Long Blowing up Poems
Long Blowing up Poems. Below are the most popular long Blowing up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blowing up poems by poem length and keyword.
My Grandma had a golden hands
She planted flowers and gardens
In the front yard even at the neighbors
Red yellow orange violet
White purple roses and carnations
With such elegance she professed
The fragrance aromatic
Roses and carnation
Oh! such an array of beautiful fluorescence
Of God banquet grandeur planted
Flowers I miss the rain that's showers planted
In the ground by my grandma's hand
She kneeled down blossoms of sweet nectar
Radiant pedals putting my eyes in a trance
All the joy my nose cry for more of the fragrance
Blossoms of sweet nectar so radiant paddles
Putting my eyes in a trance wonderful smells making my nose want to dance Smile as they fly in and out deliciously sucking the nectar from the plant
I'm in such radiation caught blowing up trapped in the fragrance of
roses and carnations
Is liking someone so uncommon
or wanting someone, a new phenomenon?
Are you an April - wreaking the milieu to discourage me?
Is that why you disparage him to such a degree?
He’s heartful and sincerious,
he’s slammin’ hot but oblivious.
He’s music, lust and fun,
all rolled into one.
So, I’m calling you off,
stop blowing up my phone.
You might as well not bother,
We’ve got dibs on each other.
What’s really good?
He’s really good.
.
slang:
April = a manipulator of well thought out tricks and evil plans
wreaking =causing harm
milieu = the environment
heartful = honest and sincere
sincerious = sincere and serious
slammin’ = very, very f*ckable
dibs = a claim
We need a touch of inspiration,
To lighten our pain and frustration.
Despite the sacrifices and amendments,
America remains mad and against us.
With the entire country on lockdown,
It seems impossible not to feel down.
It’s hard for us to keep our head up,
When worldly issues continue to pile up.
Everyone is on edge and extremely sensitive,
An eruption could occur at the drop of a pen.
Race, injustice, and corruption are the triggers,
The black and blue bullets are the driving killer.
An awakened volcano is not a pretty sight,
Any moment it may start yelling at the sky.
Surely people are on the verge of blowing up,
It’s a challenging time to keep our head up.
Under the inky façade of the night sky,
With reluctant steps, I joined the stream of men
Flowing to the place of the great celebration.
A huge crowd was already there in the temple premises.
Its vicinity was bursting with colour and flashing lights.
The young and the old, clad in festal attire,
With fire in their hearts and festive sheen in their eyes
Thronged, not driven by piety, but mostly to enjoy the fanfare.
Festoons decorated the trees that lined the compound.
Colourful lamps were blinking everywhere
Sacred bells kept chiming intermittent
At the auspicious hour, as devotional songs rent the air,
The chief deity was brought out of the shrine
And was placed on the caparisoned elephant,
Accompanied by pulsating percussion ensemble.
The devotees cheered witnessing the majestic entourage.
Within them, the fervid spring of joy swelled.
Colourful umbrellas were unfurled,
Drawing synchronized patterns in the air.
An army of hawkers had already set up shops.
Each made it a time to earn some bucks,
Selling knick-knacks and goodies- from ice creams
To popcorn and colourful balloons, to tempt children
The young ones ran around licking cotton candies.
Some enjoyed blowing up soap bubbles,
With iridescent orbs landing softly on their hair and dress.
Under the glare and noise, the heat and sweat,
Amid the tumultuous beat of trumpets,
And the rhythmic sounding of cymbals,
The crowd swayed in psychedelic lassitude.
I was just a mute witness to the whole hullabaloo.
Amid the faceless crowd, I stood aloof, so aloof,
With an abysmal loneliness gnawing me from inside.
I had hoped the carnival would help me forget the past
And drown my scalding pain, but sad memories,
Followed me close to my heels like a mangy mongrel.
Deep down, how I wished I was part of the revelry!
Tit for tat, tit for that
I read this, you read that
Comment here, comment there
Pats on backs, everywhere
Some may read, but not post
Acting much, like a ghost
Some may post, but not care
Just to say…”Good job there!”
Be sincere, write what’s true
If you don’t, shame on you!!!
Don’t play nice, and just say
“Good work here, all the way!”
Yes, it’s good; be polite
Words can be “Dynamite!”
Blowing up self-esteem
Crushing out someone’s dream
Tit for tat, tit for tat
Said my piece; how about that?
It's not good? That’s OK!
