Long Cartridges Poems
Long Cartridges Poems. Below are the most popular long Cartridges by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cartridges poems by poem length and keyword.
Shoes and clothes all on the floor;
Video game cartridges piled high from the ceiling to the door;
Music blaring no one's listening;
Cuz too old to hear the old the age you are open doors;
Won't you come open doors
Walk the line stand by me
You'll be fine
I'll show you life as it should be I'll liberate you come walk the line
Won't you come to open doors
Walk the line stand by me
You'll be fine
I'll show you life as it should be a liberate you and then walk the line
Polished china in the kitchen cabinet
Walking came in the corner no not having it
Got up late dentures in the jar
Scared hoping I won't I will not fall
Got to go downstairs to get in the car
All the rules you yet to find you complain about them all
No one listens to you you're fighting you crawl
The world too can be the other centurion
We too are discriminated walk with me talk with me
I'll tell you about your history
You and I can cry together while we both embrace our misery
Open doors won't you come walk the line stand by me
You'll be fine I'll show you life as it should be
I liberate you and then I'm free
Unexplained Monopoly
6/13/21
Written by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
She stared into an empty space,
as she stirred what remained of her mother.
Her eyelids swollen,
with cried and uncried tears
that drained her tear glands into dryness.
Smoke still rose from the barrels
of guns whose cartridges
refused to empty.
Death smiled in her mirrors,
obscuring her feeble grasp on life.
One stray soldier rushed near;
she begged him to cut the thread tying her to life.
But he ignored her,
for his own heart too hung in his mouth.
Even her grief he ignored.
Many children and women
shared the deathbed of her mother.
Only gritty sand served as their mattress,
while caked blood clogged their veins,
and vultures circled to feast on mangled flesh.
She blamed not the soldiers,
but those hidden behind round tables
who ordered the destruction and death
of innocents
that understood none of their political riddles.
Surely the future is too crowded
to create for her a space.
Poverty waits for her to see tomorrow,
before her belly tells her
its emptiness kills faster than bullets.
Yet those who shot dead her mother
care less what becomes of her tomorrow.
Their mandate is to kill, and kill they do.
But who will tell those iron-headed leaders
that wars sink the poor deeper into poverty?
50 cartridges of Nitrous oxide
the old drunk called it hippie crack
One spun case after another
dozing in the bed
His brain pulsing, blood starting to boil
Menudo from the spiritual Mexicans cured his hangover
smoked some weed
covered the stillborn kitten with a laundry basket
Sipping bottom shelf gin
Eyes half open
slurring words through crooked grins
cracked teeth exposed..
He kisses the sacred heart of Jesus
And chugs the backwash
From the empty cans
Lining his bedside
Lola comes home from saturday mass
He can smell the familiar smell
Of pork adobo creeping through the vents
Half asleep
He joins her at the table
“BLESS US O LORD, AND THESE THY GIFTS, WHICH WE ARE ABOUT TO RECEIVE, FROM THY BOUNTY, THROUGH CHRIST OUR LORD…”
And before he could say amen
the feeling of vomit coating his mouth
Stops him in an instant
She makes his plate
And stares at him in silence
As if knowing
But never says a word
When he wakes up
He can smell the lit candle that sits
In the corner of the wall
Where she prays
Next to his bedroom door
Ave maria, Ave maria!
She looks to the holy mother
talks to the statue
about the sins of her sons
And goes to bed with a tired heart
Whiskey bleeding through his pores
He feels a pull
toward the tiny baptist church
Near the center of town
on the corner of Pecan St
He throws his shoes on
slurs the act of contrition
and goes to sit amongst
the honkie kin of Luther
The thought of communion crosses his mind
still unsure whether its withdrawals or the spirit
pulling him to partake in the sacred blood
He invokes St Joseph
reaches for the rosary in his pocket
fumbling its beads
as they collide with beer caps
from the night before
After the service
he walks along the hwy
committed to the act of penance
each step a pilgrimage
going nowhere in particular
faithful to the spirit
regardless..
