Long Conditioner Poems
Long Conditioner Poems. Below are the most popular long Conditioner by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conditioner poems by poem length and keyword.
You were "blood", & you had nowhere else to go.
You were the brother of my love, how could we tell you no?
We welcomed you in our home, you and your "escorting" hoe.
He even got you a job, as you stated "I won't let you down, bro".
But no good deed goes unpunished, our sentence was not even deferred.
An Instant hell, we fell and we fell, dwelling in the stench of one little demons turd.
My love, he lost his job, because, well Josh, YOU know EXACTLY why.
You ruined the life we worked so extremely hard for...you-the epitome of a big 'ole lie!
Our things were disappearing, but you, you thought you were so very, very sly.
On a golden pond of crescent stars, you were floating on a free moon pie...
My dress, my shirt, our conditioner and for God's sake, my deodorant too?
Was there anything else you forgot to take? Perhaps you'd prefer we send it to you?
My shirt jumped from my drawer, grew lil' feet and placed them on the floor...
Ran down the hall, scooping up my deodorant and into your bag they soared...
Your kitten, the one left in our yard, because of you, she'd almost died.
When we saw her deteriorating condition, it was enough to make one cry.
Poor little thing, you told us she would catch her own food outside.
One more being left in your wake, drowning in the storms from your tide...
Nine hundred dollars in fines, that's how much we paid to claim your kitten as our own.
Or the animal control would take her out of the misery of the only life she had ever known.
For a concerned neighbor, assuming we were responsible, was kind enough to phone,
and they were going to take her, & put her to sleep before she was ever even grown.
But I could not let that happen, even as now, we have not even paid our rent.
My love, because of you, he has no income, and we may all end up residing in a tent.
To think, one little brother could be responsible for these rapid, earth-shattering events,
leaving us a tumbling down alone, and for the next ruining, off you went!
This down-slope of destruction, on and on, has yet to slow for us...
disturbing hatred now swirls inside my belly as this journey has been so rough...
Now YOU have the nerve to question to US, while attempting unsuccessful to act so tough,
The ironic cherrybomb, our sweet icing on the cake, you ask, "HAVEN’T YOU DONE ENOUGH?"
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting
gray chill in the air.
I meander
ever
so
slowly
past lawns
strewn
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
staring blankly,
as I obliterate pint-sized
snow angels
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with
da Vinci's golden teardrops.
(Impoverished attention-getters)
"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"
(Simpletons)
Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.
My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
Bleak…frozen…
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –
sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.
Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes
so
much
dead.
(So be it)
They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)
These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,
bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."
(Wasteful)
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.
My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -
pour myself a
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -
scarf down a fudgcicle
and just...
turn the air conditioner
ON.
~TAKE MY MONEY ~
Crimson Joy, L'Oreal Lips, DOLCE & GABBANA eyewear
Mascara from beyond LONDON Bridges
Like the pretty face found in front of Vanity Fair
What can I say? Perfect -- goes with my daily addiction
A beautiful morning cup, STARBUCKS got my money
It's not more or less the cost or taste.
It's all about my dependency, with popular brand names
Shopping from place to place --- with a smile on my face
VICTORIA SECRET and the way she wears her bra.
$72 dollars it's time to double up them d's
Christmas Red and December Blue
Walmart can't pick up my bust the way she claims with trust.
Hot Topic's on my dark fashion list, Star Wars decor to explore
Obsessed with any accessory from the Walking Dead?
Bennie, blankets, epic shirts with gore, spending $200.00 more
Vulture is a man, with no hair, sat me down on his chair
"Try, this mam' a flat iron that works like MAGIC."
"Did you say magic?"
Didn't ask how much, once he commenced caressing my hair
Straight and silky like when I first bought the Evolution Wand
I tried to resist, however, I swear I heard the Iron call my name
This time, I promise to use it more than once
Between you and I - I don't even care to do my hair
Next thing you know, I own the Lioness curler iron too
With Expensive shampoo and conditioner.
