Long Blanks Poems
Long Blanks Poems. Below are the most popular long Blanks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blanks poems by poem length and keyword.
Memories tumble through my mind,
rolling aimless, some have been...
missing for a while.
I try to fill in the blanks. Others,
I sweep into already dusty corners.
You know, the ones far easier forgotten.
Tumbleweeds...my memories
have become tumbleweeds.
I take snapshots of the cherished ones,
file them away
giving them a home...
before they blow away in the savage wind.
I yell out to my own echoing voice -
"Did I tell you my mom liked to dance?"
"Yes", I remember.
I hear her music, rock-and-roll,
her long hair bouncing with each step.
She doesn't dance anymore...
I see my step-father, hands dirty, working
always working, but sometimes
stopping to joke or tease.
Moments gone...memories fleeting...
begging them to stay
a little longer or at least
visit my dreams.
"Did I tell you my dad played drums?"
"Yes", I remember.
I hear rat-a-tat-tat in my head,
primal beats, rhythmic beats -
complex man, gentle soul...
I would sing at the top of my lungs while he played.
He never seemed to mind my shrill, little girl voice.
I miss him, I miss his drums. Music is not the same.
Nothing the same.
I close my eyes and another memory
blows through empty spaces.
My brother is racing his bike down the street FAST.
He is about ten, all skinny legs in his shorts.
"Where are you going?" I call after him, too late.
"Don't go, please don't go!"
He is gone and I wonder if he was ever here, there,
anywhere within my reach.
Some do go astray, I remind myself.
Missing memories...missing love -
loneliness finding a home in my heart
when least expected...
"Wait, come back", I yell to him. "I'm still here."
Ruminating, I ask myself if we ever know,
really know, the ones we love.
No, not really. I remember.
Frantic, I reach for the tumbleweeds, grasping.
I reach for my two earthly fathers who are long gone...
I see them, each so different yet loved. Then,
they blow away, missing again.
I chase them futilely. The savage wind still blows,
across grains of desert sand...
I will never know why, never know.
Tumbleweeds...my memories have become
tumbleweeds
blowing in a savage wind.
* one of my favorite early poems (maybe it doesn't seem happy, but
it includes some of my favorite memories)
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
March 2, 2012
Second Place in Chris Aechtner's Let the Masks Fall Contest
A Saturday morning in June on a sunny day,
three hundred villagers were in the town square today.
For two hours, all the children, each man and his wife,
made a choice amongst themselves to sacrifice a life
While the grass was growing green with the flowers in bloom,
one person in town would soon be encountering doom.
Some big piles of stones were gathered up by every boy;
Bobby Martin, the Jones boys, and Dickie Delacroy.
As mixed conversations percolated all around,
Mr. Summers and the black box were soon to be found.
This object was very old and showed much splintering,
after being used many years for this offering
Mr. Summers asked the town for a new edition.
They turned him down, not wanting to break with tradition.
With much of the ritual forgotten and not clear,
little slips of paper were placed in the box each year
Old Man Warner, the senior citizen living here
said to Mr. Adams who was standing very near:
“Seventy-seven years I’ve been participating
in this lottery for which everyone is waiting!
I tell you there’s no other way; it’s needed in June.
We sacrifice life for the corn to be heavy soon”.
Mr. Summers called by name, heads of each family;
all in alphabetical order from A to Z.
Every head of household chose individually;
beginning with Adams, and ending with Zanini.
When every man had a slip of paper in his hand,
“Open up” said Mr. Summers with modest demand.
“The paper with a black pencil mark will indicate
its holder is the sacrifice we all designate”
Along came Bill Hutchinson’s wife Tessie running late;
shocked to see her husband holding the paper of fate.
Mr. Summers asked “How many in the family?
Bill replied “Five. Three children, my wife Tessie, and me.”
Mr. Summers took the slip and put in four blanks more;
back into the black box after opening its door.
Then each of the Hutchinsons was told to reach inside.
