it,
beamed up by sensory overload
onto a different culinary planet.
Please don’t think me rude
for leaving most of each meal,
it’s simply an agreement I made
with my devil, a self-imposed deal.
My fridge may look full
though recipes are few,
at least I know how to mix vowels
and consonants into a syllable stew.
This is an empty shame,
a hollow unrisen bun:
I’m male, I’m white, I’m educated,
so surely this cake should be done.
A deprivation tank which I worry
echoes an expected gay cliché;
“No, I’ve already eaten, I’ll snack later.
I’m not feeling well, sorry I can’t stay.”
Twenty years of hunger and binge
now seem to live inside my skin,
the pain a physical invisible
late fee payment for thin.
My bowl is always full, but my spoon has no story to be told.
My body is a restaurant chain business, finally ready to fold.
It was an island of piety
out of place in Port Adelaide’s
working class sea of pubs.
Off the main road,
St Mary’s was a refuge
for the Catholic faithful
and a few wino’s
pretending a prayer
for an hour of sheltered warmth.
Three masses on a Sunday
drew a dwindling crowd.
My grandmother,
dressed in her best
with the mandatory hat,
went to the 10.30.
It was a mass
for the elderly and the young
hung over
after a late night binge.
I cut my teeth there
on the grim chew
of its doctrine.
Back then latin rattled through
its wheezy lungs.
Old, dark, paint peeled,
it always seemed a breath away
from its last.
Creaking pews, polished
to a shine by a century
of sliding bums, would advertise
when you were late.
Stained glass windows
filtered sunlight
through a panorama of pain.
I was baptized by that wash
of joyless light.
Almost gone, St Mary’s
was resuscitated by Italians
keen to cage a stake.
Their statue of the Virgin Mary
poked a Mediterranean finger
into the collective Anglo eye.
Jewelry dripped, imposing
and ornate, she affronted
local tastes.
Statues were for background,
guardians of peripheral regions
placed to arrest
a wandering eye
and bring it back to God.
This Italian Virgin Mary
stood like a crowned colossus.
The old bishop’s ghost,
they say,
still wanders the church
shackled to his guilt.
Mary McKillop hovers
in his tormented head.
She's gone to God and sits
a newly minted saint.
The church grows smaller.
Lodged like a barnacle
on Port Adelaide’s rusted hull
it still hangs on.
The Italian Virgin Mary
now seems at home
and looks down
on rows of vacant pews.
Outside - shoppers pass in haste
to serve more fickle gods.
I can hardly wait reading welter of books...
courtesy Karen Windle a gift horse
ponied up late afternoon May18th, 2020
over roan nay bore lee volition.
Unbeknownst how she raised (cane),
and loudly wrapped outside the door
every ounce of her eighty plus pounds
slip of elderly lady petite bow legged
spry late 60's though older looking gal
argh – I expect unpleasant fallout after
piercing eyes unexpectedly discover
references made regarding aged waif,
who inexplicably signalled presence
in toto i.e. presents to comprehend, a
bounty, nah, not worth causing mutiny
nevertheless heave on lee delight hup
pea zing helter skelter discombobulated
alienation courtesy coronavirus lockdown
concomitantly venues to borrow books
puts serious and perilous bind aggravated
assault upon cerebral cortex regarding a
forced hiatus deprivation to binge read
reduced to peruse the daily toilet paper
no stimulation for imagination to indulge
magical mystery tour thwarted helter skelter
ye silently ask rather infer "what me bored?"
Despite severely circumscribed choices
whiling away hours, who knows lockdown
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19)
warrants near indefinite closure accessing
literary material buzzfeeding noggin,
an egg gone eye zing torture rankles
healthy predilection to binge osmotically
passion for written word all the while
authors unbeknownst evoke quintessential
pleasant provocation dredging up
10,000 leagues below the jewel bedecked
cease son bewitched (Alder time) tremendous
metaphorical pristine hinterlands
Matthew Scott's vernacular semantic
hodgepodge orientation withered away
figurative gripes wrath and rail against
series of unfortunate events ala defiant
Lemony Snicket, when despair plummeted
to all time low, who should unwittingly
telepathically hear plaintive SOS sent
none other than intrepid Karen Windle,
who's mysteriously rapping announced
dog send appearance bore deliverance
(cue Banjos), where ecstasy didst delve
where still waters run deep, nevertheless
welcome respite when printed material
weekly magazines offered scant respite.
