Long Breeders Poems
Long Breeders Poems. Below are the most popular long Breeders by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Breeders poems by poem length and keyword.
A roast turkey sat on the table,
He would have flown off,
If he was able.
The humans put a stop to that.
When they filled him with stuffing,
Then lathered his breast with fat.
He wished he was a chicken today,
After they plucked his feathers,
He'd run away.
But he wasn't chicken, not at all,
He was a turkey,
Proud and tall.
Turkeys have got used to strife,
They are hard to beat.
Until they see that sharp carving knife,
As those turkey breeders start to eat.
Gobble Gobble, without a thought
For that poor defenceless bird
Or of the anguish, their feast had brought,
Without a Turkey word.
~the Fear of Never~ A DRINK TO REMEMBER!
And the fire catches every time, my heart needs a sip
I bear no shame pouring, poisoned pabulum whisky down
Lost in a place with hungry whores, ink paying gigolos
This night a respected gentleman put's on his evening gown
He sits in front of a mic playing the same old sad song
Fitted out in drag, his wife has no clue
Holy breeders trying to change my shoes
Lingering from the Cute Chinaman, running his tab sky high
Bluebirds of jealousy, set round the vintage Barstool like fools
Minds overpowered and threaten to the very nub
I am drunk-- in his eye,
He receives a macabre confession of possessiveness
I am drunk-- in her eye,
She has a sick confession of subconsciousness
Broken loose from a negative, regressive state of mind
Sit and enjoy this broken bottle of champagne
Unspoken rage in every empty can left behind
A shot glass drops from my unstable hands longing to hold a pen
I look into a mirror and embrace every meaning of stability
Blotting out the madness behind a metal cage of reality
At times, I feel the need to bring down this masquerade
A drink so hostile, I can't even remember my image and name
Too many scars, from the foster of paper and pen
My dependents are drunken demons from a traumatized childhood
Tonight I will legislate a special thanks
Holding up my cup, until death finds my note
I will smile, at every Judge and Jury, during karaoke night
Shutting down my eyes, fantasizing everything's gonna be alright
I will not jilt knowing, writers block haunted my days away
Insecure hoarding monsters enjoying spoil forgotten words
Tonight I thirst like never before, my tongue inscribes around a tin cup
I am not eating up by it, no matter how long I've drowned in it
This is my kind of whisky, my thoughts, my days of ammo
To tell you the truth, I possess no desire to drink
It's all about the love of poetry and how sober, I become (WITHOUT)
The monsters that reside inside, have one thing to say
"Give me Poetry, or give me Death!"
by: PD
Elmont was a good father
Children never a bother
Having two daughters years after he wed
Everything well planned not much debt
Rose and Susie were their names
Beautiful flowers blooming in a family picture frame
There was an incident long ago
With these two lovely does
When the red head got mad one time
Slugged her sister Susie one eye did shine
“I want to change direction!”
Rose claimed an objection
In the form of a rejection
Breaking tradition
Ears closed not able to listen
Was Rosie’s mission
“Clever move
You still have a lot to prove”
Black Eyed Susie did respond
Being relatively calm
About the other Derby race
That could have winner’s circle space
When their dad heard about this
He was ready to raise an angry fist
But after smelling a white carnation
He was placid very patient
Deciding to make a date
Making reservations to visit the Garden State
It was there
He brought the pair
To show them buds
Soon to be lovely studs
After their campaign
For fortune and fame
Elmont gave his kids a Visa credit card
Since they worked real hard
“This is your nickel and dime jar
You are my special stars”
Noting the special inscription that was read
Hinting that there are stallion’s egos that need to be fed
Nine months have passed
Since Rose and Susie’s birthday last
Elmont retired to sip from the cup given to breeders
And now it was ever so sweeter
On this his wife’s Labor Day
There was only one thing Elmont had to say
Two hundred and thirty eight days to the first weekend in May
Politics is a dirty game,
So indeed is religion –
One screws with your mind,
The other with your soul;
One promises heaven on earth,
The other, heaven after death.
Trust not these savvy advocates –
Politicians, priests, mullahs, imams,
These breeders of
the ghosts and the goblins,
These keepers of
the deities and the demons,
These self-styled ‘well-wishers’
of your body and soul.
Like leeches they’ll
latch onto your fears
and to your gullibility,
Until they have sucked
you dry of your free will,
Your aspirations,
Your wealth.
Oh, what not they’ll do
to restrain your free spirit,
Bogging you down with
fears, guilt and penance.