The one holding the paper with the mark would decide.
Mr. Summers checked the papers and said with his voice:
“We have our sacrifice! Tessie Hutchinson’s our choice!”
“It isn’t fair!” Yelled Tessie, crying loud and frantic.
The people grabbed stones with Tessie running in panic.
They all caught up with her in the middle of a field,
and stoned her to death without any apparent yield!
Based on the short story "The Lottery" by the late Shirley Jackson
feeling his vitamin injection a new adventure begins
a slapstick epic of unfathomable implication here unfolds
as the rat gnawed curtain rises at Ye Bone and Gristle
among the clattering of wooden pints of bitter ale
the floor show a fatigued and spent collegiate symposium
a haggard attempt at ecumenical largess aimed at
raising the unwashed to an occasional and transient grasp
of the larger dimensions that haunt our daily addictions
Prof. Zlotto emeritus deluxe brooded over his maps
summoned by the tedious self-appointed constabulary
to pry somewhat delicately into a mystifying case
of good judgment deferred with a view towards
an increase in immediate cash flow revenues
wagers placed on foul play or the whim of ill fortune
were the options undergoing fuddled prehension
we have before us opined Z expansively from center stage
an antebellumite absolutist abandoned by fortune
skirting the Queen's tariff crushed white and cold
by a bulging bale of contraband Carolina cotton
observe the eyes fully crossed the smirking grimace
while grasping a message in a mangled scrap of menu
none of the Bone and Gristle's brain trust could
tease rhyme nor reason from its random hatchings
Sumerian birdclaw temple cypher went our Professor
fragments from the time of the Great Watery Peril
the gathered lumpenproletariat gasped and murmured
Zlotto's flawless command of forgotten history
was the object of awe and an untidy fealty
my appraisal shall go no further than this room
insisted Zlotto drawing his finger across his windpipe
aye wheezed the unsteady avid archivists of civilization
the hearth's peat flames glinted off Z's gold tooth smile
a million dollar asset with the neighborhood gorgons
fluttering hearts batting about the succulent stamen
Z pondered aloud over the runes inscribed in red ichor
my certainty was never under hazard went Zlotto
what we have here beneath the lantern of exposition
is a blighted invocation of the Blind Mother of Witches
the tenured and tweedy astigmatics drew breath as one
a petition of supplication borne on ancient trade winds
Zlotto's hard gaze scanned the struck dumb congregation
It says only this
as one body the throng leans a full inch closer
only this
fill in your blanks
I only be looking down now, looking inside myself now,
not head set in defeat but reflection, not the thoughts but the actual events that happened, wild flower child, yea right boom boy im a power plant, a quater-back serving audibles, wide-receivers run em in slants, run deep, swapping the rythym up, call it skill or pronounce them fiery darts of the devil, replay read a lot of fake words, deploy nothing but truths that carry troops, dead-zone drop-off swing wide scrape the danger, winged right there then, repairs upmost respected like I have a strong command of the english langauge, a strong sense of honor, PoW's plenty of wise men, plenty that u couldnt challenge on the battlefield, u better be ready to die when you walk in their battallion, Feel the valance the stealth, feel nothing feel what you feel wether its false politics American Goverment, I dont condemn my country, American people be the damn blindest, conditionally unseasoned , refutedly would he die in that war man? Well im a black speck in his eyes dying where ever it dont make a ****, you think a soldier gives a damn about being remembered, nah its about fighting your hardest, living longer, having your friends back, perfecting that last love letter, asking God for guidance, as waiting for it, Command given stretch the ammunition, permissions only to use your intuition, now i put a disatant on that idea's be balanced if you spot it u got it, six strikes 3 terrible battle plans, instructions be on a good heart. we life size- we realize it. we competition cams with a lope pulling deeper compression, true intentions blow up in your mind like mushroom clouds, like the repurcussion was a blast to the laws broken in an accident, cheap shells cheap never be Blaine c cheap s sweetlies b bashing breaking *****es, bullstrong. balls with the brillance, beautiful blows, brainstorming, bulls of bashan beaware the wheel of furtune turns quick ask me I slip out simple vibes I be on top soon. blanks broken hollypoints I keep one jax in the chamber, Bang baby I still hit hard with the power, bang *****es blaine me, can u blame me? Straight and narrow , not like in a false form, warfront back on a warhorse, back on the foremost thoughts of a man with a decision to make..
