Long Butting Poems
Long Butting Poems. Below are the most popular long Butting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Butting poems by poem length and keyword.
LIFE IS POETRY...POETRY IS…
Poetry wears the words of smiles and tears,
And speaks of stumbling through graveyards
And up the aisles to ancient altars;
Falling off of sidewalks and through the cracks of life
Then rising up to stargaze from thin lines;
Tripping over can’t and could have,
Butting heads with treasured idols;
Tracking sticky mud across the new waxed
Marble floor of the soul –
Scratching graffiti on the walls of the heart
Or gently laying kisses on fresh jagged wounds –
Carrying baggage filled with
Stones of calendar pages;
Chanting loudly of sunrise and sunset,
Blending crystal snow with newborn leaves;
Escaping clutches of midnight marauders
Embracing the fairness of rose and mauve;
Ignorance ignored screaming,
Scrapping tender knees and elbows on pebbled concrete,
Painting chaos – weaving breaths – unclogging drains –
Knitting together quietness in blooms of Claire de lune.
Poetry wears the words of frowns and grins
And tells of fat ducklings waddling through spring;
Wrapping scars in isolation,
Discarding blindness
In ancient hearts and newborn souls
And all the in between;
Cleaning closets stuffed to overflowing
With emptiness;
Running with ambivalence,
Looking into the eyes of the unresolved,
Fighting wrinkles or teetering on high heels –
Tuxedos rushing by the tattered,
Ragged holding hands with
Fire dancers balancing upon tight ropes –
Drinking fully from a trough
Of clearest spirits, giving up thirst,
Then wrestling with the fevers
Of inspiration through witness eyes,
Shouting across the centuries in baritone and soprano,
Reaching out and gathering in – juggling balls and overflowing plates.
The very marrow and the core.
The words of a poet yesterday – “Pretty, hell, poetry is life.”
Robert Penn Warren – June 1986
WHEN PEOPLE STOP TALKING TO YOU
THEY START TALKING ABOUT YOU
MAKING IT DIFFICULT
TO BE WITH THE ONE YOU LOVE
CAUSING CONFUSION
LIVING AN ALLUSION
TRYING TO UNRAVEL EVERY GAIN
YOU EARNED
BUTTING IN TO MAKE IT THERE TURN
WHATS A FELLA TO DO
WHATS A FELLA TO DO
WHEN SHE STOPS LOVING YOU
SHE'S PROBABLY LOVING SOMEONE ELSE
IT'S TRUE TO FACT
THE FICTION IS IN IT'S SELF
YOU CAN RELY ON TRUST
BUT YOU KNOW IT'S TRUE
WHEN YOUR AT YOUR END
AND IT'S ONLY YOU
TELL ME WHATS A FELLA TO DO
WHATS A FELLA TO DO
YOU'LL LOSE HER LIKE YOU GOT HER
YOU'VE CREEPIN AROUND
TIP TOEING THROUGH THE DAISIES
NOT MAKING A SOUND
SHE'LL FIND ANOTHER
WHEN YOUR NOT AROUND
WHATS A FELLA TO DO
TELL ME WHATS A FELLA TO DO
Head hung low, walking dead and hollow.
As I hear your voice, and I wait for the pain to follow.
Your hurtful words sting like angry bees.
I try to get away from you on shaky knees.
How did we go from Heaven to Hell?
If you ever loved me, its sure hard to tell.
You are sadistic as you stalk and taunt me.
Its over, why can't you just leave me be?
Your words wound and slash me to the core.
Just when I think you're done you yell some more.
As if that isn't bad enough, tomorrow you'll call and be sweet.
Asking me to take you back and find somewhere to meet.
Twisted and torn, I know I can not bear to be with you alone.
Its safer for me to only talk with you on the phone.
I know my life is in danger if I agree to take you back.
Even if you wanted to, you can't stop at a slap
You get so angry when you don't get your way.
Last time I ended up in the hospital for more than a day.
Push me away, then try to pull me back.
With your mood swings, I can never keep track.
I wish I had a switch to turn off my feelings.
I try to be hard but my life you are stealing.
I have to be strong and keep you away.
If I don't, I may not live to see another day.
Its not as easy as it sounds to leave a loved one.
