Long Doubles Poems
Long Doubles Poems. Below are the most popular long Doubles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Doubles poems by poem length and keyword.
I went on a strange journey this morning
It wasn't planned or arranged
I only responded to the voice ringing in my ear to go to a special place
I circled around the community to avoid this spontaneous journey
But everywhere I go I ended on the same main road
Life is a simple journey with many circles and triangles
It takes you from East to West and North to South
up and down in and out and around in circles
It is better not to avoid it but stand up strong and challenge it
You must go all the way through to learn about the life in you
Hired drivers fill the roadways spewing out toxic fumes
and playing a horrible tune
No real business exist in this residential community
All the way is traffic jam but they are destined to be dammed
Big trucks with signs van and cars with all types of labels
doing business on the roadways
They drive up and down the street to confused the people
and drive them out of the community
I sat on the corner watching them going in and out
useless traffic polluting the roads with this surveillance strategies must cease
And big camera must be installed on the streets
They crowd the street night and day slow down the traffic
deceive the people and pretend as if they are going to work
but they have no specific destination they just wait on the call
to crawl out of their holes and drive up and down and around the bend
Motor vehicle infiltrate the communities with various types of duties
Cars lined up on both sides of the streets and you can't tell
the difference between the authority and the thieves
Everywhere I go they are playing the same drum beat
Mocking the morning in the sun heat
Fake shoppers and hired drivers crowd America's street
On my way back something symbolic crossed my path
Twelve ducks came out in front of me six of them crossed the road
ahead of me and depart
The next six scramble into the bushes towards the stagnant pond
I count them out aloud to make sure I was not seeing doubles
One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve
And I shouted " It is the government"
Twelve ducks diverge.
MUSING AT THE LIBRARY
Curmudgeon staring me down, what do you think betwixt those eyes? I dare to stare back this time. “Are you having a good day, sir.” “No!” he says back just as fast. But perhaps I laugh with a mischievous twinkle in my eye, perhaps sir, just a scintilla bit better.
She stares at me unknowingly cutting in line, ready to speak, then doubles back for someone was before her. She shuffles to the next counter with her stack and opens her jaw, “Are youuu Jewish? Because you look Jewish…” and I just stare back at this odd woman, rude woman, what is she jabbering about. I’m befuddled.
Supergeek, and I say this lovingly, gives me the lowdown on everything humanly possible about the comic book world. Even the color coding of heroes and villains.
“Oh, I’ve got something special for you to do,” she rubs her hands together before I can rub the sand out of my eyes. Oh, boy!
And there’s the “Do you remember me?” and just like a book with outline, the colors come back to me. I erase the red hair and make it gray and I wrinkle up the paper. Oh yes, I remember you!
In the sorting room, I put my feelings on the conveyor belt. They fall into a variety of bins...adult, child, ones I leave behind, those headed outside and those to shelve.
10/12/2018
He was going to choose coffee.
But this matcha drink intrigued him.
Made him buy it on a lark.
Monday coffee?
Monday Matcha sounds better!
He wanted to share matcha with his coworkers.
But then they would hate him.
Glaring at him as if his clothes were melting away.
And also his hair is dripping with some goo.
They’ve always hated him.
He keeps the matcha a secret.
He hands everyone their coffee drinks.
The lattes, the doubles, even the triples.
He takes a sip of this green drink.
The taste is odd.
Like drinking footprints.
He takes another sip.
The taste is like some person handed him this green drink.
Except it doesn't taste green, or gray, or even orange.
Or floral, or bright, or happy.
He had been drinking coffee since college.
Terrible times.
Do people like matcha?
Do people hate matcha?
They sure hate him.
Yet, somehow the rest of the week was…
Like matcha.
You can’t spit it out.
You can’t undo it.
Everyone hates you.
Matcha Monday…
The coffeeshop asked what he wanted.
And he really didn’t know.
When pain is mirrored, it does not disappear—
it doubles, refracted through the wounded self.
The mind, once fortress, becomes the new frontier,
its soldiers turning inward to protect itself.
An insult flung, narcissistic manipulation—
the body answers, trembling, in kind.
Defense mistaken for provocation,
and guilt begins to colonize the mind.
The abuser smiles—order is restored,
the victim wears the shame like a second skin.
Yet in the dreamwork, symbols twist and strain,
the truth insists on this hammer within.
For rage, when born of terror, is not a crime —
it is the psyche screaming to let me out.
Why did they name it a freeway to begin with
Honestly it doubles your chances of getting hit
Drunk drivers and those with road rage throwing fits
Constantly driving defensively to avoid a near miss
Are the ramp meter lights really controlling the traffic
It causes more confusion when an idiot drives past it
It's on this road that the impatient show themselves
Another reason the insurance comanies are high in their sells
People changing lanes like they're under the influence
Tailgaters are annoying and also drivers with no insurance
If an accident happens anywhere on the freeway
Artificial traffic builds from the nosey looking that way
Then when lanes aren't moving but yours starts to
Someone always dares to dash right in front of you
You also have those who try to cheat the carpool
Even break through the solid lines just to roll through
That freeway business can be too much for me
To avoid that madnes I rather take the street
Pixie dust and fairy trails
Highlight the whispers of the dark
By enchanted night light
The moon kisses the stars
Then with a twinkle, hugs a passing cloud
Along the mysterious pathway
Elfin friends hide to watch me
The vivid colors of the night
Dance around my head
Leaving a rainbow for me to follow
My mind crazy with desire
For all the enchantments I cannot see
My vision doubles and I become
Delirious with excitement
This newfound place I don’t always visit
It’s my secret hiding ground
Where imagination is
Transformed into reality
My fantasies fly free
As I leave my trail of fairy dust
Behind like leaves in the wind
Form:
I was listening to roller skating tunes.