Seen openly are
their murky minds,
Seen openly are
their shallow ideals,
Seen openly are
their cheating hearts;
They tout love, freedom, peace
wherever they go,
Yet spawn nothing but
hatred, violence, misery.
One is politically religious,
The other, religiously political!
Males are hardwired to compete
While for females it’s cooperate.
That’s because males need to have status
To attract the best females,
That would be the best breeders,
While females need to have help
In the hard work of raising children
And maintaining a home.
So males have a higher tolerance for risk
Than females, which I’m sure to many
Is a good argument for women being smarter
While the men are obviously stronger.
It’s that brain over brawn thing,
Which us brawny ones are happy to indulge.
But anyway, for some the risk is all,
While for others it isn’t even a thing
Until it becomes one, out of necessity
Not choice.
I’ve heard it said
That courage is not the lack of fear
But the willingness to face it, work through it,
Live with it, side by side, like a shadow,
“Today’s a good day to die”
And all that good warrior stuff.
No pain no gain, they also say,
That anything worth having
Is worth suffering for.
The suffering making it all the sweeter
As it ripens our appreciation
Of the value it creates.
Every mother who’s ever given birth,
At least every one before the age of modern medicine,
Knows the truth of that saying.
It isn’t that the pain is sought as a perverse pleasure
In some masochistic way,
But that it is simply endured,
Because it’s inescapable,
Endured with forbearance, patience, and courage,
Not for what the pain is
But for the reward it gives.
Even when that reward
Is simply the cessation of suffering.
(9/7/26)
In savage streets it’s hand to hand
once shrapnel rips the air that’s damned,
no sin of ego in this land.
Baptismal bloodshed echoes
through rust and rebar ghettoes.
There’s bullet swarms and rocket rain
but infantry must hit terrain,
forget I’m sane and rupture veins
with melee-trench-knife flashing,
the bane of peace doves, slashing.
I wear their red of death and drive
my blade abuzz in hellish hive
to stay alive! Yes stay alive!
The apathy of killing,
and twisting morals willing.
My heartbeat kept, a victory,
it pounds just like artillery
but prized, despite the misery.
A witness to destruction
and holy soul’s corruption
and christened by the selfishness
of presidents with negligence,
we soldiers march with evilness.
The narcissistic leaders,
the preachers and the breeders
of rhythmic spates in drumbeat hate
unfurl their nation flags and fate
in bloodlust war… while heads of state
stay combat clean in bunkers.
I witness gurgling utters
your last and bloody gasp for “mama”.
I grasp with greed my breath in chest.
Thought ricochets inside my skull;
I’m still alive! I'm still alive! I'm still alive . . .
Make a noise!
What?
Something, anything that's going to get them movin'.
What?
The mouths.
Mouthe's huh?
The story is told with the mouth.
So is the ******.
Not really, well anything can tell you anything more than that! But this is starting in a tiny village next to Wimbly's Cafe where they serve Italian food Ala carte.
They didn't want to be fancy, these where in-breeders.
No such thing...
They didn't like action unless it was uncensored and back wood.
So?
It was all a dream man!
So.
So be outspoken and move on! Those are baddies! They are bridgeable gaps! Something from an invisible makeshift mah!
Words are always running through my head.
From waking to bed.
Writing from the images I am fed.
Thoughts running to and fro.
Trying to follow as far as they go
Catching a random thought.
Sometimes lessons taught.
They lead I follow.
Sometimes heartbeats sound rather hollow
Viewing the world through my eyes.
Not always blue skies.
But mankind tries.
Following a dream.
Life holds you back it does seem.
Lost in thought.
Understanding sought.
Hard to follow.
When in self pity you wallow.
Clear you mind.
Nothing is ever left behind.
Only memory has a rewind.
Memories of the past.
The future will never be cast.
Writing a story
Of life and it's glory
Like a random thought.
May be hard fought
Follow it through.
The sky will someday turn blue
Modern leaders.
Future readers.
Knowledge breeders.
I'm a child,
Thoughts run wild.
Life is hard to start
Not knowing your part.
Should I follow, .....should I lead.
Will my words plant any seed.
The first breath you take.
Each decision you make.
The future is always at stake.
Times I'm lost in my head.
Can't find my bed.
Where does the story end.
What message does it send.
Will my heart ever mend.
Follow that thought.
I stood up and fought
The lessons they taught.
Tomorrow will soon be now.
Living the only way I know how.
