Long Dike Poems
Long Dike Poems. Below are the most popular long Dike by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dike poems by poem length and keyword.
As I walk the dirty streets, I look into a crack head eyes,
as she look's up at with surprise.
Knowing I got what it takes to supply them dimes!
She has her high beam's on, and a crack pipe in her palms.
she has no time to speak, as she crosses the street.
I'm her pusher man!
That keeps the past, in the past.
She beg's me for a hit, with her cracked white lips. She say's she needs a dime,
for it's her last time, knowing it's lie just to get high.
As I smile in her face, with a look of disgrace, for I'm the pusher...
I know to never let the street's get to you.
I alway's know rule number two...Never smoke from your own supply!
Rule number ten,... All rule's apply!
I'm your pusher man...
All these other rules, from one thur nine, is for only real niggas that put in time!
Never be weak for the drug's you seek, for she knows what she needs.
She really has no need to plead, what ever she needs, I'm pleased.
For her money is coming to me! If she only knew I was taking her life.
Everything she has, or ever treasured, from her husbend, to a straight dike!
She needs me for I'm here to please. With out an "us"... they'll be no "we"!
She'll give up her home and, her family, she'll never go to far,
I'm her pusher man!
I'll make her dreams a reality!
To reconcile, to feel all she needs is me! I'm the prophecy, she'll live in poverty,
talking with profanity. Selling her big screen to me!
I'm her pusher man. I make her happy when shes sad,
I can get her higher than a kite, she'll be in the streets all night!
Her family wouldn't see her in weeks, her home, was with me!
No need to eat, drugs was the beef!
I'm her pusher man!
She'll rob her mom, just to get her high on.
She'll steal from the police, If she see me in the street's!
I'm her mom, I'm her dad, Im' her everything she had,
I'm her pusher man!
She keeps me richer, my pockets stay thicker!
She loves me more than she loves her self... because the crack, is what it's really all about! I'm her pusher man!
I am what I am, I give what I can!
From the suburbs from, the hoodest of all hoods! I stay with the goods!
I'm her pusher man...
The streets will be watching everthing you do, and one day they might come for you!
For I'm... your pusher man!
My little running buddy, my best furry friend
You came into my life
As a white bundle of goofy bichon
Dressed up as a terrier.
You terrorized our Princess Xena,
And, as a crazy Hallowe’en pup,
Climbed up onto the table
To lick clean butter and sugar bowls
And back down again to chew the table legs!
You chased the beach birds in Tofino
And Phyllis’ cat in New Brunswick.
Oh, you were so full of mischief
But the aroma of fresh bought roast chicken did not entice you
As you were perched up on the back headrest
Anxiously awaiting our return!
Always a crazy ball of energy.
Let’s see if she’ll run, I said,
And there you were at my heels
Or up ahead looking back to see if we were coming.
Up and over the hilly trails
Or miles of dike along the river.
Year after year, all kinds of weather,
A different colourful coat for every occasion.
The many road trips, sleeping quietly on my lap
Or going for a ride on two wheels
With the best seat in the house, wearing your doggles!
My motorcycle pup, running buddy, cycling sightseer,
At home wherever you were with me,
Whether it be on the top of Mt Seymour
Or the back of the Chief, the alpine meadows of Baker
Or the Pacific Coast Highway!
Unconditional love, always a kiss
Oh, what we humans could learn from our 4 legged friends!
Always there for me, to kiss away the pain
Of my broken hearted wounds
Through the emotional hills and valleys of my life journey
You were my best furry friend for 18 years, 8 months.
A little trooper with a large heart right until the end.
An incredibly long life, always willing without fail,
Loving and faithful to the end of your days,
You looked into my eyes and kissed me goodbye.
Your little body gave up but your brave heart beat on, so strong
As your life ended so softly and gently.
Chloe, my best furry friend, my little running buddy......
I will miss you so, your little dance, your kisses,
Your greeting at the door, all but memories now & forever.
this poem is my take on weary blues by langston hughes
Langston hughes truly was a great poet and one of the best ever!
