Long Bottles Poems
Long Bottles Poems. Below are the most popular long Bottles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bottles poems by poem length and keyword.
Twice-a-day, though sun or rain, in storm or wind or snow
The crazy lady fed her strays, and watched them come-and-go
She had a name for every one, and knew them by their face
Though they sometimes had a spat, they treated her with grace
They numbered over thirty, eating more than she could pay
But with bottles and her overtime, she always found a way
She oft-times skipped a meal herself, to make sure that they ate
And sometimes lived in darkness, if she paid the light bill late
Many nights she braved the chill if she couldn't pay for heat
She rarely bought new clothing, or new boots to warm her feet
And it never ruined Christmas when she didn't have a tree
Cuz she bought an extra meal, instead, for her feline family
She made art of cutting corners, though she rarely caught a break
And countless were the comforts that she gave up for their sake
But she never felt it sacrifice, or her own needs thus impeded
She'd lost in love, but like us all, she still needed to be NEEDED
So, if forfeiting for those we love is a nonsensical thing to do ...
Perhaps we should ALL consider ... being a bit more crazy, too.
* SECOND PLACE in the "Crazy Cat Lady" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Sponsor. *
[In my youth, glue was tubes or bottles of gloop
for sticking stuff together: cement was grey powder
that you mixed with sand and gravel to make concrete]
***
I wish I spoke American when I was a kid
I might have built my airfix kits better than I did
I’d get so exited as I opened up the box
Even though the parts inside would end up being rocks
First I made a battleship but made a mess of it
So I tried another kit... a model Messerschmitt
I messed that one up totally, so tried a Saturn V
I built that rocket carefully... it made a mess of me
What the hell was wrong with ’glue’ or possibly ‘adhesive’
All of the instructions were frankly in-cohesive
The writer, were he English, would have written what he meant
And not suggested sticking bits together with cement.
Broken Seashells,
canvasses of lobsters
tossed ashore by waves
are an open cemetery
with endless laments...
as green seaweeds
decorate them morbidly
if they were flowers!
I look around this beach
not frequented by a wanderer;
the strong stench of fish
is too unpleasant to sensitive noses,
but it's the perfect dinner
for those hungry gulls that swish
and land on their corpses!
Beer cans and water bottles
not disposed in nearby bins
attract rats with extreme hunger
and finding little, they chomp chasing after
the mackerels wiggling on the scorching sand;
oh, they happily feast on them and hiss...
keeping away the squeaking seagulls!
This abandoned beach once was
as pristine as the bluish water,
nobody littered it and people
walked barefoot seeking their favorite spots,
not getting cuts on fragmented seashells;
then hurricane Sandy came and left it desolate...
no souls returned to their homes,
and it became a ghost town forever...
and the few who stayed carried fright in their guts!
This concludes the trilogy that started as "The Frozen Sun" then continued as "Tonight Will Soon Be Over"".
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was woken by the drum of dawn—
light dripping through half-closed blinds,
the air still dancing to the ghost of Afrobeats
from the previous night.
Broken bottles stood like headstones,
each shard ready to draw blood.
My shoes slept apart, still mismatched—
a quiet testimony to last night’s confusion.
His laughter lingered in the air—
not the man himself, only his echo,
wrapped in the smell of palmwine and beer.
The mirror betrayed me kindly:
smudged lipstick, bruised tummy—
a woman reborn from quieted chaos,
half-ashamed, half-amused.
I gathered myself like scattered beads,
threading regrets through memory.
Somewhere between guilt and grief,
I found a strange calm—
as if the frozen sun had melted at last,
and warmth returned without a sound.
Outside, street hawkers broke the silence
that wasn’t silent,
their voices humming through the Sunday haze.
I stepped out barefoot,
hoping the earth would forgive
my drunken feet.
To come and go
and not be afraid of the light.
Again I'm a child and my secrets
I have chosen can you love me?
Death will come this I know
slowly I grow you remember.
The bottles were colored when first I arrived.
Hairy eyes hiding tremors pass.
I agonize once again arsenic moons.
A man makes his bed yet a child and his maid.
Starched white shirts in the closet I hide
from the church.
Mary wept but the nuns make me weep even more.
Loneliness is a face never seen.
I drink it all as a child what they allow.
Buds and bells heaven is not full of metaphors
I can change but I won't.
When I write best this way unlike you.
Your will I don't want just my cat.
Coming back here your heart once mine was too heavy.
Wide and straight the road.
Narrow paths for dark horses the moon the clouds
they pass by me lost without you my bed wetter.
God help me I can once again hear loud sucking noises
soft whimpers and quite cries for a price.
Mummy the bottle on the floor it is empty.
She comes in a double glass, blood red dress.
I did not write this because of the hairy eye hiding.
But children and their secret lips confessed.