Form:
SPIRITUALLY INTERRUPTED.
I CAME TO EARTH WITH
EVERYTHING IN TACT.
I was happy curious and
with rapid anxiety.
couldn't wait to bring the
good news from the place
where I had just come from,
To my new home here on earth.
It was just an
overwhelming understanding.
that I had,Wanted badly
to share the joy as I arrived
I studied my mothers face.
She was beautiful !
I saw no father.
As I knew what a
mirror was immediately.
The science of images
and reflections innate.
many secrets held in my D.N.A..
and I was well pleased.
Delight and light
surrounded me then.
Everything was good.
Somehow my
senses were acute;
Bees-Butterflies,dandelions.
praying mantis
even earthworms-
were my playmates.
Mud pies and the smell of dirt.
Everything was intact
when I came to earth.
Seemed like a lovely place.
Riding my tricycle-
was quite like the freedom
I had known in my other home.
Then hooverd a cloud over me.
a dreary cloud,
Tears were streaming
I heard mommy crying.
She was only a child
I tried to make her
smile again. I wanted to know
but, she cried even more.
I tasted anguish for
the first time that day.
I was spiritually interrupted
afraid, insecure, and confused
confounded by the blanks and the
sudden disconnection,
I built up a wall;
The wall protected me
from the cacophony
of loud ,big people shouting.
I retreated into my safe world.
Grown-ups they annoyed me
All of them ( The big People )
They were different,
I vowed to never forget my original self.
I vowed that I would always
hold on to my Spiritual soul.
Years passed and I gathered
more of their distorted truth's
I wanted to enjoy the
body I was placed in.
The body I had
before the distractions of curves..
Before the mind noise.
Before the blood that
caused me distress
I could hardly hear
my inner-voice.
I prayed to my inner God.
Too much to know-
Too much too soon.
My innocence melted
like a snowball in a furnace.
The lust of the big people
no longer allowed
me the freedom childhood.
Now jaded with the
burden of womanhood
and my childhood was arrested..
My spirit was abruptly interrupted.
Here we are
a title of a song, a transitional statement with no meaning
does it really serve a purpose
delaying the inevitable train-wreck these words will incur
I concur
words are meaningless, disastrous
If they were of any help
citizens would clean every bit of earwax building in their ears
to make waves in lines to city halls
for the hammer of justice to...
I have no manner of speaking for this
my chest can be ripped bare with insufferable pain
to describe all the things I wish to say
but with my voice and lack of utter talent
I can only whisper blanks for modesty betrays me
Believe me I want to scream
scream at men and women in blue
who swear by the law and citizens to keep us safe from harm
do right by society
scream how they are the stars of their own TV show
scream how we've glorified these acts without really realizing it
scream at the government for making "getting away with murder"
a nationwide trend
I want to scream
but my voice would be deafened by the millions of others
out in the streets, protesting, standing for something
my voice would be deafened, put in handcuffs, silenced for all to see
I want to scream
but there's enough people doing that for me
I want to bolster myself up like a bear
stand tall above all
to scream, to shout in defiance of people praising murder upon families
to scream, to shout in defiance of people praising revenge
praising physical retaliation like it ever solved anything
We have enough wars to fight, we have enough everyday worries
this avoidable conflict doesn't need to continue to escalate so rapidly
so tragically
but I'm just a muted voice behind a desk
attempting to fill a quota for a day
to just not be seen as lazy today
I'm just a muted voice, listening to Volbeat
pretending like I'm shouting this rhetoric in front of a crowd
but that very crowd would just pull out their smart phones
run my name through the ground
and I will be trending worldwide as one more person
shoved under the rug as non important
Why am I even still typing I've said nothing, am nothing
I'm alone
and with the world so quick to rip itself apart
I can't tell if that's a good thing anymore
BEGINNING
Genealogy child
Is much, much more you see
Than names to fill blanks on line,
Genealogy is your heritage
Of forbears who came from many tracks,
Most to claim an identity of kind
As they made their way along a line,
Right back to the dawn of time,
And in every way and day and in between since,
Many have risen up and achieved,
And many more have felt the chain and the yoke
And become downtrodden with hopelessness of task,
Many overcome difficulties of times
And persecution of their faith filled ideals,
While others stole to survive
And chain and ball became part of their personality,
Many more conquered a watery death,
In the hope of finding the path to a new home:
On the other side to an unknown.
