Long Chalk Poems
Long Chalk Poems. Below are the most popular long Chalk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chalk poems by poem length and keyword.
There is, in the Los Angeles area, a well-known brand of milk, called Alta Dena. Near also,
is the city named Alta Dena, and my grandson lives there. I asked him if he had seen the dairy there, and he told me that it does not exist. I then asked him if he had seen herds of milk cattle there and he said that he had not, and doubted that there were any. Of course I wondered why the milk had such a name, and jokingly asked him to look for at least one cow in the city, since it was well built-up, and there were no obvious open pastures at all. I told him that we could only conclude that it this had to b a very famous and rare cow that could supply all the milk needed by a large urban dairy, and thus must be insured, protected from the idle public, and secreted in some private home where she would not be disturbed. The whole story and speculation grew into a riotous family "search" for this wondrous animal. I, of course, ask my grandson each week when I see him, for a progress report on the search. Finally, I have decided to turn it into a poem:
A Search Continues
Something very hush-hush is going on
and Alta Dena folk aren't going to tell.
All cowdom secreted within its bovine lair
yet Bo would stare contentedly at us
with no incursive moo directed at the hellish
vine that she must eat, in lieu of meadow grass.
That ever-present cud must still
be masticated; yea, her celebrated udder
must be filled.
Yet none admit to having sighted her.
Beastiana though she be, no Altadenian
will dare so much as low on her behalf,
no bull, Eden-bound, is ready to exchange
his bold, testicular desire
to service mewling ruminants
who merely run away.
Nay, uncowed are they, though cowed they be,
and cowards not--and if you do not see
their wisdom, chalk it up to power,
Bo's mammary magnificence, so easily
in jeopardy before a single squeeze,
not of a nipple but a trigger
thus applied, and speeding out of sight.
Challenge, indeed, our quest to find
this noble and prolific queen
who dominates with graceful quietude
her milky empire slurping quite
without a care, lush liquid destined
not to slosh within her, rather
in those tumescent tummies
ever crying out for more.
Would I betray them for a share?
Of course. Away with those content
to sour the milk of human kindness
with deception. Let the search go on!
~
I’m sitting in a dark, nothing but a T.V. on.
I’m watching horror movies, or am I watching paint dry.
I see people, I see faces, but I still can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched.
A scream I hear, I chalk it up to the T.V.
A rat-tat-tat, on the door, only to see no one,
I’m not sure I even moved.
I’ve been sleep deprived for days, but today, on the most holy of holy days,
I cannot sleep.
Today is a day of celebration.
For once, the evil, the dark, the macabre, it’s celebrated.
My interest aren’t looked down on, they are praised.
I think to myself, maybe I should makes something, to commemorate
the occasion.
I step to the kitchen, pull out a knife, and begin carving the first thing in sight.
Tonight, it was a pig.
I think last year it was like a bumble-bee or something, I don’t know, it was making a lot of noise and I just wanted some peace.
Either way, after trimming the fat, I had to clean up a bit.
The phrase, bleeding like a stuck pig, totally true.
Blood got everywhere, this is gonna take so much bleach to clean.
So I shove it in the oven, mouth watering at the thought of the sandwich I’m gonna make when it comes out.
I knew animals fought,
But this one fought like it really didn’t wanna be dinner.
I just hit it with the pumpkin it carried.
A few hours pass, and the pig is done.
I trim off the hair, and then the skin.
I can’t stand the skin, so stretchy and not tasty.
It’s like eating elastic, or a shirt or something stupid like that.
Either way, I peel back the skin-and I indulge myself.
Normally I go for the entrails first, but tonight is special.
I go straight for the brains.
So tasty, with just a tinge or copper, or was it iron, I’m not sure
Either way, it was salty, and metallic, and delicious.
I only treat myself to this kind of meal on the special days of the year,
You know the days I’m talking about
Easter, July 4th, tonight
Those days, they are wonderful
So yeah, the screams were annoying, but they stopped now
All that I hear is some laughing, and my own noise
Tap-tap-tap-squish
Tap-tap-squish-tap
It felt divine.
Then it all ended, someone said my time was up.
