Long Forward motion Poems
Long Forward motion Poems. Below are the most popular long Forward motion by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forward motion poems by poem length and keyword.
LARRY LaVELLE
i call myself the man
it is not a pick-me-upper
it ain't no do-re-me
it is just the way i feel about myself
i call myself the man
one woman still loves me after 30 years of experience in narcissism philosophy
she just shakes her head and smacks me in the back of mine
then she asks me if i want my eggs scrambled with cheese
i just laugh at her and say 'yes mam'
she smiles bashfully as i check her out like we're 16 again
oh she knows it like her favorite classic movie
i will find out how much she knows it later on tonight
the moral of this poem is....i call myself the man....
STUTTERSTEP STEVENSON
i call myself Bountifully Blessed
i was a bully's dream all through school
from the pulling of my permanaps to the sock stolen from my feet....my story was etched in autobiographical filing
my growth became stunted....until you picked me up and dusted me off
through your smile, i was inspired to grow stronger
from there....i was introduced to a New World through your eyes
as a result, i, stutterstep stevenson, was able to find my niche
look at us now....thirteen years of marriage later....you are still causing me to trip all over myself
it still make you giggle in the very same way
even since then, i left the right avenue of stressed
the moral of this poem is....i call myself Bountifully Blessed
POETIC LEFTY
i call myself unconditionally loved
papa strange had a firm hold on me
put blinders on my self esteem yes he did
unbeknownst to me, my usual appearance in constant continuum was looked at as defiance
i can't be me if i can't be myself
how the hell could i exist trying to be like someone else
it has always been comfortable on my street
every now and then some taggers came along and tried to redecorate
however all surfaced on this block was self-cleaning
the same smile was worn on my face when i greeted the roadblock rambler hello
somewhere down the line papa strange moved on to one more vulnerable and gullible
i prayed for that next victim to the Wonderful God Above
though it may not show in my solo forward motion, i am indeed consumed by unconditional love....
Jazz Horn
Now put your left foot forward.
Next put your right foot ahead.
See how that works?
See how the workings of these two appendages
Facilitates the outcome
Of one continuous forward motion
To where you’re going … in this world?
Welcome, my friend,
To this deliciously dark dish of desperate cravings!
Look all around you as we walk this stalking street.
See all the dark places.
Where countless lost souls huddle in bare survival,
And share the hot knob over a weak fire.
I can hear a jazz horn, way off in the distance there.
It’s surely there, and it reassures me I’m still living, here.
Maybe some words by Langston Hughes might be nice right now.
Please, my friend, do me the honor.
Oh, I see. You don’t have your poetry anthology.
And it’s dark too.
Let us then visit the old pawnbroker
Mr. Tattoo Neck knows the price for our private fears.
Piss puddles and crushed beer cans.
And an old used tire hanging hopelessly
By the cracked front window.
I see the world is one inch closer to doom since last we talked.
May we rest in peace, my friend.
Any murders lately on the street?
I hear the blond dish in Shire Apartments has moved out.
Black sooty smashed gum and litter of coupons and girlie guides.
Only one killing this week, my friend.
The butcher from 27th street; the guy who never talked to anyone.
His bowling ball is in the window.
Life is hard. It knocks you on the head when you least expect it.
I hope I make it.
I don’t know if some ******* will come in here and shoot me in the face!
I live my whole freaking life scared!
It’s ridiculous that we all have to be hostages to these evil people.
The city grows darker at night.
I have noticed it because I live mostly with the night.
The night is my secret lover, and there is no other.
The city is as dark as nothing in the middle of nowhere.
Something bigger than a final sunset is needed.
You know what I mean, my friend?
Here, I will buy you that jazz horn there.
You can sweetly serenade me,
And lovely night naked,
As we make love here
In the calming mad darkness.
