Long Chucked Poems
Long Chucked Poems. Below are the most popular long Chucked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chucked poems by poem length and keyword.
The times your side was only me,
help, protection, you no longer need,
emptied our friendship now history,
you’re not my friend, you’ll never be.
I was the true friend you forgot,
wanted best for you never not,
take your side against the lot,
chucked away when I lost the plot.
Never welcome back in my life,
believe I cause you strife,
just one message i would write,
undone you’re out of sight.
Left thinking what friend were you,
didn’t confirm let gossip be true,
bridge burning cold and rude,
unfair on me acts of a delude.
You could have been wrong,
spoke to me like a friend,
but you didn’t were gone,
bond broken the end.
Steering clear of me
that’s what I do with you
you used to be someone
now you’re a who?
You had an idea in your head
formed by things they said
didn't investigate words read
assumed, friendship dead
Didn’t take much for you to go
never have I felt so hard a blow
a shock I cannot help but show
hurt me more than you’ll ever know
Thinking I didn’t care I did
as if I’d ever run my lip
or wish a mess for your kid
friendship broken we’re stupid
He drew the drapes, nothing caught his eye
it seemed that yesterday had replicated itself,
only today it had chosen a deeper of gray tint.
On balance, it could have been
the color of stale puke, for the night
had up-chucked its darkness into a
sickly yellow
morning bucket of bile.
Examining his mind, he ascertained by
the laborious task of magnifying
the inconsequential
that he was not clinically depressed
just bored.
Later that day he bought a black puppy,
to remind himself that he was apparently
no longer the center of the universe,
a position he had held
to be inviolate until now.
The demotion was irksome.
He took the French Bulldog to Walmart,
claiming loudly that it was a service animal
for he had need of a dumb friend.
His new dumb friend peed on him
in the candy aisle
and generally acted like it was the center
of the universe, a notion reinforced
by its many casual admirers.
That dog was having a great day,
and by the next day he felt it was quite acceptable
to be its little helper and general factotum,
for it absolutely beats
trying to play God 7 days a week
and no day of rest.
He puts it out there, the Schrödinger’s cat of invitations.
Now, I’m irritated. “I TOLD you I don’t have time for.. involvement.”
“But you have to eat - so eat with ME,” he shrugs. “You can build a friendship with someone and still have freedom.” His observation was casual, as though it were unrelated to anything between us. He seemed to have the intuition that I’d balk if pressed.
“You’re subversive.” I said. “Why me? There are prettier girls, more agreeable, fun girls. I feel like I’m on the edge here,” I look around to indicate the room, the environment, the university. “And I can be a complete as-hole.”
He looked a little offended, “You’re interesting, I like what I know about you and, yeah, we can all be as-holes - we’re in a pool of “A” types, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“What do you KNOW about me?” I ask.
“I’ve read some of your writings,” he looked thoughtful, “I may know a little about how you think, It’s unusual.. interesting.”
I’m shocked and I squirm, “You looked me up?”
“I looked you up.” he nodded, “to be sure you’re not an axe murderer.”
“How much did you read?” I asked, wheedling, my inner-writer engaging.
“Tell you at dinner - YOU name the date and time,” he smiled.
“My idea of “dinner” is walking to a dining hall, picking up a bag of food, bringing it back here and taking ten minutes to eat it between chapters,” I warned.
“I have a meal card,” he says, jiggling his student lanyard.
“We’ll see.” I said. “Have you talked to anyone else about my writing?”
“No,” he answered, “Why?”
“Please don’t, I have to think about it.” I say. As far as I know, no one I know in RL has read me - it’s an odd feeling - like maybe he got ahold of my diary. I haven’t worried over the fact that someone I’m in physical proximity to could look me up. That all this stuff is actually out there.
“Don’t think my misgivings can be cajoled away,” I say, “no more talking.”
He chucked but we got back to studying.
It had not rained for months
the bush was dry as a tinder
clouds appeared in far distance
to once more fade and vanish
The sun beating hotly relentlessly down
everything resting in shade so sparse
the trees without their canopy of leaves
grass dry yellow and brown
A carelessly chucked piece of glass
sets the grass ablaze, soon all is burning,
flames moving on devouring all in their path
those too slow ending as blackened cinders
Flames that devoured and raged
devastating all as it pillages on
all in its way left as burnt embers
blackened landscape wherever you look
Can land so destroyed live again?
or will it turn into a dust bowl?
a breath of hope blows in from the east
a small smattering of rain gently falls
In its wake comes rebirth new shoots appear
soon the earth is responding with growth
a cleansing has occurred ripping out the dead
soon most signs of the fire will be covered over
All that is left are blackened gum trees
skeletons on the horizon a timely warning
that nature rules here and will take a hand
in keeping her world fresh vibrantly alive
Crows come
And crows go
But Arthur always was.
For years the lofty oak had been
His look-out every day
And soon as Mother chucked the scraps
His shiny eyes
Would spot the crumbs
From eighty yards away.
No craftier crow
In all the land
Than Arthur black and strong
And wise more wise
Than all magpies
He would not fly straight down.
Although he’d had
So many scraps
From Mother's grassy lawn
He’d never ever fail to wait
For just in case
It might be bait
To trap him once for all.
So Arthur’d sit and look around
Then fly a reconnoitre
And then he’d fly a closer one
And land in something shorter.
OK! I think, would Arthur think,
It might be safe to eat it
And down he’d drop
And grab the lot
And quick as quick
He’d beat it.
In memory of a crow that used to perch in the first big oak at our tree nurserey in England during the 1990s and 1980s.