I keep hearing you're concerned about my wellness,
well all that thought you're giving me is absolutely pointless.
If I were standing in your shoes I wouldn't worry none,
while you and yours have been doing your thing, I'm having lots of fun,
counting bug squashed on my wall,
that doesn't bother me at all.
Each day I run a marathon,
with my television on,
I smoke my weed.
binge watch a TV series,
or two,
Now don't tell me,
I've nothing to do.
Last night I dressed like a cowboy, pretending I was the deputy of this town,
as long as I can dream none can get this Billy the Kid at all down,
so please don't give me a single thought, I'm really doing fine.
You can always find me at home alone having the greatest time,
counting roaches on my wall,
that doesn't bother me at all.
Writing all kinds of parody songs,
at my desk from dusk to dawn,
smoking cigarettes while downing a Red Bull or two,
now don't tell me, I've nothing to do.
It's good to see you, but I must jet, I know I look a sight,
and I forgot my shades, my eyes are not accustomed to bright light.
Great seeing you again, please give everyone regards truly from me,
but I must head back to my diggs and now make my day complete,
counting horseflies on my wall,
that doesn't bother me at all,
jam my air guitar all night long,
to my favorite Joe Walsh song,
maybe roll a joint and have myself an ice cold brew.
Now don't tell me, I've nothing to do.
No don't you tell me, I've nothing to do.
Itinerant mercenary shrouded with penitent robe
Shining beacon for terrorists around the globe
Hermetic curmudgeon; gun-toting xenophobe
Zealous provacateur who for ardent jihadists did probe
Material wealth a means; establishing a caliphate the end
Seeking Arab-royalty's, sovereign-sheikdoms to rend
Scourge of terror to blight all that western values defend
Sharia law to govern Middle East; Allah's dividend
Great Satan's engine to throttle
Region's fealty to bottle
Suicide pilots struck the monuments we coddle
Gratuitious shards and blood stains did the landscape mottle
President Bush promised swift revenge
Ordered Taliban to stop Osama's bloody binge
Mullah Omar reneged; Bushes' saber rattling had a malodorous tinge
U.S forces did the Taliban's quarters singe
Alquaida's overseas operations are diminished
But Alquaida's mission not finished
Alquaida cells in Iraq, Afghanistan bravely battle, mettle distinguished
Nevertheless, the infidel forces not extinguished
Gitmo detainees probed for information
Trite torture brought about stunning reformation
Stressed warrior's fealty to leader declined in isolated station
Under duration, divulged details about Bin Laden's method of operation
Osama's couriers cover blown
Seeds for fruitful harvest are sown
Courier's redoubt canvassed with satellite, drone
Intelligence on compound, residents CIA did hone
Calculated risk; Navy Seals in choppers did alight
Flying quietly with fiery portents into the calm night
Hoping the briny tentacles of terror to blight
Cresting over the shadowy compound; objective in sight
Down the dangling ladders vigilant Seals did repel
Into the throes of darkness descending into the mouth of hell
Perimeter defense, early warning signals were of no avail
Osama's stunned tenants could only stand fast or bail
Each obstacle, human shield the Seals did meticulously fell
Carefully following the trail to the Holy Grail
Entering Osama's room, rending the sacral veil
The caged warrior with precision did shell
Osama's dead body packed in a unmarked crate
Transported vicariously to lab, identity to equate
Identity confirmed; vigilant menace had met his fate
Un-consecrated remains tossed into sea; watery tomb his final estate
O my shadow, sail away.
Be thou far from me.
Morning deadly, thou art grey.
Poison, hear my plea.
Torn apart, O tones of time?
Nerves inside us, roil.
Countenance of bitter crime!
Belladonna, boil!
River, in thy deepest cave.
Giant, see thy grave.
Sidewalk cracked and needing pave.
Savior, time to save.
Armies of forgotten gone!
Tend thy fiercest rage!
Blackout, blossom! O my swan!
Broken, O my cage!
Automaton, mad machine!
Envy turned them green!
Roundabout run red! I deen?
Just what have I seen?
Moon above, thy fullest.
Lunatic, thy fringe.
Fill the brazen bull? Best!
Murder, on the binge!
Great queens, from thy black abyss!
Give the end a kiss!
Such a night! What lurked in this?
Serpent, time to hiss!
Hope, accrue? What do we do?
Magnetize the flue!
Stick together just like glue!
Make the whole world new...