Long Heavy handed Poems
Long Heavy handed Poems. Below are the most popular long Heavy handed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heavy handed poems by poem length and keyword.
I Cannot Weight To Hmm...
Be Pressed By A Dumbbell
Two fifteen pound
steely danse sing
wrought iron dumbbells
ill-tempered, impatiently,
and intensely a weight
their turn to hmm... press me,
and forthwith dense trait
heavy handed prestidigitation
to yours truly, this primate
currently attempting
to craft sad excuse
for a poem, sans far fetched
notion, aye trite re: late
engendering, foisting, and goading
bizarre lifelike qualities
to inanimate solid helpmate
to build (and/or oven
just tone) muscles bitterly, painfully,
resignedly wince, where washboard
abdomen long a goner
impossible to recoup,
whar hide didst narrate
ting hours sculpting great
former Adonis build
on these, now nada so lovely
bones, and experience
spiritual strife to oscillate,
perhaps witness sing
angst to esse skill late
heady feeling healthy vim within
myself, how just
with verily at least dedicate
half hour exercise can be great
for body, mind, and
soul triage, otherwise...
basic gravitational laws
of physics gladly
hand me unwanted fate,
how gradually physique
will eventually demonstrate
flabby, droopy, and
unwanted addy post tissue create
ting another reason to berate,
castigate, emasculate, where
self repudiation will germinate
(albeit, thence in extremis), yours truly
doth relinquish fitness regime
resulting sparking, and taste
testing casus belli dictate
tête-à-tête, viz hasty
unconditional surrender to
a void mortal kombat,
which latter, would exterminate,
the forces of yin and yang,
re: lee (I rub hurts) loch cur,
thence finding me fraught,
(yule hiss see - uselessly)
grant ting soul
option to disintegrate,
in the event emotional civil war,
rents asunder every fiber
of mine being, which
wrath wracked wraith self destruction
twill woefully satiate.
A thought bubble arose, from an unslept head.
“I'll give you a single white rose, I’ve grown.”
It sounded sweet, simple, and wonderfully romantic—
Before I proposed the notion, to my rubble-despoiled garden.
Thus began my toil and trouble, kerfuffle and struggle.
I pulled out weeds, dug through mud, mulch, muck and mysteries.
The wheelbarrow wobbled; wandered off with the watering can.
Even the worms wiggled worried, wrinkled looks about my methods.
In the hole, I planted a single white-budded rose, bare-rooted.
I covered it with soil, sweetly sour with well-rotted cow manure.
The rose grew despite my heavy-handed, brown-thumb pokes and prods.
White buds burst, then browned off, blighted around their rims.
Tiny thrips and aphids threw tantrum bombs inside petal towers.
I peered, puffed, and huffed, and quite frankly— panicked!
Perfection proved particularly picky, for a plain white rose.
At last, one lovely morn, a lovely white rose, arose to greet me.
Among the blighted, shriveled blooms, it beamed like moonlight.
I clipped it carefully, cradling its cool, cream precious bloom.
Surely, such devotion, deserved delighted, dazzling applause!
I presented it proudly, practicing my grandest ever garden bow.
“To give to thee, this single white rose I’ve grown.”
She smiled softly, accepting my precious treasure trove rose.
Then she paused, as though, searching for, still kinder words.
“What a lovely thought,” she said, looking blissful at me.
“Sorry, but I really wanted a bunch of red ones instead!”
Behind us, the white rose quivered, quaked and chuckled!
As my thought bubble burst above the compost. - Pop! Bang! Purr!.
What is clear (riot)
I saw the working-class riot on TV
it was there when workers attacked the police
who are working class themselves, or was
angrily demonstrated against the influx of Moslems
changing the streets and of their culture
fanatic Islamists
performing street prayers to stop traffic
I have read that jobs for offer lately have gone
to incomers who work for less and that
is a recipe for disaster
the sitting government, which is called the Labor party
didn't try to calm the situation but brought in
heavy-handed sentences to the offender of
the public order stiff sentences, which indicate
that democracy, always a precarious child
the first to suffer.
The press, whether radio, papers was firmly
on the side of the middle class whose life was
not interrupted, their jobs were secure for now,
why show solidarity, that manager with fancy
job title who don't know if they are gay or not
and
respect women so much they will not them
in case of a backlash, she could complain the day
For now, they are secure, but with AI on the marsh
their precious little titles redundant, what will
will come next?
The only remedy I can suggest is that we pay our
workers, yet demand skill, rely less on technical
solution and understand if we replace humanity
we eradicate ourselves
He’s a broken leg performer with a crooked second act.
Went from Brooklyn to Las Vegas with his sarcasm intact.
Does a Smith and Wesson stand-up, voice as sweet as antifreeze.
Tells you how he lost his cherry to some hooker overseas.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
He’s as salty as a used spittoon.
MCs the neon circus
Where he shines just like a plumber’s moon.
Doesn’t pander to his critics. Slanders movie stars for laughs
Wielding heavy-handed put-downs like the jawbone of an ass.
Always orders top shelf vintage; likes his girlfriends under-age.
He’s the truth behind those rumors they found bloodstains on the stage.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
Claims a hammer as his only tool.
A shylock rooked his agent,
Left him face down in the swimming pool.
He’s a smoke and mirrors pundit; all his opinions are strong.
Pegs some yokel as a sucker and he slams him all night long.
Bet the house at Caesar’s Palace; he was shaken, never stirred.
God, I hope that pregnant widow didn’t take him at his word.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
He’s as wholesome as a canker sore.
