Long Heaved Poems
Long Heaved Poems. Below are the most popular long Heaved by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heaved poems by poem length and keyword.
Bricks of pain heaved on feeble frame
Hell’s ring tone in fragile ears
Exits incomparable in life’s little memory
A goddess gone, the pillar of a heart’s strength.
Lured above reason by fables,
By mean mortals of and kings of calumny
“They said, and the tattlers said”
to the end of a structure so rare.
This trust is tested,
As hope crumbles
Among dark rumors by strange marauders,
A heart nurtured for stranger’s gains
An Oprah’s regret found in Ruth.
All entreaties as weak words they fall,
And so must I let the bird fly to her nest,
Into hideouts carved by her lust and greed,
Seeking a heaven in hell’s lies.
A foretelling powers of bygone times
Pronounced this exit by lightning's speed.
Goodbye to true parleys of the heart,
An End to the dream by imputed fables.
A shaking of wind, a tossing of sea
A tornado of earth’s fires
A true test of oaths and love
Goodbye to what men call love.
now and forever know.
Eros is a stranger to agape
Spaces like Life
Your death is no spectacle. It will unfold itself ceremoniously
like a soft-sweater worn and discarded because of a snag
I walk in a ghetto in the black of night, chunks of asphalt heaved up in more spots than smooth,
Makes me think of you,
57 murders of the kind I like
with his first touch, you’ve been archived,
dust collecting on your gilded frame,
curating feelings long dormant,
with the first exchange of flesh—no market bizarre bartering,
the store room caught fire, and you are naught but cindered-ash.
The body both fleshy life and a tomb.
How does paradox exist?
Think on it, scissors join to dissever!
It's one absurdity I cannot resist.
Such conundrums mere escapist thoughts
Bring a chuckle to my lips and a smile on a dog.
As I pass cars jacked
Up on bricks, weeds burst through their rusted out floors,
And brick buildings fenestrated with busted out windows,
once strong practical housing for those “less fortunate”
I cultivate a fondness for demise.
I grow a kinship with discarded things; another era
Eased into obsolescence by sheer neglect.
To ourselves alone both had the place
and we dropped to our knees face to face
so close our breath mingled
our nerves and skin tingled
no credit card would fit through the space
her eyes wide in anticipation
her chest heaved with such expectation
a look pleading, needy
my face just plain greedy
hand thrust down with no hesitation
layers torn off I fell back and stared
for this I had been quite unprepared
with reckless abandon
she just left my hand on
as the moment passed by that we shared
oh so gently her weight did she shift
leaning backwards to let my hand lift
as I fizzed from the thrill
of the new hammer drill
she bought me Christmas day as a gift.
November 5th, 2015
After a long day of work, Mrs. Whisker
Heaved a sigh, and perched on her comfy chair,
Held Earl Grey in one hand, book on other
An heirloom tea-pot right beside her.
After a long day of work, Mrs. Whisker,
Flowers on the vase, delightful they are!
The antique clock sweetly chimes the hour..
The standing lamp lights brightly for her.
After a long day of work, Mrs. Whisker,
Shiny yellow curtains she did admire!
Dreams of a future when she would retire,
Rest beside window, enjoy for ever!
After a long day of work, Mrs. Whisker,
Lovely books would be fun to share!
What a heavenly bliss that would be!
When she will invite all her friends to tea!
Her favourite picture, she loves so dear,
A painting on wall - tranquil nature!
Moment to cherish, moment to treasure,
After a long day of work, Mrs. Whisker!
Picture 1
Could all this talk
of a simulation matrix be real?
I'm pretty sure I saw myself
coming out of a dreamscape,
munching on an egg sandwich
I put together back in 82
when climbing a medium sized mountain
that looked like many others.
I'm almost sure I heard myself
echoing in your chest
as you heaved yourself
our of a mini-cooper
back in the day before you went keto.
The surgeon who took out my cancer
later died mumbling my name.
I'm nothing like my wife though,
not a bit like most folks,
however being my own kind of freak
makes me easier to be picked out,
more easily spotted in a crowd
wearing the same face
and baggy pants.
I am going to sea in a blueberry boat
That danced in the wind by the lee she did float
With vanilla sails and strawberry jib to bend her
Her chocolate chine hull held true on this double-ender
From starboard to port in a raspberry ocean
Her freeboard it romped up and down with commotion
The peppermint tiller was sticky to hold
My gimbals in irons I chose to be bold!
For spring tides it heeled her from stem to stern
While her yaw rode frosted waves of pineapple churns
She heaved and bellowed singing "Alive-Alive-O!"
As her rudder was a fishtail from a mermaid below
Over and under the jawbreaker swells
Listing like an upside-down candy apple she fell
To the bonbon trough she stumbled and waned
She crashed like a sugared angel melting in the rain
But I was the captain with orders to spew
I cried of marshmallows and graham crackers too
I could not give up and bend like a mushy banana
My heart was determined to sail the 'Susquahanna'
Alas she sunk to the deep down under
My pocket was her aftermath of all left asunder
While I swallowed candy with joyful jiggles
She melted away between nibbles and giggles!
