Long Dose Poems
Long Dose Poems. Below are the most popular long Dose by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dose poems by poem length and keyword.
In the mornings, building staff,
Equipped with long green hoses,
Wash sidewalks down, attentive to
What lurks beneath their noses.
Most often, it’s what’s left behind
By dogs which poo or piddle,
With owners who, despite the law,
Obey it very little.
Though yesterday, a homeless man
Sprawled on the sidewalk, sleeping.
Though he was dry, surrounding him,
Was proof of clean-up keeping.
Aside from where he lay, the street
Was wet from recent hosing,
A kindness from the worker,
Or at least what I’m supposing.
I’ve sometimes gotten spritzed a bit,
An accidental spraying,
But I was touched to see this dose
Of empathy displaying.
Nights of flying dream world,
who might chase a raucous laugh,
or seek indeed mirthful excitement,
the sort that has embroidered twists,
as is generally perceived by intention,
but epic hurdles formed in still frame,
city snores past midnight bell clang,
dare one ever risk a robust venture,
should I have said pursuit instead,
sleep is diversion in that steel crib,
that modern crib pillow we fostered,
an idiom that has it’s silken source,
on foot of rainbow studded home run,
as denizens of driven blissful sprint,
with that palette city life concocts,
waiting to arise from brainwave surge,
but toilers so content at last wonder,
can still find that extra zestful yen,
nocturnal misnamed down tool free time,
energizing hour filler may arouse,
around the ink drape walkways,
quite surrogate and surreptitious,
character one may mold from time,
spent as a regal rhombic chaser,
boundary scuppered plot by strolling fleet,
as creatively imagining might edge,
vast supply has penchant without dent,
zeitgeist flower of a fluorescent flag,
warning mask so deft but visible,
canopy laid beauteous black fringe,
alliance in shade infused etch front,
squeaky noising trickle eardrum muffin,
hear full dose of ripple muttering,
clued on obscurantist thin,
taut code evasive decipher ask,
float of urban mirror pool by pattern,
reflection, mirage, cocoon,
after midnight curtain draws,
to protracted claps evinced from,
squinting imp coterie on foot,
ricochet off Moroccan spice tint,
outside vivid haunt so frequented,
perchance, perforce, pertaining patois,
little seen scatter mice squeak,
analogy horizontal spurt funk,
if only these dart and dash clan,
midgets metaphorical so jubilant,
in sonic meddle near edge encounter,
it would be strictly beyond a dazzling cast,
from other daylight theater staunch queue,
when aiming for parallel experience,
performance nocturne wise deep art,
even rich fantasy has upper boundaries,
some grating gulley flake debris awash
1980 we began to learn ( about health and safety)
Not at every turn.'
As the decades went, its demands just grew.' From
Those quite acceptable, no one realised the end extent
Mind you.'
There was always, some charge; and info gathered?
Sheets of triplicate paper in bleather!
Still it was all for the good of everyone! So you buckled
Down and got stuff done.'
And if you didn't it was understood.! You could be a bad
Human..You really could??
Then 2020 there was a scare.' Victims were falling in China
Just about everywhere'
People in 'white boiler suits' sprayed mysterious chemicals
Could these be bought?
Yet no info on what the substances could be
Turned out as soap and water.!!
Which was almost free.' The media stalked hospital
Wards grim and extolling
This untoward, and most debilitating thing soon
Doc's were on t v' to moan and wring.' Hands and
The last ounce of will, from the trusting (herds?) That word was ( the trigger one)
Does this all seem absurd? Next you must lock yourselfs away, don't be fools? or worse, bad humans.?
You should 'just'follow some rules,) meanwhile real herio's would be
On an anti-dose, working while skne nurses on tik tok' were 'twerking?'
This wonder 'drug ciuld be years away?' Maybe a decade.!! We'll
Be locked away.??
And yet thanks to this 'fast paced situation' after just eight weeks into 2021
There was a (great sensation) the boffins had pulled of a coup.'
Thats something made up..In a word ir two.'
This was straight 'from dark winter' an old exersize a thing by milatary
In the U S! Wow What a surprise.?
There is a colonel, i think James Bush, he got unwilling..When it came
To the push.!
The rest is history (of which we're part) and a side-lined reality, i ask
All reading will you do your part??
I have presbyopia, astigmatism and more than a dose of dyslexia to boot
And so I have to break up my poetry into stanzas or my writing goes mute
I fall between the letters and get lost upon the page
and nothing makes any sense
and my brain begins to rage
My eyes get tired fast, reading a page of unrelenting text
with no line breaks or paragraphs
to collect the thoughts best
This simple punctuation helps me keep the meter flow
but it also helps me read what I wrote
and encapsulate the storys growth
So break up those pages a bit eh?
give those eyes a rest
People will thank you for it
if you don't make it such a test.
- Artimus 9/29/23 8:24PM (C) Susan Manley
"The pen is the tongue of the mind."
~ Horace
"A writer without a pen would be like a duck without water."
~ Donovan
My ink is bleeding today,
I feel lachrymose,
I sense my owner's dismay,
She needs some joy dose;
Her moods often are bizarre,
Sometimes I can't gauge,
She hasn't put me down so far,
Though tears blot the page;
Words of sorrow down she writes,
And writes and writes on!
