Long Black market Poems
Long Black market Poems. Below are the most popular long Black market by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Black market poems by poem length and keyword.
The sheep in the nearby pasture
Heard what the cows had done
In the building of their rocket ship
And they too wanted one
A few of them shaved for pocket money
Black market wool brings a hefty price
While some went out to Las Vegas
To try their luck at the roll of the dice
First thing they did with the money
Was to spring for Sherman's release
The only one in the family to go to Harvard
Though it was for experiments on his mind which apparently they fleeced
Right away they noticed something odd about Sherman
Something that just wasn't quite right
But passed it off as genius quirkiness
And let that idea slide by
They told Sherman what it was they wanted
Said he had a mad...um...master plan
All the sheep turned and Baaa'd together
What was that, that he just said?
For weeks all they heard was banging and clanging
From inside their farmers shed
The only activity they saw outside
The massive delivery of Dominos crazy bread
One day the shed doors flew wide open
There stood Sherman as mad as acid rain
No doubt among the sheep in the pasture
He was Bonkers, Loony, Loopy...okay Sherman's insane
As he drug his creation into the open
Not a one in the crowd uttered a word
Till little Bobby Black Sheep spoke up and said
Is that a cows udder?...is that what they think that they just herd?!
Sherman took that moment of bewilderment
To swing onto udder #4
Strapping himself inside of his contraption
And shooting off for the stars
Sherman is still up there circling the planet
Did you hear about the phenomenon in Spain?
Just the other day something amazing there happened
There was the pouring of milk instead of rain...
But we know how that miracle happened
And that it came from the udders galore
Cause when your traveling through space like Sherman
What else would udders be for
Just heard from the Pigs...
They too want a piece of this action...
Sunday cockcrow nascent
aural essays reveal
laissez-faire raptures.
Enigmatic silken piece compost ushered in by
trenchant trademark tremulous signature.
Doe-eyed instrumentalist’s strident brass ensemble,
wakey wakey for the pier gazing loiterer whose blasé
sashay amble’s out of kilter.
Maverick antennae on a radio safari,
hawking hourglass heritage lodestone.
Closet Peter Pan’s astride transistor, literati goggle eyed and glued.
Silhouettes of wistful mint leaf tract,
navigating hoarse throat shellback allegory.
Earnest weekend welcome mat to madcap jester, laureate, bohemian.
Religiously the listener’s transported
from a humble tepee sanctum
to alluring levee inundation area,
far flung folly edifice,
nomad siren hymn sheet to mount Half Dome.
Long wave bounder in my dreams,
I limb skip oe’r fiction world simulcast entanglement,
snoop beneath rogallo-wing parachute in a Middle East plot,
“twin peaks” would be awestruck by this labyrinthine concourse.
One can flit invisibly round medieval black market cobblestone arcades,
ghost novelist’s ethereal penchant for pinch and pilfer retro-fit infringement.
Melting pot cinnamon dispenser, whiff stick fix antidote to kettledrum ennui
the blight of urban jungle setting and rural folklore.
Otherworld contortion with a shard of drama for magic carpet flight of fancy broadcast
Lineage derived from ancient epochs now assumed but for an inkling, icons I become with card shark sly booth legerdemain.
Maybe I’m that fictile clueless hiker, destitute, indigent
The plaster in Rick’s place was always flaking near the doorway,
eaten away by damp heat and cheap tobacco smoke
that hung like dirty lace off the cedar joists.
Back in the corner sat a stunted, yellowed box—
a five-octave upright slapped with salmon and faded gold,
its pedals worn down to raw, scuffed brass.
It wasn’t built for concert halls. Just a pine-cased crate
that smelled of spilled Cointreau and stale olive brine.
Heavy teak doors kept the street noise out,
but couldn’t block the shuffle of black-market transit papers
passing under the low oil lamps.
Then Sam laid his knuckles on the keys,
cracked ivory, half-sticking from the salt air,
and the room went dead quiet.
She stood in the entry, silk coat catching the light,
asking for that song from Paris
before the tanks rolled in.
Rick didn't yell. He just stopped dead in his tracks,
watching the smoke curl off his cigarette
where it rested on the edge of the wood.
“Play it,” he muttered, his voice flat as gravel,
and the little wooden box gave up the only thing it had left.