I’ll survive, anyway
Least I got you to think
Might have caused a big stink
But we need to be REAL
Yes, it is…A BIG DEAL!
Beauty’s found everywhere
As we all...our souls bare
Loving posts we must trade
And not give just a grade
Just be nice; do think twice
Or someone pays the price
Broken hearts, broken dreams
No one reads, so it seems
Read them here, read them there
Poems are......everywhere!!!
Some from me, some from you
I'll share love; how 'bout you?
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Yo. From a whisper, barely a breath, to a front-page roar/ EAST COAST JAZZ in the fifties, sixties/
Not just blowing trumpets, but blowing up the jazz scene jazz/
LPs stacked high vinyl spinnin’, cracklin' truth in every hip-to-be way. Jazz LPs, popin'’ the Truth, etched in black and white/ modern Jazz on the HIFI/
Jazz woke the airwaves up and made the radio take notice; everything felt right. Radio turned on, folks got wise and understood, and Jazz got the blood pumpin' in the mean streets day or night/
If you wanted to be hip to the now, the real, the raw, Late-night clubbing and listening was law, absolute law/
Ornette Coleman, man, a wild, horn-blowin’ free-to-be jazz king machine/ Free jazz founder/ hear his freedom RING!/
Then there's Mingus, righteous anger in his bass, Collective improv, settin' souls ablaze. Lay into "East Coasting," on Bethlehem Records, and let the music soak you down/
Starch your mind with Mingus, that ain't no stereophonic joke! No cover charge here, baby, just pure, unbridled bebop to the cool Miles sound/
A caravan of cats, late-night jams, playin’ something new and bold, Europe callin', TWA Flight 978 ready to take flight/
The Big Apple throbbed, a concrete, jazz-filled hang, Saxophone Colossus, Sonny Rollins, so raw, New York summer Hot Rollins, defying every jazz law/
Moody and quirky, a genius in disguise/ Influencing the young horns, reaching for the skies/
Sonny Rollins, deep in jazz thought on a New York big city day/
Sonny wrote a brand new Jazz Forever heavy page/
The jazz world exploded, on the silver screen, a fifty-cent ticket was your soundtrack to life, a vibrant, vital scene/
"Take Five," baby, the pulse, the driving soul on a jazz beat on stage/
I'm on the Lex Ave Trane, headin' for Groove Street! hold on, hold tight, let Abbey Lincoln sing, while we map our next gig, let’s name our new LP/ the Big Vibe/
Yeah… East Coast jazz… never really dies… spinnin’ vintage jazz LPs to keep my head alive/
ECJ morphs… and lives… in our own soulful eyes. Give me a holler give me a shout I’m talkin’ what’s It all about/ Want to be hip? Want to be in the know? Then listen late at night, and let the jazz sounds flow.
THREATS FROM MAFIA HITMAN FROM DETROIT FAKING HIS DEATH TO IMPERSONATE MY FATHER THE SON OF A MASONIC TEMPLE MEMBER 33 AND 3RD CHICAGO CHAPTER DUR TO PETERS GARGANO TIES TO MILWAUKEE DRUG OPERATION HE HIRED HITMAN TO MURDER ME TODAY I AM BLESSED I AM SAFE FROM THE GARGANO CRIME FAMILY OF WISCONSIN KKK MEMBERS KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS TREASURY OF THE KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS FALSIFYING HELL IN EARTH PETER IGNITED A CAR BOMB BLOWING UP MY BRAINS HE THEN GATHERS STRIPPERS TO IMPERSONATE ME ALONG WITH MY ABUSIVE EX HUSBAND ARSON MURDERER OF VICTIM 9 THE HOMELESS MAN ON SHERIDAN RD TORCHED CAB COMPANY EMCO CHEMICALS IMAGING CAMPHOR PETROLEUM BASICALLY VICKS ALLOWED A SLOW BURN KILLING THE SLEEPING HOMELESS MAN THE FBI WARNED ME OF THE GARGANO KLANSMENS TORCHING ELDERLY PERSONS ALIVE CORRUPTION LANDS SWEEPING THE ASHES UNDER FBI INFORMANT FILES ARLINGTON HEIGHTS CHICAGO SO NO I WILL NEVER EVER FEAR .Y ABUSIVE EX HUSBAND HELP PETER GARGANO TO EXTORT MY TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY CLAIM INTO SHELL CONSTRUCTION CARPENTERS HOME BUILDERS SCUM FRAUD COMPANIES IN WISCONSIN DRYWALL TILE PAYING CASH LAUNDERING PETERS DRUG OPERATION INTO CONTRACTORS PAYING ALL THE EMPLOYEES IN CASH IN DRUGS FINALLY FALSIFYING FALSE FRAUDULENT TOTALLY TAX EVASION PETER GARGANO ALSO FAKING HIS DEATH TO EMBEZZLE A TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY CLAIM ON MY BEHALF STOP SENDING ME TERRORIST THREATS MASONIC TEMPLE POST OFFICE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE 33 AND A 3RD NO FEAR OF KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS KKK GARGANO CRIME FAMILY BURNING INNOCENT BEINGS ALIVE
It happened again in the bookstore the other day…
It has happened to me before….