And for many forebears war and conflict never ending
Became their release from an ideology being taught,
And for many a final home in unmarked burial place and graves of dirt
With not a mark of respect to indicate a name of here before,
And for many of the fairer set spending their final days
In the hope of giving delivery to inherit a father’s name
As another child doesn’t survive along with mum,
Disease, pandemics, plagues, wars, epidemics,
All have their names inscribed on the annals of historical scrolls
And parchments where the scribes have described their worth on mortality.
Down the lines of ages spent,
from Adam and Eve in the garden,
and Moses on the mount,
and mighty Jesus of the cross,
Christopher Columbus and flattened earth,
Shakespeare with parchment, pen, and verse,
Captain Cooke and discovery of worth,
And convicts coming ashore in chains,
To sands of Gallipoli’s blood,
Our heritage lines could come from kings,
Or from peasants on gallows
Or Ned Kelly on the run,
Or the gold diggers on the digs,
But no matter where you have arisen from,
Your genealogy first and foremost starts with you,
And then goes backwards in a line
And your line could be great,
Or it could be small,
But matter not,
But remember well,
That you are part of a family tree.
And genealogy child,
Is much, much more you see
Than names to fill blanks on line.
Francis Cooper – Mac © 29-Jun-20
Woke up this morning with a head
This is the curse when you try to change the world
Gave Mary just a slight hint Tony might be bedding Jill, Joan, not excluding Alice
Big John, definitely gay, but as I explained, Billy his partner was kissing May
Mark was salivating over the barmaid Rose
God sakes man haven’t you heard, Rose used to be Fred
You could have heard a pin drop when the chuckle brothers walked in
Word on the street, Jill and Joan were in the family way
Which in any other circumstances would be okay
But everybody knew the brothers fired blanks, hence the chuckle reference amongst the ranks
Still, honour was at stake on that fateful night
A slight nod Tony’s way would start the fight
A knife to the heart was Tony’s plight
Then a voice cried out, you sure she’s a man
Well, Rose hit Mark with a pan
Big John headbutted Billy
Who landed on Tony, and one of his cronies
Mary, who had now lost the plot when Alice showed the ring Tony had bought
A bottle of bud over the head, put paid to Tony and his amorous ways
Rose stripped off, shouting, does this look like a man
Mark got up, seeing double as the chuckle brothers pushed him down again
Big John threw Billy into the air, landing on the chuckle brothers like Fred Astaire
The brothers took this as a blatant dare, shooting Billy without a care
Tony clocked Rose in her Sunday best, uttering the words, better than all the rest
This sent Mary totally insane, followed by Jill, Joan, Alice, and for some reason May
Guns were pulled, shots went astray, all aimed at Tony who looked on in dismay
The chuckle brothers in the way, killed outright on that fateful day
Legend has it, a crime of passion, no arrests were ever made
Tony fled the country, followed by Jill, Joan, and for some reason May
Mark and Rose fell in love, got married
Mary and Alice gave them away
Big John and Billy gave it another go
I was going to mention to him, but decided no
Not after all the advice I gave went untold
Still, this is the curse when you try to change the world
This is why I woke up with a head
Though, what a palaver
Was it something I said.