September 13, 2019
Welcome to my Random World
Sponsored by Nina Parmenter
With his arm held closely by his side,
President Putin took a ride,
On his steed, so big and strong
Who thought this man could do no wrong,
It is regrettable to say
Only a horse could feel this way.
Putin is a manipulator,
A narcissist and a dictator.
Putin was on the run
Being President was no longer fun.
On a golf course far away,
Where Donal Trump and cronies play,
Mr Trump thought he played golf the best
But was never put to the test,
Because the Don was drunk with Power
All his fickle friends would cower,
They all bowed down to him
This situation proved to be grim,
He and golfers all gossip a lot,
About private matters that they should not.
Wouldn't it be fun,
Some peace at last for everyone,
If Trump was playing on the course,
And Putin passed by on his horse
Shouting out to his buddy,
Donnie, come away with me.
As things for Trump were getting hot,
And some thought he had lost the plot
It looked like a good idea
For Trump to run away from here.
So without further ado,
No goodbye or toodle-oo
Putin, with an almighty tug
Heaved Trump the big fat lug
On to his faithful horse
And without a whiff of remorse
The two rode away
And have never been seen since that glorious day!
There once was a man from Duluth
whose habit was spinning the truth.
He had told the same tale
(every day without fail;
'twas getting quite long in the tooth).
He sat down to drink in a booth
then ordered a double vermouth.
He said a tornado
shaped like a potato
had taken his poor wife named, Ruth!
The men in the bar yelled, “Forsooth!”
But one woman thought it was truth
(the gal was a newbie
who'd just smoked a doobie)
and sent more vermouth to the booth.
“The first time I ever saw Ruth,”
he said, toasting her with vermouth,
(Though usually crisp
when he drank he'd a lisp),
“wath back in my youth in Duluth.
“She'd one perpendicular tooth.
When she withled came her pet gooth.
It wath love at firth thight
and we wedded that night
with her gooth on top of a mooth!”
“We honeymooned outthide Duluth
in a cabooth, just me and Ruth.”
He then heaved a big sigh
(he was getting quite high)
“And of courthe the mooth and her gooth.”
He took a big swig of vermouth
and said that they never found Ruth.
“Just an arm at the mall
and her foot on a wall,
pluth one thingle tooth in Duluth.”
He wept as he pined for his youth,
so the gal ordered up more vermouth.
Then the telephone rang
and the bartender sang,
“It's Ruth, your ex-wife in Duluth.
It's I telling you the sad truth
about her and 'who goothed the mooth'!
Now she wants a good check
that won't bounce, you old wreck,
like the last at Bank of Duluth!”
The new gal cried, “Cad, You're uncouth!
You gave your eyetooth it was truth
of poor Ruth and her gooth,
the cabooth and the mooth
in Duluth, and all for vermouth!”
The man said, “The truth in Duluth
and why I keep hitting the juithe
ith that Ruth and the mooth,
the cabooth and her gooth
were a nooth I had to cut looth!”
The new gal cried, “There weren't no gooth,
nor mooth or cabooth in Duluth!
There was just poor old Ruth
and some nooth that was looth,
plus a drunk who soaked up the juithe!”
The man from Duluth knew the truth,
“Thereth no more vermouth. Whath the uthe?”
So he crept out the back,
but the rest knew the tack:
he'd be back next day for vermouth!
An old preacher named Ned
Got it into his head
To make a musical pilgrimage
Before he was dead.
He claimed divine inspiration
To form a band and tour the nation,
And by so doing treat its ills,
Not with welfare checks and pills,
But with arpeggios and trills.
He'd spread the gospel word through music
And lead the land back to salvation.
He first made a violin
And strung it with hairs from his very own chin.
Then next came a saxophone
That he whittled right out of a billy goat's bone.
He fashioned a tambourine
From an old piece of cowhide and dyed it bright green.
Then from a small turtle shell,
He managed to carve a mouth organ, as well.
And last came an accordion
From a corset, two clothespins, and a large rubber band.
What, again, was the plan
For Brother Ned's one-man band?
He would spread the Word through music
All over the land.
His wife helped him to pack
All his stuff on his back;
A quick peck on the cheek,
He'll send a check once a week.
Then he left his abode
With his instrument load
And took his unusual act on the road.
As she waved him good-bye,
His wife heaved a huge sigh
And dabbed at the tears
That welled up in her eyes.
"Poor old fool with his boast,
He's tone-deaf as a post.
But he's set in his ways,
So I'll give it three days,
Or if someone don't hang him,
Or shoot him,
Then maybe a week and a half,
At the most."
Dunderheads were led into thunder domes. Cats were heaved, therefore rats increased, in incense-sweetened sanctuaries.
Love comes limp.
With our clap-stomp frolic, we shall cure alcoholics, then boost the sensations with wine.
For the next six days, libations appraised at the ABC suit me just fine.
Doubt is a virtue. Shaytan never hurts you. He gives what our tongues cry for. Politely I pass on the communion glass. I was drunk when I came through the door.
I said it before.
He don't look much like me, so he ain't my god's son, yet still, to his feet I run. Though it's mineral rain, that cleans my bloodstains, and my crops are still fed by the sun.
Pardon the pun.
When I point out the finite power of the painting before the pews, I'm treated as someone crass, as you wink at another man's wife in the church, 'cause last night, she done gave you some