Long Gooders Poems
Long Gooders Poems. Below are the most popular long Gooders by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gooders poems by poem length and keyword.
Each incoming missile took out by ‘The dome’
Very few, thankfully, get to hit home
It never will change till tyrannical men
Learn to repent of their actions back then…
Bullets and bombs in the hands of the crazed
Atrocities leaving authorities dazed
So many do-gooders too blind to look
Two sides to each story? Not in my book
A tentative peace interspersed with atrocity
Rubbed out by evil at violent velocity
Don’t say ‘Freedom fighters are raising their fists’
Say what it is; one word… “Terrorists”.
Once, long distant calls would cost
You, your friends and family so many voices
had to wait, anticipate the budget and the worth
of words said out loud to ride rapid electric lines.
Still sentiments of love freely fly on telepathic planes
while prose and poetry remain yours truly.
When present face to face do you speak truly?
Conversations branch out, chip, splinter into stories, that's the cost.
Fish stretch past arms' length and record breaking climbs pass clouds and planes.
Tell me again how it all began, how many voices
sang out from heaven: Forgiveness for sale! Limited supply, form lines.
Greedy practice, selling soul's salvation, who figures out what it's worth?
Fear can make us pay the selfish who decide our worth.
Are our souls and spirits make-believe, a magician's trick or God's, truly?
Conversations of belief from heart or scripted lines
brainwashed or sincerely swayed, choice has a cost---
Cross your fingers, chant the scriptures, sing with all your voices
until it's real or a lie you can live with, insured for your departure in heaven's plane.
If a soldier's plane crashes, angelic eagles soar, swoop like planes,
nose dive to every soldier because lives are worth
remembering. Telephones shoot words-- bam, bam, bam, fire voices
on ears that bleed worst fears, shattering those who love them truly.
Nothing will ever be sweet or innocent again, this is an impossible cost.
War kills conversations, steals final farewell lines.
Songs please draw forgiving lines,
to rise over hatred in unarmed planes
for a bird's eye perspective to consider the cost
of love lost in doubt, its worth.
Love lights up any sort of soul, truly.
It's power hurls bolts through nerves that revive the mystic voices...
Devils, misfits, do-gooders, cherubs and chumps-- let's hear all your voices!
Call out to love, it won't resist, will cross any line
to save who is good or bad-- it desires everyone, truly
Here comes the light, hear comes our flight, listen for the plane
Remember it's insane to worry about your worth,
to be, to be, is miracle enough, we can't comprehend the cost.
Solo fly or get in line formation with you plane
Lift off, blast past hatred to reach Love's treasure of unimaginable worth.
Truly precious, so protect it, Love in all your actions no matter what the cost
The pull of old habits,
and the failing interests.
A reliance on the will,
to corral the peak distress.
The attack of age-old fears,
willing to stand the test.
When a coup de tah rises,
breaking to a righteous crest.
Then the battle cries are heard,
and the do-gooders saunter,
The black hand group marches,
faces full of nervous wonder.
Then like the movies they portray,
the new owners change the story.
The winners lot instead of money,
came in what was called glory.
They were all forgotten soon,
in the shadows of a looming war.
And the world was preparing,
what would shake them to the core.
When crazy old men are at the helm,
spouting some contentious rambling.
And then billions of innocent lives,
the pawns of genocidal gambling.
That would be the time for action,
in the realm of Divine Inspiration.
For the advantage to be awarded,
to the person of previous indication.
A hoarder? Me? No way.
I have more than one path in almost every room.
The dogs can always find their way out.
Of course I keep my garbage. Spies would love to have that on the curb.
You never know when you are going to need that egg carton, right?
You do-gooders can get off my property!
It should not bother anyone else how I live my life.
Gladys, can I put some more barrels in your yard?
What about beside the shed?
Just good stuff I might need later.
I promise there are no rats in these.
A truckload or two. Just for a couple of years.
You are as bad as the do-gooders!
I hate you all!
My third wife is angry now, she knows that I cheated.
But I like life on the edge, so I told her to pack up and beat it.
Then I walked in Santa Monica, a man was lying in the path
He was in obvious pain, but I gave a nasty laugh
I passed a new store with an astrology sign.
On impulse I went in, and I waited in line.
I recognized partiers from my script writing days
Those parties got me addicted, when crack was the craze.
An assistant asked us permission to swab our cheeks
I started wondering, was this place for freaks?
Then a gypsy lady came out, beckoned me to a booth
She said “we’re high tech now; genes tell the truth."
“Your Dopamine receptors are all out of whack
Your D3 is high, I guess you take crack
Your D2 is low, are you an impulsive guy?
I said "so far you're on target my genes did not lie."
She said, "low vasopressin, do you cheat on your wife?"
I said, “I’m floored, it’s the story of my life!"
She said "I see your amygdala must be small:
"I would guess you don’t care about people at all.”
“On the good side, D1 is high, you're a creative type"
I said, “I write edgy scripts, and I’m great at hype!”
She held her nose, said "your profile gives me a fright.
"Forget the fee, there's the exit, get out of my sight!"
So I left the gypsy lady, walked out into the sun
Then a still small voice spoke, said "your story isn't done:
Why not change, rebel against those genes, leave the crypt?
Take charge of the plot and change the script!"
I looked around, couldn't see where the voice came from:
I shrugged it off, then I began to run.