In truth…as each year passes…it happens a little more.
It’s pretty much always the same…the way the interview unfolds….
A boy or girl of a certain age and innocence asks me:
“What’s it like…being old?”
I’ll look at them and smile…“Let me think about it.” I say.
“Hmmm…I still love to run and jump and be surprised
I could eat ice cream every day.”
“I still love to play all kinds of games…still love having fun.
I still marvel at rainbows, at clouds…at the stars, the moon…the sun.”
“I still love smelling flowers in Springtime…
chasing leaves in Autumn…wherever in the wind they blow.
I still love walking in a summer rain and playing in the winter snow.”
“I still love reading fairy tales…a good hot chocolate…but not too hot!
and sometimes…I still dream…about being an astronaut.”
“I still say, ‘I love you’ out loud.
I still nap each day…for a little while
and blowing up a balloon to this day still makes me smile.”
If the child is still standing there…which, of course, may times they are not
I tell them, “I think I’m ready to respond with the answer you have sought.”
“I do not know what it’s like being old…
and I have this wish for you…before you go.
I hope that being old is also something you too…will never know.”
As they walk away I have this hope that one day they’ll understand
how youth has no constraints…
Now…if you’ll excuse me I seem to have this sudden urge…
to find some Play-doh…or finger paints.
A dying woman's suicide note.
While writing,
I am trying to find a reason to live.
Amidst this chaos of heartbreaks,
A coward have I become!
I have forgotten how sweet
The bell of hope rings;
When the finger of God has already
Inscribed 'DOOM' on the walls of my life.
That garden of life which used to blossom;
The roses changed to thorns and
The stars we used to gaze at, sky high;
Have turned into stones.
Maybe I became insensitive to pain,
I do not remember how it feels to bleed;
But I can feel life bleeding out of me,
This blood—the only sign that I lived!
I lived dining on antidepressants because
My pain could not possibly be remedied
By the contents found in a first aid kit.
I loved!
I loved you more than life
Because you were a mother's prayer
For a father's protection being answered;
I dreamt!
I dreamt you would be my reason:
My reason to live on
In the face of tragedy;
I believed!
I believed pain would come and go,
Like the night turns into day—seasons.
If only I lasted longer;
But so would the pain—IF!...
I became a piece of TNT lit on both ends,
And blowing up was eventual.
I can feel that flame of life dying
And the gates of hell calling!
Calling. Calling. Calling.
The grim reaper knocks at my door,
Ready to collect my soul—
I called him.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My savior, my salvation?!
The world would be better without me,
What of you my child?
Remember. Remember. Remember.
I gave you life,
And for you I will lose mine
But not because of you.
Live on?
I would say,
But I still want to be a good mother. Yes!
Even in death!
My baby, my joy.
For you I will live
But the blood on this paper
Tells me my hour has come.
Happy to be going,
But sad to be leaving you behind am I.
Darkness is blackening my sky,
A deep sleep imminent—death!
I can already see a vision of me.
I am looking down from a place above
For my sorrows are compensated;
Death loves the troubled!
Death whispers in my ear,
His words sound like a soft crescendo
Of a comforting lullaby.
His song is my farewell...
Written in blood,
Every letter red.
At the very least,
I died smiling!...
Will you be looking at dollar signs this Christmas?
Or giving hugs to your children.
Giving them your time,
Or working to pay off presents,
They never asked for and don't need.
Will you be checking on up on your neighbors?
Instead of your credit rating.
Blowing up balloons,
Instead of the family budget,
Before the turkey is bought.
Will your hands be open this Christmas?
Or ready to form a fist.
Will your Ho Ho Ho,
Be up able to fool them,
At 1 in the morning in the dark.
Will you humor me?
To look in the mirror,
Before the children spray it over,
In pure white,
Unaware of your secret torment.