Long Duster Poems
Long Duster Poems. Below are the most popular long Duster by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Duster poems by poem length and keyword.
The rocks tripped me; I trod forward, upward to my lesson.
The wind chooses not to make its presence felt, yet.
The sun bursts gloriously into the flat, baby-blue, sky.
The red brown earth held its moisture greedily.
The effort shows in pulse and perspiration,
a flush blooms on cheeks unused to color.
The house appears abruptly, from a froth of greenery.
The wind keeps its distance, as if sensing
its presence is not desired.
The golden sun valiantly attempts to breach the houses gloom.
The guardians of house, home, and ether, leap forth.
Stone griffins, stern, etched by acid rain, stand.
The earthly hounds dart wraithlike through clusters
of cluttering tomes,and out the door to greet me.I enter.
The plaster shouts syllables, displaying in a military bent.
The house hungers for light, a broom. Her feather-duster fright.
The corner china cabinet displays a human skull.
Into this room she walks, a spirit of air, scared by storm.
God’s sacred light leaps.... only in the instructors eyes;
from her disfigured form, blue orbs, full of mischief and the joy of flight, revel....
teacher, a wounded Aphrodite, smiles.
Every poetic mentor started to talk here,
as if, I borrowed their tissue paper.
and forgot to claim that,
I had my early mentors, successful, in that theme.
What is a restroom helping symptom?
I started to think through the situations,
And they happened, all in all,
one after another.
Once I met a little girl, Arana,
Her mother was someone with a taste of culture.
Arana, is a classical singing raag, perhaps the saying went, so and so
And I was thinking all along, the discord and the mishaps.
And the reason behind starting it all over again!
Most of my stories are sad, and they sang through the saddest croons
As I was requesting my health worker to utter the restroom supplication
as she was reciting after me. the necessary prayer verses to be uttered.
And a guard as he was slandering with true harshness.
"I will restrain you to your bed, if you try to pray."
How I am different in my understanding of the salvation key
has a lot to trace in bizarre, preconceived notion.
That sustains a lot, truly sustains a lot, as a test takes the toll.
With red markers of a graded civilization
that understand way before about civilized society, and progression.
I was thinking about a duster too!
How to see deep sleep of an infant child, innocence
They truly are innocent in a very deep sleep.
As people need to unlearn as they learn to grow.
1:12 AM
1/09/2024
the face on show reveals an issue
I see you looking I see I pissed you
pick your choosing which insult to use
insight you're amusing I see through you
think you've found my insecurity
stand assuredly sure of me
but you're not in my shoes
I can horribly horror thee
tear torsos from talk shoo
you speak your body language alludes
letting loose clues I can flip and abuse
same time I elude your bullet bully
I fight I sully til your pants soil
cus I'm a King accepting toil
scope on your weakness locked in to spoil
crack your shell cook you a la Royal
I've been bullied singled out and embarrassed
the bar's set high
I've learnt I've no one but I
I've been made look stupid
isolated and cry
my red face my fear dread pointed at
nasty things said
tested dyslexic selected
autism bipolar personality disorder
never test positive but not normal
left handed right armed club foot
stood up straight when hit in the gut
I aint a stereotype cliche or a label buster
stapled my head up by a knuckle duster
pain what pain I love it I lust
been lonely with no friend they rushed
I was unknowing to friendship never mend
still I've got balls to drive you around bends
yeah devil level upheaval I'm lethal
the illegal drug and a piercing needle
I can see through your eyes ears and cheek dimples
you assume I'm vacant minded simple
hampered with anger ample angles I can't handle
but you're like all the other people
leap frog forth and fall in to my hole of evil
my psyche unlocks the locked inside
oh I see inside I sight you sly
you picked on a puppet now to gut you of pride
you wanna go blow high and low
with a child of psychology psycho
possibly to test positive probably
you a side act cut from the show
my head weird inside it be it be beyond thee
I learnt young applied acquired skills easy
but think I'm denied a focus capability
can take me down and see the end of me
and with that they laugh and you mentally bleed
you mistook my fools field you can't fall what killed
mind games mate I've majestic ill
you don't even know what happened
I come back again til it end, friend.
I wouldn't say I like dust,
But dust loves me
All around the house, I see
Dust.
Dust everywhere,
On the table and the chair
Nothing can compare
With my war with
Dust.
I use a soft cloth
To wipe all that pesky dust off,
I turn my back only to find
Some have settled on the blinds.
Dust
Why are you so thick?
Is it what makes you tick?
Softly sifting around the house,
Like a sort of invisible louse
Dust
I feel irritated by you, so
If only temporarily, you must go.
Come on, duster, wipe away.
You are not welcome. You have outstayed your stay.
I must get rid of you,
Dust!
Prone to bloviation pure and simple
rides on figurative high horse,
which doubles up as my Plymouth Duster
analogous to General George Armstrong Custer
(blowing his i.e. mine little big horn)
anonymous readers I unwittingly fluster
poetic patina an artificial, superficial,
yet beneficial ego boosting luster
one mister re: man can muster.
I (no surprise) become
self absorbed with my own palaver drum
ming across the screen written from
me, (an average happy go lucky)
goose stepping honk
king Crimson and clover Caucasian man hum
bull despite being imagine
an infinite string of superlative adjectives jum
bull ling together to accentuate Lum
burr jack ambitions comfortably numb
when modest male
just another brick in the wall
scores of decades during plum
years of mein kampf
watching favorite television programs
in boyhood living rum
while bobbing like a sponge
(donned in square pants)
sprawled on my washboard tum.
No inflated cheekiness for logophile
renown throughout the webbed wide world
for his pro licks
regarding poetic shenanigans ad nauseum.