But sometimes, despite love, you have to know when you're done.
Love is not always enough to keep you together.
I'd rather have my life, than be scared forever.
*For all that have asked, YES, this is a true story and it IS about me, I left my husband
almost two years ago after he almost killed me, by head butting me and breaking my face, I
love my children and my life more than I love him. I wrote this so women (and sadly, some
men) will know you CAN leave an abusive relationship. It isn't easy, but neither is dying for
their anger, either*
[Conservatory: A glorified greenhouse stuck
on the side of your house.
This really happened yesterday, and today…
Okay, the cactus is poetic license]
*
Well, he pooped over here and he pooped over there
That dumb pigeon pooped almost EV-ERY-WHERE
I couldn’t believe what came out of his ass
Each time that pigeon crashed into the glass
He couldn’t get out and got really irate
And head butting glass made that bird defacate
There’s poop on the windows, the chairs and the floor
Cos that stupid pigeon kept missing the door
The worst of it wasn’t the mess on the mat
But the chaotic outcome when pigeon woke cat
House plants and lamp stands were flying around
With light bulbs and compost strewn over the ground
I was left cut and bleeding from scratches and stabs
And I’m smothered in band aids and numerous scabs
But it was neither pigeon nor cat that attacked us
It’s simply what happens when catching a cactus
It grew dark and I switched the outside light on
And then when I looked, that mad pigeon was gone
I felt rather smug and a little bit clever
Til my cat started coughing… and spat out a feather
And that should have been the end of my story
Of the pigeon that ransacked my conservatory
But it’s hot today, I’ve got doors open wide
And two psycho pigeons have just flown inside!
Well, sod them… if they want to cave their heads in
By dive bombing windows, I’ll watch them and grin
But a conservatory, I think I should say
Is a really bad place for a cat litter tray!
*
[Apologies to UK Soupers; apparently, we can say ‘ass’ but not ‘A.r.s.e.’]
The answers deceive
The questions stand
The dancers leave
To track the sand
Round robin conspiracy
Threatens us all
The letters all lower case
The finality TALL
Butting my head
Inside of the line
Where does it end, Father
Maybe this time
The black and the white of it
The tall and the short
The poisons the same
One knife in the pork
New action may draw
What inaction restrains
What once again, once again
Once again drains
So back to the future
Back to the past
Choose not your weapon
You’ve had your last laugh
The wind’s in the vestibule
New breath in the hymn
Your darkness commands
What the light needs to win
The seven unsavory
The eight still to roast
The turkey unstuffed
Leaving room for the ghost
So ride away, ride away
Ride away all
The damage inflicted
This hammer a mall
The blood’s in the alleyway
Life beckons on
Death has been slaughtered
—as begins the new song
(Rosemont Pennsylvania: August, 2014)
One of those castoff items that we shove
Promptly deemed ‘junk’ upon a second glance.
I hid you on the highest shelves above
With a slim ‘someday’ of a second chance.
In solitude you stoically withstood
The cruel confinement you were sentenced to.
With dogged demeanour of solid wood
You kept your composure as if you knew.
Oft butting heads over your checked acts,
My late dad and his dad battled so well.
Though I delved not in your strategic tracts,
My grandsons set you free from jail cell spell.
That chessboard - centrepiece I now hold dear,
Your pieces shine, each one is carved with love.
When boys butt heads I smile in silent cheer,
Imagine dads are smiling from above.
Artifacts may lose temporary trend,
Then triumph tenfold in the timely end.
CRAZY HORSE
My crazy cat's called Crazy Horse;
abandoned at birth, she's a bit different
like calls to like its said.
No mummy to teach catty behaviour,
tiny blue eyes barely open
desperate to live, on discarded cat kibble.
Brought home, snuggled to warm,
under my chin -
suddenly – eyes still shut, smelt our blue vein
in bed snacks, special treat!
Fierce fluffed one competed easily
quickly got the lion's share
we were too bemused to argue.
Tiny tum replete – napping all.
Then wah, what where? Jerked awake
tiny pogo stick legs
boinged all night long!
On our duvet covered chests
seems blue cheese an instant fix
for dearth of mother's milk!
And hasn't stopped galloping since.
Her favourite game is chasey
which keeps me warm!
Has taken 10 years to finally
jump to my knee.
