Long Garages Poems
Long Garages Poems. Below are the most popular long Garages by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Garages poems by poem length and keyword.
Great transitions became part of human experience
after we gave up on daily nomad lifestyle,
perhaps too bohemian
to have ever actually existed
out of nutritional nurturing choice
As contrasted with necessity
of drought,
floods,
pestilence,
famine,
chronic wars,
climatic absence of healthy peace.
Great transitions
are choices,
positive more than negatively motivated,
to move from one habitat
in space and/or time
to another
that feels more promising,
worthy of trust,
a potential celebration of interactive beauty,
holistic balance,
resilient health,
aesthetically resonant wealth.
Great transitions
have their inhale stage,
before the moving Team appears,
which includes hard and soft decisions
and indecisions,
memories,
and rude reminders
lacking acquisitive memories
about where did all these properties come from,
external
with their internally complementary feelings
of way too much stuff
in my cluttered life,
Happiness to be bringing warm memories along
and sadness to leave so much cold
and neglectful waste
behind the dumpster
And great transitions
also have their less famous exhale stage
after the moving Team
moves on
to facilitate another household's preferably Great
but sometimes Traumatic
Transition.
Great transitions
in second stage
open one box at a time
to reload new closets
basements
attics
garages
sheds
shelves
entertainment centers
dress drawers
treasure chests
jewelry boxes
safes
mailboxes
kitchen and bathroom drawers
cabinets
medicine cabinets
CD and DVD racks
soundtracks
shoe racks
pot racks
wine racks
over the door hat racks
behind the door spice racks
tool racks and peg boards
hangers
umbrella stands
coat trees
bird feeders
pantry shelves
under the oven drawers
armoires
desks
hutches
book cases
curtain rods
picture hangers
linen closets
nightstands
pillow cases
guest beds
Great transitions
never die
they just fade in
to what remains of yesterday
Sufficient for this new age
of rebecoming
habituated
co-acclimated
seeking a healthier climate,
a wealthier place
for healing uncooperative
lack of felt resilience
To survive
and hopefully thrive
into our next Great Transition,
inhaling into recycling lungs,
exhaling out into greener
more resonantly resilient
Great Earth Habitat.
Indirect interference into interesting iconographic inked inner initiative is not a carefully stepping clam, a carved tree cake nor a dune of a moon. Taking no bistro out for a walk or a cafeteria for a swimming lesson. For galas are won by astronomical gesturing garages who can do a high speed sprint in a pool. And high jumping competitions are competitively won by a zero rated steak sandwich with extra relish and cheese. Well that helps with the balance. Wow. Even eggs, explosive electric eels, erotic earwigs, economic ecliptic eccentric elves, and a fortified frog are capable of racing a tidal wave. Perfect. Pass. Perfect position. A country manor is not maneuvering on a dry day. Dry days deliberate drying dresses. And dance of the nine millimetre worm can be most admired in a pie of a circus tent. Whirling around carrying eighteen batons, a baseball, a silver jacket encrusted with rhino slices, snake shoes, and a tiny earring glowing. Lights that are lit at that moment will ensure a beacon built. And beacons are not big bakers they are brilliant bringers and bombarding battlers. So not a duty seen before in a table spire leg of a nineteen century church with a nice arrangement of flowers and candles. Watch how it moves around in the dining room. Arlington National Bank meeting Arlington castle in a tank ranking above all the little poor people. Nineteen fifty one and three quarters through the year but now overseas known as an overweight quarterback. General-purpose general genes. And the light from a single bin can foresee an evening gown in a long moveable mirror. Mirrors message movements making music movies. Instantaneously it is. How rather remarkable don't you think? And now take a little pixie and have a little dance in a bathroom. Great. Especially when carrying ten loaves of bread, seeded buns, apple cakes and the mucus from a very fat slug is said to be gold in a full moon. So kiss a grass snake and lean on a temple. Forty forms frolicking. Going boing. Wow. Marvellously enchanting is an armpit aroma? Hahaha the glass is staring at nothing today. Hahaha disrupted drainages hahaha left wing right tail light hood bonnet boom. Boot shaped milkshake on a intersection. Xxxxxxx millionaire monsters. Chat cheat. Xxxxx psycholinguistics z Z Z Z Z bang bang bing bongo. ***
Form:
My fellow countrymen, the President, Politicians, and pulpiteers Though not in a cave like Rip Van Winkle, I must have fallen asleep in "indifference and over-business". It was more than Van Winkle's 20 years, because prior to my sleep, I knew an America that dreamed of chickens in every pot; of carports, garages, and picket fences; of a good education and catching the Joneses.
