Long Handler Poems
Long Handler Poems. Below are the most popular long Handler by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Handler poems by poem length and keyword.
Looking skywards, the Alsatian’s eyes glinted for a split second, connecting to a piercing sun ray.
The ray beamed onto dried semen ammonia. Hot dog breath puffed from his nostrils, onto my bare arm.
He sprung next to a sweating succulent, where a tiny kruisbessie leaf quivered human sperm cell display, in a whimpering breeze.
This was a filigree second, in a day of twenty-four hours times twenty-four hours.
Next the Alsatian’s back muscles rippled.
Coarsely-soft black-brown hair along his spine needled up. Four other police dogs whelped in frenzy. He gave a whip snort-sniff, then one sharp bark of achievement.
Wolf ancestry pupils dilated, penetrating that of his handler.
Time, matrixed into bruised, scratched body was a figment, my cells metabolising light and raw earth like the fragrant koppie bushes. Detective voices sliding sediment rock were parachutes opening, falling, dissipating __the helicopter an incessant mozzie.*
“Hy’t dit gekry.” **
The Alsatian with his helper dogs found the evidence of a brutal ripping of my young teen daughter’s virginity, by an impoverished farm worker, on a rugged hill in the Little Karoo.
THE ALL partnered with dogs for humans.
from my loins, a jewel
God connected sun with earth
violence, a teacher
_________________
*mozzie : slang word for mosquito
** “He’s found it.”
_________________
This lifetime’s moment is etched into my evolving DNA as experience. The power of seeing an Alsatian’s eyes connect in radar, with the heavenly Sun, directing him to dried semen on a delicate fynbos* leaf was astounding. Instant perception was one specific gift during great trauma. I chose this unrepeatable moment as it emerged from memory when I read the contest details.
No line was hard to write, though I shed a couple of stagnant tears.
I deleted how I was able to access the best sniffer dogs in the country, the Alsatian and his handler being flown in from another city. I deleted contextual details about the time.
____________________
*fynbos : fine sweet smelling bushes, some producing small flowers, indigenous to South Africa. Rocky koppies are often covered with them, making this type of hill challenging to climb.
PLACED NINTH : Premier Contest
Sponsor: Daniel Henry Rodgers
Feb. 26
(A lone voice whispers)
In the lower levels of spiritual existence
We once roamed
Alone and lonely
Forlornly
Looking for true love
And all its mysterious emotional energy
Hidden away
In our empty homes
And like a red rose
Blooming in a garden of thorns
I found you
Like a rare diamond amongst the coal
Blowing your triumphant golden horn
We danced
Sang and laughed together
And our happiness seemed forever
But Fate
That unseen handler of so many
From The Great In-Between
Intervened
Then you were once more lost
The ever-expanding sea
From dark shores
Had reached us and you were beached
Somewhere
Between
Where and there
Between us
But
Regret is a grey smoke
I will never breathe
Pain
A tablet of separation
I will never take
For our life
Together although short
Will vibrate
Throughout my eternity
Forever
For memories make a person once broken
Smile filled with happy thoughts
Though unspoken
For pain and regret are always blowing like hungry
Vampiric seeds in the loose winds
Hoping to take root and grow in the garden of sad hearts
Which invite them in
Sadness found in regret and pain
Should be cleansed by remembering
All those happier times
For that's how I remain
Profound
For even though now
My old love and me
Don't share the same
Common ground
Like
Rose DeWitt Bukater and Jack Dawson
In that famous Titanic ending scene
We'll dance forever
Together
In my dreams
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
[[X][x][X][X][X][X][X]]
[ ]
Albeit, a riddle and true,
happenstance quietude,
privacy absolute of two,
monarch, and servitude.
( )
(*******~0~*******)
( )
Proximity rather risqué,
her inner horse handler,
usually believed display,
and so all souls said her.
( )
(*******~0~*******)
( )
Soulfully tenet ill a day,
as good friend perishes,
Queen Victoria alas say,
confidant's...cherishes.
[ ]
[[X][x][X][X][X][X][X]]
The cat with the blue eyes
Told nothing but pure lies
We both loved her for it
Her name was Gee Norbit.
Strangers on street would stare
At her eyes and fluffy hair
Admission we should have collected
They looked as if they were infected
Gee Norbit loved the attention she got
She was a star, full of freedom and fraught
Her amazing blue eyes amazed, and her lies enthralled.
I was her handler, Mommy Cat is was what I was called
She was stolen in the middle of the night
My screaming was genuine, full of fright.
Don’t be sad, and truly, do not be at all blue.
For you see, I can tell a real whopper too…
The museum is full of gangs,
child gangs that roam sneering at the 70’s people.
The 70’s people live now in a diorama.
For the most part they are cheerful,
they cut grass with push mowers,
swim in above ground pools.
By and large they don’t kill each other
or pillage the Malls.
