Long Iii Poems
Long Iii Poems. Below are the most popular long Iii by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Iii poems by poem length and keyword.
My darling! Tasting every piece of you when recorded
compresses the entire capacity of space.
Coming so close to keep our hearts taped
makes me share favour’s throne in its own empire.
I sing your praises and disturb nature’s peace
b’cos of the fantastic sweetness of your dot existing in a pair.
Its not just a sensual anatomy on the front side of your skin
but gentle, explicit and highly rated by the consciousness of men,
planted like a leafless stalk in the midst of well rounded carved humus
seldom growing to a shrub when injected with erotic transmitters.
Your vertical lips may possess the control buttons
to my accessory limb when they begin the episodes of your longing
but they will have to pass through the toll gates of these paired dots
so tender and exciting but neurotic and psychotic to men.
Whenever they stand out to appreciate the sun,
natural laws demand, I stretch forth my hands in full acknowledgment
of their awesome beauty and willingness to my trademark adventures.
3.
Wrapped close, in implacable, bitter embrace,
The winter grips the land and holds it immobile,
A cat upon its mouse.
Stripped bare, glazed with stony ice
Ashudder beneath a slatecloud sky
That drops its snow in a hush of crowding dimness,
A white leaden mantle
Lain over empty fields, piling 'round trunks of skeletal trees
Standing soberly, waving bony branches in the frozen air
The twilight days light a world now comatose,
Drawn in against the cold and huddled like
Some invalid giant shorn of all his strength,
Lying stretched half slain across the firmament
Gazing into nothing with distant blank stare
As scattered carrion birds wheel against a wan canvas,
Waiting.
Those two in their little house circle 'round as well,
Moving without purpose through the events of their lives
As the cold outside seeps into the rooms
Invading their thoughts
Making them tremble
Shaken in the blindness of their desperation,
Though the fire blazes orange-warm in the hearth,
Defending this inside space from the day's deep gloom,
Autumnal sorrows have collected in the silence,
Worn their hearts weary with cares;
Thus the spirit's wounds have festered and widened,
Filling with the poison of despair.
Soft sparks the glow the fire makes in his tired eyes,
Reflecting wild fears that her love is lost;
They dance in his mind, stabbing with a pain
That knows no cure.
Long the time he just looks at her,
This life that chose to be with him always,
He sees that
Whatever
The hurt that came between,
He cannot bear she leave him
Condemned to go on without her,
Alone.
Her thoughts for him are much the same,
Though she says it not.
Yet when at last he reaches out across the table
To take her hand in his,
She looks up, and for one long moment
They two become the lone human pair
In all of space and time,
In one another's moist crystalline gaze
They read a deep sweet tale
In a language without words.
Something melts,
And something breaks
In that moment when she gently folds
Her delicate fingers over his,
Looking down again with a schoolgirl smile
Spreading irresistible over her face.
Outside, in the blackness of the star-shot night,
Ice cracks;
Waters run clear beneath the snow.
She packed my bags last night pre-ride
Zero hour one thirty p.m.
And I'm gonna be gone
with the wind by then
I miss the outside so much
I miss my life
It's lonely in hospital
On such a timeless stay in
And I think it's gonna
be a long long time
Since my wheels roll these streets
Till the wheels down brings up to find
I'm not the man that you think I am at home
Oh no no no I'm wheelchair man
Wheelchair man burning up my fuse
I'm here alone
A minority complex
Ain't the kind of phase
to raise your kids
When depression sets in
I can be cold as hell
There mom was there to raise them
I never did
In all my silence
They'll never understand
It's just my shift four days a week
Wheelchair man, wheelchair man
Till the wheels down brings up to find
I'm not the man that you think I am at home
Oh no no no I'm a wheelchair man
Wheelchair man burning up my fuse
I'm here alone
And I think it's gonna
Be a long long time
Heavily broken bits strewn across the memories,
but tiny shards of life, shattered fragments,
arranged so carefully deep in her beleaguered mind.
