Long Chalked Poems
Long Chalked Poems. Below are the most popular long Chalked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chalked poems by poem length and keyword.
His wheelbarrow wobbled
Across the broken sidewalk
Toward the job site
Where the work was
Some girls in yellow taxis rode by and whistled at his tanned arms.
His brown boots got chalked
as he scuttled and scooted
The heavy load
And he thought about her
Again
He was so clean and polished last night
When they sat down for dinner
Around perfect white cloths
So uncomfortable for him
Only to hear her say,”I’m leaving.”
Her skin was like a pond in the morning
Before anything was awake.
Her eyes were like Grecian isles
Even her nose was a perfectly acute angled
Piece of her face.
He was a bricklayer and knew his place.
And he would never ever get to kiss her face
Again.
So today he dumped out his wheelbarrow full of bricks and started building his walls again.
Colorful Me LSD
Kaleidoscope euphoric psychedelic dreams
Rainbows colour perfect peaches and cream
Splashes orgasmic silhouettes of tiny screams
Cobalt rain droplets in a sunny set theme...
Tiny pearl spiders spin opaque webs in my spine
Snow plowed glass hazards in white chalked up lines
In awe to see so artfully the world in this design
Cosmic Being floating heavenly sure I am just fine...
Static electricity behind my waterfall aqua eyes
Oceans of misery as I bid a colorful goodbye
Back to mortality in a black and white world full of lies
Lucy in the sky in tiny blue diamonds she cries...
05/31/16
We have Cousins Camp in Kansas City in the summer.
Any grandchildren who cannot come, says, “That’s a bummer!”
One year I let four of the bigs fill a garbage can up with water.
Each jumped in their own “foxhole” and played throw water balloons at each other.
We decided to paint the garage walls up and down with beautiful cartoons.
Making a delightful experience to remember for many moons.
The dog and cat were both in hiding, almost every day of camp.
The music was on volume high, I couldn’t for sure say what amp.
They laughed and cried, and fought, and yelled, and gruffly wolf-howled at the moon
My husband wondered when they were going, it would not be so soon.
They tie-dyed shirts, took off their clothes, chalked the garage, and learned to sew.
Grandpa came out and yelled, “Please Stop! Cease! Desist, Go on home, and Whoa!”
He got slathered with wet garbage can balls, for his trouble, which sent him back inside.
He and the dog and cat, and every creature with smarts, were doing their best to hide.
We had laughed ourselves silly as we threw gigantic and enormously wet water balls at his head.
By the time we crept back into the house through the sliders, he was fast asleep and we were ready for bed.
“...He said his wife in bed with another man,
she thought he was at work, he cried out ‘Tramp!’
Eric then, he lost control,
white hot rage claimed his soul,
and he bashed in their skulls with a lamp.
“Now they say Eric’s money wasn’t clean.
And he had some mob connections, rather mean.
Some came to the house,
cleaned up and carried bodies out,
nothing by the cops was ever seen.
“The investigations all turned up nothing.
Eric played the part of a spouse grieving.
With no witnesses to talk
for the deed Eric did walk,
and the two were chalked up as missing.
“At first he felt he himself free and clear,
but that lasted exactly for one year.
On the anniversary of her death,
he got himself out of bed
and started calling for her as is she were near.
“I didn’t know what was wrong with him,
then at the very hour of his great sin,
he ran up to that room,
stared in upon her doom,
and screamed for hours, dying again within.
“It’s been that way every single day now.
He sees her sin, then his, and screams out loud.
It seems to me that the Big Guy
didn't want him getting off light.
He meted out His justice, and lord how!”
Jo was stunned, and stared, jaw agape.
“If all this is true then why do you stay?”
Ellie just gave her a shrug,
Said,”You’re still hot and young.
But I got three kids, and this job really pays.”
What happened next, as if there was any doubt,
Jo gathered up her things, and walked out.
Ellie didn’t fear the worst,
She wouldn’t be the first.
All the while mad Eric just continued to shout…
As if in a decades long
somnambulant trance
for majority of years
I finally awoke,
three score minus
one orbitz tracked 'round el sol
by this human drone,
a custom made incognito
stitched while in utero
yeah... my birthday suit mask
disguised this bloke
yet plainly visible, aye donned
a permanent cloak
always fitted me skin
tight easily permitting
ingress and egress okey doak
majority of mein kempf
ambivalent about (no...no...no...
despised) self as
apathetic behavior did evoke,
yet slip out from
under the Harris tweed,
Scottish door Matt,
parental tender caring folk
now, such indifference,
whether dead or alive,
tummy this thinking haint write
especially nearing quotidian,
the terminus twilight
of existential parabola
fifty nine submucous cleft palate
nasal note more'n slight
chalked up to biochemically, right
hermetically, and neurologically quite,
though not profoundly disabled,
a riddled quirky
psycho-social plight,
(cultivating an unhealthy
absent self esteem inferior complex)
I exhibited half
hearted feeble feints
to muster willpower morning till night
oft times nobody home,
and nary boot faint light
doth shine on me
(feeling comfortably numb),
a puny white knight er
rather pawn on chess
board of life with 20/20 insight
while standing at a paltry
just shy of seventy
two inches in height
shortchanging latitudinal longitudinal
maximum parameters to attain
but more critically, detrimentally,
emotionally constitutes current bane
analogous to Atlas
hold the world
did more than force him to crane
his neck, but imposed
a global estuarial drain
as all the seven seas underwent
gravitational pull that's
the best aye can explain
oh...but such fiction a mythological sling
shot across the bow civilization
the metaphorical resonance
pertains to me, and doth ring
real asper millstone over bearing
worth repeating here,
no matter mentioned in previous poems
bitterness of mine despairingly cathartically airing.
