Long Cylinder Poems
Long Cylinder Poems. Below are the most popular long Cylinder by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cylinder poems by poem length and keyword.
I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is a date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
The horn on the Buick honks.
Someone came with me.
I imagine his black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel.
Green tomatoes sizzle.
...Juanita and max had a poke,
but the next day, when she awoke,
he sat on the edge of the bed,
looking vacantly into space.
Said,”This can be only some fun,
and I can never be ‘the one,’
all that I ever loved lays dead,
and I am not long for this place.”
There was great tension when he spoke,
his voice was just a ragged croak,
the man was a great mass of pain,
more than she’d ever seen before.
She said,”I’m not some dreaming girl,
you’re not the first man in my world,
but if you bring down Malone’s reign,
you can come here if you want more.”
He said,”Best not let me inside,
for when I’m done I plan to die.”
That week he went and tracked down two,
he did not brag, nobody knew
what man was plaguing Malone’s gang,
or how he could be so lethal.
The first man was shot in the chest,
the other three times in the breast,
and the next week a man did hang
with his pistol cylinder full.
And every night Max lay with her,
would leave before Juanita stirred,
weeks passed and more villains fell,
he even killed Malone’s right hand.
Until one evening, in blind rage,
Malone to the bar angrily came,
said,”I’m sending all of you to Hell,
unless you reveal this damn man!”
Max rose and said,”Lt’s go outside,
it’s far time that I make you die.”
Outside went this fate-bonded pair,
timidly folks crept close to stare,
then Max’s gun quickly came free,
from his pistol fire did spit.
The bullet struck Red Maone’s back,
he cried,”You filth! Honor you lack!”
Max said,”You killed my family,
honor has nothing to do with it!”
Red Malone bled out on the ground,
his death seen by all of the town,
Juanita took him to her bed,
she knew well this was their last time.
Come the next day he made to leave,
she said,”Could you not stay with me?”
She stroked her stomach, and she said,
“Could you help raise this child of mine?”
Utter shock came quick to his eyes,
“I-I told you…I want to die…”
CONCLUDES IN PART III.
A salad a day keeps the doctor away
At least that's what I've always heard
Well so far that's proven to be the case
Doc visits have rarely occurred
Unless my bean-o's the thing at question
That's really quite a different matter
Memory's not firing on every cylinder
Thoughts are jumbled and scattered
Give them my name if I ask for help
What happens if I think I'm famous
Offering my autograph to passers by
Might think I'm an ignoramus
People will ask if I've made any movies
Or held some political office
Not to my knowledge I'm sad to relate
But my arabesque is really quite flawless
Maybe I'm famous, just can't remember
You can have my autograph in case
Now I'm even starting to wonder myself
In the movies, ever seen my face?
© Jack Ellison 2015
I had been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks
as I enter,
green tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my fedora,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and
yet lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is our date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I had treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
I imagine my black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel
as may horn honks impatiently.
Green tomatoes sizzle
as I disappear.
You can keep swinging in your smile
as your eyes see through the cylinder only
where the flowers radiate the scent
where the leaves wait for the rustle
of the fondling wind
where stars wait for the music
of the magical light peaks
where the blue sky waits
for the golden kite
in the cloud towers
Where the staircase raises the ears
for the sound of the footsteps
Where the mahogany branch
craves for the feet of the pair of the larks
The cylinder refuses to take
the wide angle lens
adding to the view
the greedy rats
the spilling vats
the leopard like hungry cats
the pus and pain of the flats
that our apartment is proud of
housing the autocrats
None in your tunnel
You don't battle
Against the stale apples
the de facto brothels
in the apartment in isolation
with no ventilation
You are of course better off
than those who have
the same tunnel before the eyes
Only the field of view with no dew
For them in the queue
The rapists and rape victims
The murdered and the murderer
The cheats and frauds
The figures flawed
Nothing good and well
The earth a hell
You are better off
With your cut-off
eliminating the minuses
Including only the pluses
where the thorns
aid and abet the blossoming of the rose
We like to keep disjointed
And highlight the negative knives only
Turning blind to the beehives
And the humming bee
bridging you and me
You do have the ear
corresponding with the tunnel vision
to hear and respond
and build the blueberry bond
between the flute and the music
The circles concentric
of the lyrics of life
and the drumsticks
______________________________________________
April 28, 2018
Tunnel Vision - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
A meeting through obscure means,developed into friendship a bond was hit but short lived,of which in hindsight an highlight. You opted out of the path of a possible darkened cylinder
Along your own family line. Not working out as you anticipated, moving on in life, educating from the bottom up, always has swerves and slides. My friend,you have eppitified all my expectations.
