Long Cheap Poems
Long Cheap Poems. Below are the most popular long Cheap by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cheap poems by poem length and keyword.
I never know my body has rotten
until it appears through the wall mirror
these remains are heaped upon an autan
next spire takes a hearer turn for queerer
now urban commercial cores of gulag
I am a particular schlockier
for signs which are cheap to erect as clague
extensions can be found from that nearer
some convergent, others conflicting stun
I suspect having to do with my craag
this penetrates deeply into a gun
into the family into dague
extreme lengths to which I loosely spun
remain a shadow in place to slither
I write poems because it's fun
And I'm not the only one
It's an outlet for verbal expression
A hobby and not an obsession
I'm an amateur, not a pro
Thankful there's someplace to go
Where others like myself
Can write without seeking wealth
An opportunity for me to learn
Gain confidence in return
Friendly contests sharpen my skills
Winning is a personal cheap thrill
Not everyone feels the same
For people like me, that's a shame
They're always causing dissension
Complaining and seeking attention
In their high chair, they bang their spoon
Grown men crying childish tunes
The food that once filled their belly
To them is now tasteless and smelly
I say, find another place to eat
Let us amateurs compete
Nobody's making you stay
You don't play well with others, anyway
Bland food doesn't suit your palate
Over here you're wasting your talent
Why stay here and eat slop
Since your talent's so over the top
10/31/22
I've weathered rough storms
Always high and drunk or
Trying to have love form
I was once torn
All this B.S. occurs out my front door
You've woken up the beast, now you're done for
You've no idea what's in store
Just may be guts and gore
Time I smoke and drink some more
All these dumb whores
Meanwhile constantly with punks I war
You'll be unable to prevent it
Before there can be any friendship
It all ends quick
Meanwhile too much crap they remain obsessed with
Not all shall be nice
Something off I was able to see twice
Underneath streetlights
Over the span of three nights
By going to extreme heights
I learned valuable lessons for a cheap price
Nearly each time
Often turns to violence, rarely is there peace signs
Seen by my keen eyes
For the remainder, need to be wise
Against these guys
Since in the end eventually we die
Still she tries
But I'm going to make her take a deep dive
Since she is barking up the wrong tree line
Trying to mess with the whole beehive
No need to read in-between the lines
I've seen why, they do it no need to try
The same said falling for it and believing lies
Too late to worry about me, I'm eating fine
Nothing singled out
Or leading to bigger doubt
I've had opportunity to think about
While out in nature or a house by a sink and couch
Where I would smoke and drink large amounts
Now I know
It's not just how it goes
Much of it I've outgrown
And the rest of it, I've been the town joke
Behind clouds of smoke
Beyond a clown or folk
Always the one they doubt the most
Just like with everything there's a price to pay
She brought me warmth and lighted my day
Right away
It's nice to say
But then she left me in the dark
Like they all do before I can make a mark
By now we're worlds apart
Yet it still hurts my heart
Because I'm tossed away to collect dust before I could start
Oh well I continue and swim on
Regardless of if I live long
Rarely if ever I did wrong
Took endless work to become this strong
Some have passion and
Dreams in their hearts
That weave in and out
Beyond the edges
Of small places
Their dreams may be only words to some
But to them they mean everything.
And others,
Just as young,
Run off
With no plans
No ideas
And never a second thought.
The dreamers and the aimless
Eventually meet
In the East Village
Center of the counterculture in New York
Birthplace of artistic movements
Punk rock
The Nuyorican literary movement
Site of protests and riots
A place of coffee shops and smart pubs
Hidden inside tenements and dank basements.
And every corner busy.
The older residents
Are immune to the antics of this place
Living in the neighborhood for decades
They have witnessed its many changes
Speaking a hundred different languages,
Accents from the cold climate
Of Eastern Europe
And warm places in the Islands,
Theirs is a smaller world of
Cheap apartments
And open air markets
Where customers
Still haggle over prices.
In dark places
Painted over decades of neglect
Old Polish ladies silently pray
In empty Catholic Churches
Built over a hundred years ago.
By Fall the last Summer’s batch of young leave
Some with promises
Others with regrets
But if there is a regularity
To the ebb and flow of this place
It is the tide
Always bringing in the new.
On Avenue A,
Just off Tompkins Square Park,
An old Spanish woman sits
In a doorway
Watching the artists, radicals and fashion lovers
Walk by
Anyone who cares to listen
Will hear her sing
An old lullaby
"Close your eyes little ones and sleep
And dream while the angels watch over you
I will hold your hand
And when you wake up in the morning I’ll still be here."
he and I were sitting face to face
staring at each other with a small tea table between us
there was neither a cup of coffee
nor a piece of fruit or a slice of cake on the table
but a piece of a candle lit lightening the dark room
I handed over my soul more precious than my life
for a piece of gold, but he was unconcerned with my feelings
just twiddling it in his hand as if it’s a cheap ordinary object
I felt offended, however, unable to show my inner feelings
but timidly looked at him and smiled for a better appraisal;
and those who made me a languid person like this is
a pack of hungry hyenas that runs me down to the edge of the cliff
the hyenas made me exhausted
crippled my sensibilities
that’s why I felt that it’s too miserable
for my soul to be bitten and eaten by the hyenas,
which is why I am here with the devil to make a deal
“your soul is worthless to me
no, it’s a rather cumbersome object I would like to get rid of,
but for the sake of mercy...”
he put an obol* on the table and continued “you can cross Styx with it,
so don’t become a dreadful lost spirit that roams in the netherworld, yes?”
