Long Groveling Poems
Long Groveling Poems. Below are the most popular long Groveling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Groveling poems by poem length and keyword.
California Cold
Rented cars…
every month the cost?
Bread and milk.
Why?
To go get my kids.
I had to.
My own car was bad,
unreliable, and dangerous.
Custody, and Judges decided,
the penalty I was to pay
for making bad decisions,
was to “serve” accordingly”.
He loved me.
He married me.
We had kids together.
Then he left…
Or I wish that he had…
as the bruises
have not fully healed,
this time,
the bones,
they may never mend.
Freedom came with a price.
I heard him yell,
“I will make her…”
Loudly.
“If I can not,
I will find someone that can.”
…
Sixty eight times 800,
give or take a few side trips,
I could have driven to the moon.
The atmosphere would have been
a bit more breathable, in the end.
The parking lot,
The exchange, the police…
Every time.
You kept our kid’s blanket.
You stole it from his hands.
You let him cry on the pavement,
The blacktop…
Before you, there groveling…
(The bus driver gave it to him.
It was his…You THUG!)
I picked him up.
I had to drag him to the car.
“God help me get out of here.”
Whispered, as only He can hear.
The Police Officer asked if I needed help?
(Not to get the loved blanket back, never…
That was a civil matter,
and had to be taken to court.
No, to get my kid in the car before he called CPS)
The other one, in uniform…
distant, perhaps fighting his own
dark battles at home?
He did not look so friendly.
I said “no”, and my son suddenly complied.
We left.
I bought three new blankets,
at the five and dime.
It took three hours, to choose.
Then we drove home.
400 miles away.
Heaven.
Slipping into my silver-gray SUV
Nicknamed " Sly Buster Cruiser”
I speed off down the rocky, off-highway road.
Twisting and reeling like my wired mind,
windows down, sunroof open,
(Annie Lennox groveling on the CD player),
reckless noon rays on my chin,
wind on ticklish, naked nape ...
Damn, who cares? I am 19 again?
Shuffling into the 7-Eleven Store
beside the Shell gas station
(With a free wind shield clean-up),
I draw out some bucks for a Philip Morris pack
and a two bottles of beer, plus a Dorito
( the barbecue flavor , please)…
Ain’t a drinker; a smoker on occasion,
but I feel like being reckless and
slightly rebellious ;
I lock the door prepping up for an untamed ride.
Grabbing a spray of cologne mist
and red-violet lipstick from the tote,
my irises roll from the lane to the side mirror,
as I slowly dunk the beer, icy and bubbly
zooming away with hands laughing on the wheels.
Nobody knows me in this place; my ribs shout silently:
This is just all for me; just now, I’ll be.
This is just between me and the edge of a free road.
This is about my navel breathing fire and ice,
It’s about touching danger fast without reason or fuzz
Because later, all this smooth craziness will soon pass.
Back to the same home trail, I rip the cigarette sticks,
slide the unused bottle in my bag
before wiping the red on lips with the Dorito foil…
“ Mommy, Mommy… where have you been?”
I smile as if my skin had chased a tornado…
Dumping the beer on the back porch,
My hand is cleansed by some kind of holy water,
And I start to hug my mischievous girl...
Then off I start to roll the plates on the sinking sink.
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Celebrating My Faves Contest
For Andrea Dietrich--Faved by Sponsor
Reposted 4/24/2016
From within the womb, we're subject
to the church's religious dogma.
And, labeled sinners before birth,
we're born with original sin.
Devious minds conspire to keep
naive believers groveling.
And under the pretext of love,
steal both their dignity and cash.
Sinners are defined as lost souls,
existing outside of prayer.
And anyone that questions what's
written in the holy scriptures.
How many Gods has Man died for,
and how many has He killed for?
And though religions preach blind faith,
it's not a sin to ask for more.
Religions try to patent God
because, to them, He's worth billions.
And yet, He lives free in our hearts,
responding to love, not worship.
(Blank Verse)
8/30/2015
Sandee kicks off her blue slippers, and pulls up her feet.
Cozy and warm, inside, where snow cannot reach the heat.
Mouse Swallower is in window, with back to the glass.
Skunk Boy is firmly attached to her round corpulent ass.
Oops. Sorry if this offends, but I always tell it like it is.
It’s a curse of the family. Sandee is my sister, the whiz.
She devours books, especially romance novels at night.
I imagine if a real man showed up, she’d chase him off with her right.
Yes, she is mighty, my sister, who looks cozy in this winter scene.
You cannot tell it by looking, but she can be biting and mean.
To humans especially, for she never met one that she liked.
The children at school would be shocked that she once upon a time biked.
She is prissy and snooty, and only has love for these two cats and books.
If you double cross her, you’ll get her wrath, it starts with horrifying looks.
Sandee looks so cozy and loving, with Mouse Swallower and Skunk Boy.