Bombilating a snappy euphony rhyme
Fingers crackling against palm and time
I heard a soul play
Down on dike street the other night
By the dark alley illuminated by car lights
Her words were a tail rhyme
Her words were a tail rhyme
The holy melancholy catachresis
Was an oxymoron to my ears
It brought life but was killing me inside to hear
With those ebony hands wrapped around the standing mic
She made that mic vocalize her soul’s cry
O poetry!
I remember fingers crackling against palm and nature
She spoke words turning carpe diem to a sweet cacophony imprisonment
Of syllables slipping off her tongue.
Sweet poetry!
Coming from a black Woman’s SOUL! cafe
O poetry!
In a deep performance, her voice rang
I heard the soul sing, and the mic cry!
“Lord, has she stolen your diary of my life?
Or have you given her the word to “kill me with poetry”
Her tongue has conversed with my soul tonight
Don’t let this sweet death sentence end
Let her recite my death in words again!
Snap snap snap, went fingers to palm
Her next words cracked lyrics worse verse against my unshielded heart
“ Lord what Is this poetry I hear? Don’t let it stop”
This weary soul needs rest in her words
For I know now the angel of death
Has shown grace upon me!”
I Got a weary Soul
And her words give me rest
I got a weary soul
And her words give me rest
But it’s killing me slowly
And far into the night that spoken word rang
The stars had ears that night
And the sun crackled snaps too, through the universe
To her words
The night of poetry, that soul on the mic
Retired home
While that souls words echoed through my souls expression
In the end, my walk began again, and my weary soul
Continued to search the world but found none like
That night on dike.
As they leave,
They leave for us
Calabash full of sorrow and agony
They leave for men a plate of frustration
And desperation.
As they leave
They leave for women nothing
But cups of tears and fears
As they leave
They leave for old ones a basket
Full of fruits of ultimate death and shame
As they leave
They leave for workers a big bowl
Of empty promises, unpaid salaries
And incessant strike actions
As they leave
They leave for students a stabbed
And crippled students’ union,
Ramshackle and “Renopainted”
Halls of Residence
As they leave
They leave for our generation a loss compass
From which we can find and rediscover our
Moral values, valuable culture
Instincts of deliberative governance and
Leadership cum administrative acumen
As it is
We are living with fear of gbu-a-gbu-a
Of daylight gunshot of the emboldened to
Extort, encouraged to maim and induced to kill
Ultra-fascists campus cult groups commissioned
To crush all seeming oppositions
As is it
We are living with:-
Biochemists without reagents
Microbiologists without modern microscopes
Linguists without modern language laboratory
Computer students without
Being opportune to hold a mouse
Physiologists without bloodbank.
As it is
We are living with
Dike archaic books and non books materials
Students and staff basking in the euphoria
Of stone age and ancient facilities.
As it is
We are living in a garden that detest truth
Genuine intellectualism, dissent views and
Contrary opinions but rather nourishes in
Multi-colour ignorance, white lies,
Ever green concocted disortions,
Oceanic blu-i-sh sycophancy and reddish intolerance
Which is only reminiscences of the black jackboot
Days of the Abacha junta.
Alayande Stephen. T
20th,September,2005
6.00am
Form:
ARTE MAYOR*: Neither Cricket nor Football
Is this the way to prop A-first
Sock not oval ball overhead
Slam not round ball with drumstick dead
Cut not corporate tax: the worst
Hundred millions sweat till tv burst
Swamp Super Bowl cheer-leaders' tights
The day England scorned Wales' rights*
Would arméd football rugby durst
Catch not ball in leather-gloved hand
Watch how slip-fields pluck balls from air
Out-fields brave boundaries debonair
That's what cricket's in any land
Trumped-up charges make no A-men grand
Nor soft base balls stop eyes grow sore
A-1 Nation must make World soar
Hail Rugby! King Twickenham brand!