(French terms to know: arabesque (ar-a-besk) stand on one leg, other leg extended back
with knee straight, arms out; pirouette (peer-oo-et) a full turn of the body on the top of
the toe or the ball of the foot; releve' (rel-vay) rise up from the whole foot onto the
ball of the foot; demi plie' (dem-ee plee-ay) half bend of the knees; port de bras
(por-de-bra) continual movement of the arms through a series of positions; fouette
(foo-ay-tay) series of turns on one leg, the other leg extending rapidly to side and
whipping around body; glissade (glee-sade) a connecting sliding step
When corrals turn to mush
and all dirt roads are slush,
springtime has arrived at our place.
The challenge begins
since I'm sans webs or fins
to walk outside with upright grace.
I don my galoshes
and cov'ralls that washes
to feed stock that wait in the lots.
By the time I return
I will honestly earn
my decor of brown and green spots.
As I step in the slop,
my galoshes do flop,
as ankle-deep mud gets a grip.
In slow forward motion
I ease through this potion,
resisting the muck's pull to slip.
I feed several hay bales
and balance two grain pails,
while working my way through the soup.
But before I am through
I'll lose one boot or two
from suction of that muddy goop.
THWOOP!
My foot's poised in the air
as I (gasp) balance up there.
I execute an arabesque,
a slow pirouette
so I shan't get all wet.
What I need is a chair or a desk!
My predicament here
since my boot is so near
is to turn it around in the slop.
My balance must hold
while my foot's in this mold
and fearing my body will drop.
A controlled releve'
and demi plie'
are more than my posture can stand.
A wild port de bras
while I desperately claw
finds me catching the ground with my hand.
I snap a fouette'
and turn the other way.
I manage a slippery glissade.
For it's not every day
you see Muck Dance Ballet--
just when ankle deep mud makes you wade.
Copyright Terry Henderson
terryhenderson.net
Tight Spaces
I wriggle through the tight spaces,
moving between these fussy wise cracks,
all in forward motion, my forward goal,
moving towards a light beyond, way up ahead.
A dimming glow, like a watery eye,
lubricating and easing my movement,
creates a viable, mercuriai, rhythmic pulse,
inching ahead, around and about and through.
Oh, these god-awful restricting spaces,
these furious fissures, these viral veins of transit,
all full of twist and turn, all jumbled up, all cramping.
The odor in this tepid din is one of aged musty moldy funk,
my twitching eyes, my heavy breath, my chest expanding,
breathing, through the yogic cure of stretch and release, I release.
Oh the pain in renewal, the ambition, it’s longing sighs alight,
clear through into my head, invading my core to my out stretched toes,
the wriggling motions do transmit waves of sensuous ciphers,
my straightened back charging to the crowning crown.
The light, oh, that dim light,
that hollow orb, the rays of dust backlit and starlike,
heavenly cloud of ash and shadow beckon;
floating as a holiday parade in slow motion
as if marching bands were moving asymmetrically,
seemingly chaotic, at random, cacophonous, atonal, obliterated,
a system of god-like symmetry in flux and flexing,
a multiverse of star clusters, clustering,
fanning-out into oblivion and its surrounding vicinities,
neighborhoods of gaseous clouds chatting,
straddling the outskirts, the farthest margins away;
of hemispheres and their continents, of space and its off-spring,
orbiting, careening, bounding, all which way, any way,
together, family like in its seeming disfunctions, outward.
There’s an itch at my back, unreachable easily, irritating, annoying,
I’m going to let it be, it’s too much work to assuage,
forward motion, my forward goal, moving inexorably,
the light ahead awaits in patience, just beyond the next obstacle.
