Long Bottom Poems
Long Bottom Poems. Below are the most popular long Bottom by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bottom poems by poem length and keyword.
There is too much fear in the world these days,
Fear of the unknown, scared in soo many ways!
Phobias of spiders, mice, rats and bats,
Are you frightend of nothing? Why are you scared of that?
Scared of oppression? And the way they use aggression?
Are they messing with your head, using psychic suggestion?
Wrestling with your doubts will only lead to fear,
Always looking into shadows.. scared that something's always near.
You're winding yourself up! There's no reason to be scared,
But it's never as it seems.. so you'd better be prepared.
Because if you're feeling fear, it could be.. you're not ready,
With your trembling legs, and butterflies in your belly.
It's not so strange, that lots of people fear pain,
Being boiled alive, with needles stuck into your brain,
You've got to be careful, I'm afraid to say,
Be quick to make your mind up, to fight or run away.
Would you fill your pants, with a gun to your head?
Now, that's REAL fear.. you could be dead, enougth said!
Some could find your nerves and make you scream for weeks,
They can teach you about pain and how it reaches new peaks.
But the ones like that.. are fearful too,
Of justice, revenge, and the human rights crew.
They should be scared! I wanna see their faces white,
'Cause they even kidnap kids and slip away into the night!
Now I'll get swept away, as it floods from me,
See, some of these emotions, are as deep as the sea,
Some wanna get a gun, and hunt these sick suckers,
And get them on their knees and say PRAY MOTHERF%%%%%!
See this is the crux.. this is the bottom line,
If they catch you doing that, then it's you that's doing time,
It's never black & white, it's not easy to see..
There are so many fears, it's all part of being free.
Are you scared of the dark, because that's how it began?
Are you scared that it links you to the earliest man?
Who had to hunt to eat, had to kill to stay alive,
And did what they had to, so this race could all survive.
The things to be scared of are the things inside,
You can struggle and fight, but you can never run or hide,
So walk down the street with your head held high,
And face down fear.. because we're ALL gonna die!
But the opposite of fear though.. is to be brave,
Who knows how many lives you could save.
The futures unknown, and we all face change,
It is all just a part of being free-range.
This poem was inspired by the interviews by Earl K. Pollon and S. S. Matheson conducted with native Sekanni peoples who were negatively effected by the flooding of their communal homelands by the building of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam. “This Was Our Valley” tells that story of injustice. 640 square miles of riverfront and hunting territory would be flooded to form Williston Lake. The Sekanni peoples were driven from their ancestral homeland in northeastern British Columbia, Canada and dispersed.
The Shopping Cart Injustice
People, place and spirit
All were our relations
Biopeds, quadrupeds, winged or finned -
River language told us so.
Fishing rocks spoke the run
Where the riffles and the rapids talked.
Ancestors, dead and alive, told living stories where
Running the river banks, the children played.
The land was a book written in forms.
We made our mark with love, community
Fishing weirs, aspen dugout canoes,
Hunting trails, camps and sacred sites.
Always traders, we traded furs with
White settlers when they arrived
On the rivers Parsnip, Finlay and Peace at
Finlay Forks, Fort Grahame, Fort McLeod.
We added pack trains, teams of pack horses
River freighters, flat bottom ‘longboats’
For supplies and for mail delivery.
It seemed that we could live together.
Then one day a government agent said
That shopping carts were coming
They would flood our world
Water rising everywhere
Shopping carts with electric can openers
Full, fast to check out,
Shopping carts with electric hair blowers,
Full, faster to check out,
Shopping carts with electric air conditioners,
Full, fastest to check out
Shopping carts with electric stoves.
Check out, check out, check out.
They would make our rivers into a lake
We would move or drown.
Our elders did not believe it.
That was the only consultations!
Soon Saskatoon berries all under water
Next, the banks sloughed back to graveyards
Next, cliffs crumbled, and banks fell into rising lake
Houses of the villages slipped and floated
Coffins, bones and bodies strewed the shore
Where tangled trees, debris and more
Eddied with flotsam in the wind.
We wept for our ancestors!