All the Broken bodies - all the broken bones
All lying dead bloodied within the war zones
The heat unbearable - the stench even more
As the smell of death seeps from every pore
No respect is given so we can bury the dead
So we are left to sleeping with them instead
Children as all crying they do not understand
Just what's happening in their promised land
People no longer have trust in their very own
Whispered words, relayed on their cell phone
Who has sold them out, to who is the enemy
Black market men come, with their remedies
Possessions sold so we can sneak out by night
No thoughts at all given, to our frighten plight
Camping out on the borders of our loved land
All of us at the mercy of our own “God’s” plan
Our children are starving as women are raped
We cannot go back there is no forward escape
Nobody wants us, it has all been heard before
And people getting sick of hearing of your war
Broken bodies, broken bones, as broken minds
Reminds us all of a unjust life that is so unkind
The ethnics, the minority, and indigenous ones
Whether it is the bulldozers or someone's guns
It may take a life time, but you will feel my pain
Wake up one morning, with nothing else to gain
Your life worthless, as that pile of broken bones
Then left to ponder on your very own war zones
It may take a life time, but you will feel my pain
Broken bodies, broken bones . . .
Indiana Shaw . . .
Lovely hate crimes spate – trumpeted violent trend
(posthumous playful note to posterity kith unsealed
courtesy yours truly once deceased and cremated.)
Whew...so glad tubby gratefully dead
butta shaw miss dug hid ole days
when violence highly overrated
unlike current rooted locked dread,
aye wax poetically nostalgic when Fred
Rogers friendly persona
already quaintly outdated
mutinous armed militia incessant childish
popgun lawlessness pranks ran amuck
indiscriminately fired
magazine round as bullets sped
whizzing to and fro, hither and yon
slowed then stopped by flesh,
while folks nestled abed
bloody sheets, yupper reckon
shot blew hole head
off, no necks time
no matter innocent victim led
virtuous life kneadlessly,
purposelessly, unfairly...
stole by bullet size Grinch, hmm possibly
just maybe, he felt put off and miss sled
by Whoever, thus mad as hatter his said
color turned fifty shades of gray
mottled with fire engine red
now, no matter such innocent chitty chitty
bang bang ruses by duplicitous
hotheaded hooligans bred,
cuz instead every man, woman and child
blessed, donned, gifted... with atomic warhead
absolutely crazy, but president instead
wanted even Steven playing field to win votes,
no matter constituents begged and pled
naught necessarily in vain
since humanity in short shrift
cleared off terra firmae,
another foreign species immune
to radioactive fallout sprung
out Taj Mahal fountainhead
of atlas shrugged ayn rand dilly read
deed planet Earth proof positive Q.E.D
drafted fiat whereby high
powered weapons packing heated lead
plus scattered nuclear bombs
melted than repurposed material
i.e. former munitions armaments purchased
hoof hull legal black market
into raw bits moon units instead
necessary for android robots to tread
carefully, but carry big stick,
when encountering dreamy eyed electric sheep.
The gavel slammed its judgement down
On my impassioned plea,
Doomed to run-on sentences
Served concurrently.
My term began an infinite jest,
Time after time, time without rest.
On and on, again and again,
Ad infinitum, days without end.
Illicit contraband stashed in my sock,
Wearing a jumpsuit here on The Rock.
Sand in an hourglass keeps me in hock.
Forever and ever, and ever so more.
Each day and night a grim tug of war.
Idle in lockdown with yada, yada, yada,
Etcetera, etcetera, and desiderata.
Oblivion’s limbo looms dry as a drought.
The light at the end of the funnel runs out,
As the wastewater swirls down the drain,
And my hair falls away from my brain,
While the ferryman’s taking his toll,
And the calendar’s carving my soul
Into tidy, discrete prison blocks,
Where hands slap the faces of clocks,
Till you can’t tell the ticks from the tocks,
And the warden keeps changing the locks,
While my nightmares add weight to the years
By retelling my worst childhood fears
When the ragman went lurking about
By that streetlight that always was out
On the playground there by the church,
With dead eyes and black-market merch,
As the wheels on the bus go ‘round and 'round,
Like prison yard walks, but I’m still glory bound.
I curse the screws, flip a finger to the void,
And serve my penalty in splendid isolation,
Not defeated, just righteously annoyed.
Of the benefits that come with doing time in the hole,
The best is being favored with a birdman's soul.
As I once heard a lifer say in the exercise yard,
"Freedom is being satisfied with the terms of one's confinement."