2/23/24
It's not in all the books we read
Souls put to sea
Continual butchery
They carry on crookedly
Trying to coat the truth with something sugary
Some know and don't care others never could agree
A never ending battle where evil is trying to make the good bleed
Nah no really look at me
I stirred the hornets nests and shook the trees
Among endless wood debris
To be an honest man, you've no idea what it took to be
Gone beyond lucid dreams
Please do believe it's about much more than you perceive
Hmm the conclusions seems
They never have our best interest at heart nor any future needs
While unscrupulous humans scheme
They left our bodies out to rot all through ravines
As well as areas where sewage seeps
The truth it seeks
A way out usually
Regardless of opportunity
My mom asked son why must you suffer so
Caught up in an undertow
There's just things a mother knows
My true colors shown
I called my brother's phone
He thought he knew how it does and doesn't go
Unlike other folks
Through centuries still much unknown
All across this bloody globe
Studies show
Most want the whole honeycomb
All to themselves like life's only about hitting the motherload
As they judge and drone
It's not all cut in stone
Told him what was once a home
Started from just a stone
Now it's a bunch of those
Amid piles of mud and bones
Nearby encrusted tomes
Beside dusty clothes
Sat an old toolbox that rusted close
Outside stood trees full of a dozen crows
By fields with buffaloes
Bumps arose
In clustered nodes
Turning it into a rugged road
Nearby water full of sunken boats
The destruction grows
Life comes with no instruction codes
For any sudden woes
You'd think eventually it struck a note
Many looking through a tunneled scope
Always fascinated by the puppet shows
Another day redundant and alone
A struggle to find love blows
Causing a loss of what was hope
Reaching the point of being ready to jump below
By the end of it my bro said I must atone
He said I chucked the stone
At what I thought was a toad
Then went back to work in the construction zone
Only to find out that it wasn't though
Said he began to suffer slow
Caught in a thunder dome
Until he discovered those
That suffered the same fate buried right under nose
With a new adjusted approach
Learned first hand and through several hundred notes
In my early teens (late 60's)
I remember it all
began
in my mind
Dad was driving us into
downtown Minneapolis
for church I think,
up ahead, a block or so,
the bob-lights on top of
2 cop cars was twirlin'
and speakers were loopin'
that open-sore noise
then it went silent
but what caught our eyes
was, the 2 cops were standing
over a Native American sleeping
against a wall,
they picked him up,
all limp arms and legs
and chucked him into the
open trunk of their squad
car like they were swinging
gunnysacks of taters
dad was the first to say
something as we passed
by when the light changed
"the Indians got it rough
here in town, jimmy,
gotta
help 'im when
you can, son"
50 yrs ago...
little has changed,
Dakota Oil injustice,
now near me puppet
heads
allowing pipelines
to disgrace sacred
Treaty Lands.
People gonna rise-up
again, and get water-blasted
off their feet & stuck with
them stingin' dam electric
stun-frizzle wires
like we were some
kinda human chimera
that needs to be
extinguished.
dads been gone 12 yrs
now
"gotta help 'im
when you
can, son"
...gotta
help 'im
when
I can
July '18
Minneapolis
I have a cupid, all my own, he’s not the best around
I would have chucked him long ago … but he’s the only one I’ve found
His wings look like two dusters that have hung around too long
The feathers have no luster and the way they flap’s … just wrong
His actions are too stilted and his apathy seems vast
His bow is slightly wilted and his arrows are … half-fast
In many years of wishing that one missile might strike home
I had a premonition I would spend my life … alone
But then one day (as if on cue) an arrow slipped his bow
By accident it stuck in you above the left elbow
Well, that was all I needed I no longer was afraid
For my prospects now exceeded every prayer I ever made
I grasped the moment promptly just in case it slipped away
As my future fait accompli stood before me on that day
Now my Cupid keeps a quiver though his shafts are all but spent
Still I’m glad he could deliver even if by accident
And I won’t complain too loudly for the grief he put me through
I’ll just smile and thank him proudly for the wonderment … of you
He listened to our argument with a smile on his face.
Who is this guy? My husband asked, pointing to the place.
That’s just a stuffed snowman, I said. You can ignore him.
That’s when he jumped down and chucked me on my chin.
He gave a whoop-dee-doo and he turned himself about.
He whistled and he wiggled and he gave us both a shout.
He’s dangerous my husband said, hiding quickly behind me.
It made me mad and so I gave him the bony part of my bad knee.
Is he alive then? My husband asked, shuddering in his boots.
I had no idea, but just then the dogs ran in – both enormously big galoots.
They chased that snowman around the room, and he laughed a happy laugh.
The argument had all but stopped and there was no aftermath.
He’s better than our therapist, my husband hissed, and I had to agree.
He lives with us now, and he stops arguments between him and me.
Saving a hundred dollars an hour, and he gives us something fun to do.
We chase him around the room and wiggle and whistle with him too.
Every morning the town drunk would walk past the general store where all the farmers gathered to have their coffee. Day after day, the same farmers complained about the weather, the high price of fuel, politics, and how bad their wives always treated them. One day the drunk told a joke and everybody laughed and chucked a coin into his beggar’s box. The next day the drunk told the same joke. This time only a few people laughed and tossed a coin. On the following day, the old drunk came by and told the same joke again and nobody laughed. The old farmers told him that he’d never get anywhere by telling the same joke over and over again. The old drunk smiled and said, “Neither will complaining about the same old things.
When making changes
Complaining will never work
Actions are better