Long Gutter Poems
Long Gutter Poems. Below are the most popular long Gutter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gutter poems by poem length and keyword.
Watched a slick, oily storm cloud spread a stain ‘cross the sky
In a silence so quiet, you could hear Jesus cry.
Drank a bottle of wishes from a bottomless glass.
Sometimes the most you earn on Monday is a kick in the ass.
Poked around in an ashtray full of earthly delights.
Lit the butt of a Lucky. Read a cockroach his rights.
Reached my fist out the window; grabbed the night by its throat
And left it bleeding in the gutter with a suicide note.
This calls for Prozac and whisky.
Let’s welcome the rain,
Not add to the flood with our tears.
We’ll pick a drowned man’s pocket,
Place a flower in his hand
And mumble our confession in his ears,
Yes, in his ears, we’ll mumble our confession in his ears.
When I worked as a desk clerk at the Chester Hotel,
Used to piss in the corner. No one noticed the smell.
Got my kicks outta saying, “There’s no room at the inn!”
I’d shoot ‘em all the arctic finger with a s**t-eating grin.
Had a job as a waiter back when business was slow.
Got promoted to baker, now I’m rolling in dough.
Slice it fresh from the oven. Spread some jam on that bread.
I may not dine on steak and chops, but I’ve got crumbs in my bed.
This calls for Prozac and whisky.
Let’s butter this toas.
The crust ain’t as burnt as it seems.
We’ll climb some chain-link mischief,
Vault the transom, pry the lid,
And taste forbidden pastry in our dreams,
Yes, in our dreams, we’ll taste forbidden pastry in our dreams.
The foggy snow hats the mount peaks,
The chilly wind frosts all snaky creeks.
The shelter covered by creamy layer;
Face of a pane of the wistful thinker.
The clear icicles cling from the gutter,
Like the tearing of a sadden perceiver;
The thousand drops flood within:
Reviving my mother's teaching.
Once a spoiled teen in mother's arms;
Had poetical talent with full charms.
Then flew to adore distant flowers,
Received pitiful consequences later.
The obstacles shadowed the daily life,
Just a few of them have been rectified.
The foggy days repeat over and over?
Only self-confident man can endeavor.
Even powerful mind soaked in tears,
Let the body move on without fear,
Hopefully the snow fog will cease;
The strong heart could stay at peace!
Tomorrow the weather could be fine,
Keep moving on the tough, nasty line,
Even the fuzzy way lessens the vision,
Try hard to find the right destination.
Go on to reach out the ideal flowers
That bloom in the beautiful weather;
Leave the foggy days, obstacles of life,
To pass over the foggy day and smile!
Truth is not flexible
though often stretched
if not totally perverted--
the liar a master
manipulator of words
and people:
I listen to the politician
stretch both sides of his mouth,
the serpent tongue
not always visible
behind expensive implants,
but the scent
is a giveaway.
They marry their deceits;
butcher their enemies
(it takes a heart to care,
and a sense of soul
to register guilt)
leaving their victims
in the gutter for the public
to bury
a warning!
Grotesque portraits of the
great distance from heaven
Godless men will travel
to solidify dominion
over those weaker.
They prize themselves
where once were
Genuine Pulitzers;
but time heals all wounds--
and time resurrects
those wrongly crucified,
before their ascension
(kicking and screaming)
will drag their murderers
down into hell for just
reward:
What they always wanted--
Terms without limits….
She was an exotic, erotic beautiful peacock
Flamingly gorgeous feathers could not hide her mystique
We instinctively knew the hidden woman was a firecracker.
Green eyes gave me a come-hither look and I swooned.
He was a bandit; afraid of no bank tellers
Taking money out of the hands of the rich.
Darkly disturbing, hiding his humanness
I cringed when I saw him enter the bank.
She was a giggly snip, left over from the fifties.
Her hard shell had two perfectly cut out circles.
I knew she was uncomfortable; for it was not a good fit.
But I could do nothing to help her; it was the way she was made.
He is lying in a gutter, stepped on and smudged.
Wrinkled, with a turned corner so you can see a bit of blue.
Lots of white; one of his strings has been broken.
Pandemic is over; no need for him anymore.
Can you feel the real deal hoodoo or juju hex
One sex tech conquest & manifest wrecks perplex
Flex your cerebral cortex protest against the new Rex
Hullabaloo of voodoo we must contest & vex
Vain inane randy Deejays handy on dandy sandy decks
A bane.. vloggers..joggers & bloggers texts & trend treks
Reign of hooray Henry’s forays with oversized unwise specs
Disdain from plain Jane “ex” glowering while devouring Tex Mex
Train..campaign for brawn not brain.. divulging bulging necks & pecs
The lot have got an absurd follow the word of the herd complex
Flecks of lies flutter & splutter in the utter nutter echo chamber gutter that is “X”
Never ending..mind bending curmudgeon bludgeon chorus of Tyrannosaurus Techs!
Forever lost
Sorrow now drizzles from lingering clouds,
drenching my life in despair
Dampening spirits a’ fall of the rain,
empty these puddles I stare
Drowning in loneliness filling the day,
void of the sun we adored
Flooding the vacancy found in my life,
steady the reasons now poured
Floating along every gutter of fear,
weathered my face of the storm
Crying as caverns appear in my heart,
gaping the holes that now form
If this shall be what my destiny brings,
slowly I take my last breath
For I am nothing at all without her,
drifting this river of death
Take me for I have no reason to be,
sink every dream I have known
Whisper the truth that I don’t want to hear,
forever lost and alone
Good night Soupers
The Selfish Egos of War Poetry Contest
Craig Cornish
It's a normal day in LA's Westside.