What can I say, Buy 2 get the third one free
Finally, I felt - I got the best bargain possible
I won't even tell you how much I paid
You'd probably think, $189.00 is steep
How could I say no?
He threw in a heating glove, that's what I call Consumer Love.
Heading home, I spot Best Buy, needing a case for my iPhone 6 plus
Strolling near aisle 3, I hear Dr. Dre, started some new beats
Falling in love with the level of quality, $299.00 how can that be?
I put a pink pair in my basket, they have to be special and unique
After all, $299. Means they are popular :)
Bargains here bargains everywhere, check out time, I paid 550 dollars
I'm so proud of myself today, I saved and gained 101 points
Happy and dandy I feel complete,
I will end, my freestyling write
With uplifting words --- Aren't you lucky I'm not your WIFE???
~PD~
WELCOME TO MY WORLD
TRUE STORY
A brush paints a picture like poetry on a page
Colors; for faded love but bathed in the brightest rays
It paints a picture of two lives, fading in graying years
Painting on a worn-out canvas, happiness and tears.
A portrait painted with pride, once worth taking the risk
Strokes painted in splinter, but underneath cracks exist
A picture hiding deception from a life unraveling in fears. A portrait painted on canvas and stained with a million tears. Memories, try to stitch and pull a sagging canvas in vain. Too much pride to cover the cost, answers back with pain So clean around the edges, through the heart, a knife, a slice.
With so much bad to tip the scale, the good must sacrifice
A painting of a sad, sad story and hangs there until the end.
Each kiss that caressed the canvas slipped away by the stroke of a pen. Hearts, peeled and broken, good times fall to the past Dreams left on the canvas. fading love that failed to last. Smiles conceal the hurt that’s tailor made to weep. Hangs there on a wall of honor but shades of pain bleeds deep. Bright colors camouflage the flaws, for beauty, a portrait thrives to betray. Now, the brushes are cleaned and conditioned and carefully put away. There remains a picture, tossed away for the buyer to collect
A blacken hue, cracked and stained, no conditioner can correct
A love now lost to memories and fading away with time
Golden rings under the looking glass, the seller’s grandest find
Ever free to traverse my world
Yet shackled to an eleven year old promise
I donned a platinum cloak atop a living mountain
Physically high, emotionally low
I held two pairs of hands
While my heart beat out a painful rhythm
A handshake that formed my first friendship
And a typed message that united two lovers
The grayest skies I've ever seen
Sheltered my screens from the sun's glare
Thousands of miles away
Cherry and Lime linked across the expanse
A month of birth and traditions
Lay in shattered pieces under my triumphant body
Barely lucid and smelling like a bar
I held the sun in one hand and victory in another
The strongest scores I'd seen in decades
Danced on a melting page in the summer heat
An old acquaintance left as a master
And in came trouble and a new air conditioner
Ungodly hot and disconnected from the Expanse
I sat in three prisons with only them to guide me
Ever hungry, ever bored, ever exhausted
I ripped victory from the warden's clammy hands
Finally free to bask in the summer sun
I immediately hid in a dark, familiar cave
The winds of love began to whisper in the rustling leaves
As I smiled at the screen I knew as them
I returned to a place I romanticized as Nirvana
Six years later and a completely different man
That world was smaller than I ever imagined
Yet meant more to me then than it ever had before
Pulling the first of my overtime hours
I stopped caring about the work that must be done
My stomach growled and my shorts fell off
Sleep-deprived and starving for whatever scraps there were
Immobile once more, the world began forming around me
Future roads, unbreakable connections, pitch-black voids
The world and all of its frightening futures slipped away from me
And with it, the rest of the year
A dusk enshrouded airport brought them to me
The lover who saved me from past year's poems
As their world and body enveloped me
My aches, woes, scars and tumors melted in their embrace
With a new fire lit inside me
Stoked by anxiety, despair and hope
I don a new cloak of coffee-brown and boom-pole black
And shout into the Expanse once again to open my world
I was drivin’ down an old, worn black-top highway, on my way to a funeral. It was mid-Missouri, and late summer made it hotter’n the dickens outside. I was thinkin’ there was only a couple of hours left of daylight as I reached over and switched the car’s air conditioner fan up another notch.