Don’t ever lend him money.
He’ll just blow it at the liquor store.
He’s a poster child for rehab at the bottom of a slump.
Tried to come back with a wisecrack when Aunt Sophie found a lump.
He insinuates his poison to the marrow of the bone.
He’ll be praying for an encore on the night he dies alone.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
He’s as funny as a dry monsoon.
He isn’t Mr. Starbuck.
He’s just a prick with a sharp harpoon.
Did ya hear the one about those crazy corporate chemists?
They’ve crossed the ebola virus with e-coli bacteria.
It’s being marketed in West Africa by Monsanto as Ebo Cola!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To a dog, an empty hand's cause
even a well-intentioned one
flinches an involuntary jaw..
your neighbor's just the same.
Have you grown leery the open palm?
wearied away as your brother's keeper.
Not responsible to his good name
nor good will as guarded trustee
over your godchildren.
No blame to you, good sir
or madam-
No right or wrong
by royal decree
monastic or fiduciary..
nor heavy handed scepter
to wield
relinquished or relished
as monarchal beneficiary.
Just the same, I
in fealty or name
skeptically question
right from wrong..
guilty as charged
all the day long.
Often what I read and I see,
some people scare me
put in my brother's shoes
I probably would too.
Come join me on my erratic journeys over earth and sea.
I'll take you to nowhere special or, perhaps, a place you want to be.
I'm neither friend nor foe, so you need to know it's not personal at all.
I might appear as a gentle breeze or even a violent squall.
If my presence is not welcome; I do apologize.
Sometimes I get carried away and therein the problem lies.
Heavy-handed or light as air, I touch everything in my path.
At times, I lose my temper and then you feel my wrath.
Depending on my disposition, I've been called by many a name.
I am really just the wind and my nature brings me my fame.
March 24. 2024
Oh ye mighty hurricane, storm, or gale,
I cannot say, that I can e'er endorse
the means by which you make your will prevail,
depending as you do upon your force.
Indeed, you just destroy the young and frail,
as your wild, brutal tempest runs its course.
Young tender saplings grow into strong trees
'neith the sun, swaying in a gentle breeze.
Youth mentor with a message to convey,
do you find that your voice is growing tired?
Your heavy-handed tactics will not sway?
The odd way we human beings are wired,
it's joy to help a child find her own way,
and so, I've rhetorically inquired,
"What's more effective than a harsh command?"
- the gentle guidance of a helping hand.
My typewriter
was not a good typewriter,
its keys were weighty,
you had to use brain muscle to work it,
nobody wanted it.
My son unpacked a home computer.
I stood by and watched
as all the electronics were laid out on the floor
and surgically knitted together.
I knew then
that I would be consistently out of touch,
and possibly would remain
stuck in an obsolete year
trying to catch up
from the rear of the field.
I wrote my first poem
on that clickity-clack manual machine,
then a dozen more,
all of them were heavy handed,
yet that hefty labor
made me think
I was crafting something worthwhile.
Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard,
chained as I was to its subsonic urgings
I could tell
the world was speeding away
faster than I could write.
When my kind of poet dies,
he is immediately ed,
for all his contemporary poems
turn into digital wormholes
that suck him into an unknown grave.
The young look to dead poets for wisdom -
truth is,
that those ham-fisted plodders
have long ago
turned into chunky typewriters
that nobody wants.
Incrementally corporeal essence, here
to fore i.e. figurative spear
tire of mine, doth elicit despair
daily appall, thus I air
part tickle laurel lei objection
able bane, cuz this tear
rubble flabbiness a glare
ring anatomical feature, I swear
shape shifted into a dare
ridge hubble unsightly
bulge ballooning mere
lee (just south of nada so clear
lee belly button), where
former wash board abdomen veer
hilly subsumed by displeasing scare
really hated love handles glare
ring paunches noticeable, especially
when belly bare
adduce sing the culprit bing
one or more daring
pharmacological prescription eliminating
debilitating panic attacks,
albeit re: fashioning
my metabolism, but
necessary medications giving
immeasurable un bull heaving
relief to this generally
skeptical person instilling
joyus rapture, where
psychological state jitterbugging
(a slight bit of hyperbole,
I tango with) kickstarting
long overdue ability
to experience living
shorn of paralyzing anxiety,
yes every now and again
isolated heated flare ups making
stellar appearance, asper
wren literal "NON
FAKE" pennilessness,
and a concomitant stress
inducing circumstance naming
management due to inspect
occupied apartment units
this next oncoming
week (October seventh -
thirteenth) inducing palpitating
heart, irritable bowel syndrome,
and non quitting
excessive (no pun intended -
heavy handed) perspiration,
but generally "speaking" quieting
torturous unbearable
woebegone raging
adrenaline hellishly riotous smiting
my body electric
condemning torturing
poisoning relentlessly (like
stinging scorpions) upending
many prime decades vice wrenching
yoking ambivalence nose zing
worthlessness toward
total mortal kombat!
Snapdragons (edit)
One is a serpent on the wing, the other a butterfly.
Each belongs to species created from
tissue paper, water, and light.
When half-awake I can hear the droning
of their nocturnal flights,
amber engines rattle cut-glass hangers
as they lift off to carpet bomb our dreams.
Some are more wolf than dragon,
they form packs of loup-garou,
and snap at the heavy-handed
and too fleshy fingered florists.
Those not employed in directing
disbelievers toward dragon lore
retire to flower as urban myths,
their chiffon wings and origami faces
masking many a peppery passion.