Long Gristle Poems
Long Gristle Poems. Below are the most popular long Gristle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gristle poems by poem length and keyword.
Once in your life
Lately it’s good night
Dearly, I wish to stay
But in fields of locust
I must lay
Father
If you’re there
I need to know if you’re listening
I believe in me
For you left me stranded
But what else is missing
A child in the wind
It whispers in whistles
I’m chewing on my own flesh
Tough as gristle
But in time we all break
Lay and never awake
My soul is singing
But how much more can it endure
I love her for she is innocent and pure
These are the consequences of tagging happiness
It’s all ironic
I’m up at 5am laughing in stress
Are you jealous of me as a person
Do you envy the life
That you would so kindly end
You move mountains, we know
But could you do it without the cursing
Go without shedding a tear
When floors fall from beneath your feet
And things are a matter to worsen
Yes I’m hurting
Will it get better
Or am I out a storm without shelter
Imagine My surprise,
Not only in getting through in under 2 minutes,
But also being helped by the first res-ponder
But wait it, didn't stop there,
I felt I was actually being treated as a customer,
And what I had to say was important.
What motivated me, you may well ask,
To risk being on hold,
And being passed from one department to another?
Well, I was minding my own business,
Anticipating they joy of sinking my teeth into a top of the line,
Angus beef Pie.
What did I find,
A piece of gristle in my pie to spoil my mood,
Not good enough I said.
Hence my well mannered phone call.
But wait it didn't stop there,
I hadn't expected a refund,
Ringing just to point out the fact,
And make sure they had Quality Control.
Imagine my being gob-smacked,
When I got called back by the first responder,
To say I would be getting a free pie voucher in the mail.
So, yes on occasions, customer service does show signs of life,
For poets, at least
Who have a way with words.
Maybe if everybody joined the soup,
Customer service would,
Once again be an every day occurrence.
Who says that I should read Dante
To summon up visions of Hell?
The charnel houses of the Holocaust
Are but distant memories of a race
Pinning their memories on a distant Star!
I need not go to an abattoir
To get a stink of Death,
Or to the city morgue
To see mangled corpses of men!
Do I have to envision Hades
As described by Virgil (or Homer?)
Does the gore and gristle of a Gothic
Compare with what’s next door?
Charon waits on my doorstep
The Grim Reaper is too busy to come.
You need not be dead to take passage
On Thanatos’ ferry, for sure!
The winding streets of my world
Are tributaries to the Stygian river –
Lost souls abound in the bye-lanes
Longing for a Paradise called Death!
they chew each other’s names
like gristle,
spit stories into the air
that stink before they land.
every word a small knife
looking for a back.
gossip crawls on the floor,
licking old blood,
hungry for new.
they feed it faces,
they feed it mistakes,
they feed it anything that once tried
to live clean.
the noise
is blunt-force trauma—
no filter from the brain to the mouth,
just rot rolling downhill
into sound.
ears packed with cotton,
hearing nothing,
feeling everything.
the skull rings
like a cheap bell in a slaughterhouse.
they don’t speak—
they discharge.
sentences like misfires,
wild bullets ricocheting off
whoever’s closest.
you stand there
taking shrapnel politely,
nodding like a good citizen of hell,
until the pressure behind your eyes
starts to beg for a violent silence.
later, alone,
the room finally stops shouting.
your hands shake.
your drink tastes like survival.
and you understand:
the quiet isn’t peace—
it’s just the sound
of the knives being put away
for the night.
History, it has always seemed,
at least it always has to me,
Is not something to be forgotten,
For from it much is gleaned.
It strikes me as more sensible,
if I may be allowed to say,
that's history is not a dusty book,
it's an all-you-can-think buffet!
From the ancients of the Levant
Ten Commandments do I take.
From the doughty Middles Ages:
Chivalry, a fine impression makes.
From the minutemen on Bunker Hills
comes a true love of liberty.
From the trappers in high Rockies
A sense of true independency.
The cowboy age it gives me
an appreciation of the grit,
along with a strong desire
Not to take any lip.
The roaring twenties gives me
the thrill of living it up.
The thirties taste strongly of thrift,
Of how to suffer through the rough.
Of the forties came a craving
for punching evil in the jaw.
From the fifties: Domesticity,
it's great rewards I saw.
From the sixties I take little,
except maybe rock and roll.
Though I admit as I grow older
Its seems tasteless and cold.
The seventies and best not eaten,
On that most will agree.
But the eighties' flavor is the power
of man's ingenuity set free.
From the millennium I consumed the fact
that Islamism is not that great.
And the present taste teaches clearly
not to trust those who cry "Hate!"
And this is just the beginning,
so many ideas out there lay...
A bit from here, a bit from there
A plate built of every age.
You leave behind the gristle,
though it make take some time,
but eventually you plate is choice,
and free of fat and rings.
And why some folks flee from it,
I cannot begin to say.
All I know is that once you start
you will always crave the taste.
The smell from the burger van hits my nose
It makes me hungry, I'll buy one I s’pose
“Two pound fifty”, the greaseman says
How effin’ much! The price nowadays
For a fat and gristle patty
To make me a fatty
I hand him the money for the sweet smelling lard
It comes on a bread roll that’s bloody rock hard
Two pound fifty, the price nowadays!