Yes, I am shallow, sir.
And though thou may say villainess or mistress,
I am content to be who I am.
One noon, we were over dull
and our hearts we serviced
like two thieves there
in the kissing place
where breaths are both as one
and the first of many kisses doubles.
He made vows in mine ear.
He has such hands and lips
and his fortunate nature fed mine eyes
oh, nothing was scarce.
Our horns locked together
with the intensest chutzpah
and we well-made our match.
We sparked feelings we all ascribe to heaven.
I would not tell you
I can serve a man
that by slow designs
men can melt.
He swore oaths
and dropped
half won.
Later he paid
the sweetest
after-debts
—he did owe it.
.
.
songs for this:
Find Me the Pulse of the Universe by Laetitia Sadier
Stormy (Bossa Mix) by S-Tone Inc
You put up the numbers
Year after year.
You faced every pitcher
Having no fear.
You have a great eye.
The best of them all.
You made it look easy
When you contact the ball.
A pitch in the strike zone
You gave it a slap.
Singles and doubles
Were scored in the gaps.
Over two hundred hits
Five different seasons.
Over thirty-one hundred
Hall of fame reasons.
You batted an average
Three thirty-eight.
Over twenty straight years.
I'm just saying that's great.
Eight batting titles
With the very same team.
For today’s average player
It's only a dream.
Out in right field
You were a cut above.
And for your great play
Won five golden gloves.
You stole 300 bases.
Most never knew.
Your career strike outs
Were so very few.
So now you stand
In the hall of fame.
As one of the greatest
To have played the game.
Human history is full of trouble because religion has duped the human race and creates a lot of doubles all over the place. If I could turn the clock back in time, I would not change anything, but I would get what is rightfully mine.
If I could go back in time, I would conquer the mountains and build a shopping center in the middle of the tobacco land; I would expand the livestock and plant a gigantic cane field in the back yard.
I would develop the cotton farm and plant a sunflower field on the Lawn and pump cooking oil out of the belly of the beast and drain the color out of the human race and let it cover the entire street.
The color is full of trouble, and it has cast a sticky pigment on the universe and make us believe that the human body is made up of dirt, the British created this religious narrative with Adam and Eve at the center of the stage and the Prophet Mohammed dominating the Muslim race.
The narrative is so strong that it brainwashes every human being upon the barren land; it started from the babe in the womb, and it came to life in the temple of doom.
The scientist explains it and the religion fanatics’ shout about it but have no evidence to prove it. They continue to live a living lie and cast their breads upon the water until the day they die.
The romans started it and the British perfected it and everyone was brainwashed by it and start to believe it. Thanks to the Americans and the new world that rescued the human race from it.
The British is bound in traditions, they have created much of the history books on the land; the color trouble runs through the pages and create conflict among the human races.
Some people never overcome it, they die and go to the grave with it and a new generation is born with the color trouble spread out all over their face.
The stigma is still around and it has dogged some people in the town, color on food, color on face, color on house, color mingling in the dirt, color running on the street, color disrupting my heart beat, you must mix the two troublesome colors and make they stay together and if you think that it is improper let the different conflicting colors meet and let the Devil prowl around the street.
I would never change my color if you gave me a billion dollars. Let my color run all over the street until you accept my heartbeat.
Came from Baltimore by Pigtown
Where they like to lay the law down.
He rebelled against the ground rule.
Had to grow up in reform school.
Got acquainted with a curveball
Dealing pepper by the church hall;
Broke some windows, but he left the scouts impressed.
He was an OG All Star, and a first draft Hall of Famer.
He had manners like a gomer, but he played with no disclaimer.
Pitched in Beantown, till they tossed him.
They’d regret they ever lost him.
Joined the Yankees as a slugger.
Jumped on southpaws like a mugger,
Shooting rockets past the flagpole.
Fattest wallet on the payroll.
Made a called shot, and the papers did the rest.
He went from zero to sixty lodged in Murderers’ Row,
With women, booze, and money all just part of the show.
He led the A.L. in hitting.
Chased after ta-il, no quitting.
Played ring around the bases
In a dozen pennant races.
He scored doubles at the wet bar.
Belted homers before radar,
And suffered his publicity’s intrigues.
He was an urban legend; no one ever saw him on TV.
And in the house that he built, there’s a tribute to his number three.
It was series after series.
All the bookies have their theories,
Parsing records and statistics,
Charting sinker ball ballistics,
But in the end, most everyone agrees:
He never had to play the N*gro Leagues.