A now blemishing family, wife and sons that be a highlight. I can safely say now, you`ll admit maybe futre referance lifting a solemn shadow from my shoulders,
if not ease. Everybody needs that outlet, you came along in perfect time. Blessings to a Gent that i didn`t think would amount, but did. Eugene Stanley Dobson. ;)
Guilt's Living Tunnel
by Odin Roark
From one's everywhere-platform
An onrushing subway beckons attention
Strange colored lights constellating
Rising from infinite subterraneous distance
Its massive black face bearing down
An overwhelming colossus
Seeming to push crushing air
From the prodigious tunnel
Like a piston filling a cylinder
Nightmare's relentless all-steel demon
Plunges its compressed fetid iridescent odor
Spewing vermin essence at this desperation
Standing frozen upon the tracks
Blood flows not its normal route
Choosing instead to flood the intellect
Second-thought rationale quickening
Synapse signals colliding
Adrenalin reserves exploding
A lunge to safety
Prostrate upon platform
Roaring beast passing behind
Daring eyelids open
Suddenly...
Awake
A bed of cold sweat
Engulfs a battered heart
The loving eyes of conscience knows patience
Its warm presence gently caresses the exhausted mind
Questioning not the guilt
But consoling pain's resolve
Knowing relief remains
Beholden to time
Load the chamber with your love bullet and spin the cylinder and aim the muzzle at my heart see if when you pull the trigger if everything shatters apart
Every time you fall in love, you’re playing a deadly, foolish game where the bullet could be in the chamber or waiting to be played
Will your heart be broken and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces with nothing left but a gaping black hole or will you live another day to love and feel that you’re whole?
Will you be brave enough to play the game or should I say foolish enough? You must be strong and hold your ground when the going gets tough
Look your opponent in the eye and tell them I trust you, please don’t hurt me and leave me battered and bruised
Look down the eye of that barrel and tell yourself I can win you won’t destroy my heart I’ll never be the victim again
Stand up for love and fight to the bitter end wait for the sound of the shot and for the cylinder to be spun again
Only this time you won’t be the one waiting for death to leave it’s mark you can go on living and you can have a fresh start.
This poem is from my book titled Still Here Waiting available for purchase and Kindle on Amazon. My pen name is Amanda Carroll Kinzer
Imperfection abounds,
the evidence is everywhere,
misshapen leaves and tree trunks
hunched over and almost touching
the ground mark the morning -
a dog chasing a ball along the beach
has a bent tail, the owner a limp.
Across the road, a mower
that is cutting the grass
in the municipal gardens coughs
smoke out of a sick cylinder and a seagull
that waits at my feet for a scrap
is missing a foot.
And I and all the people that are here
taking in the morning air share
an imperfection written in our genes,
unseen, benign or a ticking time bomb
waiting to explode into disease.
Perfection is an ideal
that perhaps exists only in our heads,
a notion conjured up and given to grace
our departed gods. Everything carries
the seeds of its own decay,
is sentenced to pass away
and yet we swear we see it
shine through a crack in time,
in nature when caught sublime
in a moment of transcendent beauty
and in the love hiding at the center
of ourselves and our art
that threatens to break through
and illuminate our dark.
Tater tots by the plate that's all this boy ate
he was seven going on eight that boy Nate
The crispy cylinder of potato gold
yummiest finger food so bold
Deep fry or oven baked
Tastiest treat you can make
Nate ate and ate and ate
cooked all by his mother Kate
Serve them for breakfast lunch and dinner
Tater tots always a winner
Nate was never late
for a meal of tots on his plate
Then one day there were no more
Nate's jaw dropped to the floor
He threw a fit and he did spit
out that nasty soggy fish stick
His mother sat him on the corner stool
letting him calm down and cool
But daydreaming of tots made him drool
he held his breath, to win this duel
His dad said to let him eat his favorite treat
his taste buds will get weary of em in a week
Nate ate and ate his tots with joy
you see Nate's dad was the original Tater Boy.