I can't stop her, how she fights!
She'll write till the dawn!
Poetry flows from my ink,
Page after new page,
Such days, I've no time to think,
It's her writing rage!
Sometimes she'll use me to scratch
her head full of thoughts,
Or like today, I'm no match,
When she creates lots!
One thing I will always know,
Something I'm proud of,
My ink will forever flow,
'coz I'm her true love;
In her hands, my ink blood beats,
She has set me free,
My whole purpose, she completes,
Whene'er she holds me.
(Re tiny box-like homes lining the west side of
South Bundy Drive, north of Nebraska Street, in West LA)
The soiled feeling comes not
From the indignant paradise
Scurrying past their frontal lobes
It arrived in silence
Borne of being first to the party
And the ensuing, deafening wars
With the partycrashers
With their cranes
Their progress
Their eclectic sense of
Civilized degradation
Squeezing the life from
The Boxes Before Nebraska
That modest set of
Stoic pre-war cookie-cutter domiciles
Perfectly groomed
Impeccably aligned
For Ozzie and Harriet, and
Their silent parade of nasty
The Boxes, they struggle
To remain relevant in the haze of
Modernity's hammer and
Banality's autoimmune disease
To avoid temptation as
The developer's succulent lips and larceny
Get wider and wetter
To simply let be amidst the swollen busy
Not to mention a new cast of characters to contend with:
- The brackish bendejo careening in stride, unaffected by the Boxes' sidewalk's ill-timed permanence and oblique conundrums, left from quakes and lashings of yore
- The livid madman embracing his next lethal dose of humanity as he marches, barks and feuds with phantom nemeses camped out at the Boxes' doorstep
- The ragged cougar across the street, squeamish exterior gone bad, pounded into Angelino submission by the tricks and spells she conjures and endures
- The dual threat of LA Fitness night trolls, basking in cardio vampire glow, while the next morning's brew of rainbow children percolates into G-d's bitter latte, sipped cupless on fresh asphalt.
And yet...they stand
Together as one
By accident
By stupor of justice
By de jure
By no better place to go
Testament to legacies
Begging to remain
Living proof that
Bounty, modesty and sanctity
Can be achieved
When you stop thinking outside of the box.
(4/11/15)
Excited I wait upon the train
Under shelter away from rain
Puddle forming around my feet
Off to town my friend to meet.
Train so late I give a groan
Oh to be dry and warm at home
Rain now sleet, frozen through
Teeth are chattering what to do?
Station bell rings another delay
This is really not a good day
Rethink plan for get-together
Seismic change awful weather.
Cell phone rings 'tis my date
Telling me kindly not to wait
He is at home with dose of flu
Here I stand thought's taboo.
Now train service is suspended
It matters not my day upended
Chilled to bone feeling quite dire
Home to bed T.L.C. required.
Form J
Poetry Contest
Sponsored
by:
Constance La France
22/03/2022
Beauty wears a face
In a sexy pose
Finesse styles fond grace
In a fitful dose
She is the poetry
Of my humble daze
A warm certainty
Fond wonder moves craze
All her ways converse
In ample embrace
No wordplay can burst
Sheer verse her smiles trace
I write to reveal
The wonder I find
A deeper touch seals
Sound poetry sans mind
She is the dance here
In sexy swirls fond
Joy's bubbly burst spears
Deep feelings love spawns
Round and round and round
Fond gaze hurls delight
Upon these grand grounds
Laughter weaves insight
Leon Enriquez
23 April 2017
Singapore
I am inside her body, but I am invisible; she can’t put a name to me.
I dwell between her chest and the core of her body.
She does not know what I am, and it’s driving her crazy.
She is not consciously worried by anything, yet I embody the “feel” of worry.
Am I anxiety? If so, why do I go away
the minute she comes here to the keyboard and starts typing?
Even now, I am dissipating. Just a whisper of me remains.
I have kept her awake tonight despite her high dose of a sedative
along with Sleepy-time tea! She even upped the ante with Excedrin PM,
yet I just stayed in her body - surging -the invisible entity that I am.
I sat there (or did I lie there?) for at least two hours or more.
Finally something kicked in, and she was able to let go of me.
However, I know I was probably there all along as she lay dreaming.
When she tries to put a name to me, she searches for me on the internet.
Night dread comes up, but I don’t exactly fit the description.
I used to come only in the morning. She wants to know
why I am coming to her at her bedtime now as well!
She is afraid of me because she fears not getting sleep. Am I fear?
She can’t explain me or properly define me. I can't define myself either!
At this moment, I am pretty much gone, but maybe I'll return to her soon.
Sept. 19, 2018
For Brenda Chiri's Write Me An Emotion-Act Poetry Contest
i prefer to remember you like this
there was a time when this space was meant only for us
now we created a hole that allowed grief and stress
we are now shades of our former selves living in oblivion within ourselves
i am on a roller coaster ride as i stare endlessly out of the window
the bends reminds me of the nausea of our never ending changes
what i would not give for a sweet dose of organic glory right now
that is what it felt like when we first met
somewhere between fantasy and black paradise, reality and truth tapped us on the shoulder
what died is our merged recognition of reason and our emboldening of The Reason
i guess that is why i turn to isolation as my visibly invisible mistress
in the center of walking the floor over you, i prefer to remember you like this