It appears I am awaking, not from, but to, a nightmare; and to what am I opening my eyes to see? Me thinks it's not 'my country tis of thee'; not a chicken in the pot or fryer in the skillet. But I see leaders in the kettle like a frog, where the fire is turned down low and heating slowly. Like the frog, they are relaxed and comfortable. Oh Lord, if they only knew the manner of the frog's demise.
I see changes, and multiple evils have been removed. Recovery and relief have been appropriated and dispatched for the poor. Reforms and revivals have periodically visited us from above. I see blessings and prosperity beyond comparison; melting pots of dreamers and immigrants still dine at our tables. That's part of the American beauty.
Oh America, we are busy face-booking and twitting; But we must realize that we are also bleeding. I weep for what might lie ahead for us. I grieve for what we are becoming. I fear for us, though not of guns and nukes from afar; But for rivalries in the white house and the halls of congress. And I fear for our pulpiteers who also relax in the kettle like the frog.
07312017cjFBPH; August Standard Contest, Brian Strand Part fiction
It’s in the rows of old oaks
the pothole that was never filled,
the decrepit buildings like time capsules
dark and crumbling, creaking out a song
of far-off secrets, their sagging floors writ with
wood-scars of decades past,
bare feet and spilled lemonade,
pieces of chicken left out for the strays,
quiet evenings curled warm within a hand-sewn quilt
while the crickets and lightning bugs
performed their nightly cabaret just beyond the windowpanes.
It’s in the strained smiles, the folk who settled in,
dug their toenails into the dried earth and stayed put.
Slow, soft-spoken drawls, hugs that squeeze all the truth
from your lungs.
It’s in the same two restaurants,
the same greasy burger, the same
breaded porkchop, the Sunday service,
the ritualistic abuse.
You can cross the county line,
drive on past the swampland and the deer carcasses,
hit the highway pavement and find yourself
far removed from this liminal space.
Chase the skyscrapers and parking garages,
the concrete havens carved out
from the woodland through stubborn sheer will.
It doesn’t matter. There’s always a hollow, a yearning,
this calling back to the inkblot on a withered atlas map,
the lingering sting of sunlight on bare shoulders,
the simple thrill of unloading a clip into a strip-mine bank.
There are wild boars screeching in the forest,
hidden graveyards with finely manicured lawns
though the family line died out years ago.
Even so far away, the sick-sweet perfume of honeysuckles lingers on your tongue.
Come back, the humid wind whispers against the shell of your ear.
I Wish I Had More!
By: Woodrow Lucas
Hey man!! I know it's cold out here. Here is a dollar and a God Bless You. I wish I had more.
Hey man!! I know that it is humiliating for you to be out here and I know that you face unkindness of all types all day long. But here is a dollar and a God Bless You. I wish I had more.
Hey man!! I don't know why you are out here. I don't know if its our society's injustice, or an addiction that you can't shake, or mental illness, or a dark angel that has it out for you, or a childhood wound that torments you. But I know this is not how you envisioned your life when you were 10 years old.
Hey man!! I know it's cold out here. I feel you out here man, freezing, hoping that someone shows you just a little bit of kindness. I feel you out here suffering, unaware of your own beauty and that God cherishes you as one of his best.
Hey man!! I know it's cold out here. Here is a dollar and a God Bless You. I wish I had more. I wish I had a renaissance of consciousness in our society where we cared more about alleviating suffering than we care about having 3 car garages. I wish I had a revolution of inspiration where our society started healing more than we judge and started encouraging and affirming more than we criticize. I wish I had a cure for whatever berates you brother. But the truth is, that I feel inadequate to the challenge of your challenges and all I can muster is this dollar!!! But pray for me please brother. Pray that God would strengthen me so that I can speak truth to power and amass the resources to really get you the help that you need. Pray that God would equip me to heal you of what ails you. Pray my strength brother. And I will pray yours. And in the meantime just know my brother, that I see your nobility beneath the shame that our society imposes on you. I see your majesty. I see God's face smiling upon you. And I will not rest, until I am more brother. I will not rest until I am something that can truly help you. And until then, God Bless you and accept this dollar, I wish I had more!
