Long Grid Poems
Long Grid Poems. Below are the most popular long Grid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grid poems by poem length and keyword.
Poetry knows no age, as thee Marcia
Abramsohn (the former ex lady friend
of my late father corresponded with me
some years back)
wrote (by hand nonetheless,
a long lost art) inlaid with ambidextrous
zealousness impossible to identify,
which hand crafted artistically colorful
epigrammatic ghostly hint emblematic
of former exuberance toward English
Language..., perhaps other once
vibrantly familiar tongues wagging
less as tempus fugit slithers unseen
stealing most cherished, prized, savored...
commodity set to countdown immediately
post parturition, yet blessed for thee
to be gifted your then four score plus four
amazingly graceful journeys celebrating
your existence replete with handmaid's
tales chronicling quotidian trials and
tribulations, yet still adept, buoyant,
cogent, diligent, eloquent, fervent,
gallant, hellbent, intent, jimmying,
kindling, loving, mustering, nursing,
outlasting...Methuselah (ha...if only)
lucid moments nudging awake
memorialized occasions, where once
upon a time (seems bajillion years ago)
innocence concomitant with naivete
throve, wherein unfettered dalliances
found untrammeled lasses and lads
absorbed with natural unbridled virgin
love – gathering rosebuds while they may
whispering sweet nothings strictly
for respective paramour, (this of course
hearsay and speculation) promising each
other moon and stars ah...dusty fading
memories, yours truly can never recount,
(cuz mental illness co-opted, hijacked,
up-ended...adolescent maturation,
whereby agonizing crippling forfeiture jabs
silhouetted illusory oasis peopled with
all the golden opportunities left to wither
on the vine o'mine youth, which mirage
mocks escapist attempt into literary realm
invisible dead poets society regale an
existence bereft nope, no App could
ever even virtually duplicate (even
approximate) sidelined unrequited love,
and no this marriage yielded scanty
satisfaction, which fantasy life as
Norwegian bachelor farmer
(within mine imagination) solved,
where living off the grid remedied
forever being pennilessness, day late
dollar short dime a dozen dirt poor
dude dulling dufus...that's the news from
my Lake Woebegone...where all the
women...and children above the law
never get reprimanded.
Everyone is a blended mixture of
Elementals made up of
Oxygen, carbon,
Hydrogen, nitrogen,
Calcium, phosphorus, and…
Trace elements
A divine recipe, perhaps?
Some are yet to be born
Some are young,
Some are old.
Some are people of color,
Some are people who lack color.
Some speak one language
Some speak many tongues.
Some are social
Some are antisocial.
Some are healthy
Some are sick.
But what am I?
Some are poor
Some are middle-class
Some are rich.
Some believe in God
Some sense a higher design
Some aren’t sure
Some are atheists.
Some are extroverts
Some are introverts.
Who am I?
Some live on farms
Some live in suburban communities
Some live in towns and cities.
Some live off the grid
Some are liberal
Some are moderate
Some are conservative.
How shall I live?
Some are loving
Some are joy-filled
Some are hate-filled.
Some want peace
Some want a cause
Some want war.
Some want to destroy
Some want to mend
Some want to kill
Some want to heal.
Should I matter?
Should I not?
What are my choices?
Everybody dies…
But do I truly live?
In this vast simplexity of humanity
Or am I more than the sum of the parts?
Or am I just a glitch of stardust
Or a spark of the divine?
Momentarily aware
Yet, unaware
Forever in BlueJeans…
Forever questioning?
Oh Isle of embattled shore's
Coast's abound of glass shale sand
Below protracted marsh land
Where boats of the conquerors once moored
Where fish in the summer was cooked and caught
Area 51 actuaries research
Set upon a temporary bush camp perch
Lurching forward swiping away the tinder fire smoke
Away from tired red cry eyes
Searching for rescue ships in the distance
Paradise drifts
Writing S.O.S in large letter's
Message in a Bottle
What time is it ?
What day is it ?
Why did I leave ?
Is the world really round ?
Or Flat ?
Am I ever going back ?
Is anyone ever coming back ?
Or have I fallen off the grid?
Like Air Malaysia Flight MH370
Is this Heaven ?
Who am I talking 2?
Am I Me ?
Or am I You ?
Who is writing this ?
The Survivor?
Or the best Guess?
