Long Hunched Poems
Long Hunched Poems. Below are the most popular long Hunched by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hunched poems by poem length and keyword.
Riddled face, weary under clouds quite late,
night of hope screeches of decent meal to eat.
A boy cups his hands again, a hunched fate
plucking tin can on lanes primed for the elite.
Cold the body wrapped like soiled paper bag
approaching cars and men with dollar points,
and bypassed like a nameless stamp, a rag
while he coughs for some gentle plea: coins, coins.
Then, the waif rushed to me near the helm
claiming a folder got pinned on my backseat door,
with pure kindness in his eyes; I felt ashamed
casting doubt on his intent, my breath appalled.
“Thank you”, let’s talk a while was my invite
as we dined, the stench of poverty I dismissed.
Gazing at a warm face that spoke of grim plight,
he longed of math and arts , important on his list.
This boy, stirring me back to values of kindness,
received a free education in lower grade school.
The folder he saw, a prize I won as bonus
reclaimed my sense of charity, my inner jewel.
Thank You Contest: Patricia Ellis
The thing about killing Angels
you have to remember is always go for the kill shot
Most of them can easily take a grenade to the face
Those arch ones usually stay put and watch
Basically on tap with God
Seldomly they will make an appearance
Demons are tricky
Disguise themself basically animal vegetable mineral
One time my electric razor tried to bite a clump from my cheek, huh still makes me smile
He turned towards the boy
His crumple of a face
grimacing
The book boy learn it well
He turned hunched over
Bent and snatched the head from
the prone child at his feet
The sack boy open it
Without the head
We won’t be fed….
The boy pulling a single golden strand from his pocket
the strand warping reality around it
air forming the sack
Please
Just once
Not a three point shot…
Another 3 seconds he chide only infinity to go
At this rate we will be working long after the end
Black blood flows through my veins
An artist is painting away at my fate, with crimson delight
Attacked from within, eating away the essence
Of someone I once was, eons ago
My veins crawling with demons
Devouring flesh, bone and soul
I suffer in the heat of my confines
There is no escape from the monsters within
I sweat out this foul and evil devil
In tears, I know I infect the surroundings
Run, run and hide
I yell to you
I have no hunched back
No warning bells to ring
Ebola would be the sweet syrup of pain
Compared to my offerings
A withering flower, cowers at my passing
Soon
To sing upon my grave
You are getting on, old fruit
Too obese to wear your new suit
Your face resembles a wrinkled prune
Old age is showing on you too soon,
What has happened to your lustrous hair
Your scalp is shiny and noticeably bare
Your jowls are hanging lower than your chin
My word, I cannot believe what a state you're in
Shoulders that were broad and strong
They are now all hunched and look all wrong.
Your knees are knobbly and a little bent,
The left leg forgot where the right one went.
I can not understand you when you talk,
Your brain, not your legs, has gone for a walk
Your eyes look blank, staring into space
You have lost touch with the human race.
We lost touch over the years,
After sharing much laughter and some tears
I have just seen you interviewed on TV
Old fruit, it was a shock to me,
To see you sitting in a chair,
With all the hoi polloi and fanfare there
Smiling happily from ear to ear
Holding up a glass of cheer
With the TV presenters and your guests
Wishing you the very best
And the audience stood up to say
Many happy returns of your 110th BIRTHDAY!
“This circus is falling…”
It’s circa 1997; I’m in Charlotte, NC
It’s a 13-week consulting gig, my longest ever
I come home every few weeks
Long days at the customer site
A hostile environment;
they don’t really want us there
A server vendor is trying to make inroads at a bank
I’m there working for the vendor
After a long day, a swing by Harris Teeter:
pre-packaged dinner and beer
“The big top is crumbling down”
And so is my life
Evenings are spent
hunched over a laptop
in a dark 1 bedroom efficiency
Programming late into the night
Until the eyes are too tired
And the beer has run out
Music is a constant companion,
most of it, soulful, sorrowful, some upbeat.
Counting Crows, Matchbox 20, Sting
“These train conversations”
Are truly passing me by
No coworkers here.
No family here
No interactions with anyone outside of work
Just a call home early enough in the evening
that the words aren’t slurring too badly yet
“And I don’t have nothing to say”
Just ache
I want to be home
I miss my wife
I miss my kids
I miss my dog
“You get what you pay for”
They are paying me well
I’m getting all the overtime I want.
I am piling away the money for a nice trip to St. Thomas
For all of us
When I get home
And I don’t care; I just want out
“But I just had no intention of living this way”
Warp forward to today
Life could not be any more different
Life is wonderful, life is good
I have purpose
I have meaning
I have family
I have love
I know and am known by God
I’m working out in the barn
I’ve hooked up the old stereo
I see the “August and Everything After” CD and I fire it up
I set it on “Raining in Baltimore”
“I need a phone call, I need a plane ride
I need a sunburn, I need a raincoat”
And for a brief flash,
I am back at that dinette table
Alone, in the dark
And terribly lonely
When it is uplifting, music causes our spirits to soar
But it can put you right back
in a particular place
In a particular time
And that’s not always a good thing
“But what would you change if you could?”
Uh, August and Everything After…
click.
————
Quotes are from “Raining in Baltimore” off the
“August and Everything After” album by Counting Crows
A storm is brewing...
If you listen closely
Hold your breath
Close your eyes
Cock your head
And…really listen,
You’ll hear it –
You’ll hear
the deafening sound of silence!