I comport myself with quiet pridefulness,
misinterpreted as snobbery
plus intellectual whimsy
aware that "FAKE" pretentiousness,
could be mistaken foreign egotistical vitae
furthering, feathering and figuratively
undermining jestingly,
Little birdie, chirpy and petite,
you're not the kind I'd like to eat,
though your cheeks are green with a cinnamon streak.
Your voice makes a gym sneaker-like squeak.
Your rainbow colors are full of luster
and your physique is fluffy like a feather duster.
Your wings are sleek and iridescent,
and you have a fresh, local pond scent.
Little birdie, you're more than a treat.
You're charming and playful, caring and neat.
You dangle upside down just to please,
and stand on one leg with a gymnast's ease.
Little birdie, chirpy and petite,
you're not the kind I'd like to eat.
I'd never leave you, my little bird,
nor mistreat you, my little bird.
I'd never eat you; that’d be absurd.
Grizelda the witch loved
cooking chubby children in
her bubbling, green broccoli
stewpot.
She wore a pointy hat that
constantly leaked bright pink
glitter everywhere she
walked.
Her magic wand was
actually a stale, half- eaten
pepperoni pizza crust from
last Tuesday.
"Mmm, boy- and- girl soup is
my absolute favorite!" she
cackled, dancing a silly jig.
She captured little Timmy
and Barnaby, aiming to turn
them into tasty dinner
snacks.
"Wait!" shouted Timmy, "We
taste exactly like expired
milk and gym socks!"
Grizelda sniffed Barnaby's
shoe and gagged loudly, her
green face turning bright
purple.
"Gosh! You need seasoning!"
she cried, dumping a giant
bottle of ketchup inside.
Barnaby secretly pulled out
a massive feather duster
and tickled the witch's nose.
"ACHOO!" roared Grizelda
blowing her own ugly
hairpiece straight into the
boiling soup.
The bald witch gasped as
the boys threw popping
candy into a giant
cauldron.
BANG! POP! FIZZ!" The green
stew exploded, covering the
kitchen walls in goo.
The magical blast turned the
evil witch into a harmless,
pink fluffy toilet brush.
She hopped around
frantically, squeaking angrily
because she couldn't eat anyone
anymore.
Timmy and Barnaby laughed
so hard that their bellies
hurt, doing silly victory flips.
They grabbed Grizelda's
pizza- crust wand and waved
it wildly around the messy
room.
The spell instantly transformed
the spooky potion into massive
hill of chocolate pudding.
The boys are their way out
of the creepy hut, laughing
at the brush.
Grizelda stated stuck in the
corner, forever sweeping
dust bunnies and crying
softly.
Now she only eats moldy
cheese crumbs and hates
the smell of broccoli soup.
Why rhyme you ask?
Because it is fun, it is easy, and my mind is broken.
SCREECH……………………………………
Stop that! I warn myself. We have had more than enough of that.
Trixie picks up a feather duster and plucks a feather
There is a savage warning on her face.
I cringe.
Why write poetry?
Because to not write it is to not be in touch with ourselves at all
I say with shaky confidence
Waiting for someone to bop me on the head for saying this.
Trixie puts on her Groucho Marx mask and wiggles her eyes.
I feel greatly relieved that I have gotten away with this thought.
She narrows her eyes, and I look away. Scared.
Are other people terrified of their muses or is it just me?
But what if it is not even poetry?
I ask myself. It comes out as the BIG question.
The one I always think of, but rarely feel brave enough to voice.
It matters not, I assure myself.
My fans are forgiving.
They will forgive me this too.
Trixie begins figure skating on the desk.
She is wearing a pink tutu with glitzy sparkles.
We are okay, she assures me. Let's do this.
Watching crows eat roadkill in Montana, my rifle slung across my shoulder,
early morning workers sweating, cursing, as they break apart a boulder
Ice cream truck stops by the roadside, driver shouting “come and get it”,
A lumbering moose the only taker, the angry driver shouts “forget it”.
The river overflows into the valley’s golden corn fields
The farmers lay large sand bags, they fear to loose their yields
Crop duster circles as the crows fly in pursuit
of falling butterflies and ladybugs who perched upon the fruit.
The poison claimed their short lived lives today
bees flee, birds scatter, all escaping from the spray
The bobcat spies the moose, in all it’s forest glory
pouncing on its back it sinks its teeth, I cannot watch, too gory.
Thunder in the valley, rain falls ‘cross the land
a forest dweller begs for help, he needs a helping hand
“My daughter ran away without a word into the city,
I only ask for where to search, I do not ask for pity”.
“Dear man what can I say, I’m just a hunter, not raised in Hollywood,
where only bad girls find their way there”, the old man understood
He slowly disappears beyond the trees, and softly moans,
The crows have finished with the roadkill and only left the bones.
And me, I think I’ll patch my jeans, and jump into the water
and climb into my pickup truck, go searching for his daughter
I hold a picture I was given, as he walked into the woods
I must admit she is a beauty, and has the proper goods
To drive this man to find her, before she disappears,
into the crowded city streets, that drive young girls to tears
The beauty of Montana, the forest and the farms,
will call me back I pray, with his daughter in my arms
Pushing away the mop.
Instead, watching the fan blow dust around.
Everyone whispers about spring cleaning.
I filled a bucket with soap and water.
The sun is rising earlier.
And setting before I can finish.
Drops spilling out.
And the water is cold now.
Moving the furniture around.
If I had super strength, it would be easier.
I live alone, I live here.
I wish I could levitate the furniture.
And float all the chairs and tables away.
Do-do-do-
Dusting around.
The softness of the duster,
Do-does-doesn’t-
Do much against the hardened layers of dust.
Coughing and sneezing.
Endlessly.
Spring cleaning.
I wish I hired someone who cleans carpets.
There’s too many stains.
Everywhere.
Every spring.
She is still here.