Long Downers Poems
Long Downers Poems. Below are the most popular long Downers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Downers poems by poem length and keyword.
To the layman’s unlearned eye,
Parliment is just another cigarette
To I, the educated expert its an extension
Its a bayonet with the mouth of a
cannon
A filter’s recession made with such
adaptive intention
Dab the divot in the pile of Columbian snow
Raise it like a glass to any curious biff
Just a sniff, a bumpskie, a twitch of the nose
Fireworks in the membrane and off they go
Under the cloud of cigarette smoke, the expert walks
a road of elation for eight minutes or so
Those days have been behind me for a number of years
and no matter how often i say cocaine is an unremarkable drug
As I was a conisseur of hypnotics and downers
the memories of explosive speed and dread and fear
Yet some are so comforting, when I see a Parliment
my eye allows the escape of one yearning tear
Unexplained encounters,
Undulating terrain,
I'm standing in the rain,
Hemmed by downers.
I find myself in a direction,
A way I know nothing about,
A route that's beyond discretion,
It's an everyday bout.
Where are the answers that I seek?
To unravel the mystery in my walk,
To refrain the hands of the enigma's clock,
Disperse the shadow that makes dawn bleak.
Dawn chauffeurs the unexplained,
Within me, these are curtained,
I'm saddled with the unseen,
None of these could be foreseen.
Everything I do not know,
To this, I do not yield,
I only utilize its vast field,
Keeping hope alive as I go.
March 12, 2023.
Writing Challenge - "K" Words - Poetry Contest,
Constance La France.
Lucky to be a Simple Man
One reads about the famous ones, them
that live a life of stress, about taking
all sorts of pick-me-up-pills
then downers, so they can rest.
Well I’m just an ordinary guy with nothing
to call my own, but life to me is still up
and down without the use
of any poison of a sort.
The movie stars worry about their movies,
the recording artists just the same, big
Businessman thinking of his next
contract, the player of his next game.
Some days I’m on top of the world
the next deep in its abyss, so I just
sit and write poetry that gathers
in and around my head.
(Then just worry about them that worry.)
© Harry J Horsman 1988
The reason I picked this poem of Harry’s was because I, too, can see that being a simple man (or woman in my case) is so much more beautiful, more peaceful, more restful than being sophisticated or pretentious, cultured or chic, complicated or clever in the ways of the world. I can easily see, and read from this sample from Harry, that being simple in this complex world is a blessing in disguise. Being simple, though often unacknowledged, is the most amazing blessing from above. The simple life surely is a life of joy, peace and wonder beyond what I might surmise without knowing a simple life.
I followed milky and mouldy scents,
down cobbled and narrow paths,
only to see it riddled with rats,
feasting on Feta and Camembert,
whilst the wine sipping Uppers prepared to
clash against the cider swigging downers!
The Fromage Frenzy and Curd Craze deli.
across from the Dizzy Duck and the Boastful Bard taverns
had been ransacked with only cracker crumbs on the floor.
All the cheesemongers were hiding in their basements.
All the landlords locked away in their cellars!
Bar stools dripping with Chardonnay and Merlot,
carpets soaked in 'Scrumpy Jack' and 'Strongbow.'
It was utter chaos as the 'cheese shed' raged on...
The goats and the cows watched,
as the town folk gathered on either side.
Anger in their eyes, yelling insults like;
'Cheap cheddar gobblers' and 'stinky Stilton munchers.'
This was not cultural tensions,
nor issues with tariffs, quotas or labelling practises-
this was a war of the social classes!
They were not fighting with fists or weapons,
oh no, no no..
The Downers started squirting stinky cheese sauce,
drenching the Uppers with its reeking stench.
However, when the Uppers started hurling
Storico and Caciocavallo Podolico,
back at the Downers, they simply,
started consuming it with their cider!
Both fractions kept pelting and sprinkling,
until little Joey from the farm,
reminded them the football had started,
so off they plodded to watch the game,
singing and laughing together,
arm in arm, munching on cheese
they had salvaged from their skirmish.