Thoughts of my late friend kept popin’ in and out of my mind. We’d grown up together right here in this very neighborhood. Fishin’ trips, carryin’ ol’ cane poles as our bare feet kicked up the powdery Missouri dust around us … goin’ ta’ school with ol’ cigarette butts in our jean pockets that’d we’d smoke after school … repeatin’ stories to each other ‘bout Edna May or Jean Ann we’d heard … gulpin’ down an ice-cold crème soda outside Gavin’s Grocery on Saturday afernoons … racin’ our bikes that had no fenders …
A little bit of air-borne dust, off to the right, caught my eye. I momentarily diverted my gaze to take a glance in the direction of that airborne dust but continued driving as the roadway stretched out in front of me. It took a couple of attempts, but eventually, I recognized the source of that dust.
It was just a young boy runnin’ through a wheat field … Missouri dust just a-flyin’ around him as he made his way through the golden grain. I couldn’t hear him, but I could see his face, grinnin’ from ear to ear, his hand held high with his ball cap wavin’ in the breeze as he chased whatever was in his make-believe vision.
I watched him as long as I dared, tryin’ to concentrate on keepin’ the car in my lane. I eventually made on down the road, but not without checkin’ my rear-view mirror several times … until that air-borne dust was no longer in sight.
Up ahead, I saw a gas station and thought I’d better get a refill.
After I stopped and shut off the engine, I discovered I had tears running down my cheeks. Seein’ that boy runnin’ through that field was perhaps either me as the boy I used to be … or maybe my late friend. Or maybe just a momentary portal to embrace the wonderment of cherished memories. Took me quite a while ‘fore I got my car filled up, but the events of that day won’t ever leave me, I think.
I Hate Home Depot!
I hate Home Depot!
Just the sight of that
orange and white sign
makes my stomach turn.
However I know every
square inch of that store,
I’ve spent
thousands of hours there
as a paying customer.
I know what all is in the
garden section for all of the seasons.
I know where to go to find the
nuts, screws, nails and bolts. I can guide you
through the wallpaper and
the paint section.
I’ve bought sheets of plywood, lots of pcv pipe,
dozens of American Standard toilets,
ceiling fans, light fixtures, HVAC systems,
generators, even a riding lawn mower.
I’ve bought paint and waited to have it
mixed properly. I’ve rented
and driven dozens of their trucks before.
I’ve bought power drills, leaf blowers
screwdrivers, hammers, cabinets,
patio furniture, a refrigerator, an oven,
and an air conditioner.
I’ve even rented a carpet cleaner too!
But I could care less, if I ever step foot
in a Home Depot ever again. All of my hours
clocked in that store went to the benefit
of my ex.
He was the one that financially,
emotionally and personally
gained from my presence in
Home Depot.
So what was the point of me acquiring
all of that knowledge that didn’t benefit
me at all then and probably won’t benefit
me ever again?
It seems like such as waste of my time
and energy now.
Believe me when I say
I would rather watch paint dry than
go to Home Depot, I mean ever word
of that statement!
One summer I practically read all of
War and Peace in the orange and
white store from Hell!
But I can show you how to repair a large hole
in a piece of sheetrock. I know how to
paint the inside and the outside of a house.
I know how to install travertine in a house,
slanted and straight.
I have installed granite countertops,
hardware for a sink and the basin too.
Many other home improvement projects
I learned there.
What a fool I was!
Oh well, that’s life.
Who knows maybe
someday I’ll use some
of that knowledge that I
hated every minute learning!