We weep for our children.
We had to flee the destruction
Caused by tree grinders, D-9 bull dozers
The dam construction.
Now they want to take more
Another dam for more shopping carts.
Please stop Site ‘C’.
MY SWEETHEART PART 2!
This love is from the bottom of my heart
I love you my sweetheart
You are the queen of my heart
Your heart belongs to my heart
Your beauty satisfies my vulnerable heart
I know you won't break down my heart,
But please build your space and echo in my heart
Your smile and your eyes make me proud
Because I know you have the Mona Lisa fraud
Stars, moon and the sun bow down for your beauty
They don't contain such beauty
My sweetheart allow me to name you Beauty
Sure case my sweetheart your beauty matches the nature's beauty
Don't allow me to say dark beauty or any beauty
But allow me to say you have an African beauty
We share cheers for charity
We love each other for surerity
Like I said earlier our love have clarity
As it needs good and excellent maturity
True love for you darling doesn't quantity
But it acquires strong and jubilant quality
God gave me a gift of charity
And I'm obsessed with that charity
I know you are going to change me
You are not going to drain me
But you are going to develop me
You are not going to exhaust me
But you are going to exhault me
You won't disappoint me
But you will appoint me
Seriously you won't downgrade me
But you will upgrade me
Sweetheart, I love you
You are starring me like you are dressing my dirty mind
You are so beautiful and merciful to me
Beautiful like diamonds in the sky
Beautiful like the moon shining on the sky
Beautiful like cirrocumulus clouds on the sky
Only God and ancestors can tell because they live above the sky
In our love, the limit of all these things will be the sky
Sweetheart, I love you my sweetie pie
I know I will be enjoying you more than a king pie
They usually call me the calf of the November cloud
And my feelings are pregnant like the Nimbus clouds
Not everyone like Nimbus clouds
Only farmers are in love with the Nimbus clouds
Others like cumulus and cirrus clouds
I'm sure my feelings have desire like can stratus clouds
Our love is as good as nimbostratus clouds
Let us fly like travellers
I am a singer plus poet travellers
Explorers are also travellers
Our love dont need intruders but we travellers
Travellers The Singer plus poet love you
I will make myself a man because of you
My sweetheart I respect you!
My sweetheart I love you!
Shiba Phumlani Vimbelasizwe (Travellers: The - Poet)
MY SWEETHEART PART 2!
MY CRAZY CREATURES
This rhyme's about creatures of various sorts.
Creatures with fangs, hairy bellies and warts.
They cause lots of mischief all day long.
Mum always blames me but I’ve done nothing wrong.
These creatures are crazy. They’re not what you'd think.
Turn over the page. Find out more in a blink...
The first is Belcher. He really does stink.
He lives in the toilet and plays in the sink.
He likes to be naughty when nobody's in.
He cannot be found when you're searching for him.
Dad always moans when he sees all the stains.
I tell him it’s Belcher, “He’s done it again!”
Two thinks that she’s pretty, but really she’s not.
She has warts on her face and is covered in spots.
She has a big bottom and six hairy feet.
Her name is Ghastly. She’s really not sweet.
She steals mum’s lipstick and paints her mouth red.
She tries on her dresses, throwing clothes on the bed.
As soon as mum enters she’s so quick to flee.
I guess that’s why my mum always blames me.
Number three is so quiet but I know that he’s there.
He smudges my face and puts glue in my hair.
I call him Hush Monster as he follows me round,
Putting mud on my clothes without making a sound.
I aim for the paper but the pen marks my face.
Mum looks at me glumly, "You're such a disgrace."
I try to tell her that it just wasn't me.
"It was Hush monster, Mummy. Why can't you see?"
The worst of them all is a creature called Doom.
I'm always in trouble when he's in the room.
He often burps loudly when we're eating our food.
Mum frowns with disgust. "Now, don't be so rude!"
He cackles with laughter whilst spilling my drink.
"Be careful," shouts dad. "Don't you ever think?"
You may well wonder why he's never been caught.
Well…he's the size of a pea and he’s very well taught.