,hearing each word.
Such a silence seldom heard.
Peaceful in its way
At least I have today.
Finding my way to the next line.
Don't worry.....I feel fine.
.Just so you know
Letting go of the flow.
Stepping out of my mind.
Ties that bind.
flashing lights start to fade
In and out of a dream I wade.
The thought slips away.
Time begins with each new day. .
*Image of Child Sad Suffering provided by Pixabay.
Not Of This Earth
Poetic Form: Narrative
Asymmetric mistrals warp speckled vaporous pallidness toward rhythmless voids. Obviates an evacuating azure as a midday star pivots to a twilight qualm. Numinous absent souls of supine prying pupils, yon ethers sinister obscurities, caught in stained oblique ocular whites. Drunken sanguineous veins to gluttony as impish tinkers sporadic doubts riveting telltale images. Metallic aerials ousted the clouds to unperceived iniquity.
Exhausting times since the alien armada infested Earth in a furrow of carnage. Abominable hordes disembarked, eviscerated whole metropolises. Hideous beings, an abysmal sight, smothered the remote vestiges of our civilized world. Cities ere their decimation had numbers reduced in fleeing desperation. The annihilation of life on Earth engrossed thoughts upon the scraps of humanity left. Ravenous creatures generating utter rampage to and abroad, slighting none to decay. Be they mortals or breathing existences of our lesser kingdom, perished in the bloodletting. Some kept as breeders for the succession of consuming time.
A cohort strung of plain folks, thrust as one in a nameless realm, sought ephemeral refuge in a subterranean hollow expanse. Bestill for the scarcity of fragile credence as the intrepid one, espy a grotesque glistening of crimson blood, secreting from the sheathed hoariness of fangs. Sentient rouses heedful footfalls per monstrosity exposed jawbone, that swapped shrill for snorts, neath laden eyes that had shrewdly scowling luminous orbs. Creepy anvils pierced hairline, afeared incus, sensitively measures close octaves, spurs the labyrinth's nerves. Alas, its vulgar pelt of bulky fur stretch hither and fro, bars clamors reach.
Cavernous chambered partitions mimic as trepidation ebbs nevertheless. Unceasing progress to that bemused destiny, as anonymous atrocities, plague each within their shells, e'er crucifying the last semblance of their true selves. Ardent impulses seeping via their lithe ruby channels, crossing neath the bits of their betraying skins, as they escape the nebulous sepulchral. Beasts at 6 o'clock, tho' what unknown lurks yon pits facade, save a future yet to be titled.
2021 May 12
"Kalapana fishing village laid west of Mount Pu'u O'o. Our home was behind the church that sat on an abutment tip that rose slightly higher. The lava poured from the east side of our home, covering it, and rose sixty feet above it and took out the rest of Kalapana Village," ... by the Poet.
Oh great Mount Pu'u O'o, a new kingdom you artfully fuel
to new souls known as 'Mature Hill,' most have blue eyes
forever, my Hawaiian soul, my heart beats to another rule
but 'ere 'forever', once hailed a flat ridge reach our skies
'ere the days of a learned youth, from eyes left to right
commanding sides held lush greens and rocky spots until
my left eye saw a puff of white smoke 'twas my first sight
at home, in the fishing village of Kalapana, you an anthill
was your drip on Earth, altering steam of white and grey
no longer did it conceal your steady shape, I met, forever
and a day, as we both grew up, notable I, but you astray
'neath Earth's stratum being active till sprout together
where we manifested ourselves being wards of maturity
and I, naught wholly bitter nor sweet, yet, held my own
and nurtured only to watch my village grow to obscurity
and betold from solemn whispers 'neath a gravel groan
a past spoke, heed naught the naysayers, that say we
don't walk, talk, see, hear, laugh, cry, or just tell stories
of a past that doesn't walk, talk, see, hear, laugh, cry, be
enabled to tell stories, for they did so, righteous glories
for when they passed, we bid Aloha, buried in blessed
grounds, but nay, I say nay, forever and a day, I say nay
naught the village of Kalapana, after all, it's compressed
it's for the best for that thing, it's naught living, and say
with certain aloofness--it's naught breathing, it is dead.
Kalapana is a fishing village, where fish get caught--they
don't catch themselves, villagers walk, talk--the undead
imagine all of that, indeed I'm impressed, naught calm?
Was Kalapana fishing village ever blessed, I say naught.
Mature Hill you fuel a new type of breeders of dot.coms.