See as she makes her move
Towards the end of the gathering
With this all eyes were on her as one we crave
So creepy the moves were as one so daring
In a minute she stole my heart
For an unreturned everlasting trip
Not to death but that which is called a black market
Yes a black market is it that in love it makes us creep
This love as a lad do lay in my heart
For the honour of the elderly
And to be well cultured in all endeavor
It's a bliss she creeps in that early
But her stay now has no favour
Hear me well you pretty
You've stayed this far in my heart
As you're placing me in the mold
Creepy oh creepy
As you nutshed me to loving you as a lad
Though favourable as lad but a stigma you're now
Stay away from me you pretty devil
You've hooked my heart and tongue to bow
For unknown cause amidst my peers
You're a worker of iniquity be far from me
Unto you I put my trust dear divine
To take the heart of this woman from me
And Grant me a heart of dear
This I pray and hear me dear divine!
...No longer could they blame it on others,
or chock it all up to society,
their losses, their failings, due to their choices,
a hard truth, and many were not ready.
Some would see what parallel selves had done,
then find a gun, take a handful of pills,
others would set out to remake their lives,
convinced it was all a question of will.
Most of those too would eventually fail,
and join the others in departing this world,
people found loved ones lying in their homes,
deprived forever of their precious pearls.
I myself lost an aunt who had seen
a parallel self was a CEO.
She was a stock clerk, the sight hurt so much
that from this life, by her hand, she did go.
A cousin of mine is, somehow, still alive,
though so depressed he might as well be dead,
after seeing a life with the little boy
his ex-girlfriend in college aborted.
I guess I am one of those people too,
as I struggle with it every day,
versions of me, successful and happy,
writing best-sellers, blazing my own way.
In the end so many people had died
that the technology was seen as bad,
government banned it to stop the bleeding,
but that cat can’t be put back in the bag.
It’s estimated twenty-two percent
of my Earth’s populations is deceased,
nearly two billion, dead by their own hands,
thanks to the ‘wonders’ of technology.
The dyings have slowed, but they still occur,
it proliferates though black-market tech.
Hell, I am breaking those very same laws,
warning you about how our world was wrecked!
But seeing where you are in your research,
I feared that you were running out of time,
and even a small glimpse of the multiverse
is more than enough to destroy your mind.
Don’t do it.
Poets
Why is it poetry, is a like dirty word and talked of in undertones?
It’s like a naughty postcard, more flesh than there are bones.
Poets tend to deny their art, “I’m not a poet, I’m a rhym-er”
Come on you lot get stuck in don’t be a poetry two-timer.
After a glass of alcohol some may admit-“I like a little verse”
“But no I m not into poetry…” It’s like a speech they did rehearse.
Now poems I’m getting good at, but famous poets I don’t know any
Don’t ask me if I’m a poet, because in wages I don’t earn a penny.
Now rhyme I am not bad at, but at free verse I would stink
As for haiku, senryu, and other forms, I stink I really think…
I listened to some so called poets; decry their art the other day
They denied their art while they listened, to what each other had to say.
Standing there with their poems held high, “I’m not a poet” they all said
Well get down from the microphone and let’s hear a poet instead…
They pass their poems around the table, like some black market currency
Not wanting anyone to see it, but they are at a reading for poetry.
So be loud and proud you poets stand firm for what you believe in
Tell them you are a poet, and just get used to all the teasing
I used to be a shy poet and I write verse with some frivolity
But the definition in my dictionary says “words with a pleasing quality.”
So now I am open to judgement from all of you wonderful poets
You have all commented on my work, but do you really know it?
You all have qualities that scare me, you really seem so clever
So can I finally admit to being a poet, from now on and forever?
~GG~ 27/09/2012
to rich gold is to taste gold
to rich gold is to rich the black market
gold is a taste of gold
gold is a rich of gold
gold is a black market rich of gold
gold is a taste of a rich black market
gold is a rich taste
the black market is a rich taste of the black market
fame is a walk of fame
fame is a walk of gold
fame is a rich gold of fame
a walk of fame is a walk of gold
a walk of fame is a walk of a black market
taste is tasting fame
taste is tasting the riches of fame
the riches of fame is the riches of gold
the riches of fame is the walk of fame
the riches of fame is the riches of a black market
riches is fame of riches
the black market is the riches of fame
the black market is the riches of gold