That pig’s blood went everywhere
Everywhere. It was intense
After all of that, I’m back in front of the T.V.
I’m really not sure if it was a T.V. or a wall.
The first thing I remember other than that night,
Was asking the guards if I could watch Silence of the Lambs on Halloween.
Dear people,
In relation, Historically,
Historians heroically will fake it.
kids can serve themselves said correlation.
Take what is.
Record reels of Real confessions chalk full of truthful lessons on how to feel.
How to push for real progression.
Identify risk.
A population’s silent suggestion.
To get Upset, in that, to get up In accordance to time, all of mankind barely register. a blip on the tip of conception.
A burst of awareness, to realize each set is set up separate in each relative reality of self perception. To see in itself is a credit. To Receive it, It in itself ...
One second, on the surface of decades, in a sea of centuries before existence, well kept, below, a hush to a hum unheard and left off of all of the records.
Unaccredited, Easy targets to get over-credited.
When Run red their credits,
read: “It lives. Because I said it did.”
Who gives a line of credit to those who so desperately to get it, who need it like a medic,
But I’d wage to bet it’s to spend it in the opposite way that it’s intended.
Commend all of those that contended.
And anyone at all whom attended.
Correct view. Corrective is collective let’s give ‘cause it’s best to - to the rest I guess it’s -
Just set it and forget it. Much as distant relatives;
-Figure it’s Best to just let us live…
As long as it’s ...Immediately gratative...
Our best method, many mini moves toward moving for a more major movement forward,
Observe and compare pre-approved plans for improvements, no one can afford.
Redact, reform, literary rebirth bursts into the truth that in which we will record,
and now it’s more, collect, from pre accepted hits, Recreate in-an-organized-list. Of the top samples,
A fool and A toolbar together with helpful tips.
Slip bits in hidden messages, to send to ratchet kids to send them off,
Off on A trip, on a Botanically based-spaceship. Hope they know that it’s All made up,
While we Make believe that they arrive at home and safely they do make it.
IS...crazy. (Imagination)
The craziest. The human case, it is. Inside the human case within…Is a sharper image, of every last face that formulate one’s nation.
A Hereditarial misclarification taken down the forsaken line and educated In within the others next of kin.
-hope you’re still out there, people,
if you’re lost, you can still win.
Bring the Nzu and
Kola nut
Take it to the
stranger among us,
Let him kiss it and
be bless.
Let him rub the Nzu
on his arms then his
fore head.
It is our tradition
here not to neglect
A humble stranger in
our land.
We kiss suffering on
the lips, it harm us
not.
We measure our joy
with dance and
laughter.
pour the oil in the
calabash
Roast the yam and
break the kolanut,
Let the youngest
among us break and
share it.
Pour the dry gin on
the ground and bless
the gods
Our forefathers must
drink before we
taste ours
Angry will they be
if they taste not
the gin.
It is our tradition
here in Nkporoland.
The maiden must not
touch the raging
masquerade
Keep them afar off
from the here, let
them smell not of
it.
All the young men
must be present at
the Iza Afa festival
and then the young
women must not be
excluded from the
Igboto Nma festival
in the village
square.
When is the
initiation into the
masks spirit taken
place?
Warn all the young
men to partake, it
is our tradition
Never allow the she
goat deliver in
pain,
Go call the elders
to look after its
delivering.
The snake must never
be in group like the
beads
It is an abomination
not among the
tradition.
Gather the cowries
and the white chalk
and assemble the
youth in the shrine
Lets pour the goat
blood for the
sacrifices
The gos will hear us
this time after
We went astray from
it in foolishness.
Call on the widow
among us, i heard
there was one.
Her hair must be
Barbe thoroughly
She must bath and
drink the water used
on
Her deceased husband
bath.
The Umu Ada must be
there
It is the tradition
here.
Let the Umu Ada
check the maidens
Of their virginity
before they dance
Let them deep their
hands into the hole
One after the other
to check the fruits.
It is part of the
traditions.
The king must not
set his eyes on a
rotten
Shining meals which
are set for the
vultures.
Let not a child
whistles in the day
Let not a girl child
come out to the
Agbala naked
Under the initiation
in festival of
virginity.