Throw missile back You Quarter-Back
Take no step beyond the Red line
Referee draws to keep the front-line
Push no further than ball in pack
The Golden Rule's not to kick back
Unless you're in scrum cheek to jowl
And lick the foe if he must growl
Block those horns in grid-lock Am-track!
Curve ball's By Gad no in-swinger
Reach first base sans one lone strike
Home runs no match sixes through dike
Stop runs coming through huge bouncer
Best way to take the World over
Scrap apéd games from lean memory
Learn to play ball gentlemanly
You'll need no Vinson carrier!
*Arte Mayor (Sp. Major Art) stanzaic form, the art of Archiprest de Hita (12th-13th c.): eight syllabic lines in eight-line stanzas, rhyming abba acca.
*England beat Wales in epic match at Cardiff to win Six-Nations' Rugby 2017 Trophy; the same day the Super Bowl was watched by 125 millions on TV. If the same audience could have seen the match at Cardiff, I'd wager that would have been the very last Super Bowl event in history.
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
THE SECOND COMING OF AN IMMACULATE MIS-CONCEPTION
I hear preachers claim that Jesus walks by my side
Alas, Jesus has also lasciviously lied
I can’t see Jesus with my very own eyes
Yet with my eyes I read all of His lies
The Bible promises that Jesus always protects me
Until our Lord ultimately rejects me
I know the Son Of Man is supposed to be my Lord
But quite frankly by my Lord I am
frightfully bored
I am married to Jesus, at least that’s what I read in His Holy Word
Yet now I seek the seclusion of divorce and the freedom of a flight blessed bird
Jesus made a mansion for those he sets free
Well Jesus would rather I live under a rotted and well-weathered tree
Jesus healed the sick and also fed the poor
As for me he has only a well slammed front door
Jesus took water and in His chalice wine was made
Only I was there and know He used a packet of grape Kool-Aid
And if you tell me in His time Kool-Aid wasn’t even known
I’ll tell you that Jesus created it for His use alone
Jesus could have taken his act on the road
But He wouldn’t have been so popular since David Copperfield can turn a tiger into a toad
Jesus took fishes and loaves and fed a whole mess of folks
Well you didn’t hear it from me but He also dispensed eggs with no yolks
And when Jesus created mankind he made trillions of very sick jokes
Yesterday I bought a Bible but it was way overpriced
and that's another grievance i have with Jesus Christ
They say He came for sinners and the righteous alike
Well my lesbian sister knows that your Mary Magdalene was a hard core dike!
© 2013….copyright...PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
You know, I thought changing one’s job would be easy,
To start a new vocation would be breezy.
I got me local newspaper, looking for a job as a sparky, (electrician)
But I said “what the F-ck, these ads were written by a sarky.”
The first job was an “Almond Knocker,”
Now this sounds as sleazy as sniffing used jockstraps in a locker.
Who wants to look for an almond the shape of a woman’s top half of her anatomy,
But, looking at women’s breast to find one that looks like an almond, appeals to me.
The second job was a “Blind Hooker,”
Now what can I say, that’s a woman’s job and boy she’ll have to be a looker.
She would be the cheapest thrill you’d ever have
You can imagine the police chasing her as she is lead by her all eye seeing sat nav.
Nope not for me…
Uuhh! Here’s one for me, “Bosom Presser”
Squeeeezing them breasts from the largest to the lesser.
I gave them a call straight away
Only to find out the job was not really that way
Dam!
The next one was, what the f-ck? a “Dike Stoneman”
Well I don’t think any man can
This must be a woman bouncer for a happy club ( I hope this is more politically
correct than saying “Gay”)
The one you greet say “Hey Bud”
Well later I googled the titles and yes you right, I was wrong,
I suppose me old job will be lifelong
Overworked, under paid
Oversexed under laid
Here are a few more jobs I came across, an “Egg Smeller, Chicken Sexer, Pillow Girl
:-) , Butt maker, , Fire Drier (never heard of wet fire) and for all you animal lovers out
there, Frog Shaker, Monkey Tail Puller and those who don’t change their underwear,
a Skid Marker
I scorn thee, Puberty! Damn thee as well,
Thou abominable herder of shame,
Will thou findeth glee by my told sarspell?