I thought I'm no hypocrite, I know myself; I don't care
It's the others, the do-gooders, who do most harm out there.
I wondered if anyone knows themselves for real
Are values everlasting, or are values what we feel?
I didn't want to break the mold, I wanted to be me
But that nagging voice echoed - which direction makes you free?
two lost forlorn basset hounds had their tempers on the ground
they were wet and soggy and soppy and lonely, and it was cold.
two gooders named Sammy and Petey came quickly around.
Sammy the cat was the boldest, maybe it was because he was old.
What’s up? He asked the two dog brothers. How can we help?
He was an old hand at being friendly with species of another kind.
Petey chickadee was silent, for she had just eaten some spoiled kelp.
How could a cat help? Pup asked his brother, for he needed his mind.
We could be open and listen, his bro suggested with affection.
Sammy had a great suggestion and sent them in the right direction.
Who helped you? Their mother asked when they returned home.
A wise cat replied the bassets, digging into a giant ham bone.
A light summer rain falls across distant blue mountains.
I have a pretty cottage by a winding stream.
This evening I recline in a garden chair
on a sloping lawn.
I merely need to think of a Martini
and here it is at my side,
a full glass and a dish of fresh green olives.
Lots of folks I had known in my earth existence are here,
old girlfriends of course,
chums from my youth,
work associates, pals from the golf and gun club.
In fact, I can’t think of anyone
that died and did not end up here.
Strange but I like a few more now,
then I ever did back then.
We are all younger and look splendid.
I guess that Hades is not quite what you,
who still walk that inclement
chaotic Earth imagined it might be,
but I can assure you,
that you have nothing to fear
should you find yourself in this realm.
However, I cannot vouchsafe
for your continued happiness
should you choose to be
in that place some have imagined to be heaven.
I’m told that the food is awfully plain
and the décor, by and large, uninspired.
You will also need much patience
to abide with the harp playing toadies,
the self-help grifters,
the compulsive do-gooders,
the many fake guru’s and the religious zealots
who I’m told run a very tight ship.
All the best, and remember we all have a choice
regarding which reality we wish to be true for us.
A telepathic throat
gargles stories and
spits fables’ fish into a watery abyss.
The surface shimmer draws us in
to fall, dream, dive, swim
as the storyteller spins us.
We balk at the tales of winged-hearts.
Love doesn't exist.
We swear by this as God disappears,
erases slowly while we wake up in season.
Love drops to the ground
with winter all around.
Snow covers and closes our eyes.
Pronounces what has died.
In the lens the pupil frames
a frozen image of my flame.
Could it possibly survive?
Rise up and be alive?
The same old story persists
where we make the same old wish.
Devils, misfits, do-gooders, cherubs and chumps,
wonder if God is make-believe, a dream or a magician's trick.
We cross our fingers and chant the scriptures
until The Almighty is real or a lie we can live with.
To be, to be, is miracle enough for me.
My cat chews on this paper—naps on every draft of this poem.
I worship her.
‘We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are’
Anaïs Nin
‘Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage’
That is how Anaïs happened to follow her delicate vision
Erotic with a fountain pen dressed in translucent lingerie
Spurs in hand when she saddled a rampaging stallion
The thought police claimed she was vulgar and pornographic
Most likely a repressed projection of limp savoury dreams
‘The secret of joy is the mastery of pain’
Sado-maso contortions I hear you say in venemous disdain
But have you never experienced jubilant relief from your hurt
Would we know the exquisite pleasure if not for some sorrow
Could Jung mount near death experiences without shadows
Did not Freud wish to jump on the couch with phallus in hand
‘The only abnormality is the incapability to love’
And yet when squeaky clean do-gooders leaf through the pages
Revisit the boudoir in which she paired with Henry Valentine Miller
Lecherous minds claim wet spots on essays and honest exposure
To be involuntary ejections of literature tainted by projectile evil
A sheet remains an altar of sexual gratification in satisfied minds
‘Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy’
Pulling and pushing in light of public consumption denudes emperor’s clothing
Liberates senses and meaning and is yet decried as lewd indecent obscenity
But the eye of the eclectic beholder foreplays sensual post-coital glow
Cohabitation in all shapes and forms may not hit your inexperienced spot
You are what you want to become however you reach rhythm and rhyme
(all quotes in quotation marks by Anaïs Nin)
31st January 2020
After her ordeal and rescue she was offered too much prettiness
Too fast, too much empathy, too much concern, too much kindness.
She ran back to her abuser, trying to reattach her depressed self to him,
Trying to rectify what she had begun to think was normal, promising love.
When in fact, she was giving him less than that, accepting his terms.
Because she did not deserve pretty, she did not deserve kindness.
Immobilized, she knew she was a bad girl, she said and did the wrong things.
She would be lucky if he took her back. He pretended he was not going to.
She cried and screamed and begged, accepting any terms he set down.
She ran inside, and they locked the door, locking the do-gooders out.
Locking out her family and friends, who had finally gotten her to safe ground.
She never again remembered that she had once been outgoing, and fun.
She forgot about parties, and playfulness. She forgot how to laugh and smile.
She was back in the devil’s arms, where she felt she belonged,
Trying forever to resuscitate the forever-after she had expected long ago.
The one she believed in for the rest of her life, the one that kept her prisoner.