Long Itched Poems
Long Itched Poems. Below are the most popular long Itched by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Itched poems by poem length and keyword.
His two years old son
Needed treatment for stomach pain
But he had no money
His wife needed to pursue
Her BA course
He couldn't afford to
I can't help he would say
I must be happy with what I have
He would say to himself
Somewhat stoically
But his days were otherwise happy
Ferrying people between
Two metro railway stations
In his motorized auto-rickshaw
The road was straight and bare
Just earn and live from hand to mouth
A youth of twenty with no anxiety
The season changed
One day after dropping the last passenger
His eyes fell on a purse lying in the rear seat
Inside it, he found some cards
A bundle of currency notes
One lakh Indian rupees
That would amount to
Around eight hundred dollars
For the first time
He was on crossroads
The right-hand road he looked at
The right brain itched
Lucrative and lovely
The left-hand one looked logical
Take care it warned
The left brain he scratched
Folds on the forehead
The choice was difficult
Unlike Robert Frost
Perhaps the purse owner
Had withdrawn the money from a bank
To meet some emergency
He rationalized
Rummaging the purse
He got a useful telephone number
He dialed it
Answered a suave voice
The caller narrated how he had got the purse
The responder melted in gratefulness
" I am busy in my office.
My wife will see you in an hour.
Do please visit us one day and have lunch
with us"
Handsome looking
Auto-rickshaw owner smiled
Looked still further handsome
Mrs. Dasgupta arrived at the appointed hour
He returned the purse
A month later she gave him a return gift
It was almost a love at first sight
This time
He was at a really difficult crossroads
September 17, 2019
Crossroads Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
My eyes scan the map of our lives –
lived experiences – etched across my grandma’s face.
And her eyes look right back.
But not the same;
The light that once danced to old jazz tunes,
and bold classic blues, that light that is extinguished by name tags at Christmas
donning the shirts of which she herself bestowed the identity.
‘I am sixteen’ I tell her,
again,
and she nods along, but that light does not quite gleam,
dimmed by the brain that cannot stay clean
and I find myself pointing at faces of which she is the blueprint.
Her fingers follow mine,
shaking,
as she tries to recreate, copy what cannot be faked
and I stifle a sob as I find my head bobs as she asks if I am okay.
Silence strangles my words
the way dementia does hers,
and I want to scratch at the very back of my throat the way she wants to remember the name of her firstborn:
An itch that will not be itched.
Not by her pretences or attempted defences, for she does not
remember
faces or names but her love remains, backed only by the assumption that
she should.
For she does not remember the family secrets that her brain will not
reveal –
not even for the sake of this family appeal.
I knew he would find his way there and back, we had practiced that.
Quarters and pennies, he understood, counted them just as he should.
Confidence prickles could easily be his many dimes and nickels.
Born challenged, adding them was at times grim unless I helped him.
My 22 year-old son had never dared a walk to the shopping square
without me or someone else who cared, also walking there.
True was his need to try and I truly itched for him to succeed.
If something mean happened to him, I would need the bully to bleed.
My son was upbeat, his confidence keen, so I didn't dare intervene.
Praying, I saw him pocket his house key while walking away from me.
I asked God if two, well-tested angels were free to guide his cash spree.
I saw an hour scatter before my son came home all smiles and chatter.
Lifting his arm, he said, ‘Mama, you must see this really cool watch.
I can do it by myself, put it on, take if off, and close the notch -
if I count to five, I stick it in the right hole every time and stuff.”
Thinking him an absolute joy, I asked if his money had been enough.
My son sat, and just like that, gave both his knees a loud slap.
“Two golden ladies, you see, asked if I would let them pay for me.
They hoped to fill a need by doing a kind Christmas deed.
Can you believe that golden ladies would choose to help me?
They smiled and paused to hug me after I said "Merry Christmas",
then thanked them and told them twice how nice their deed was."
These manly hands
have held another
image itched in eternal stone
looked on by an admirer
running through crowds:
feeling so lost and so alone!
Nothing too beautiful lasts quite a while,
it has the fragility of a delicate, perfumed rose
soon to be snatched by a lover of ardent prose...
ready to conquer the wild eyes of sapphire!
Any poet staring at that joyful, serene face
would write amorous verses that'll endure time,
even a painter wouldn't hide such a fine grace:
poetry and paintings carry souls into the sublime!