I beseech thee of ineffable name,
Rendereth thineself as quiet slain game,
For thine cruel ends be reached, let thine eyes droop,
Immortal Rite, meeteth Poetry Soup.
Forsaken specs findeth young Phillip (me),
He the first noble son born of Sir Mike,
That betrothed Diane, mother of he (me);
Neareth NASA lived they by Houston’s dike,
We plus two girl offsprings I still dislike;
Turneth back time to nineteen ninety five,
Thus now the setting as ocean, we dive.
I of ten years then plus three more years aged,
By mine mom’s woven hand rags yet adorned,
Draperies bindething spirits encaged,
Mine lot too ignorant still ‘be forlorned,
For two years would pass ‘fore Nike I yearned;
Looken now friends, at thine narrator’s dress,
Mine costumes for school were each mismatched mess.
And hath we not yet speaketh mine afro?
Then let us for humor’s saketh too laughs
For atop mine snow pale flesh did it grow!
It was beneath that nest mine brain did graphs
On one Tuesday morn; during sixth grade math,
Unbeknownst of a sneaking wretched pest:
That ineffably named prepubescent guest.
Still in present times remember I can’t,
What the hell kindled mine loins ablaze,
Yet fiery flames of embarrassment
Secretly smoldered through my brainy haze;
When mine teacher upon me called that I raise,
And thus stirred the scene I’ve oft reflected,
The moment I’ve chosen for my most embarrassing?
When in 6th grade math class I stood up…
…fully erected
killer (suicide) wrought living corpse
fruition, while she whipped various
nutritious concoctions in blender
to ensure minimal essentials to, I
readily admit) famished body in con
junction with applying vital supple
mints into bony gluteus maximus,
thru fuel injection which submissiveness
to acquiesce, and bare buttocks did
absolutely nothing to squelch death wish.
I inexorably overcame eating disorder
deadly hunger strike essentially constituted
declaration of independent control
despite horrendous craving for food
jabbed innards like a pike bifurcated
psychic division loosed, ousted, and
routed coeval grim reaper grippe
permanent goal lyeth drink seize abated
gnome hatter reminiscence blissful child
hood over flooded self made dike
revised engendering propensity
to catapult into abysmal emotional hole
before invention of Facebook, I
mentally clicked Like sparring sword
fight mailer daemons mortally wounded
slain, viz healthy development stole.
Imprimatur indelibly etched decades
after bout with passive exit from life
crimps psycho/social skills plus
stunted physical growth butcher knife
cuts affected mental health with panic
attacks and anxiety though existence
considerably less riddled debilitating
symptoms (such as vertigo, racing heart,
profuse sweating, nausea, irritable bowels)
courtesy prescription medications.
All the More Human, for Eve Pandora
by Michael R. Burch
a lullaby for the first human Clone
God provide the soul, and let her sleep
be natural as ours, unplagued by dreams
of being someone else, lost in the deep
wild swells of losing all that "human" means ...
and do not let her come to doubt herself—
that she is as we are, so much alike
in frailty, in the books that line the shelf
that tell us who we are—a rickety dike
against the flood of doubt—that we are more
than cells and chance, that love, perhaps, exists
because of someone else who would endure
such pain because some part of her persists
in us, and calls us blesséd by her bed,
become a saint at last, in whose frail arms
we see ourselves—the gray won out of red,
the ash of blonde—till love is safe from harm
and all that "human" means is that we live
in doubt, and die in doubt, and only love
the more because we only know to strive
against an end we loathe and fear. What of?—
we cannot say, imagining the Night
as some weird darkened structure caving in
to cold enormous pressure. Lacking sight,
we lie unbreathing, thinking breath a sin ...
and that is to be human. You are us—
true mortal, child of doubt, hopeful and curious.
Keywords/Tags: Eve, Pandora, human, clone, humanity, human being, human condition, evolution, birth, death, life and death, soul, soulmate, saint, youth