Reading Out Loud...
Plus applying index finger as pointer guide
(take that Missus Wells),
who best not take objection, hence let snide
blackboard barbed comment dultifully slide
chalked up and emanating
from gentleman with pride
and prejudice toward third grade teacher,
whose archaic rubric, I no longer abide
when a student at Henry Kline,
he now doth elide
ridiculous bans Boyer Grade School
instituted), who undoubtedly Gracefully yells
from her grave, against these codas long defied
condemned, exorcised, forbidden taboos,
nonetheless tactically helped this pied
piping peter pan, an aging (intellectual baby
boomer bookworm) as his tried
and true knowledge bank account swells
conviction communicating wide
across avast web donning
and/or trumpeting averring,
he always decried
"FAKE" arrogance, conceit, egotism,...
which learning my methodology quells ride
ding high crest of aspiration an aside
to increase cerebral deteriorating multicells,
thus lessening the smarts for suicide
this technique fosters enhanced cognition,
galvanization, pronunciation, et cetera,
whereby vocalizing words,
while ensconced backside
voicing, learning idea
constituting each sentence,
(within figurative nutshells) decide
dutiful dogged diligence involves eyesight,
mandibular interaction
jabbering, sans oral jawbreader divide
aided by vocalization augmentation allows,
enables, and provides groundswells
flowing fun like joyride
with incorporation to hear
nasal twang only downside
syllabification altogether garnering
boost to comprehension outstride
ding learning taking paradigm nationwide.
Kids of different
nationalities gather
every day to play
in the streets of Chicago
once their daily chores are done.
They play with marbles,
scummy top, pitching pennies,
or a rambunctious
game of stickball in the old
neighborhood cobblestone streets.
Children stand and watch;
the pitcher keeps a firm hold,
throwing the tattered
ball, placing it hard right down
the middle of the chalked square.
With broom handle in
both hands, batter swings, striking
the small tattered ball.
With excitement the kids jump,
clapping and cheering, "Run! Run!"
8/21/2017
For the Poetry Contest: Form T
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
On the theme of ............. 1. Tattered
City life, for kids, before the onslaught of helicopter parents and mandatory parental involvement in every aspect of growing up. We played baseball, no umpires, the bases pieces of cardboard, scratched in dirt, or chalked on the pavement. Four neighborhoods abutted each other. We, the children of the game, formed teams, formed an impromptu “league”. On one of these occasions when a game was “scheduled” team A came up short of the mandatory nine. Team B would allow one of its players to play for team A. The proof that this did not hurt team A’s chances of winning became evident the day Billie, (we’ll call her Billy to protect the legend), came to bat in the last inning and singled home the winning run for team A.
After the game Billie walked home with the rest of our team. She looked a bit sheepish and we did sort of give her the business. We all knew it didn’t matter which team you played for because the game demanded you play your best and hold your head high in both victory and defeat.
Look! A Shooting Star!
Let me honor your presence (dot chalked on ‘blacksky’),
as my poems (muse offers) make light of faint hope
that one day you’ll look skyward and grok my light too,
though the distance stays greater than words can unearth,
and bards’ light is more passive, a light that reflects
the low mass that they orbit (the skill few undress).
I belong to the school of ‘Who Thinks This, Not I,’
as my fingers keep tabs on where muse would elope
to, desirous of love. Ah! What more can I do?
If your gift’s you receive light, you’re pearl of great worth,
as an oyster gives luster to grit life rejects,
and grants layers of beauty a queen would possess!
I’m struck dumb as a mute when words pour from my pen,
though I take time to flirt as I tease muse with head.
Who can own thoughts full-bloomed (that gestate in one rhyme),
dreams that cadence can crumble (bridged links to the past.)
Now prose sirens shipwreck, their songs buzz to my ear,
as more thoughts (that aren’t mine) leave scorched earth in rhyme’s wake.
If I’m stuck more in giving than getting, say “When!”
if you’d love to see balance, have time more ‘coed,’
where I’m taking your light in, a new paradigm.
I may plead for exemption; my end’s coming fast,
there’s debris all around me; I’ll soon disappear!
Light this fleeting’s a gift, not an ask! Please partake!
Krakatoa Kritic #007
April 10th in 2021
Poet’s Notes:
This poetic form is (new?) to me, and it seems only recently to have
appeared on PH and PS! I like it! Write on!
It’s always there, right by the window, in which I sit everyday for hours, watching cars drive to and fro, kids and parents standing outside waiting to send them off to school.
I take my seat as I sip slowly on my coffee, the house is barely lit, no need for brightness, after all it’s just me. The squirrels outside tuning about, perhaps stocking up on acorns for the long winter cold.
The tv sits off as nothing to watch, only the sound of my air diffuser lights up every color you can imagine, lavender scent fills up the house, calmness scent fills my senses, the sun has risen in the sky, shining brightly on fall leaves in the grass.
My favorite spot in the house, is a big old Rocking chair, gives me a safe place to sit, catch the outside world roll by, families waking by, give their best try in my hopscotch I chalked awhile back, a smile of joy as brief as it was maybe I made their day, but to no avail, I’m still inside my cocoon no longing to go outside.
My book of poems sit upon my bed, my emptiness still lingers in my soul, who knows when I’ll open them back up.