We all must set the
tradition going
It is our right and
liberty to excel.
Neglect not the
wisdom of the elders
In his wisdom exist
pure and holy.
Our fore fathers
must be happy and
free
when we all observe
the traditions
Of Nkporoland in its
pure heart.
Wonder’s Darkness
by Odin Roark
He knew wonder well
It could cancel fear
And bestow courage
A nexus for survival
A predawn beginning
His solo-climb of the face
Thought crazy by doubters
Had started swift and easy
The results of plans
Rehearsals
Confidence
The wall’s darkness was his own
Anchoring piton after piton
Securing each meter of ascension by feel
With unharnessed confidence of mind
For this was a climb of defiance
Knowing few if any
Might or would
Ever understand his exhilaration
His unique love of climbing-chalk and sweat
Carabineers and rope
Anchors and ascenders
Tenuous connections to life
All married to his inner eclipse
Yet at the halfway point…
Exhaustion appeared
Adrenalin waned
His pendulum traverse had missed
Time seemed to stop
Flesh and rock collided
Bringing cold panic
Seizing breath to hold
Suspending threatened fate
Even as the skill of a spider
Had kept him safely vertical until now
Death’s harassment had not been part of the plan
His back rested against cold granite
The lead taste of blood from his nose
Conflicted the balsam and cedar fragrance
Gusting up from the valley floor
Fifteen hundred feet below
His straight down reality
Minutes passed…
Awe and respect
Life’s often ignored necessitude
Hung together with him
Against the sheared mountain
Some predicted his dreaded finale
With tenacity as partner
Calmness merged with a blanket of sunrise warmth
The crisis became the past now
This test of tests faced completion
His mind eased back to a climber’s trust
Careful feeling about
Delivered firm grips
Precise movement
Renewed determination
Moving him deftly toward the descent team’s cheers
Waiting on distant topside
Resisting aid
He reached the summit
And gathering minutes of needed rest
Even amidst the accolades and glee
He prepared for the hard part
The trek down the backside
This blind climber knew
Like those with eyes to see
Exhaustion can make even a simple return route
More dangerous than the climb
With the descent team
Assisting his tired body
The crude trail carved
For bushwhacking
Brought danger often missed
Until it was too late
Loose scree
Roots of trees
Ruts and rocks
With sightless vision
He maneuvered the precarious path
His certain smile becoming contagious
Moving shaking heads of doubters once
To embrace a blind climber’s wonder
As their own
When we first met, 2012 was abstract chalk on the sidewalk. He began leaving his soul, but making sure it wasn't permanent like lies girls have told a thousand times. He began teaching me the dirt of people doesn't always wash away to get to the good part of them.
When we found ourselves, we were hand in hand, smiling, just so stitched together. I began to ask, what changed an he said, "I see red, I think blood, but when you see red, you think roses and love with passion". I found in those words of his, I was the only one he found who wouldn't mark him as a criminal.
Late nights, I would crawl into his chest and fixate my attention on keeping his heart beating, but never wanting to know more. I pull words from hi mouth when it gets deep and would understand him when he touched my heart.
Sunday afternoon, he went from busy to lying in my bed, just falling for a part of me. He cried in my lap and told stories I won't ever write about or tell. He wished I could go back in time, just pull every single version of himself into my chest, but he won't ever know I already have.
He just accepted the horrors as unanswered prayers, but loving certain people when all he could see were the things they ripped away from him. He was stronger before they expected him to be. He was a little boy who would one day grow into a man. He never shook or bent under pressure of things in his shaky life, and that's something men older then him would never understand, but no matter what he does, I still think of him as a man.
He began chasing after angels and a girl who would one day look at him like I did because, when we knew our time was ending, we became blurry to each other. He was graffitied art on the side of a street building. He's a walking bad boy with intentions that are good. Somehow, that affected me when all I wanted was to scrub edges of him, but I just stared..admired.
We never had lasted the way we thought, but days I spent with him were not wasted because, they were cherished. He turned my heart into something that aches for messy, imperfect love. You know, that kind that won't leave, it just lasts a lifetime, somewhere far away from people.
In the end, this dust settled beautifully when it hung in the air. Separated like a kiss. Beautiful, but much more tragic, no less.