He rolls under the sofa after doing things bad,
And I look to my parents who seem really mad.
These crazy creatures I like the best.
I’m glad I could share them with you and the rest.
Belcher, Ghastly and a monster called Hush,
Then don't forget Doom. They all make me blush.
They live in my house and like to cause bother,
Driving everyone mad, especially my mother.
They’re experts in mischief. They get me in trouble.
Now I’ll tell you a secret that may burst your bubble.
Whilst these creatures are crazy it has to be said,
They don’t really exist, “They’re all in my head!”
The A to Z of Karma
The Law of Karma is very deep
As we sow, so shall we reap
The bad we do will make us weep
And the good that we do, we get to keep
It's a Law of Action, a Law of Reaction
It's a Law that says, we get what we give
A Law that ensures what goes around comes around
A Law that's for everyone on this ground
The Law of Karma is born from our Dharma
Karma is a Law, A Universal Law
A Law that watches all our actions
And a Law that ensures the same reaction
If we plant tomatoes, we won't get mangoes
If we plant cactus, we won't get a rose
So also if we do good, our reward will be good
And if we do bad – what returns is just as bad
What is this Law of Cause and Effect?
A Law that ensures the balance is perfect
A Law that records everything we do
Good or bad, it must come back to you
But how does this Law work, we don't know
It belongs to the One who created this show
It controls how on Earth we come and go
Does it end at death? The answer is NO!
Our Body may die, but our Karma stands by
We CAN escape our Karma – that is a lie!
Our Mind will be reborn to live and to die
And we will continue to suffer and cry
Death is not the end; it's just a bend
Whatever we have done has to be undone
If our actions are rewarded as we live – that's great
Otherwise, the residue will decide our next fate
Is our body responsible for how we act?
No, it's our mind that's in charge, in fact
Thus, the Law of Karma is that of the Mind
It's the ego and mind that suffers we find.
It carries the good and the bad that we do
The score doesn't settle at death when we go
Life after life, the score goes on
The Karmic score decides how we are reborn
So should we suffer again and again?
When will we finally escape this pain?
We can if only we Realize the Truth
We must get to the bottom; we must get to the root
What is our purpose of life on Earth?
Are we just born to die and take birth?
Where did we come from? Where do we go?
The Law will go on till the Truth we know
Are we the Body? Are we the Mind?
Are we the Ego? The Truth we must find
The ignorance that's around us, we must rewind
We are Energy of a different kind
The Law of Karma makes this world go round
It's a Law that makes sure all's well on the ground
The Law is for all who come and go
Except for those who understand this show
My grandparents lived on farms – both sides of my family.
My mother’s parents and my father’s parents.
Overalls and button down shirts with pockets
Work boots for grandpas
Except my single grandpa did get dressed up fancy
For Saturday night dancing with his girlfriend.
He smelled wonderful too, wore a lariat with a turquoise stone
Shined his shoes as if he was going to church
My maternal grandmother was the only one I knew.
She wore a navy dress with large white polka dots
When we had weddings or funerals, and low heel shoes
The rest of the time I remember her wearing aprons over dresses
My mother was the first woman I saw who wore pants.
She preferred them to dresses, and took to polyester in a big way.
Remember the pantsuits of the seventies? I swear she invented those.
Matching tunics with wide legged pants.
My father wore plaid shirts or camouflage jackets
Unless he was going to work; then he wore a dark suit.
He was a salesman with a skinny tie.
He always looked crisp and clean; mom used starch on his clothes.
My style was wide bell bottom blue jeans that we called hip huggers.
When I was younger, and tops that looked maternity in the seventies.
This was the real style which horrified me in 1974, as I had to wear these blousy tops two years in a row
because I had a baby at twenty and twenty-one.
My new style is comfort. I am sixty-eight. I wear tennis shoes.
Elastic waists, soft clothes that are not tight, I love feeling free.
My husband is the same way – comfort clothes, elastic waists.
We like eating tasty foods; no blue jeans for us now.
We have three children. They dress according to their lives.
One has six children, but she dresses fancy and so do they.
Another has no children, she’s a professional. She dresses in suits.
