Long Duffle Poems
Long Duffle Poems. Below are the most popular long Duffle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Duffle poems by poem length and keyword.
To all the folk still wearing
That choke-chain gambler's collar
Who try to play within their limits
But bet their bottom dollar
To the disappointed hopeful
With his head held in his hands
You heard jackpot sounds that shook the ground
Yeah you were lied to man
To the woman and her duffle bag
With plans to beat the house
They are going to hypnotize you
Its a trap sweetheart, get out!
To fortunes few who make the news
With a big old giant cheque
Don't let them take your picture
You are bait to catch the rest
They don't show that man who lost his home
Free falling to his death
They don't tell you how that woman
Fit a rope around her neck
And they say they want the players
That will bet within their limit
But the house was built up brick by brick
By all the ones who didn't
The humidity was doing a good job of keeping pace with the temperature. Until around 10 AM when the thermometer pushed its way past 100. That’s when 176 frightened kids and a few old hippies staggered out of the crowded cattle trucks. “Alright you maggots, RUN,” voices screamed from beneath wide brimmed Smokey Bear hats. So, we ran…and ran, duffle bags slung over our shoulders. Hours passed before we finally came to attention under the blistering Missouri sun. All the while, the bears circled. Sniffing the air and grunting. “Don’t show them any fear,” one of the old hippies whispered, “they pray on the weak.”
Like nature intends
Survival of the fittest
Do not show weakness
I was one of the cool set,
navy blue duffle coat, scarf around
my neck, seated at a table
in Pepe's Coffee Lounge
discussing Baudelaire
and T.S. Eliot and the demise
of the political elites.
The conscription ballot hung
over our heads helmeted
in a flowering of uncombed hair
in the winter of 1966.
We thought the world was about
to tip, that the old regime
was coughing its last
on Craven A and Camel cigarettes.
Booze was cheap and jobs
chased us down the street.
In a hundred buried silos,
annihilation was just a push
of a button away.
We partied hard beneath
the threat of that mushroom cloud.
We're old now, sit under the cloud
of our own thoughts, replaying
scratchy, worn out tracks
retrieved from the sleeves
of our neural LP's.
What we tore down back then
has been replaced with more
sinister demons that eat away
at the collective soul.
In the end, everything
is just reabsorbed.
Some of us still frequent
coffee shops and discuss
Baudelaire and T.S. Eliot,
still write poetry,
shed a tear
at the melancholic beauty
of a setting sun.
20 Line Haiku Hijack
I stole a haiku from Japan
Stuffed it in a duffle bag, added 20 lines
Fed it chocolate day and night before the flight
Then placed it on the market when I landed
Shrimp and whale tails make sound haiku
Deliciously simple like sushi. Japan hated mine.
Called it distasteful, too heavy and rude
Complaining it suffered from too many lines
I sold the stolen poem to a toothless man next
An Afghanistan Taliban in need of a wife
He realized the mistake and returned it at once
Calling it bland, loveless and torturously trite
I injected a diaphragm on the haiku 2nd line
To prevent undo pregnancies
When left alone to expand, haiku will multiply on command
It grew from 3 to 20 lines in what Japan calls a crime
Hijacking haiku and adding more lines is wrong
It changes the meaning and makes it too long
Haiku will never be the same again
In the end I put it on a train to India…a quatrain to be exact.
we entered thee over crowded
chanook lined with duffle bags
and dusty jump boots I catered
to the rear windows focusing only
on the clearing the empty runway
invited solitude while the hearing
began in mid air returning to stateside
offered an abrupt glimpse of incoming
land while waving at the daunting sea
my heart beat drowned the sound
of unwanted chatter clinging solely
to the solid formation sweat covered
my neck my hands dripping wet as I realized
this was an unauthorized briefing
morbidly performed an yet galently
removed beyond such tyranny I'd discovered
espionage and treason apon the joining
of hands solemnly while prayers were covered
as we approached newness throughout
tangible lessons abroad
Each is a piece, a small part
of a composite that has come
together in a morning,
the frayed strands of dreams
knitted into a waking timed now
to a slow tread on a familiar street.
Then suddenly, careering through
the center of my thoughts a train
comes with bells at a crossing
clanging loudly and wheels grinding
on rails heading off towards
a distant point in the past. I stop
and see myself, late teens,
leaving home, riding the interstate
with dreams spilling out
of a duffle bag, head in a cloud
of hope. I was Rimbaud on rails,
high on poetry that I took straight.
Six months in a one room flat
I ran out of money and a literary career,
hitchhiked back home to sink
into a wintery despair.
A lifetime has passed
and I have left a poem tied
to the end of each year as if
marking my way. The words
of most have now weathered away
to a silence. I write as a form
of prayer to that greater silence
and on still mornings, hear
the sound of a train in the far
distance growing quieter.
"Travel light" Santa said to me as I grappled for all my most
treasured belongings. I stuffed them all in a duffle bag, then with the silliest
of grin on my face I said, " Ready"
The ride up was exhilarating to say the least, and the landing well
lets just say I don't recall getting there...