"Walking on Water in the Between Worlds Place"
when darkness came
the remaining,
those beautiful
transingularity
neo-automatons,
imbued with dark matters
running through the wired
dendrites of their splintered brain,
where implanted, the voices
of the neo-god speaks
instructing those
voluptuous and fresh
criminal bodies
calling the hungry
and wanton in, like magnets -
the soft sell was easy.
all hard served, fast and slick.
at first visceral, then,
it was deemed
the intellect wasn’t
necessary -
the new sensual feeling,
bodies and mind
caressed by a
small Neuralink RFID.
like snow white
encased in silicate glass,
for a while asleep, when
turned on, very much
awake.
some called it,
the great gambling chip;
flashing light signals
heavy free energy sitting
on malleable shoulders
that danced wars robotic,
puppets chained and pulled
like walking torture chambers,
loaded cartridges spinning
metal hearts cloned to ignite
like atomic bombs kissing
seconds to midnight.
clockwork armies
were laid bare
by the fire behind
eyes alone, sharp knives
like lasers eviscerate
those transfixed to
a new state of -
"Behold
I am come
Home";
they all eventually
implode to the
nowhere place.
only Love injected
into what exists soulless
half djinn in that desolate
between worlds place,
with a kiss, passed on the
voiceless tongue,
the tablets, wafer thin,
now like Moses speak -
a new ecstasy
melting the monochrome
back to barely human
on their pronoun knees.
targets sometimes
could be saved
before the strangest
Winter arrived
in the underworld,
its new revolution -
revelations raging
in the time of the
chromatic wasting,
chronicles of the unsaved
walking on water
in the between worlds place
the children of Lot
lost in the grips
of the new world
that dreadful
dimensionless
judgement domain
forever in
episcop-alien
glitch
on repeat
repeat
repeat
repeat
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"We live dangerous lives
We have the power of will
We turn logic around
We feed the engine of change"
*Image of Tony Dow by News.
AUDIO
VIDEO of 500 Miles by Peter, Paul & Mary
Take Care Wally Cleaver
Wally: Watch the hair!
My faculties are under arrest!
I have been subpoenaed by a Board of Inquiry!
Namely, Mr. & Mrs. Parents of OMgoodness Boy!
Begins the questioning! (blah, blah, blah)
Ward: WHY!
Retorts!
Wally: But dad (blah, blah, blah)
Empathetic.
June: Well, why not?
In-kind.
Wally: Well, mom (blah, blah, blah)
Backroom deliberations begin!
Ward: Ohh! Don't give me that look!
June: But my dear he's just a kid?
Ward: I'll even accept the concept of a Billy the outlaw
as there is some hopeful measure of action,
good or bad, but that's not the conclusion you're
drawing is it, sweetheart?
June: I know I've been turning my back on this, and
once I've turned around, there you are, not a
happy camper, our families, friends, and
neighbors, are all staring back at me, so I've
decided to let you deal with him and I'll stand
by whatever the ruling you decide to enact.
Ward: Well, Mr. OMgoodness, we hereby sentence you
to collect all of your electronic devices and game
cartridges and put them in a large box, then
you're going to clean your room, the garage,
and the yard, then mow the lawn, rake the yard,
then water the plants, after you're done, take a
shower and come down for dinner.
Wally: Wow, that's what an execution feels like.
Ward: No, think of it as a life sentence.
Wally: (sigh!)
June: We love you, honey.
Wally: I know that mom.
Ward: Oh, and by the way, I want to see your computer
keyboard in that box and I'll come around when
you're showering to lock it up in the attic.
(Later that night)
Ward: Good night son.
Wally: Good night dad.
June: Good night honey.
Wally: Good night mom.
(Bedroom doors close, and a computer light comes
on as a young MIT wannabe, clicks on settings and
presses "Online Keyboard")
Whatta day! Brutal, just ... brutal!
It'll be a long night ...
Good night Beav!
2022 July 27
As the Bus with a sight, rumbled along,
Its weary cargo slumped, for the journey was long.
Babies in agony clung to wretched mothers
Oblivious they are without fathers,
Their only concern, to suck and be patted
By mothers who in gloom look emaciated.
With melancholy gnawing at me by such a sight
My eyes let the tears flow out of pity and fright.
A gentle nudge and a wrinkled face,
Was enough to build a case
"Ma pikin" said the old woman, "why you di cry?"
With a sight, out of the window I looked up at the sky.
I weep for the Wazizi who resides in mystery;
I weep for the burnt villages residing in misery
For the men brought low by cartridges,
For the school kids in Kumba and its villages,
Not batting an eye for the refugees in Nigeria
Who, far from home, die of thirst and malaria.
Oh grandma, don't ask me why I weep
For leaving in fright, my own life does creep,
For though I brood over the kids of Ngarbuh
My kith and kin still flee from Oku.
Just to starve under bridges in Douala
And sell their bodies in beer parlours in Akwa.