Third child alternates between casual and fancy; working mom of three.
Our grandchildren are eclectic fashion displayers also.
Super controlled grandchildren wear traditional clothing,
Approved by mom or they do not leave the house.
The ones who are wild like our middle daughter have pink and blue hair.
I see dresses that are too short - the same as I wore in middle school.
I see pants that are too tight on boys, like we saw in the eighties.
I see boots not as cute as Nancy Sinatras or or go-go-boots.
Masks are the new fashion statement for the younger generation sadly.
O God! Will you answer my prayers?
O Lord! Will you take away my tears?
O Divine! I am so worried about my fears
We pray, but don't know the meaning of our prayers
Of course, most of the world does pray
Not many of us know the meaning of what we say
We just fold our hands and close our eyes
And call out to the one who we think is above the skies
If we pray, but don't understand what we say
Then we don't pray, at best we bray!
It's time to stop and find out the truth
What is prayer? Get to the bottom of the root
Who is God and where is He?
Aren't our prayers for God meant to be?
If we don't know God, but still we pray
Then who is listening to what we say?
We pray because we have some desire
Or because of problems that consume us like fire
Isn't there a reason we go to God?
Or just for fun do we pray to our Lord?
Some people pray because they truly love God
There are others who pray out of fear of the Lord
A very few pray to express their thanks
They evolve in life's journey and cross to God's banks
Prayer has a purpose, to God we do talk
Some stop to listen, they don't just walk
Prayer that works is a two-way communication
A tool that leads to ultimate liberation
There are rituals and superstitions in every religion
They make us get confused and cloud our vision
We are so controlled by what our scriptures say
That we just blindly follow, day after day
Is prayer all about mumbling something to God?
Is it about praying, not knowing who is our Lord?
Unless we first know who God truly is
We may say many prayers, but the main point we miss
Therefore, in quest of God, we must go
We must ask questions until we ultimately know
God is not someone made of bone and skin
He is a Power that lives within
How do we know that God is a Power?
When will we stop praying at some religious tower?
If we must realize the truth about God
First know, who is the one that's praying to the Lord
Self-realization marks the beginning of our quest
It asks questions putting every belief to test
Then we realize that we are not ego, body, and mind
We are the Divine Soul, this truth we find
What is the Soul? Is it different in you and me?
The Soul is a Power, different it cannot be
It is one Power that gives life to everything on earth
It goes when we die and it comes at birth
She said that this man, my grandfather,
held her head under the black pool water,
while up above, a German man leaned
out of his window, against the moss and brick
to scream violently: "Don't hurt that woman!
She is the most beautiful woman in the world!"
The tone of the man's voice, authoritative, cold
broke my grandfather's concentration and he
let her bob up to the surface, coughing, sputtering
in an almost drowned manner, while still maintaining a beauty uncommon to humans, as she stole a quick glance
to the heavens of heavens to acknowledge the saving
power of a stranger.
This is her story today, as she sits on three moth-eaten,
velvet pillows to make her tall enough to reach the kitchen table.
She has shrunk in her old age and is no longer "the most beautiful woman
in the world".
She sips her black coffee out of Russian demitasse cups with diamond emblems
until she reaches the grinds which have slept in warmth on the bottom,
to fool her, she thinks.
She nibbles her white toast with butter and honey and shivers in the air conditioning as royalty should.
When she has filled the remaining ten percent of her stomach (the other ninety percent was removed from the worry
of ulcers when technology was in it's infant stage), she continues her story.
It lasts all afternoon and twists and winds around the basic sub-plot that, somehow, her beauty and dignity was
acknowledged in the worst circumstances, and, with her infinite wisdom, the world was made a better place.
Her voice soaks into the wooden cabinets, and will remind me forever of strong, fresh-brewed coffee, and I think,
right at that moment as I look at my hands (which I know will resemble hers one day), that I miss my grandfather.
The most gentle man in the world, whose thoughts never amounted to more than wanting to garden well, or shape
the perfect pizza in his pizza shop.
This man, who set chairs on tables to clear the floor before he danced in pure Zorba the Greek manner, with a glint in
his innocent eyes.