~ (~) "Barters are made and bought... sold-for-and-sought-after; eternities light shown down-
from-there-to-here into-here-after... ." (~) ~
~ (~) "Because jovial now I know the truth, yes the only difference today remains to be the
indifference I know we all-carry-for-all-things, empowered-and-entrusted to each one of us
by God for our own fulfillment of the world's society as a whole, though it often abandoned its
virtue,
yes the way that I've seen we all do when we defile for-each-one, the-other, our certain God-
given-individuality... ." (~) ~
~ (~) "You carry me I carry you... because I hunger to offer another their freedom, comfort
same as anyone would,
yes as they have-often-done themselves-with-me... ." (~) ~
~ (~) "As does the goodness-of-the-rains I assume falling down embracing everyone in their
tender way — and-if in-the end the-farce... was-the-simple-fact that-we-were-all-different —
of what other origin, and far-kinder-premise yes greater purpose for all things would it-or-
could-it even-eventually serve, that is at all to be considered forthright... if anything;
for myself, my sanity...
I can-honestly barter-nothing... ?" (~) ~
~ (~) Of struggle, prudent-sacrifice and triumph funny how things always remain. (~) ~
~ (~) Hot summers high noon of virtue... grace, back rooms sweaty barber shops they first
bellowed out the melodies carrying Americas tunes, blue grass, that rock and roll... the blues.
(~) ~
~ (~) They drift now from junkie old garages the subtle basements of today;
yes some things I hope always remain, stay the same, albeit because this country I could not
call as much a home... because what is the latter of both its struggle and triumph,
if it's not its sacrifice for this being captured merely in the beauty of a song... ! (~) ~
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-Ro7baEa6w
We dragged the slopes to our feet.
On the summit, we burnt our clothes
for wood and there shuffled our feet
in the hush of the falling snow.
We had come out of the scuffed grass.
With one look back in unbelief
exhuming the long trek
the silent keen
puffing through blubbery fingers.
We pulled the hoofed trail through
the trapdoor of our unchained links
foisting for new heights.
Beyond the Appalachian Mountains
the hanging fern on pine dripped snow
on moles burrowing in gashed hollows.
We paused. In that doubtful moment
we rued the climb, succumbing to the assault
upon this stilled millennia’s eerie silence.
All that time the swivelling blizzards raged
shifting soil, eroding avalanches.
Below, burgeoning customs
unmaned the silent dignity of bisons.
All bore testimony to a familiar preparation.
And then, suddenly before our eyes
the solemn ground rose with the breeze
the spangled map changing to the quick:
Chicago Pittsburgh Kansas City
wild barnyards dry-coughing, pop-corning garages
horrent timber ribbed the coasting steamboats
the linoleum walls
the mild Indian piqued he was
by the mahogany cubism of our speech.
We wondered if coming so far
only mattered, we would be content
to build a fire, here and now
and unpack our horses.
We saw little need to go on.
One night the summit might open
up and swallow us all or old age
would come upon us like a lonely neighbour
on a pretext to the door.
© T.Wignesan 1964
London, U.K.
[from the collection: tell them i’m gone, 1983; published in Fire Readings (A Collection of Contemporary Writing from the Shakespeare & Company Fire Benefit Readings). Paris-Boston: Frank Books, 1991, pp. 36-37.]
O Lasgidi , city of hustlers, bustles, knuckles
In your belly called street, lays lifestyles of hustlers
No Man's land your pseudonym, Eko your first name,
Lasgidi a middle, greetings to you , your last name .....?
O Lasgid! fountain of hustlers, bustles, knuckles
potholes eaten on You, like a Baldhead
The coal tied road, trunk A. B. C
Yellow is the vultures vest
Their shoes an athlete choice
Fit to run to peg their wings
On the innocent souls;
The bus conductor they perch on
drivers they beak on
Tribals mark they tattoo on vehicles
A logo, a sign , a stamp for the" Owo boys!"
Malnutrition their dietary, yet belly is full
Empty in it, wears attitudes bulging tummy.