She is my sister, and believe me, you’d better not rile her or in any way toy.
But she is so unassuming, so sweet, sitting there with her hot chocolate cup.
I am telling you, Sir, she will turn you into a groveling, crying sobbing pup.
The last one she chased off was a really nice guy name of Amsterdam Bill.
She is better of course, if she has taken her lithium pill….
Laston Simuzingili linkedin with this American
maverick freelancing writing scout,
(and word maven par excellence
Matthew Scott Harris always ha sellout),
thru Spoken Word route, a popular global
Facebook poetry forum prodded me to venture,
without shadow of a doubt, and try my hand
to craft, this rhyme for that reason tout
ting expertise (mine) forging metrical
syncopation, which electronically soundless shout,
though tribalism within Lusaka, Zambia beyond
my literary purview hence any objection
i.e. cerebral workout, sans the following
amateurishly wrought gobbledygook by devout atheist
please do not be shy to call me out,
or send strongarm lance of the law if I
unwittingly commit any faux pas, this author,
who took mini crash (course) test dummy
about said convoluted titled topic unbeknownst
to him as little as Trout
Fishing in America,
cuz he gets this hooked Semitic Schnozzle snout
stuck, while groveling, ferreting, expanding
his knowledge base no matter he doth spout -
whale visiting unfamiliar leviathan African bailiwick
may deliver just deserved desserts fallout.
According to the following Google url search result,
I reddit at whatsapp
http://www.qfmzambia.com/2018/10/07/
tribalism-has-no-place-in-zambia-
First Republican President
Kenneth Kaunda opened
potential Pandora box trap
expressing honest opinion, and observed
discrimination predicated on snap
judgement, or based on tribe equally
unfair methodology to foster, and rocket rap
pore, and ethnic background as well
owns no place in Zambia, cuz smeared pap
(as conk curd by ghost of Milton Shapp),
Pitifully, he calls her again and again
Brando yelling, "STELLA" from his knees.
Like he ever meant something to her...
Stop groveling like a fool. She was a tease.
She doesn't come from Kansas or Oz
and Sunnybrook Farm is make believe.
Stop shouting her name. For crying out loud.
Shed your tears somewhere else if you grieve.
She left long ago on a streetcar to get away.
It's your fault she's gone. You and your drama.
You killed her desire. That's what she said.
The conflicts you created left her in trauma.
You were the spider who sat down beside her,
the tiny creature that was much too hairy.
You brazenly acted as if you were a king,
but there's nothing about you that's scary.
After all this time, still blubbering for Stella?
You're a weeping wimp and it's pathetic
how you demean yourself time after time.
No one cares because you're not empathetic.
She waved farewell and made your life hell.
So, get off your knobby knees, Marlon.
Alice doesn't live here anymore. She left
and no longer wants to call you, 'Darlin.'
Cuz while ya steel got
moxie, don't nix chance if only a dot
before death finds
flesh rotting alot.
A self-actualized fringe benefit
as I racked up
orbitz round sun -
with increased measured,
(albeit neglected) ragged, and
shot thru tattered (turn shroud) -
regarding chronological yardage
brought to my dimming wattage -
sputtering third eye blind, sans
hindsight surveying extensive
emotionally frenzied groveling with
a lifetime penitential wreckage,
whence urgent critical (update)
foisted upon formerly entrenched
hermetically sealed voyage -
sequestered self wrought fallout,
viz long stretches of
time irretrievably gone with the wind
found me averse toward
commingling with village -
peopled within sin king
precincts of Lake Woebegone
joyus kneaded livingsocial
natives, now visa
vis (nee this past
and present atheist)
discovered the healing power
of powder milk biscuits,
when accommodated within Norwegian
bachelor farmer vicarage),
qua pained obligation now
imposed kickstarted mandate
to pay dying wage
clearly written along,
the sub weighted psyche walls
(over time) easily read
across my wrinkled visage,
where former cumulative
years of existence
pitched yours truly
figuratively teetering upon
precipice of abyss gave vantage
written in telltale creases
countenance spelling umbrage,
against me - asper tonnage
schlepping psychological Matthew
Scott Harris "baggage,"
wrought from decades
worth of uncultivated tillage
cuz n'er did I gather rosebuds...
during prime mortal teenage
stretch, thus present
day agonizing suffrage
yawning chasm miserably houses
bleak (Dickensian) testimony,
sans recovered anorexic
(NO...NOT... NEVER
bulimic), but feebly
endured desultory stage
punctuated quasi (moat)
towed riddled rattle trap ship
of state into deadly scrimmage
defies propped up
moxie succombing unrelenting
weathering, unforgiving savage
nasty, brutal and short sabotage,
wherein futile - short
changed growh opportunities
forfeited developmental stage
opportunities introverted
vehemence doth rage.