“That's the price of convenience”, the greaseman says.
A bargain compared to the bourgeois burgers
Served with salsa, not sauce for the gullible splurgers
Hipsters not greasers
Well trimmed and tweasered
They rob with a smile, “it’s hundred percent Angus”
What the hell’s that mean, I'm hundred percent angryus
That I've fallen for his scam
Paid top dollar for my scram
The greaseman’s plain honesty
that his are **** quality
Gets my vote for his burgers
over up their **** hipsters
Watery ketchup and stale bread rolls
with slightly burnt onions, served by hairy old trolls
Greasemen of Britain, stand up, we salute you
Our nation is proud as we sit on the loo
As vigorous bowel movements let it all out
That's proper street food, that's what it's about
So please believe me, with all my experience
That this is the price you pay for convenience
Her words were mumbled unprovoked and put him through the grinder
minced they were tearing apart they hurt like a dagger so he finally knew
where his heart was dismembered as it stood still one sentence then silence
No stream no consciousness emotion arrested a world destroyed broken shattered
He picked up the pieces the fragments shards of an ugly mosaic coloured in black
The cutting edge of glass penetrated into frozen blood in icy veins turning tattooing
engraving the twisted knife chopping torturing where passion kindness love
had once been the messenger grinning at the grisly gristle ground to the core
With surgical precision her scalpel incised at the flesh scarred in a flash razor
wire ligatures asphyxiating suffocating mortal wounded lost mindless soul
Denervation ensured neurochemical transmitters flowing into nothing a wide open
schism fissures fission exploding with nowhere to venture a road not yet travelled
Blessed in disguise of disaster her words grew into an unlikely story of hope of
a mixture of memories retold new pathways narration novel meaning of words
No more mill stone weighing the rope round the severed necklace of horror
he found undreamt off passion with a new soulmate and lover a poet tree in motion
Weaving kindness now sensual emotional reason scribed on paper fantasy clouds
written on dreams healing momentum of moments nights and cinnamon bark
their sizzling skins their touches feelings new found beauty make love and make
loving and making love with words and with lived meaning worthwhile again
16th June 2016
The 49er arrives with the virgin sunrise.
But the golden veins have long ago dried.
Pickaxe in hand, dynamite in his good eye.
He's the only one left of the calloused kind.
Back in spring, Blackjack the burro broke free.
Bolting for the last watering hole
Licking the salt from his reins.
Deeper and deeper the miner burrows in.
It's all about double blind commitment now.
The poison of pride over the succulence of time-
Willowy faith over the slag of good reason-
The gristle of isolation over nectar of companionship.
At the very edge of the dimming lamp light.
The black snake has all but tapped the vein dry.
A dusty angel sips the last of the moonshine.
The 49er rolls two stones over two black holes
that once were hazel stars on the rise.
I thought to write a poem on a gristmill.
First I googled it, having never really heard that term before.
The “grist” part had conjured up for me
images of grisly scenes like in a horror movie
in which all that remained of dead bodies
was the ghastly gristle of victims killed most gruesomely,
the parts of them ground up inside a mill!
But no, a gristmill is nothing so sinister as that!
“Grist” is just another word for grain (the grain for grinding into flour).
A gristmill, therefore, is the name for the machine or for the building
where the gristing is performed!
Strange that I’d only heard it in my region called a mill.
If the word “mill” denotes the place for the grinding,
isn’t it redunant to add a word
which also is as repugnant as the word “grist” seems to be?
Or maybe it’s only I that find the word so ugly -
ugly like the words gargle, gagging, maggots or mucus.
Funny to think that since my ancestors likely worked in gristmills,
my maiden name might have been “Gristmiller” and not Miller.
I thought to write a poem on a gristmill, but ended up with this!
June 2, 2018 for The Gristmill Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
So, you want to buy a gift
for that famous geezer.
First, hear about the midnight shift
of our Ebenezer.
Late at night, he is concerned.
It is December time,
when, it's been confirmed,
good people lose their minds.
Some gristle in his soup
upset his condition.
Now, he is unable to regroup
and sees an apparition.
He peers out the windowsill,
as that stew's injury lingers,
standing so very still
with cold and boney fingers.
A guy intent to pin a rap -
hear him moan and bellow
like a bear caught in a trap,
Marley, that poor fellow.
Once a boy on a country lane,
how did Ebenezer meet this fate?
What happened to his brain,
as he neared heaven's gate?
Why could the Lord not spare
the one good thing in life,
yes, his sister who was kind and fair.
Why cut his heart out with a knife?
Why would I condescend to take a seat?
I would not recoil, but rather retreat,
than hear the mutton's painful bleat
'neath his blade as its heart still beats.
Leave me ghost, blow out your lamp.
I'll not see the moron's laughing face.
as my nephew's knife, the devil's stamp,
another life, it would erase.
No, I'll not see the foolish face
of the boy who took my sister away,
who took her life, and with his replaced,
all on that tragic Christmas day.
The ghost made Ebenezer sit and sigh
as he watched his own body die.
There was no one even there to cry
as a worm crawled out his eye.
You want a gift idea with merit?
Perhaps a greasy goose. I won't bicker.
If there's something you stand to inherit,
a heart attack is indeed quicker,
but for the man staring at his casket,
I recommend a fruit basket.