Some pretty brown birds nesting on a tree
Prank frequently at my other room balcony
Apparently, they were once the main culprits
Of messing it up, bringing a variety of leaves and twigs
They also build thin nests behind my air conditioner
When an egg drops, they may reckon I’m aborting their daughter
One day, I wondered what had sprouted on the floor
At a grimy nook, not quite far from my door
When I looked closely, I was so skeptical
It was a great masterpiece of these clever winged pals
I was so certain that it was not a moss or a grass
But a vine bearing flowers with pretty purple petals
After a week, it revealed exuberantly itself
A lush vine of string beans, I didn’t sow by myself
Was it dropped by those birds or sowed by an invisible elf?
Oh, if it has grown taller than my room, I must have cried for help!
As it crawled and climbed up to the balcony wall
In fascination, I deigned not to ask questions anymore
It climbed up freely to a wall’s faucet as its sturdy trellis
And feasts proudly, spreading its huge and verdant leaves
In tandem was the bearing of its long string bean fruits
Heavily laden, their numbers had no hints – that was a bird’s hoot
I harvested thrice while my smiles were all in glints
And had a delicious vegie salad twice from my lovely magic bean
My last harvest was meant for the next crops
I took all beans from the fruits just for drying up
The brilliant brown birds will no longer need to drop
New seedlings from their magic beans are now growing in pots
I thanked those kind creatures for the magic beans they’ve given
Growing them in my concrete room balcony was like a dream
It wasn’t a fairytale at all, I’ve already given myself a pinch
And my balcony even magically turned into a mini vegie garden
Jan. 31,2015 11.15pm
By: LG
-This is a true story: an experience last July, 2014
First Place
Contest: Magic Beans
Judged: 2/14/2015
Sponsor: My all time favourite and loving poet sis, PD
À propos preponderant passion penning poems...
posited puzzling apt aperçu...
While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled wide, whirled
webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand twenty two,
unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring wordsmith
only now I became keen,
which unflagging vexillological,
theoretical, rhetorical, philosophical...
narratological, linguistical, judgmatical
historical, fantastical, didactical,
and bibliographical predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking
puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate
impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession
case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy
love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,
viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional
mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming -
affinity towards English language
I loopily, quirkily verily narrate
oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figuratively alluded
to wicked mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,
whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using Scooby Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal
hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil
ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between
comical characters such as
Popeye and Beetle Bailey
at lightspeed as if
greased with Olive Oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!
Grandma's Apron
In the corner I see a folded apron, brown with years of stain.
As I draw it to my searching eyes, I see the sweat and feel the pain.
All the years of toiling is over, the apron will never wrap around.
The time is past for the pressure, no more soil will there be ground.
The sweat is from the hot summers, when there was only blistering air,
The room was filled with heat, so hot it climbed the stair.
I watched her cooking from on high, quietly perched on the top step,
For I didn't dare to bother her, or Grandpa would beat me with a strap.
Grandpa was not a very nice person, he was always growling and yelling,
And on a few rare occasions, he would beat her, but I'm not telling.
He said it would be very bad for me, if I told my mother the real story.
Why grandma's arm was broken, grandma told me not to worry.
She would just turn her eyes toward heaven, and mutter a silent prayer for him.
Why she didn't pray for herself, that subject seemed so dim.
But now she isn't around anymore, to toil all day in the kitchen.
With all the pots and pans silent, her thread and needle for quick stitching.
What she said the day before she left; I will think of now and ever.
She said that she loved him still, and she would love him forever.
Now I have my own kitchen, where I go to cook a meal.
I go to that place quite often, where remembrance I do steal.
As I take a pot off the hook, I turn the air conditioner off.
I like to feel the heat on my face, so hot it makes me cough.
I try to see my grandma's face, always smiling and full of cheer.
Though her row was full of weeds, I never saw her shed one tear.
God has her now, in His kitchen, I'll bet that He appreciates her cooking.
As fine as any as He has ever had, I can tell you that without looking.
by Allen R Cleveland
06/22/98
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