Like a passport in a furnace
Of destroyed evidence
The only piece
In a inquest process
We were best friends, from long ago;
supported each, with husbands too.
With couples, singles- we'd all go
to dinners, concerts, trips- a few
of the rewarding things we did-
just us, the group, had fun amid
good years with seniors in our grid.
Your husband passed- and we were there
to comfort you with time and care,
for your new life, help you prepare.
Soon, day by day, we felt the blow-
our friendship you did not pursue;
replaced your spouse- away you slid.
We feel betrayed- this was not fair.
The day was when the crowd came out in a massive drive for the old elephant.
The graveyard was the last day of this red associate; however, they did not lie down!
Becoming a goldened tusk with ivory and diamonds, they become the shrine of the elephant!
All the populace around the waterhole went into the small town without backing down!
Moving through the small grid to the street of many walkers, the group was on arms.
An immature girl was asked about her presence, to which she stated “that it was a revolution”
These arms were a sight of pure ignorance that the past members of truth would rather stay on the farms!
Human growth is notable when each new generation fares better than the last; however, this girl was a product of de-evolution.
Hark to the fools who believe in stupidity and the false words of a toothless chia pet!
Words of honor have never passed the lips of the annoying orange!
It is time to take this person for a check-up to the vet!
You had the world of fools believing in your words! You are beyond an annoying orange!
Was Nostradamus talking about the 20th Century?
Maybe he was speaking about the 21st Century!
OBSESSIVE FUNK TALK
OBSESSIVE FUNK TALK WITH HYPNOTIC WORD SPEAK/ FIRMLY STRUCTURED SONGWRITING WITH A DREAM POP BEAT/ OK STEP IN MY BROTHER WITH YOUR DIGITAL THUMP/ YOU CREATED A EMOTIONAL WORD HIP MARATHON WITH THE DEEPEST AND DARKEST SPARKS OF BUMPTY BUMP DE BUMP/ YO DOG …. YA THINK YOU TUFF?…./ JUST TRY HANGIN’ FOR A MINUTE WHILE SMOKIN’ THAT HEAVY RIGHTEOUS STUFF/ YOU TRIED KNOCKIN’ THAT C&C WHEN YOUR MAMA CALLED YOUR BLUFF/ SO YOU GOT YOUR DIGIT’S AND RING UP GEORGE CLINTON AND ASKED WHAT’S IT ALL ABOUT/ HE SAID GET ON THE MOTHERSHIP BRO AND DIG ANOTHER PUFF/MAN YOU BE FADEIN’ ALL DAY ON THAT LOW DOWN HUNDRED PROF/SO YOU GET HIGH AND FUZZY AND WRITE SOME CRAZY NIGHTMARISH OUTLANDISH STUFF THAT SENDS THROUGH THE ROOF/ YOUR MIND IS A JUKEBOX TO THE ANTHEMS THAT YOU DREAM/ YOUR DIPLOMA IS YOUR MACHINE CONTENTIOUS YOU LEARNED IN THE STREETS/ YOU BE SPITIN WORDS THAT ARE QUOTABLE AND CRITICAL OF THE POWER ELITE/POLICE BRUTALITY AND RACIAL INJUSTICE/ YO, WHILE WHITE AMERICA SITS BY DAY AFTER DAY IN RETREAT/OUTTA OAKTOWN CAME THE BLACK PANTHERS, TOWER OF POWER 415 AND RICHIE RICH/ NO SOCIAL MEDIA TO BLOW THE MAD OAKTOWN SCENE?/ OAKLAND RAIDERS WERE KING OF THE GRID/ AND CHARLEY O AND HIS A’s/ ENUFF SAID/ THOSE WERE THE DAYS OF A BURNER IN EVERY POCKET/ AND A CHIP AS A THROW AWAY? AND A CLICK CLACK TO KEEP THE DEMOB AWAY/THE TRAGEDY IN THE STREETS?/ THE MURDERS ON THE BEAT/ OUTTA OAKTOWN WAS SCREAM-IN FOR HELP BUT THE POLITICIANS WERE IN RETREAT AND LOOKIN FOR HELP IN A NO OTHER WAY/ BACKDOOR PAYMENTS WERE THERE TO STAY/KDIA ON THE AIRWAVES AND ESTHER’S ORBIT ROOM/ BOB GEDDINS BIG TOWN RECORDING STUDIO WERE ROLLIN’ DEEP IN THE CITY OF DOPE/CRACK WAS KILLIN’ BABY’S MAMA’S AND THERE DADDY’S WERE ON THE RUN/ THE CRACK EPIDEMIC IN OAKTOWN WAS A KILLIN’ ALL/ AND LEAVING NONE/ NO YOUTUBE, SPOTTILY OR FACEBOOK TO DENT OAKTOWNS PRIDE/ STREET CORNER SINGING GAVE WAY RAP AND HIP HOP AS THE BULLETS WERE A FLYIN IN THE AIR/ RAPPIN AND DOININ HIP HOP WOULD LET THE YOUTH OF THE DAY VENT THEIR FRUSTRATIONS AS OAKTOWN BURNED AWAY/ E-40,THE JACKA,SHOCK G, TOO SHORT MAC DAE JUST TO HIP YA TO A FEW/DID THE DOPEST THING/ BY BLOWIN’ OUR MINDS TO A NEW OAKTOWN SOUND/
He guards the perimeter of
my newly built life,
An unappointed warden to
his long- departed wife.