Shots fired. Another homicide.
Police, EMTs, and coroners predisposed
to the front lines of the disposed.
A shower of bullets, another blood bath,
yellow-taped, chalked outlines mar the public's path.
It's a war out there, the games are in overtime,
and sudden death is just a passing crime.
Drug Lords crawling out from the gutter
in search of their bread and butter,
driving a low-riding Mercedes,
carrying 14-year-olds dressed up as ladies,
peddling their crack,
and shooting turf invaders in their back.
Homies' power trip lights the dark side of the city,
without any regard for life or showing any pity.
The crib's manifestation, filled with a rat's infestation,
where egos fly to the nests of damnation.
How small we were sitting in the backseat of that mammoth car. We were dwarfed on the giant sofa-like bench waiting like a great amusement ride about to start. While we waited we explored our new surroundings. The lining inside the cavernous car was short-hair and smooth and as we ran our small hands across the surface, it felt like a young boy’s scalp after his first summer haircut. It was grey, the color of an elephant toy that had been won by our uncle last year at the fourth of july carnival. We explored the shiny chrome ashtrays. You could see your reflection in them like a mirror and we wondered if the owner used them to shave in the mornings as his chauffeur drove him to work. They were spring-loaded and snapped viciously at our little fingers. They smelled of foul ash and stale gum. There were large cranks with polished brown knobs, handles that controlled the windows. Turning them took all our strength like cranking the hand pump for water in the kitchen at Grandmas house on the farm. There were baby windows beside the big ones and they closed with little widget clips, swiveling inward so you could control the direction and amount of air that rushed in when the car was in motion. Too small to see outside, we sat dwarfed in the backseat watching the tops of trees go by and playing with a doll and a green plastic soldier. The doll was homemade from an old sock. The soldier, alone, separated from an army of plastic soldiers that came in a bag we could not afford. He was found, as most toys were, in the gutter or on the schoolyard, abandoned by the more affluent children. Small, simple toys that would not be missed from a rich kids over-stuffed closet. We knew we had to be quiet, for to make noise would be to draw attention that would come in the form of punishment. A slap on the bare thigh of a young boy in shorts or a young girl in a dress would leave a red welt for hours. The ride always seemed so very long that soon our patience would give out and a bump in the road would trigger a tidal wave of emotions; a push escalating to a shove, a pinch and then a shout. The crested wave would end in a crashing roar with a parents’ curse, a stinging slap, and a whimpering cry. Only puddles remaining, tide pools composed of wet pants and tears.
Surely, not every word from these lines of mine,
Have filled your very soul with the strongest sensations
The very sensations that stirs the lip to quiver,
The back to shiver, and the eyes to glitter,
No, these words move many souls,
Though none like yours, none like yours…
You have felt nothing from these bleeding words,
Felt everything from the outside world,
In your sphere of existence, I crawl into the crevices,
My poetry running cold like my thickening blood
On the sidelines, the gutter water reaching the mud
Like a pure little stream down a mountain,
In the speed of many a forgotten fountain,
These words flow right on by,
Out of the ground, straight up to the sky,
Into little shadows from the corner of your eye
They are not meant to stick,
For even the mud that once grew thick,
Is watered down from on high,
Inspired by muses on their shackled way to die
Surely, not every word from these lines,
Have touched your very core,
Not one little word, not one of my worlds…
What if I moved you just once again,
As my love refuses to grow thin…
I reach you….evidently too late
Nothing can take you from this maddening state
Patience merits death,
As words merit power
In this gutter, I never knew the strength from filth
Could take me to the top of the mountain
That continuous flow…
That connected souls could only live to know…
I once played high school football…I even wrestled on their mat
but I was never a first class athlete…and I am comfortable with that.
My exploits in both fields will never be well known
but when it came to sports in general…I like to think I held my own.
Which is why when Deborah suggested we go bowling…
when she initially planted the seed
I thought, I’m coordinated enough at 66, and enthusiastically agreed.
And despite the fact we hadn’t been bowling since 1989
I thought, given my confidence and physical ability, I was going to shine.
I know I’m not as strong as I used to be, but after tying up my shoes
most balls were much too heavy…so I chose one the children use.
“Isn’t that ball a little light?” Deborah asked, (what was that a psyche?)
I ignored her veiled rebuke and concentrated on my strike.
My feet were planted, I lined it up and was mystified and appalled
when my first roll of my first frame became a gutter ball.
My confidence was quickly waning
I wondered: Is this what the bowling Gods have wrought?
“I think you want to knock the pins down?” Deborah smirked
as I lined up my second shot.
It seemed my brain and arms were at odds with one another
they weren’t working together at all
and when I rolled my second shot…
another gutter ball.
I improved and was eventually satisfied with my result…
although I found it hard to gauge.
Is it golf or is it bowling where it’s good to score your age?
No matter…I got a little better as each game did unfold
and here is what I learned the more and more we bowled:
I may not be the greatest athlete…no crowds…no adulation
but I still can have a lot of fun…once I accept my limitations.
And when Deborah asked, “Will we be back?” I said, “Of course we would.
We may never be great bowlers…but we make these shoes look good!”