The Moby Dick Reunion
One hundred fifty nine years have passed
Since Melville published his novel.
Seven hundred twenty pages in length
Some say it was much too nautical.
All of the characters have gathered.
They’re going to have a reunion.
Rumor has it, they say, that Herman himself
Is making a huge revelation.
Ishmael is the first to arrive,
And it’s he who was telling the story.
That’s only right, in the book he survived,
He deserves to get all the glory.
Fedallah and Moby were next in line,
Just in from the Dr. Phil Show.
Their friendship had grown a lot lately.
The harpooner was psychic you know!
When he and Phil studied the big fishes mind,
They found out his reason for anger.
The fact that he was albino
Had burned in his mind like a canker.
Ahab, it seems, was equally mean,
And caused a lot of his stress.
He’d cornered the whale with harpoon boats,
And offered no way for egress.
Moby’s life has been changed forever.
He’s hitched to a really cute killer.
She’s working part time at Sea World,
Seems they needed a sub for their “killer”.
The pub where they met was named Starbucks,
In honor of the owner.
The first mate was rich as a pirate.
He could even afford to buy toner.
Then through the door entered Ahab,
With a prosthesis and brand new pipe.
He finally learned to be happy,
And enjoyed a simpler life.
With him was Herman Melville,
A screenplay under his arm.
One thousand pages he’d written,
About whalers who lived on a farm?
The crew didn’t give their attention.
By now, they were tanked up on rum.
He said he was going to Hollywood,
And if they were smart they would come.
But Ahab and Moby were sobbing.
Tears falling into their mugs.
After all of their trials they found friendship
In the bottom of a jug.
Herman begged them to go make the movie.
But, their lives were happier now.
They all had families to care for,
And no urge for taking a bow.
It seems that while Melville was groveling,
Pip and Ishmael had stolen the play.
They put it in Queequey’s coffin,
And watched it float slowly away.
That was the end of the reunion.
They all went home that night,
Happy with the realization,
That their lives were all just right!
I never saw myself clearly
But smelled my own disappointment
For I reeked with it; an acid smell.
I tasted Vicks in my mouth
When there was none in the house
And had not been for years
An unfamiliar voice told me I was a loser
It came from within; I recognized it not at all
But totally too
I was a sight, groveling and growling silently
I doubt anyone knew; for I kept this wisely silent
Away from the eyes of the others
And you are all the others
I can trust no one.
Smelling disinterest and disregard on you
As you pass me by not seeing me or my little dog Two
I have never recognized my sorrow
Or put a name on it
Preferring to keep it way down deep
Where I put a lid on it
You might see me as a party animal with flair
Self-confident, and outgoing
I scoff at the irony of that
As I take out my little friend
And watch the red bubbles pop out of my arm
As I make little cuts
To prove that I am alive
And can feel something.
Yours truly does readily confess
the following poem crafted more or less
approximately a year ago,
when coronavirus (COVID-19)
wrought havoc creating global mess
when panic against collective temple did press
a feeling of melancholy and world-weariness.
Along luscious green acres banks steep grade
(in close proximity to
Petticoat Junction) naturemade
Perkiomen Valley watershed,
verdant landscape displayed
yours truly, (a garden variety
proto human) arrayed
solely donning birthday suit,
whose fifty plus shades hair gone grayed,
i.e. one infinitesimal measly mortal
whiles away hours, laid
back days of his life as
the world wide web turns
comprising second decade
of twenty first century
civilization, where
coronavirus veritably waylaid
furlough afflicts populations feeling betrayed
entire fabric *****sapiens staid
threadbare existence now best describes
chock full of endemic ennui proliferates,
where vast majority of people afraid
to leave their houses lest COVID-19 played
greater havoc, whereby society already upended
unemployment factor at record high since...
Great depression witnessed
courtesy somber parade,
ninety years ago benchmarked
from May 11, 2021,
an invisible oppressed heaviness weighed
down the madding crowds
aghast how stock market trade
hit rock bottom making paupers,
ill fate clobbered breadwinners
circumstance none could evade
October 29, 1929 haint no charade,
when Black Tuesday hit Wall Street
bitta bing bitta bang bitta played
bitty bitty chitty chitty bang bang
linkedin with irrational exuberance portrayed
American economy supine splayed
versus March 11, 2020 characterized
coronavirus outbreak as pandemic
by the WHO subsequently signaling
Trump cited "fake news" and not dismayed
to expedite drastic measures
none would impede golf nor Mar-a-Lago
leisure him sipping lemonade
acid test tee zing 'bout quaffing electric kool-aid
without getting his doggy dimples in a bunch
he grudgingly complied and obeyed
purveyors (governors) and Anthony Fauci
complete United States government shutdown
approximately mid/late March 2020
which undertaking generated brisk business
grim reaper experienced
(still does) protracted heyday.