VIDEO/AUDIO now on YouTube
Whatever Weekend
Being humble common pathways ere,
I ought traveled nearby that lea,
Past the margin of my home there,
Where the daffodils fickle sprightly,
As I shared the natural trail lead,
General impressions befall o'er sunlit,
E'er lighthearted to the bird's melodies,
I travailed the character of it,
Simple yet well organized,
Amongst the laughter, ere rumored whisper,
Neath a yellow sky, midst squinting eyes,
Masses traverse and heed a rise to prosper,
Yonder the verdant meadow rest,
Spreads of marigolds and violet folds,
Concerts of pleasantries and greets confess,
A myriad of countless told's,
Ere me, couples digress,
In accompany of solitude,
Tis a time out that be abreast,
A sea of people floats a multitude,
Be it so accordingly,
As time drifts in emptied homes,
Consequently, there is aplenty,
As crowds trends above the loams,
A tad of clouds sparse the sky,
Disperses a legion directly afoot,
The grassland, not shade as far one espy,
Groups forward motion advances e'er square foot,
Gleaming sunrays whips into action,
Clouds impart a rainbow into the landscape,
As they convert into a diminutive and fade into a fraction,
And a colorful fancy fulfills a dreamscape,
The call of an afternoon squanders the present,
As Sun of a constant drops e'er so slightly,
Fingered flip-flops drape backsides, marks a day well-spent,
Chorale of winged birds past a flung open door, gradually,
As dusk crowned heaven undresses the night,
And a sequined of stars sparkle a whirling, whereat,
Slumberous thoughts transpire while well-kept dreams ignite,
Midnight's slide into a twilight that trips into dawn's golden chariot.
2020 February 22
*3rd Place*
STRAND SELECT Y ,any form ,any theme
~~Brian Strand
A GUMMY FISHERMAN
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
The sheltered bay disguised what was to come
Around the headland we hit it head on
Four to five meter waves and breaking on top
And a wind that was building making lots of spray
A man takes many risks for a crayfish on his plate
For the pots needed to be pulled from the deep reef
Then baited with a fresh lot of stinking fish bait
Hoping to lure the wily crayfish into the pot
With the sea boiling the boat cut through the waves
Sending water and spray every which way
The fisherman holding on to keep their feet on deck
As the motors strain to keep a forward motion
The fishermen search for the buoys in the white water
As the rolling sea tosses them about like a cork in a bottle
The buoys know sighted make ready to haul the pots up
Hoping that they contain a few crayfish for their effort
There is no color in the first three pots, they are baited
Then tossed back into the rough and deep water
The last pot pulled and on the deck contains one small cray
Not a keeper, what a bummer, throw him back to grow bigger
With head down low kneeling on the deck
The rotten bait smells so ghastly get up my nose
Dry reaching, pale and feeling quite sick
I heave it up and let it flow over the side
Boy oh boy did I let the sickness flow
Breakfast, dinner and tea all in one go
I heaved it up my false teeth went with it
Over the side and into the boiling sea
Feeling miserable and quite ill, we headed back
To the bay and much calmer water
I thought about my teeth now in the water
Maybe a Gummy shark ate them up?
So now I fish the bay with a toothless mouth
And I target the Gummy Shark, hoping in vain
That one day whilst fishing, I will be lucky
And catch the Gummy that has a toothy smile
The wall is going to get you in the end. You might unexpectedly crash into it at any moment, but regardless of when it happens, it will end your forward motion. PERIOD. Such are the physical laws of getting old.
When it does happen, there will be a jarring, unexpected moment of sudden impact and you know it is the beginning of the end. Your adventure is all but over and the inevitable downward spiral has begun.
It will only accelerate from this point forward as the principles of physics and gravity take over and no amount of lying to yourself will halt the inescapable
pile-up you are going to experience.
At some unknown level you have accepted the wall is your fate. It is not a structure composed of particle matter but more of a conflagration of the atoms of the mind.
Delay tactics and retreat work only for so long until reality overwhelms what meager resources you still are able to muster. You realize there is no genteel way to accept defeat in your battle against the wall.
Your plan now shifts to a matter of inevitable retreat and to regroup what resources you can marshal in the fight. You fight against the days that are too short and nights that never seem to end.