I hold his hand and plead “even the water of the Styx:
where the deep sighs drift on the surface of the water
as a dense fog and the bruises and bumps piled up like a sand hill
by the shore is said to flow backward occasionally for some reason!”
he rose up from the chair and look down on me with his scornful eyes
right in my eyes mocking
“no matter how useless is the soul may be
I must pay back my debt before I depart
for the netherworld, so please…”
he stuck my soul into his pocket half-heartedly
and tossed another obol on the table and left not even looking back
*Charon's obol
I should think I do not need to dream anymore
For all my boyish dreaming has borne nothing,
I cannot carry out my motivating visions, so
I should quit having those fruitless hallucinations.
Once I dreamed that I would be a barrister
Someday after my troubled academic progress,
But I’m aging and still fighting flaws of character
That prevent my being anyone of note in this life.
Maybe I should live each godsend day as it comes
And peacefully forsake the folly of dreams that pay little,
To live like one without any definite dreams or terms
Till perhaps I get chocked by some delicious stuff someday.
I strictly will not dream of being anything in future
For I simply want to do cheap things that make me happy,
I forever want to be young and I just do not want to mature,
So that I can savor the thrills that entertain a juvenile heart.
Let the luckier breed continue to dream of a big brighter future,
I’ll only write sad poems and savor every passing moment’s pleasure.
Nasty old man of privilege sneaks onto the morning meadow dawn
Accumulated wealth passed on from dad is immeasurable
And that which makes him too cheap to shop
A feathery delicacy is what he is after
Hobbling with Aqualung malice to snatch his prey
The duck wobbles plump and awkwardly on the rippling lake
Swirling winds mask the sounds on the approach
Snot gelatinous comes from the mans nose
Dribble from the lips proceed
A sneeze would kill the moment
He slips into the ice cold water on the sly
Stealth is on his side with dirty thoughts and matching hair
A wash cloth or soap had never touched his face before
This is the closest thing to clean he has ever been
The catch comes quickly about the neck
Stretched to the limits of life in a quick turn and snap
Dinner is served later with a rich black wine
No quack is left over or heard from that point on
Cognac with a fine Cuban cigar comes next to relax
After having duck a twisted smile emerges
Followed by curses
So, very much like the velvet softness of poetry.
It doesn't bang like a drum in your ear.
Nor is it the sound of raucous laughter in a cheap, bawdy, theatre.
Big words that provide nothing but confusion?
Do you expect poets from huge dictionaries to get contusions?
Poetry is anything but tap dancing in garish poet costumes
on the poetry stage.
Some are poets genuine, not poet impostors.
Anyone can follow a form, let's face it and claim to be a poet, how
poorly they fake it,
The true poet has a heart and loud drums and a chortling crowd
cannot erase it.
Being cheap and tawdry,is not a poet's fare.
He or she has a handle on life's heartbeat which they handle with
The tender sound of a windchime's gentle sound and share.
10/18/2020
Opus# 3
Zak at fifteen is a grounded tanker
spilling an oily vitriol
as we listen
"You know how I'm wired! Weed frees me! Chokes off the
dark. Your bloody voices shame me! Messing me up! So I
toke! Bleak dreams break me! Sometimes, hung over, I can't
see the sun. What do you want? A Christmas Eve peace
where we kiss in fake goo? Why all the BS about an elephant in the room? Everybody needs to stop talking about it! Stop
looking at me like you want to see underneath it! Because I
don't know what good is!"
Outraged ire that snaps the air
like cheap china crashing
his pitch for freedom
Toxic stares
as he sweats in the ruling wreckage of words
what is his unheard story?
The family craves a sane peace, some zone of happiness
silver bow of recovery
Zak on speed dial
turbulent
straining at reason
crossing an invisible border
in the cradled heat of summer
His self harm like a full body cast
with no zip line
out
Poem composed: June 30, 2021
I spent a night in Somnia
which put me to the test
The lodgings were luxurious
but I could find no rest
They said it was a quiet town
I fell for all their ploys
And all the stupid sheep I tried to count
made too much noise
Minutes ticking into hours
All my dreams were lost
And like a stir-fry vegetable
is how I turned and tossed
That cheap motel in Somnia
was just a tourist trap
No matter how I tried
I couldn't even take a nap
So I had a cup of coffee
waiting for the sun to rise
The night was finally over
as I rubbed my bloodshot eyes
Now here I am in Sanity
the company where I work
I'm staring at computer screens
and feeling like a jerk
Too many nights in Somnia
have made me hit a wall
Oh great! Here comes my manager
The pink slip says it all!