His surveillance is a shadow,
heavy and profound,
As his relentless, predatory
footsteps trace my ground.
He orchestrates a calculated,
unconcerned chase,
Inserting his fixation into
every public space.
My mailbox is violated,
stripped of its defense,
By his intrusive fingers and
his desperate, dark suspense.
He intercepts my letters with
a convert, hungry gaze,
To map the secret geography
of my escaping days.
Invisible tripwires hum with
electronic sight,
As hidden lenses pierce the
sanctuary of my night.
Those cold, robotic apertures
are blinking from the trees,
Recording every movement
on his digital decrees.
He is a phantom archivist,
compiling what I do,
An omnipresent voyeur of a
life he can't renew.
This suffocating vigilance,
this voyeuristic thrall,
Has turned my independence
to an exhibition hall.
He hovers like a specter in
an inescapable grid,
Unraveling the safety where
my fragile freedom hid.
A microscopic tyranny that
never lets me be.
There’s crabs in the bucket, lice in the cream –
Throw it on the bonfire
No one partakes of this particular dream –
Throw it on the bonfire
Insecure god wants a baby to raise –
Throws it on the bonfire
I’ll play my banjo to the bright L.A. blaze
And throw it on the bonfire
Some big-ass astronaut gets slung off to space
(Throw it on the bonfire)
Who foots the bill for this wild comet chase?
(Throw it on the bonfire)
That tin can of a rocket implodes at separation
(Throw it on the bonfire)
In high resolution and neat devastation
(Throw it on the bonfire)
Day after day, in place after place
It’s the credo of each woman and man:
If we can’t have it, you better believe
Ain’t nobody else can
The races collide in the stadium of night
(Throw it on the bonfire)
The system grid goes down in a fury of light
(Throw it on the bonfire)
Cheerleaders portend the static of woe
(Throw it on the bonfire)
And rally crucified halfbacks from ten centuries ago
Then thrown em on the bonfire
Just another day of obstructions, heartless
souls, lack of communication on a daily. Obstructions
of gridlock. at a crossroad, at a crossroad, at a crossroad.
Around the corner cut across to abandonment, made a
left turn to mistrust swerved right to divorce while
approaching slander at a intersection. gotta find my way
back, gotta find my way back.
Should it be suggested the world seems to be so distorted?
trying to find one's way back, from these sign posts and
roadblocks and gridlocks.
I remember the thaw
when I headed South to crawl
through Carnegie's tunnels
in a Saab that would stall
in the mist or the rain
Spring, Winter, and Fall--
O I remember the thaw
and the chance of a change
if I could move what I did
from New York's north grid
down through the range
filled with hard blue coal
where I'd run as a foal--
O I remember that thaw
and the chance-of a job
in a town near the Mon
named for the General
George Washington
who'd surveyed the vast land
and survived the deft French
and I felt my fists clench
on the wheel of that Saab
as I drove through each trench
in a car that might stall
while I attempted to crawl
over the P A Turnpike
to a job I would like
and knew I could do
with less snow, ice, and flu
and a new car in the Fall
one inclined not to stall
if the weather turned raw--
O I remember the thaw!