Yet, you still cling to the belief that you can outflank the wall. You remember each victory before the wall appeared out of nowhere, why couldn’t it happen again? YOU ARE WRONG.
The wall is the final harbinger of future days, there is no way around it. You will end up against the wall no matter how much you rage, and then, the clock will strike midnight and the wall will disappear.
That's a long way from sighing freely
just one calm brushstroke
wrapped in a sea of tranquility
to suit phantom clustering to occur
soundless groans of despair
permeate deeply below
vacant plenty and lots of depth
holding tanks for trinkets
still swallowing down
to its essence, it's stifling
In the bowels of the abyss
with staggering madness.
a piercing squeak emerged
the darkened horrible torture
emotional feelings swing the gamut
ensuring the gusts of grief are at bay
the brief bouts of peace were helpful
In the hopes of lasting harmony
while maintaining a silent beat
Irresolvable and convoluted
retain your cool and stand firm
the self-aware rule of one's mind
a sharp jolt to one's daydreams
restrained my forward motion
the sleepy origins of the phrase
my heart ached for alteration
according to the distorted sobs
between the quaking anger
plus the carefree merriment
waited in fear of a phantom sighting
we are sincerely moved by to silence
an existentialist perspective
hidden and unyielding; a mystery
It aggressively drops its coat
trauma-induced coldness
the silence was jarring.
still, a swing of the pendulum
tears the mask off the difficulty
capturing the essence of times
time spent in relative stillness.
Written: April 13, 2013
A Brian Strand Premiere No 1208 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
8/7/16
Does it truly matter if
There is anything after this?
Who can say
Night and day
Questions that just may never be answered
Amid a world full of so many colors, shapes and patterns
Sky's the limit
If you actually try to get it
Everyday not just for five minutes
To be honest
We all end up with wins and losses
If you're talking about every aspect and being rather modest
Why stress
Focus and have a much more positive mindset
Just because it didn't work out, doesn't mean things will turn out the same
Regardless of what you do and don't find next
It just may not be your time yet
Keep on
And be strong
I can only give out so much advice
Throughout life
Because it comes from the heart and soul, and not with a price
Respect and love to my friends, brother
Sisters and mother
As well as all others
Forward motion and upward
Every single season not just during the summer
As well as any kind of weather, some of which thundered
I've made many blunders
Through all my experiences, none of which kept me under
You want to know me better and see my true colors
Read some of my recent writings and they just may be discovered
I could sit here and wonder
But I'd rather go now, considering that I'm not getting any younger
Work smarter ( harder)
Think harder ( smarter)
If you really want to get farther
I've said it before and I'll say it again
Because I want others to understand and comprehend
Before the end
Its creation’s simplicity still stands as a difficult puzzle
head is twisted backwards while in a forward motion
still looking behind at the chronicles of some centuries ago
long before the infiltration of Christian missionaries and Arab traders
is the exact factor making its existence seemingly complex.
Foreign politics and faiths both adopted,
have tied it with the ropes of inferiority
systematically indoctrinated to condemn
its history, personality and civilization,
while grabbing other languages and cultures so dearly
to the point of blindly pushed into Anarchy.
The modern world is on a high speed,
excuses of the west’s exploitations to build their civilizations
are noisy complaints and already cliched.
Small islands with no natural resources as Singapore;
the awe of the miracle of the Han River portrayed by south Korea
and the magical performance of India in information technology
are evidences of old colonies
beating their colonizers in some phases of development.
From Abuja to Addis Ababa, Khartounm to Kigali,
no Caucasian is seen, staying in charge of its state houses
but to give reasons to its mediocrity and indifference,
conspiracy theories and neo-imperialism twaddle are coined.
All these, just complications of a chronic low self esteem
but unfortunately manifesting at a time it should be confident
in the chaotic universe
of western imperialism, Christian materialism and Arab expansionism.