There’s a reign of hush
all over the landscape
engulfed in deep shadows,
And your heart starts pounding
You get a feeling of foreboding,
There is no wind
No rustling of the leaves,
You look up
The sky hanging heavy and laden,
Thick rolling clouds
gray and pregnant with moisture
Bursting at the seams—
There’s this state of brooding disquietude.
Then you hear a slight rustle,
Suddenly you look up in time
to see a leaf quiver,
But again, a breath-taking silence…
And then, in the gathering gloom,
A blinding lightning,
Like someone just flashed
a giant camera in your face!
For a split second you see
all the trees standing dark
and hunched over like chained slaves,
Standing in a row
tired, beat and hopeless
of what’s to come next.
The earth beneath your feet
tremble under an ear-splitting,
earth-shattering clap of thunder
rumbling like a distant cannon fire.
And then like a thousand Niagaras
The rain starts bearing down
with jihadi fervor
water-logging the earth,
Like the heavens bursting into tears,
Like the ocean caught up in a spasm;
Then you understand, you feel,
In every pore of your skin,
The awesome fury of Nature.
~03/25/16
~A Storm is Brewing contest by Kelly Deschler
How do we go back through Time, Space, Matter and Reasoning to the Origin of
Origin and commune with the Original Originator?
Is it through our death?
Is it through re-birth?
Is it through the Earth?
Or is it when we berth?
As we drift in-to a quiescent dock
Bourne by waves of Mercury, we rock
Silent and peaceful... no sound... no talk...
Perhaps, this time at the dock
We may find a bit of luck
At communing on the floor
With the Original Originator
How do we go back through Reasoning, Space, Matter and Time to the Origin of
Origin and commune with the Original Originator?
Is it through the Sun?
Is it when we mourn?
Is it when its dawn?
Or at the peak of form?
As we flex muscles of wood
All sinewy, all musculi, all crude
Hunched like Mr Olympia’s brood
Perhaps this time at the Water
We will commune with Awe, with Laughter
As we (hopefully) end at the door
Tha’ll be opened by the Original Originator
How do we go back through Matter, Reasoning, Space and Time to the Origin of
Origin and commune with the Original Originator?
Perhaps, this question I think can be answered on through infinity ad infinitum.....
Form:
When I imagined what it would
be like to be a writer,
I saw myself hunched over a
typewriter with bourbon on the
rocks sweating a ring onto my desk.
I could smell the ink on my fingers
and feel the burn of alcohol in my gut
and hear the keys clapping, a standing ovation
for the poor sad boy who wrote wings onto
his back and flew away from the red mud county.
But it's quiet here.
I sit alone at my desk and I reach into my guts
and I grab fistfuls of blood and viscera
and the keys don't move
I choke up the rage my father left in me
and the keys don't move
I cut out the fear my mother so lovingly placed
and the keys don't move
I drag out every black eye, bloody nose, and split lip I ever earned, every fight I lost, every single argument I had, every sunset I was a brother beneath, every truck cab I ever fell in love in and
THE KEYS DO NOT MOVE
Every sin laid upon me, left its stone.
Each dream denied, buried deep, is a stone.
Unkept promises haunt, their weight cold stones.
I walk, hunched by forgotten oaths, their stones.
Suffered wounds unseen, each bruise casts a stone.
Given pain returned sharper, molds its stone.
The choirs refused my ears each hymn, a stone.
Heaven closed; its silence bequeaths me stones.
Mud clings to my steps, the ground spawns stones.
The self is prison, walled in jagged stones.
Under skies, burdened breath, life begged for stones.
I build ruin. To endure is to move these stones.
We lived in a crooked house.
Built on a muddy mound of hope with the corpse of yesterday half buried beneath
Sad eyes and smiley faces. A gilded countenance to pair the four walled fiction – Painted thin; only just enough to cover our cracks.
Widening like morning eyes; a mirrored reflection.
Dancing in a zigzag to the tune of the tremors. An ugly soundtrack coaxing ugly art.
Those damp walls. The cracks swallowing torrents from eyes in the sky
Wide eyed boys watching sliding droplets crashing into droplets. Swallowed like pride.
Doors jammed in water seeped jambes. Knotted and gnarled. A need for a greave
Trees weeping at what they witness from the outside looking in. Shedding leaves for tears.
Oft trampled floor boards creaking and crying in solidarity with those that walk its back
Whisper and scurry light-footed like mice in a hurry so easily scared by the wall breaching wind
Trying hard not to wake the monster sleeping downstairs - Breath held like tongues, voices low
Like the swing in the garden tied to the tired branch of the hunched tree. Seat sunk in mud. Ashamed.
A tip toe down the slippery stairs; in fear of drowning in the basement swimming pool. A watery hell
Festering in the bowels of this building ever since the burgeoning moat breached the ramparts of this faux castle.
Lopsided family photo frames hanging by a thread. Nailed to crumbling walls. A slipping semblance of home.
The rising cigarette smoke staining the walls like those words from the same pursed lips from the mind so hard to rid
A cloudy plume with no silver lining; an excuse for eyes to water; blurring those family portraits.
That poisoned smog escaping through the chimney. Blown out over spluttering trees aghast at what this house concealed.
The wind once blew from the west. The house had many faces then but when the east wind struck its walls, the face it pulled it stuck. Doubled over, bent and crooked.
The trees perished like dreams and time brought change
But this crooked house remained the same.