In the beginning there was a lonely word but soon after
there was no room at the meagre hostel for the saviour
Sanguine hopes flash-flooded the sanctuary of hearts
sacrificial blood of Christ awaited to be spilt in vain
Spelt out the message of rusty nails corroding on cross
bones mounted the flesh ready for vanishing memories
Lest we forget Christmas it amounts to summits of wrappers
luxurious gifts opulent indigestion after a vainglorious feast
Reindeer and global delivery services occlude the notion that
taking stock is not about counting presents but reducing the cost
Jesus flashes from i-pads I this and I that please give me more
extra goods additional abundance mince pies and stuffing
Belching and flatulent Tim reaches for his heartburn medication
tastes uppers and downers sniffs white powder on bank cards
His wife smears the makeup she grabbed from under the tree
her new perfume a bountiful offering of disguised scented myrrh
No sense for frank frankinsence as she sniffs expensive fragrances
from benefaction bottle’s decadence and reduces benediction to myth
Gift wrap explodes from the fireplace in the mix of unopened packets
just after Father Christmas has made a lucky escape from the scene
Arson of gluttony self-inflicted suffering self-immolation of sorts
sorts out this unholy communion followed by smouldering mourning
The insurance company refuses to pay as they insist that the couple
had backed the wrong course of action in vile contempt of true faith
They however donate a beautiful bible of careful calligraphy
with gilded ornamentation bound in leather and lather of time
There are no walls standing for wailing when Tim and his spouse
and it remains to be seen whether they might find a mangled manger
To resume business as usual or take refuge in meaning and truth
when the word in the beginning had become a sorry blank canvas
18th November 2018
Contest Christmas Mourning
Sponsor P.S. AWTRY
7/25/17
In the ocean or among lumber
Survivalist and hunter
Rain and thunder
Above below and inside the bunker
An increase in hunger
During Winter and Summer
A roadrunner
Giving them a stone cold stunner
Like a hot knife through butter
Running smoothly or with a buffer
Bags full of downers and uppers
Getting older, not any younger
Awake or in slumber
Areas clean or filled with clutter
Closed and open shutters
Items kept, tossed or lost down the gutter
Having disinterest or wonder
Still unfound or discovered
A miss or swish whether or not wearing shorts made by no jumper
Dented and pristine bumpers
You are or aren't showing your true colors
It is with sadness and long remorse
That we entertain this curse of course
It’s most absurd, and that’s the rub
Introducing the twenty seven club
Each decade we see the number grow
And wonder as we see them go
Musicians so young, with hope and fears
Meet their demise, after twenty seven years
Robert Johnson was early, a master of blues
A roadhouse musician who paid his dues
Brian Jones helped found the Rolling Stones
And drowned in a pool while swimming alone
Alan Wilson at Woodstock played with Canned Heat
Took too many downers, his life was complete
The great guitarist, Jimi Hendrix gave thrills
But died in his sleep from too many pills
Janis Joplin, with energy and power of force
At age twenty seven died mainlining horse
The Doors Jim Morrison, one of a kind
Extinguished with drugs his poetic mind
Badfinger’s Pete Ham fortified with drink
Took his own life, another twenty seven link
And Kurt Cobain, Nirvana’s front man
Died at twenty seven, from his very own hand
Amy Winehouse, one of the members of late
Perceived a world full of anguish and hate
A talent with beauty, her hair black as coal
But alcohol toxicity had taken its toll
Not mentioned are many members left out
There is no time now to give them a shout
We hope they gather and sing in heaven
The members of the Club - Twenty Seven
Entry: "The 27 Club Poetry Contest"
Sponsored by: Anthony Biannco
Deadline: September 27, 2022
(1)
I get it
I finally get it
It took a while
But now I'm showing my style.
To every home
With somber tone
My daily briefings
Broadcast my teachings;
I tell them all
To heed my call
So all may strive
To stay alive.
My change of tack
A stroke of luck
And just in time
The polls to climb;
For every day
I get my say
The ratings spike
With me on Mike.
Now the prime task
A real big ask
To find that cure
Something sure.
This virus sticks
All experts kicks
But as to me
Just watch and see.
I have a plan
Beat this I can
Wait for fine weather
To Covid tether.
Once that is done
They'll hail the man
Making things right
With wisdom and might;
Never a pause
Fighting the cause
Winning's my creed
I've proved that indeed.
Then all the vile doubters
The downers and shouters
Will finally see
Their champion is Me.
it hurt so much that she prised out the molar in despair
with a corner post missing pain oozed from wounded flesh
one cavity exchanged for another but rawness lay bare
she tried painkillers and sedatives then settled for hash
anguish hampered her feelings and she tore at her heart
until emotional turmoil pulsated in oblivion and voids
took a few more puffs from the reefer to make a start
to clean up her act but failed and reached out for opioids
dazed in a haze it appeared to work well for a short while
she pickaxed her mind and attempted to extract the root
of disorientation sorrow and evil but her mind remained vile
confused and drugged the remedy’s effects stayed rather moot
alcohol uppers and downers magic mushrooms and cocaine
followed her on the devastating road to full blown compulsion
whatever she tried she spread bedlam and became more insane
threw the drugs in the loo and looked back in fearful repulsion
21st September 2020
Mania is...
It’s a very sneaky thing,
mania is...
I’m humming along,
no doubt minding
someone else’s business,
giving little attention
to my own state of being.
when in it slips,
mania does,
a message under my door:
“I’m here; are you ready?”
I never am.
I always am.
Many of us who live
in a carefully balanced state
mourn the loss of our mania
as if it were a death.
Oh my God though,
what we can do when we’re there —
write with Kerouac ferocity;
touch Pollock’s intensity;
persuade the opposite or same sex
that an afternoon of play
is the best thing
that will happen to them this year;
find a Maserati’s limits
(Why are my passengers always terrified?).
Others of us fly
too far,
too fast,
from the tightrope of sanity,
melting Icarus-like
in the heat of soaring —
head in the oven;
deft cuts with a Gillette product;
an abundance of downers;
one blast of a twelve-gauge.
Don’t misunderstand me...
I would fly without hesitation
at a moment’s notice,
but I have a fear of melting.