This man, who looked at this woman, this fabricating, self-absorbed, once beautiful woman, with an adoration never
deserved.
I clean up the dishes, while still listening, and kiss her good bye on her forehead.
Jittery from stories caffeinated and old, I chose to walk the long way home, lightening my mood and shedding her
words along the way.
they say forgive and forget
remember and hold to account
seems to be frowned upon
and memorable events take a while
to manifest digest and process
narratives change with the core
at every reason and heart
‘everything is wrong and it is all your fault
what exactly you will have to find out yourself
I will put our relationship into a drawer
and possibly open it again once you …’
have changed to her wishes?
relinquished any meaningful part in the drama?
conceded to her perfidious pantomime?
are totally broken?
‘you claimed that one cannot talk to a depressed one
but were you not projecting your discontent?’
years on the metaphorical couch
like a spider in a cobweb of distrust
attempting to just pull one string
breaking at rock bottom
with someone else throwing rocks
from a fortress of a glass house
accusations lies silence pretense of innocence
and turning children against him
he walked a difficult path
many a time running on empty
but eventually it turned out to be
the best thing that could happen
and he found new love
made peace with his offspring
invested in kindness and compassion
now lives with his lover and soulmate
chapters however can only be closed
when the epilogue has been written
when the spine of the book
stands upright in truth
for years he maintained that she
could not have done any better
did not cope with her own crisis
and he absolved her from further critique
the protagonist eventually found his voice
He has become I and I lay to rest
my memories of that evil malignant
and greedy you chose to become
it was you who tore me apart
and watched with satisfaction
when I became vulnerable and depressed
discredit where discredit is you
it is not about settling score
or spread sheets of retribution
simple honesty will do and
I don’t have to be nice
because poems understand
and refrain from judging the writer
but deep in my soul I do not care
that you have turned lonely and bitter
because while I am privy to
exquisite satisfied pleasure
you made your bed
and that is empty for a reason
trying to hack out my eyes and essence
made me spread my wings joyfully
and you are an old haggard crow
merely feeding on crumbs
05th August 2021
There is never an ending
to the spending
a world of paper
and plastic to collect
and horde
clothes
and cars
and homes
and jewelry
and fine wine
and paintings
stocks and bonds
vacations
and expectations
entire vocations
devoted to
disguising the numbers
the Caribbean masquerade
to volumes of recorded
purchases and voices
of invoices
making
discreet
choices
all
to extend
the accumulation
of dates
and names
places and faces
communications
and connections
at breakneck
speed
must fill the need
must fill the need
a shouting browbeating
broadband
handing over
fistfuls of cash
to make sure
make certain
only the best
the finest
the rarest
of air is not available
for
the underwater martyrs
the silent box dwellers
the empty bottle collectors
the wheelchair drifters
the SRO limbo sellers
the workers at
the bottom
of the
fast
food
chain
and the indigent gamblers
who line the halls
to knock on doors
of government departments
crippled by reckless
and corrupt state
administrations
choking the dwindling
sources
and resources
that have
nothing to do
but
count the days
and ways
to disappoint
disarm dismay
dispute the reputations
and applications
held in sweaty palms
eager
to begin living
to end the doubt
to end the not having
the counting of pennies
the slow heroin erosion
the unbroken hollowness
the whiskey-soaked
ravages of vacant histories
better-forgotten memories
of cold emergency rooms
to end being
in a world
apart
a world
of resentment
of fear and hate and anger
of dark empty streets
empty recriminations
empty promises
made to themselves
by themselves
harming themselves
or
arming themselves
to rob to steal
to maim
to take whatever they can
for as long as they can
to approximate
the wonder and magic
of having what you need
when you need it or want it
to not have to beg
to not have to humiliate
or be humiliated
to not have to watch
the ease of others
who have a casual
contempt for misfortune
and respect for nothing
but their own wealth
of deception
to breeze through
tall golden doors
to an unbroken string
of shiny bright todays
and tomorrows
to not have to
lunge for hope
and
never grasp it
in all ways
and forever
just out of
reach