James McLain Thursday, August 11, 2011
we poets are waiting for the moonset
sitting on my balcony, evolutions shamans
now wandering the beach
we are solving every social ill
while walking Blake's path of excess
to some palace of wisdom
this sojourn has but one worry
the hour the liquor store closes
less the worry here, shamans open doors
money, lycanthropy meandering the beach
a ramada where we wake the proprietor
who finds such occurrences propitious
vending beer, most cultures' insanity is sacrosanct
the moon is waning into the ocean
to Bach's Toccata and Fugue
we are singing Eddie Arnold's cattle call
while the other horizon eructs
red-orange warnings poets love to ignore
evanescent crescendos
write something every day, i am not that bored
the sleep never begun is over
quart bottles cover the table
our proprietor lies in the Land of Nod
poets of Laputa, self-serving pataphysicians
the bench is strewn with the problems of Gulliver
La Senora arrives, shift changes, orders breakfast
and this proceeds until siesta time
the repairing of every social ill
retiring into respective hammocks
we are philosophers, possess our epigrams
no siesta, no fiesta, tomorrow i swear
a new and improved version
the beach is safe now
for white bucks scribbling in the sand
while our feet are beyond and supine
covered with flies, killing us
did not the Beats do this
San Blas 91 The Patient Stones
Candles & nightlights
flickering bright
blackout curtains
shutting out the moonlight
snuggle down cosy
blankets tight
perhaps
the war will end to-night
dripping setting
from Sunday's roast
spread so thick
on Monday's toast
meat bones simmer
..on the old gas ring
Pa's homemade soup
the 'real thing'
paper chains cut & glued
beer
in glass bottles brewed
Christmas puddings
with threepenny bits
the Meccano present
made to fit
Sunday school outings
upto Coombe hill
my first ever train ride
so quite a thrill
Walks over corn fields
to the Bugle Horn
crisps and lemonade upon their lawn
A weekly soak
in a round tin bath
towelling off
by open fire in the hearth.
a viewpoint from childhood
seen
growing up at
number sixteen Beech green
Year Posted 2012
Garnished notion
Shallow Waters
Curtains closing
Empty Bottles
Staph infections
Rose Garden
Driven Direction
Key Center peace in turn
Rock Mountain Grey urn
Golden pasta macaroni cheese
Green Acres eggs in ham
Death mute it praised alien
rambling in the Old English band
While singing Old Lady Marmalade
Deep valleys
toilet flush
Field cans of ease
Radioactive honey bees
Gamma radiated maple trees
I was just does all of this really mean
Why does it matter
And does Mrs Butterworth have any daughters
Faith Trust and clutter basement. Full of empty bottles
8/21/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr ©2019
Friday night's here at last ...lets have a blast.
Teenagers dash to discos ...ready to dance
to throbbing beats and combo drums
rythm and blues....kicked off shoes
as rock and roll pours out the heat..
Swaying along... couples dance and sing
swinging to the beat ...that's everything.
reggae to hip hop....... rap and soul
stir up emotions but take its toll.
Kissing and necking .....lips close around bottle necks
draining the draft.....drowning the thought of dreary days gone by
no thought of days to come...or care about outcome.
Older women start weekend cleaning.
Scouring cupboards, doing laundry,
dusting tops... flying mops
vacuming carpets...putting out garbage
no end in sight for the chores to be done
till the night is come and work is done
they slog and clean... till everything gleams.
Old men hurry to the corner bars
for a drink, a chat and a meeting with pals
to watch the wrestling match.....on the TV screen.
Till mignight they stay.. drinking their way through
bottles of beer, whiskey and rum
till their eyes water...and tongues grow numb.
Home to their wives they weave a crooked path
can't even see their way in the dark
Cursing themselves for drinking too much
now sitting ducks for thugs on the watch.
They wake up next morning asleep on the couch
shoes in their pockets ......stale breath in their mouths.
Money's gone...so too are wife and sons.
yet never has there been a house so clean.
Have they learnt a lesson...we shall never know
for the habits continue every Friday night
No one seems to get it right
Enjoy your weekends....but maintain self - repect
for when that is lost...what comes next.?
Again and again, I scrape through the sand encrusted
macadam pavement, avoiding patches of sunken sorrows,
embossed in tv jingles, uttered from the lips of politicians,
grinning, toothless, at the wandering
immigrants, eager to find no home.
Against the soundtrack of minimum wage, scores
of campesinos work double shifts, avoiding traffic
tickets, the long dark hallway that leers at happiness,
trembling in freedom.
Only Sundays promise solace, playing soccer
with friends, the air biting with the coming winter,
warmed by bowls of steaming menudo.
Once more, the crows, perched on highway lights,
mock the empty alleyways, where crushed beer cans,
and broken tequila bottles litter the sunrise,
unwilling to quench my thirst,
…..unwilling
To quench
my thirst
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