O Lasgidi city of hustlers, bustles, knuckles
And the vultures in yellow, they run the potholes
Up down up down just for their belly sake pay up dues
with whips held in their hands like ancient masquerades
Yellow is the vultures, garages it perches
O Lagidi city of hustlers, bustles, knuckles
Please shed off your yellow vultures. Away them
They put more potholes in mind of drives, motor boys
To drink water, they gulp Alcohol, marijuana their diet
Eyes beaming red like crimson teeth decayed age 39
O Lasgidi city of hustlers, bustles, knuckles
Wear out your yellow vultures
A perfect pseudonym abgearoo!
And their motor; "owo boys da"?
For ,drivers and motor boys in the
Potholes their dough falls, thus
marathon struggles continual
O Lasgidi commercial pride of the nation
Where is the government, where is the law? hiding
Like candlelight underneath a bushel its glows
But for men its blurred, waiting folks, worn out, verdict
Must sing loud, like a gong its should sound goom
O Lasgidi city of hustlers, bustles, knuckles
Mother to no idle man
I hail thee
Agbearoo! :roadside transportation tax collectors
6/4/2020
when the sun finally shines its last hot beams of
annoying rays down upon the slimy suntan-lotion-saturated
bodies &
the convertibles get taken back in the garages &
the vast groups of lame ass motorcyclists who drive only during
the summer months (gliding on their gross neon-colored crotch-rockets)
disappear &
the swimsuits, tank-tops, flip-flops & birkenstocks are all
stuffed back into their proper drawer in the dresser
(with all the sand cleaned from every nook and cranny in question) &
all those little kiddies hawking their lemonade all have to go back to school
(thus closing up those awful stands that pitifully provoke people into pretending that they wanted a dixie cup of watered down yellow sugar) &
the clothes hardly covering any of the strapping young lads
and the sexy young ladies all are traded in for clothes that do the exact opposite &
all the bugs start to die while the birds start to think very seriously about beginning to pack up the ol’ nest n’ begin flying south &
all the picnic-fanatics go back inside &
all the campers are done masquerading as outdoorsmen & women (going back to the cities where they came from) &
all the country folk who took their lil’ vacations to exciting metropolitan settings & tropical paradises have gone back to their mundane towns & villages &
we who love the changing foliage,
the apple cider donuts,
the colder temperatures nuzzling their way in,
the shorter days coming,
the crisp breeze blowing,
the pumpkin spiced coffee drinks, pumpkin pie, pumpkin muffins & pumpkin cookies,
the cardigans, flannel shirts, jeans, hoodies & all other of our layers
finally broke out for our comfortable frumpiness,
the scented candles burning throughout,
the little rugrats (probably the same ones that were hawking the yellow sugar water) dressing up for their halloween &
halloween in general---
will no longer be waiting on october.
There are people who smoke their coffee, eat cigarettes, snort beer and throwaway food. Are they ill in the head? Their life tapping out a story. Unknown realities straight out of a comic book. See the girl poet crawl on all fours. I'm going to ride her like a horse. Then feck her and write about it.
We all eat ice-cream from the dictator's shoe. It's slightly sweaty but we don't complain. Here, the jails are packed tenfold a dozen. We spend every third weekend there, for fun and games. I cuddle up to Turk 182. I'm his . He's my slave. We'll get wed after the trial. Death Row will be a breeze then, together.
See Joey Deacon on Blue Peter. What a good thing he did for England and us mere mortal kids. Us who're crap at football and maths. You missed the net, you spaz. Silly Joey, can't add up. Then there was Ian Dury and his Spasticus Artisticus song. What a classic. Makes my nerves twitch and my feet dance.
Got your sexy sister washing my Fiat Panda car. She's wearing her bikini and no bottoms. Look how she moves, each wipe of her sponge turning me on. You can take her after me. Trust me, she's a dirty girl. Worse than your cousin. Let's do them both. We can film it and have a feck party. Oh what joy.
We swim in the frozen lake, three miles above sea level. The cold brown water is a joy to behold. As are car size floating icebergs. It's so thrilling, going skinny dipping here. I'd call it night swimming but it's daylight all year round. We pop some speed and we're fine. Our bodies are like Cassie, resistant to life.
There was a lady called Zon Zon. She sucked my dock behind the garages after school. Each and every single day. Rain or shine. I compare the memories in my head. From age thirteen to age twenty six. It feels the same. She's more sexier. Our partners allow us this small desire. Daily fun.