Some are vets with grey ponytails -
they ride to forget.
The 70’s people that lived in New York
pretend not to have been there back then
and take long meditative soaks in crude
high rise jacuzzies.
Behind the glass
the 70’s people mechanically wave
at the hordes of sneering children.
A young questioner asks his handler
why the 70’s people are not all dead?
A reasonable question
which the handler deflects
with a long tale about dinosaurs.
Meanwhile the 70’s people
peer out of their mid-century homes
and watch the foot traffic
as if it were an older black and white TV.
The young are getting bored with the 70’ people.
they move on to stare incredulously at a representation
of humankind back in the 60’s.
The handlers also cannot quite believe their eyes,
they explain that though there are many artifacts
of that previous civilization
experts disagree as to origins
and the strangeness of their bygone lifestyle.
Salem Alabama and Woodstock
are small print on a sign no one reads.
The kids are hungry and whine loudly,
the school-outing is a bust so far.
Harassed handlers usher them into a cafeteria
where they slaughter the air
with a wolfish glee.
A few Jeer at an 80’s person
who has wandered into the wrong room.
The chimp stretches its arm,
a small hand, palm up under my chin,
fingers and thumb supple,
a pink-pawed sharing.
It’s a palmistry offering,
if only I had the skill to read it.
There is a lifeline.
It looks a lot like mine
if my hand were his.
I see a heart-line,
it seems open and flowing
as if this ape were following
another meaning of ‘heart.’
The handler moves on.
I check my own palm,
note the similarities, even see
an indistinct squeezed crease,
where the heart line bifurcates.
A sign, but of what?
And why does my hand
look like an old map of the moon,
while his looks like the hand
of a poet?
Forged in fire, presented 'ala carte'
Deceit and lies play their devious part
like Hell Hounds hunting as a team of two.
Their handler keeps close watch on you.
In stark sound of silence, whispers creep
while seeking souls to groom and reap.
Greedy, modern men are such easy prey.
These dogs will snare them by end of day.
Beware your pitfalls when traps are set.
The dark one trains each evil, defiled pet.
His hounds thirst to lick your heart's blood
and drown your spirit in a diabolical flood.
The fiendish canine are taught to fight,
lurking in shadows, beyond the light.
Be steadfast in courage; stand and defend,
so your battle will bring the dark one’s end.
The 50’s people are in a diorama
behind a Perspex window,
for the most part they are cheerful,
they cut grass with push mowers,
swim in circles in above ground pools;
by and large they are not serial killers.
The museum is new, colorful and shiny.
The 50’s people wave mechanically
at all on-lookers.
A young questioner asks
why the 50’s people are not all dead?
A reasonable question
which the handler deflects
with a long tale about purple dinosaurs.
The kids are getting bored,
handlers usher them into a cafeteria,
where two 40’s people linger over
a tasteless, sanitized meal.
Youths rib poke each other and sneer.
The two 40’s people have no diorama
they have forgotten how to make one,
worst still, their handler died
the same year Barney went extinct.
The rubber roo is a fantastic work of art.
Constructed of rubber, as to never fall apart.
It has a large round head with little arms and legs.
It strongly bares the resemblance of a hard boiled egg.
It’s made to punch and kick around.
The perfect back yard toy to deliver a righteous beat down.
It’s for your everyday frustration, it’s never broke a toe.
Kick it barefoot or with a boot, you can even pick it up and throw.
But leave it parked outside, it has one special part.
The backside where you kick, kind of smells like a bad old fart.
It comes with its own private handler carefully packaged in the box.
Our factory is cleverly hidden, way out in the boondocks.
Willy Wonka Is Not Here So What Is My Factory Going to Make Poetry Contest.
Caren Krutsinger
5-10-20
It had nothing to do with March Madness or the NCAA final championship game between Arkansas and Duke in 1994, but it was one great game.* In fact, it was one of the greatest games I have ever witnessed. It was a basketball championship game in which my youngest son played. This basketball program of the junior high level was sponsored by the Park District in our community.
There were two team members that will forever be fixated in my mind. One was the point guard and the other was my son, the-two guard. Our team lost that game, but it should have never been close. The point guard had great speed and some great offensive skills. My son was a great ball-handler, great free-throw shooter, and blessed with great defensive skills. This game was lost because the point guard did not do well at the point.
With too few passes on offense, he missed far too many layups. He would race down the court in Nascar speed only to miss too many uncontested layups. Such weakness was not revealed until the last game, and by then, it was too late.
The point guard was short and never learned the magic of utilizing the backboard for maximum performance. The ball would fall short of the goal where it needed to be in order to bounce into the hoop. Sometimes, basketball is all about the backboard.
041320PoSp *This happened in 1994 and was written in longhand some years later and not dated. I found this story a couple of days ago in my garage. This was written at least 10 years ago.