He fell one stormy midnight clear,
His feet upon his head,
He deaf of mouth and blind of ear,
All purple, green and red.
He dined politely on a rose,
Then with a speckled hen,
He quickly drew himself a nose,
And put it on again.
He paid the hen all shiny pound,
Then gave his ear a flick,
A tiny thought leapt to the ground,
And scurried up a stick.
"Hello there little sky-fall man,
A bildog, blain and ned.
I live inside your gumble mind,
That's right, inside your head".
"My name is wonder where and how
And who and what and why,
And what you're wondering right now?
How fell you from the sky?"
Down trouble eye our little man
Shed single Silver tear,
As off to forge some further plan,
Thought flew back down his ear.
So down he stood and set he off
To answer up his quest,
His head puffed out, his feet aloft
And walking on his chest.
He walked through woods where gilbroks played
Upon the purple moss,
With trees all trunked of plasticine
And leaved with candy floss.
For three long days but not so long
He walked on through the wood,
Until he heard a silver song
that tickled 'neath his hood.
The song it came from purple rock
Amid the Numbum trees,
Upon the rock, the Dandy-dock
Sat singing to the bees.
"All hail the Dandy," our friend cried
Before the purple stone,
"Hello there!" Dandy-dock replied
"My haven't how you've grown!"
"I am afraid I cannot help"
The Dandy softly groaned,
"You must search out the Bollynelp
Near the lake of Sollynoad"
So off he trekked to find the stream
That led out to the lake,
Across the lands of pink ice-cream
And plains of chocolate cake.
The stream ran on and skipped and played,
And sang it's tales of old,
But in the lake the waters stayed,
All tinged with green and gold.
High in a tree beside the shore
The Bollynelp sat chatting,
He talked a little then some more
Of chalk and cheese and matting.
"I'm sorry," called this strange old bird
To our hero down below,
"A quest like yours I've never heard
But the Dumble dog will know"
"The Dumble dog I'm sure you'll see
Upon that distant beach
Where our fine land does cease to be
And the jelly ocean's reach"
He thanked the Bolly with a sigh
And turned towards the shore,
And off he walked, still feet held high,
And chest upon the floor.
How to Feel When Your House Burns Down
The home you are raised in is a mother tongue.
I was four when it was built, an age when innocence
turns river water and all that lives within to blood.
First birthdays and first dances fortify the mantel.
This home transports milestones, our own vessel
to move us from sidewalk chalk to the attempt to outrun
the stagnancy found only in the debilitation of the long run.
At seven, I held him in my arms and love upon my tongue.
Promises danced on my lips and ran rampant on my vessels.
College funds started in a baby bottle, tiny wishes held in a cent.
I remember grappling with his growth, attempting to mantle
the affinity we pinky promised deep into our own blood.
At twelve, my father taught me to dance in the blood
and glass on the hardwood. Still, I watch his fingers run
to sow flowers in my mother's hair, her back, mantling,
the image of infatuation, true love, in our minds. A tongue
of tenderness has our childlike innocence
giggling and shouting at the inamoratas and the vessel
of devotion in which each of us was vesselled
into this life. Each of us was born in the fervor of blood,
so sweet. My mother threaded honey, burned incense,
and chewed lemon slices whole to hold us near. She ran
baths of salts and oils, to cleanse the ever growing tongue
of infernos that caressed, more captivated, our mantel
of consciousness. For many years, we tied sheets to mantels.
With pillows and blankets, we’d build ourselves a vessel
to a land of fairies and warriors who shared the same tongue.
Pool noodles became swords. Here we spilled blood,
convincing ourselves if we were to sprint, leap, run
fast enough we too could fly amongst the rest, innocent
to the world around us. At nineteen, I watch the innocence
leave our home. Adolescent memories that kiss the mantel
turn to sharp licks in the wild fire that is running
through the bones of our sweltering home, the vessel
of affinities, dances, compassion, imagination, and the blood
that connects it all, now lapped up with tongues,
too heavy for the innocent, a cancerous burn in our vessels.
The mantle of snow is no relief to the flames that drip like blood.