Where once stood two reflections
staring from the maquillage stained glass
now dances one illuminate soul.
Allowing the fading music to fill her,
as notes float gently from absent lips
that once shown so bright
in the alluring appeal of geranium glow
from the mirror they so loved,
filling her with deep despair
and leaving her speechless.
Through winds of tempest their fate was blown,
a whirlwind of life and emotion.
Each the same but so very different
longing for that lasting connection
that they couldn't see was there all along,
feeling imprisoned in this lonely space,
where within this darkness you ruin me.
Whether here or in another life,
even though we may be worlds apart;
yet I know, I will again bathe in your raucous Kookaburra laughter
and the warmth of the sun in your bright smile,
as we harmonize to the sweet sound of the Willy Wagtales
like we did, as they sang out side of our childhood window.
Oh whistling trees please set me free,
please let me out of this loneliness.
Take me back to the less complicated time
when we played and day dreamed of our ultimate release
into the freedom of our grown up place.
Little did we understand that fame was just another cage.
I wonder if you stand before your mirror
and see me staring back at you.
Do you wonder where I am, who I'm with on rainy days
when the air seems cold and life seems distant.
If so, then see me smile through this glass,
and know, we will be together again, because I can't stay away from you.
It will always be you and me ...forever.
08/17/2019
But like all memory, it fades as new ones are born
The memories rise to the surface and sink to the depth of obscurity
I remember all his nights of stories and that
Orange little spark weaving tapestries of memory
Deep into the night dispersing the wrath of summer storms
into gentle rains
Passing the time in the deep afternoon stretching on to midnight after dinner n nothing on the tube
I see my father with trails of light around his face
from another time another a place
a different space
a world away
As that amber flares with each deep drag
on a simple cigarette blazing into the night,
relaxing in the moments
between storms of my history
and his memories
Watching the lighting play far out to sea
I watch stories woven as tapestries of light
about a time in his history
a place forever
in my memory
...With that he kicked his horse in the flanks
and charged towards Thompson and the men,
not expecting it, two of them went down
before they realized he was no longer Friend.
Now it was just Thompson and Stomping Bird
who returned fire as he charged their way.
He felt two bullets hit, but he did not fall,
he bulled his tired horse into the fray!
Stomping Bird appeared suddenly in front of him,
anders fired at him without respite,
their horses collided and he was thrown clear,
then landed hard upon his right side.
Bleeding from wounds, his ribs broken,
he turned over and saw Black Thompson
seated on his horse, wounded in one arm,
but in the other held his Smith & Wesson.
“Damn fool I was to ever trust a mad man,”
the thug snarled as he gazed on down.
“You shoot up my men, and for that act
I’m leaving your body to rot on this ground!”
Anders just smiled at his former partner,
said,”Go ahead and use that big gun.
Better I die the man I once was,
then live as the monster I’ve become.”
Thompson took aim, Anders jolted his wrist,
sliding out a two-barrel Derringer,
gunshots rang out across the prairie,
an echoing report of their fire.
Thompson slumped low, pitched off his mount,
two slugs gone straight through his head,
Anders struggled hard to catch his breath,
his chest home to a new piece of lead.
His vision was fading, but he swore he saw,
standing a short way away in the grass,
his dear sweet Rosa, smiling so gently...
he could feel the pain started to pass.
He closed his eyes, felt her gentle touch,
and felt no fear that moment because
for all of his sins he’d meet his maker
having died as the man he once was.
Minnis Downhome Pharmacy has reopened its doors.
They're not afraid because of the tragedy that happened before.
When those four innocent people were shot, it was a damn shame.
I'm glad they've reopened but without Stephen as the pharmacist, it won't be the same.
Stephen's widow has reopened the pharmacy to continue her husband's dream and I don't blame her.
The deranged maniac who shot Stephen and the others will most likely get the gas chamber.