Why wouldn't I, for my brethren, weep
When under the sun, we are butchered like sheep,
Incarceration for the purpose of extortion
Fuses with degradation and extermination,
Has given birth to fear and consternation
Oh!! My once sweet nation.
Oh Grandma, please permit me weep
For even now fleeing, the road is still steep.
From behind and In front, danger looms
And for want of food, babies fed on mushrooms.
Screeching tires, spoke of our journeys end
And into uncertainty, we embarked, for which our lives depend.
©Temajung Michael T.
Partial Paper - A Poet Heart-
When ink carries its final tune
Moonshine-like liquid sweeps the mind
Bottles of ink will fill the pen
Composing a symphony on every line
Drops of passion all over the mask you wear
Nothing compares to black stains and broken nails
This part of you
"A CAN'T BE REMOVED" tattoo
The toughest skin you'll ever live in
Fountain pens of split identities
Who Are You?
Sinking words like no other
Poisoned ink piercing every rhyme
Inferior poet, making the heart pure
Anger shattered walls "GIVE ME MORE!"
inclined with a desire to paint all day,
Breathing and beating in every way
Toxic lines, from which ink flows
Inhaling images from the world
Deep and cold sorrowed emotions
True love is always easy to poetize
Dear Poet: "Ink Never Lies."
Pretty pink acrostic ink when nearby
Sugar and salt, Epic taste of reality
Ballads sang under the full moon
Sunny Sonnets, on any rainy day
Odes of rivers from your past
A dark smile jotting down memory lane
Monologue tears brought under pressure
Loading cartridges of fresh Senryu and Haiku"
Dramatic red runs through your veins when all is done
Unfolding old and new propaganda's
POET: You are my favorite verse in every stanza
Only this, and nothing more
Writing is like giving birth to the moon
It is a nice sunny day
in the eastern Riverina
It is a perfect day to go for a ride
on my klr 650
might go for a ride to
circumnavigate Hume weir
yep
sounds like a plan
so I am thinking about
dropping in a Bunnings
to get some nails
to finish lining that shed
hm, then I could go to bcf
to get some gas cartridges
for the camp stove
yeah, no worries
that will all fit in my backpack
so, done all that
riding along the winding road
and see that the town of Tallangatta
has the big garage sale
I pull up at a few sites and
stumble upon this quaint
old wind up alarm clock
I wind it up a little, it works
ticking away nicely
it goes in the backpack
It is a beautiful day
and I enjoy my ride on the klr 650
as I get back to Holbrook
I get a snack at the bakery
and am about to head home
but the highway patrol decides to
do a random breath test on me
which returns zero
Strangely enough, between the noise
of the traffic and a few local swearing about
the lack of rain
the police officer hears a ticking noise
in my backpack
he seems concerned about that
and immediately gets his partner
to pin me down
and calls for backup
They have this scanner
which detects bomb making material
in my pack, and a ticking sound
so I am in trouble now
the backup units turn up
the area gets locked down
I am thrown into an armored vehicle
handcuffed etc.
The bomb squad turn up
they don't like the gas cylinders mix
with the nails and the ticking noise
Funny enough, they don't believe my story
why I bought those items......
It was a good day to go
for a ride on my klr 650.
Dots From A Box
Black dots reside inside a black box on table top
Blue dots are housed in pens as ink, in old cartridges or wells
At the end of sentences they come out to punctuate
To stop a stream of thought on page
Otherwise they would escape with no ideas
Words would never end
Properly placed with surgeon like precision
The pen comes down on pure white paper
A laser pin point tip releases liquid
Forms into a period
Melds on the surface at that concluding spot
On the two dimensional world becoming one
An indelible dot at the end of words and phrases
If left to their own devices, periods would go on parade
Lined up in rows to march like this . . . . . . . . . . .
The Gunman
In Montreal, in a bar frequented by shadowy
people who used French phrases, making money
fraud and mayhem, I bought a revolver that still
had five bullets in its chamber
The next morning, our ship was bound for Japan.
I worried about the gun, perhaps used in a heist
where someone got killed, and there was
The Kennedys are still in our memory
Chief, they said, you look absent-minded, what's
Wrong, nothing is wrong. I have a slight cold.
Near the Sea of Japan, I threw the weapon overboard
because I knew if I had a gun when I was growing up
I would, in my anger, have used a gun
I threw the revolver overboard, and an hour later, the
cartridges I didn't want they to meet up
The next day, I was my old self, free of guilt