And still, we do not run, we wait for the final lick of a mother's tongue.
a flustered tango of Gypsy moths
drumming the porchlight; chalk artists;
the endemic disappearance of farms—silos lost
in unkempt fields; space stations; the sunlit-scent of lemon
oil on cherry wood; birth; the chasm between cultural
appropriation & cultural appreciation; the history in our dust;
loneliness & heartbreak; trivia; funky funerals;
climate change, hurricanes, earthquakes & neglected
victims; heirloom charm bracelets, homemade
wind chimes & the homing sound made by a singing bowl;
masquerade balls; cityscapes hidden in ant hills; fly
fishing; serendipitous skinny dipping; missing children,
teddy bear memorials, forensic identification, monsters
never found in sleepy towns; the horrors of zoos—
elephants gone mad, lions robbed of their pride;
book reviews; civil unrest, bad cops & good cops & young men
gunned down; brand new fire stations; cancer survivors who wear
baldness so beautifully; my favourite pair of jeans; river rocks
found by dearest hands; a letter that can never be
received; joyful celebrations; incandescent dragonfly
dreams; twenty million at risk of starving to death;
wildflowers shaking pretty little heads;
misogyny disguised as religion; forgotten veterans who die
a bit more inside every day; the rainforest, shrinking;
saintly stoners & postulant prostitutes; toxic smog;
madmen with warheads; cheese cake & ice wine;
every personalized Kama sutra move & the God-given
ecstasy of body on body language; holding hands;
why one giggle can change everything; Thanksgiving
prayers; abandoned minefields, boy soldiers & devastating
amputations; the songs of the working poor; lightning
over the lake; his timely phone calls; brotherhood & sisterhood;
love in its every form; old maps; twenty-one gun salutes;
the extinction of the Galapagos Giant Tortoise; being
five, being twenty five, being ninety-five; kites; dogs chawing
on ragged rawhide; church-like museums on a Sunday
afternoon; make-shift picnics; deja vu; thrift store
wedding dresses; long drives with comfortable silences;
fading freedoms; censorship; seamless moonlight;
introspective dalliances with self-acceptance; the power
of purpose; how to be the bigger person; how to go
in a new direction; how to rise above . . .
It’s skin deep evident,
being black is an inherent crime
It doesn’t matter whether we
peacefully
stand our ground,
or be siren subservient —
Hands in the air,
knees bent
We get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
In the back of our mind,
fear is a pride looter
Epidermal evidence suggests,
probable cause is
five fingers of uniform blue grave danger
A click gavel falls trigger quick,
siren verdict be: 1st degree fatal anger
It’s just another casket open-and-shut case,
the latest obituary picture
bearing eyewitness of Breonna Taylor’s face
Like chalk on a blackboard,
we get erased ...
so rap sheet easily
Four-by-for centuries,
our coffin pleas
have been iron fetter ignored
The only asphalt sound
silently heard
are the yellow tape trace words:
“I can’t breathe,”
with our George Floyd face
in the paved dirt
Epidermal evidence historically reveal:
We always got shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Skin color hatred smoking barrel explode
on a trigger reload
Being black was our genetic crime
Wanting the good life
on the whiter side
of the picket fence
Made former slave cotton-picking sense
Our emancipated thoughts
were escaped equality sought
But votes auction bought,
forced us to tragically be
paddy wagon pellet caught
And when suffrage hope died,
it was our fault —
Runaway tears shed for naught!
Morgue blame sent:
Usual suspect motives be
dreams non-violent
Desiring to be integrated legally
into American society
was our heinous offense
No need for more epidermal evidence
It’s just another cell open-and-shut case,
the latest unarmed picture
bearing eyewitness of Jacob Blake’s face
We repeatedly
get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Seems the lawlessness of the land says:
The badge can be
judge, jury
and executioner
Ain’t it blatant epidermal evident,
being black is an egregious, breathable offense
Of which there is no self-defense
We get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Perpetrator exit wombs inflicted on
menace to society ghetto we
Aborted justice is our
perforated epidermal eulogy
Being black is a natural-born crime,
evidentiary,
an umbilical sin
It’ll get you pandemic shot seven times,
by a sick, sick six-shooter