Minnis charged my mom less than forty dollars for her Risperdal.
Walgreens asked four hundred for the same medicine and Mom was appalled.
Minnis cares more about people than profit, that's why some of their meds are cheaper.
People are getting their meds there again because that pharmacy is a keeper.
(Dedicated to Stephen Lovell, Richard Sommerville, Alexia Wilson and Janet Clift who were shot on May 23, 2013.)
III.
Scott bought the farm and some dairy cows,
and set about building himself up.
He soon made a name for quality milk,
local wholesalers could not get enough!
One summer day he took to the plow,
preparing and old field to grow hay.
The plow hit something, twisting it hard,
just badly enough to ruin his day.
He grumbled loud, went back to look,
and saw there, to his great surprise,
a hole in the ground, empty and long.
A new cavern there before his eyes!
Now caves were quite common where he lived,
several were open to tourists for show.
The thought of building up just such a place
made the dollar signs in his head grow.
The next day he returned with lanterns and lines,
carefully descending into the dim.
When he touched bottom and lighted it up,
what he saw laying close by shocked him.
Two skeletons lay just five feet away,
it was a miracle he hadn’t crushed one.
Both looked human and one of the dead
lay with the moldering remains of a gun.
The other was huge, at least eight feet,
and the bones too thick, impossibly large.
The skull was giant, the teeth oversized,
Scott found the sight of it quite bizarre.
In the middle of the great ribs did lay
two balls, the kind from old muskets.
And near the spine was the rusty head
of an aged and battered hatchet.
Turning to the other, Scott Bairns saw
they were the bones of a normal man.
The ribs were broken, every one,
so were both of the man’s hands.
And on the stock of the old gun,
Scott found an old, tin name plate.
He bent down low to read it clearly,
‘Amos Bairns’ in the metal was scraped!
Scott flinched back, remembering tales
told in childhood long, long ago,
Campfire stories of bigfoots run wild,
to his mind they all started to flow.
And now when he stared at either of them,
both the large and the small skeletons,
he realized the truth behind all the myths,
he was staring down onto his kin!
Scott hurried out, and filled in the hole,
then gave the field over to brambles and berries.
He never plowed there, or spoke of it at all,
for some truths are better left buried...
...He gave a curt nod, then with his partner,
got in his car and drove out of there,
Owen sighed, then nearly leapt from his skin,
seeing Laura standing on her front stairs.
She wore just a housecoat and a soft smile,
and looked at him with eyes he’d never seen,
she said,”I can’t say that I expected that,
not from you, and not for little old me.
“I think that you could use your own break,
after all the brave things that you said,
go in and lie down, I’ll be there shortly,
I believe you know the way to the bed?
He found himself frozen, taking it in,
what she meant, the sweet look on her face,
then Laura said,”Maybe brunch tomorrow?
I want to show you this fabulous place...”
Owen never worried about the rumors again,
they didn’t matter much after that night,
what had been dumb lust became something more
when he laid down with his future wife…
I remember nights on the south side porch
After a full dinner & nothing on TV
We gather to sit talk and listen to cicadas cry
High
Into the spring night
Or deep into the fall gloom
Or even long into the summers eve
We watch lightning playing across a dark sky
Anticipating the wrath of summer storms
Or fall rains, spring showers
I’ve remember my father weaving
Tales of another time
Another place stringing memories
Into entertaining far away worlds
He would strike a match
A light will flare and highlight
His deep creviced face
I would watch enchanted as the amber
Light of his cigarette tip trace lines in the night
Weaving tapestries of other times
Seasons long gone in memory
Orange the color of his history
The pumpkin light dance deep into the night
As he wove stories of another past
memories of his childhood
With each deep inhalation of breath
A Spark would flare an outline of his heavy creased
& well warn face
Sparks would twinkle in highlights of
deep aged UMBER eyes
Like reflections form long ago summer suns
Or deep harvest fall moons