Pale white against the ghostly fog
Smoke curled for lack of oxygen
Black rim glasses hide, head bows
Conceal eyes of cool cat daddy-o
In dark, goatee, groomed and moody
Beret tilted silhouetted, covers identity
Captures blues wrapped in a sax
Brown paper bags cover booze
Jazz releases notes unknown to claps
Fingers snap approval to the poets silence
Something to be trusted no matter what
Underworld shadows gather dust
A secret spot built on a fog bank conjured up
On a dingy dream found five steps down
A hideaway ten degrees below zero and counting
Leading beyond all cafe dive boundaries
Cold nights survive on hanging tunes
College degrees wall to wall leave hollow marks
Jive time turkeys hold on to hot tea instead
Twilight characters friendly as death reset
Step down in reality to displease history
Bass man puffs his last cigarette
Joint smokers fill up the cavern
Underworld types gather with germs abounding
Fallen ash in trays lose attention
Coffee stains on tables remain
Stale as bread half consumed
Down and dirty with the blues
Tinted in a melancholy stench
Night life rises numb, basement ready
Dim lights permeate the senses
Lays waste to the alley cat man
Smoke rises in a trance to swoon
Turtle necks hold stiff men intact
A band doing hourly sessions Jam
Bass players hammer out shadows
Discord is all that matters
To mimic politics, smoke marijuana
The attraction of the day is on the menu
Curse words say it all
Snap and double snap poetry incognito
Verses flow like painted butter on walls
On melted atomic babies breath powdered bottom
For war, use the toilets next door on the right
Bullets are the flavor of the day
The favorite flavor after blanks
Matchstick men in bazooka suits flirt
The moon turns supersonic jello cool
Cool cats know squares from pigs
Cubes are abstractions of night sticks
Never mix with visions of gas lamps
It is a gas man, can you dig it
Elephant dancers run wild man
Suspicious of pigs who shoot first
Ask questions about bacon later
Snap daddy snap on beatnik back
diploma acquired magna cum laude – double entendre
Xlv years elapsed since
I (former long haired pencil necked geek)
bid alma mater adieu,
the quietest kid, who never said boo
nobody discerned handy dandy blues clue
what yours truly thought,
cause figurative blanks he drew
remaining quiet as a Unitarian church mouse
never uttered a dog gone peep
extrovertedness he did eschew
even now two score and five years
after donning mortarboard and gown few
and far between words spoken
courtesy me, a former
Norwegian bachelor farmer
Lake Wobegon mine imaginary home
solely without friends grew
impulse to become linkedin
through schizoid personality disorder
offered solitary existence
alone within emotional wilderness hue
cannot imagine loneliness
(analogous to be bajillion miles
from nearest neighbor
while housed within igloo
mattered not whether gentile or Jew)
at tender growing up age obliviousness
suffused every cell constituting
Matthew Scott Harris
interestingly enough yours
truly quite outspoken
thru dimpled cheeky
adipose characterized kazoo
flatulence courtesy pop slop
incorporating secret ingredient
intended to ward off licentious
pheromone exuding females loo
sing hormonal secretions,
anyway said unmentioned
quite tolerant spouse,
(who remained faithfully
married enduring quarter century)
despite incessant husband
buttuck blasting - courtesy moo
ving odoriferous soundcloud waves
issuing ass him tote across avast spatial plane
resultant impact on par with nu
cull lee air fallout ooh
noxious human air pollution pu
tress hint smell as natural deterrent
to sexual reproduction, nevertheless
semen aligned (alphabetically
by athletic prowess) think queue
wee warriors able, eager ready and willing to
increase chromosomal revenue
blaring semper fidelis
as lucky sperm pierces zona pellucida
wee acted screw yule us,
when call of the wild – bald truth
found me to ejaculate and spew
sticky goo, and stopped reproducing
after daughter number two
me unbiased, but both offspring
attractive in their papa's view.