It felt like I was placed in a big glass bauble filled with tinsel,
joyful elves and little miniscule hourglasses containing reflective
light particles that flew out into the atmosphere through
smokescreen windows, tinted with pink magic glass.
I was tired from the trip so Santa led me to this little room made of logwood,
then he handing me a peppermint hot chocolate and said, " good good dreams, my girl "
What did I dream you ask ? Well, its much too long to retell today,
you will just have to wait until tomorrow, when its Christmas day !
I lost a friend; Jason really loved his gin.
One night while he was on a binge.
He walked off into the deep end,
now no one has ever seen Jason again.
I lost a friend; his life was his duffle sack.
One day he headed to Iraq.
I didn’t know him when he came back,
well I guess Billy’s mind slipped right off its track.
I lost a friend; his name was old Stan the Man.
Spent two tours in Afghanistan.
Survived bullets and scorching heat,
just to come home and get shot down in the street.
I lost a friend; lived in a house on the hill.
Had two kids and a bag of pills.
One day they found her on the floor,
she’s not going to need those pills anymore.
I lost some friends; I only think about them.
Oh, once in a while, now and then.
Don’t want to seem harsh or unkind,
but as they say, they’re out of sight, out of mind.
You know that life is a very fickle thing.
Make the best of what it might bring.
We’re just a bright flash ‘cross the screen,
before we can blink… we’re just a memory.
My god, red bra, orange pants, and green socks, I’m making love to a traffic light.
Get on with it.
I can’t, where do I start.
What does it matter?
It matters a lot, if I start with your bra, do I stop, or do I drive on knowing three penalty points and an eighty pound fine are coming my way. Do I start with your pants, amber gambling, if I start with your socks, then that’s it, I’m away?
Well, what do you expect me to do.
I expect you to dress appropriately for the occasion, I mean, Gok Wan couldn’t fix you.
Well, if we’re in an insulting mood, I don’t like the tiger pants you wear, especially as tigers are nearly extinct.
Oh god, did you really say that, I’m going out with a moron, 0.5 wit.
What does that mean?
It means you’re a half wit.
Well, I was going to get naked, and put my duffle coat on to get you excited, but not now.
Just what every guy wants, a naked girl in a duffle coat.
Some guys would die to see me naked in a duffle coat.
Do you know, you’re right, I've now got this fantasy in my head, put on an orange hat, and wow, pelican crossing.
Get knotted, and I tell you now, that’s the only action you’ll get tonight
Well, in that case I’ll just have to create a fantasy
On he went with it, hallucinating vividly while she stood there, unarmed and furious.
Hell, she was already horny, maybe she could save the situation. She looked down at her pants.
You know, you could still drive, if you haven't already crossed the line.
His eyes opened quickly, as if trying to catch her lying. He considered it...
Lose the bra and the socks
Lose the tiger get up
Both coming halfway, they now stood in the bedroom, one more naked than the other. Still a little insulted, she went on to caress his member.
He, too stubborn to show his pleasure, gazed at the ceiling, feigning boredom.
Furious, she slapped him across his face with a high-pitched shriek, picked up her things and walked towards the door, getting dressed on the go.
Realizing he had gone too far and that he was now all up and running, he tried to change her mind.
BAM went the door.
She'll call.
(Intro)
Yo, I got scars on my knuckles and dreams in a duffle,
Life gave me lemons, I sold 'em in a hustle.
Mandy said “swing by,” I said “bet,” no delay—
But what happened next? Man, lemme just say...
---
Verse 1
Mandy told me to stop by, I pulled up in Crocs,
Knocked twice, no answer, just a squirrel throwin' rocks.
Saw a van in the back, lookin' shady and mean,
Used a pry bar like it’s part of my hygiene routine.
Next thing I know, red dots on my chest,
FBI yellin’ “Freeze!” like it’s a dance contest.
I said “I’m cold already,” they ain’t laugh at the pun,
Did five years in the pen—now I floss with a shiv for fun.
---
Verse 2
Got out, still mad, still that Mangy old pitbull,
Named “Chaos,” got a grill and a GED, real cool.
He bark in Morse code, talkin’ ‘bout stocks and bonds,
Taught me crypto in the yard with some ramen and tongs.
Now I’m back on the block, wearin’ ankle bling,
Got a parole officer who raps—calls himself “King.”
We do drive-bys in a Prius, eco-friendly thug,
Still livin’ that street life, pitbull cuddles and hugs.
---
Verse 3
I got a tattoo of a toaster, says “Bread or Dead,”
And a mixtape droppin’ soon called Felony & Fred.
I sell dreams in Ziplocs, hope in a can,
And I once got arrested for moonwalkin’ in a traffic jam.
My ex said I’m toxic, I said “Nah, just seasoned,”
She keyed my car, I thanked her—now it’s art, no reason.
So if you see me in the alley with a kazoo and a mug,
Just know you met the legend: Street Life Pitbull Thug.