Takes much talking, trying both sides
patting my legs til makes the final lap.
Still wild instincts want to flee
doesn't stop her nagging me loudly
butting in with her conversation
when I'm on the phone.
(especially to the bank)
who puzzle over my giggles
during our numerical discussion.
Her second name 'Talks to Flies'
though not a healer, has the 2nd
language of cats
though it's usually employed
in talking to birds!
So as I've said slightly wrong
in the head.
As a youngster puzzled me greatly
beans I'd picked would disappear
to be found much later -
under furniture desiccated.
Caught her one day – stalking prey
intent – crouched, waiting
on a freshly picked bean to pounce!
Oh dear! Still no worries
for the native bird flock!
On arrival home, she hurtles thru cat door;
galloping and skidding mats about
So happy to see me
my doggy like Crazy Horse!
Please allow me to
Introduce myself to you
I'm more than human
I am Deacon Blues
I seem to have lost my muse
Is it all a ruse?
I'm also Robot
Mr. Roboto I am
All made in Japan
I've blown my fuses
Wires all burnt and twisted
All circuits are down
Joints need oiling
And my main frame is boiling
My coils recoiling
My hat's a bit loose
Can't fit into my blue shoes
Or my old black suite
Songs of Dr. Seuss
My life is very obtuse
Ah, what's the use!
I was Mr. Sam
I forgot now who I am
Singing songs of spam
Take it on the lamb
Still butting heads with the ram
My whole world's gone blam!
It's looney toon land
My old ship has hit the sand
Playing with the band
I am now insane
Don't know where to find my brain
Oh, the pain, the pain!
My mind's gone lazy
Everything has gone hazy
This poem's crazy
I remember now
I am and and ancient mandroid
Made in Sirius
It's no fun being
An old ancient alien
Let me be your friend
I am Deacon Blues
And this is my own haiku
My hat's off to you
The chances, remote
that a dog and a goat
should strike up a friendship this way.
It’s important that you know
that Broccoli and Juno
spend hours at play every day.
Now Juno’s a force
as big as a horse;
her long white hair flows like a mane.
The size of her paws
would sure give one cause
to give that dog plenty of rein.
Sir Broccoli’s a nubian
who loves to be butting in;
he’s never far out of the mix.
When he lowers his head,
he fills them with dread,
but Juno, she gets in her licks.
They both get to snorting
with gleeful cavorting,
and you wonder if one will get hurt.
Two birds of a feather
In all kinds of weather,
lying side by side there in the dirt!
~~~ {There's a crowd, there's a crowd, there's a crowd of
loneliness} ~~~
Here I sit surrounded by party people bizz, buzzing gleefully.
But I'm in the pits down in my zone, So I can only see me.
Thus, death to the chit chatty tones and slurred speech.
For their voices become catty echoes far from ears reach.
Got up to walk down beaming streets stepping hip to side
unable to speak.
Gulping squawk sounds, of steaming weeps ebbing, drip and slide
down unstable cheeks.
Can't hold back forsaking eye contact my prides' destroyed
as I try to avoid the grandstand of gaudy faces, gaudy
clothes; of hand to body collision. For lonely teardrops
cloud my vision.
~~{I wish it would rain, I wish it would rain,.....
I would sing it if I could sang}~~~
Head butting and unsorted collides. Zombie strutting in
morbid strides. In search of a safe haven. A wide
divide's what I'm craven, of needed segregation to hide
in heeded dissociation.
Joyful laughter, gleeful merriment and happiness all
about. While my lungs fill with hot winds pressed
against my chest in demand to be let out.
The voice of silence, the quiet stillness of the night.
The pains of yearning for thee with all my might.
Curse the agony of my plight.
~~~{Can I please, can I please put my mind at ease}~~~
Where art thou, Oh shelter... Ye place of refuge? Do
not leave my spirit to wilt and welter. Grant my soul
your peace and grace. Nae of down pouring tears deluge.
In my sorrowful demotion to bear the toil of these
boisterous turmoil secures the coiled and shrouded
aloofness of my crowded loneliness.
~~~ {There's a crowd, there's a crowd, there's a crowd of
loneliness} ~~~
Supreme balance is a hand toss.
Today it is I who bear the cross.