Nothing too beautiful lasts quite a while,
if beauty is a display of delight to anyone:
we must preserve its image from forgetfulness!
not allowing it to fade away from self-awareness.
I was out walking on a trek
through forested Adirondack hills,
looking for a good place to camp,
to drop my pack and just chill.
It was a weekend excursion,
and I’d already done eight miles,
seeking out the kind of peace
a man only finds in the wild.
Summiting a gentle knoll,
the forest dropped by the wayside,
for a moment I couldn’t register
what lay before my eyes.
There stood a sprawling logging camp,
hewn from rough, fallen trees,
and a beaten path where horses
had trod upon the scene.
I stood there in stunned silence,
how could this all exist?
How could they be profitable,
and in this modern world persist?
Maybe It was a niche thing,
some sort of nostalgic deal,
or a camp of recreationists
who wanted to make it ‘real.’
Just then one of the ‘jacks waved,
and I walked into their camp,
He smiled, saying,”You look like
a right regular deep woods tramp.
“Cookee’s serving up chow soon,
why don’t you come and stay,
we can always find a spare bunk,
you won’t get in the way.”
Now a hot meal in the deep woods
is not something to turn down,
so I went inside and feasted
On beef, beans, and bread brown.
After eating I settled on in
to the spacious, if rank, bunk room.
The men told stories of their times,
of log drives and forest gloom.
Their names were Dutch, Red, Albert,
Guillame, Flash, and Scotty,
They frowned but once, when they said
they sure missed their friend Guy.
We all played cards to pass time,
and a few smoked long pipes,
one by one we all dripped off,
and slept a quiet, peaceful night.
The next morning after flapjacks
I set back upon my path,
and waved to the fellows true
who’d recreated the past.
They were such a friendly lot
that I went back two more times,
a fine summer, I do say so,
but something itched in my mind…
That itch came to the forefront
one chilly, October morn,
I was talking with my good bud,
local historian Nick DeLorn.
Nick had a brace of posters,
pictures of old logging camps.
He was putting them up above
the town museum’s wheel-chair ramp...
CONCLUDES IN PART II
Perfect Attendance Award
Kevin Davis 2025
I was never able to complete an entire school year without a day being ill.
And at the end of each school year an honor was paid to those who endured.
180 days of schoolwork and desk sitting, without one day being under a pill.
An achievement was bestowed, and all my teachers were proud and honored.
My days of absence was because of the common cold, earache and sore throat.
But more than that, days were without schoolwork, sleeping-in and some fun.
Colds were never fun, sore throats or strep were painful and nothing to gloat.
But watching television, whatever and whenever I wanted, could not be undone.
But the honor others had obtained seemed worthy, so one year I ventured to win,
One full school year, each full day in my seat, learning my eighth-grade lessons.
I made the first half without a day ill, playing basketball till the holidays began.
Christmas was joyful and healthy, and New Years joy, my family were blessings.
Back to class on Monday January 3rd, 1966, the Saturday before I woke-up well.
Ready to begin the rest of the year then to high school and many new adventures.
By mid-day I began to feel different, my throat itched, and stomach wouldn’t be still.
By evening my throat was scratchy and my head hurt, what was causing the aches?
My Mom felt my head, and stated, “You have a temperature, it’s to bed for you!”
“But Mom I want to go to back to school.” “Let me take your temperature and see.”
Thermometer in the mouth for several minutes, then out it came and the orders to do,
“Here’s two aspirins, take them now and get to bed you have a fever of over 103.”
Dr. Buckley was called, and my parents took me to his home/office, and he said,
“I need to check, but I think step-throat is the cause.” The fearful otoscope out
The good doctor peered down my throat. “Strep it is young man it’s off to bed”.
First a shot, cough medicine and pills. “No school for you, and no running about”.
And so, my quest for perfect attendance was done, no honor to be had at years end.
By the end of the next week, I was feeling much better, and Dr. Buckley decreed,
“The strep has healed and you can return to school.” he gave Mom a note to send,
So, the school would let me return but no perfect attendance, the rules did not bend.
"Fly"
Enigma
Out of nowhere
his voices arrived
He thought he’d
write a poem
Senryu
get the In to the Outside
Simple magic
3 lines
Mind erect
his smalls itched
freeze
dried
His mind CPTSD
crying lied
Laughing outside
he watched his inside
Hanging unwanted questions
out on the literary clothes line
snapped tight then closed
by all the wooden clothes pegs
crying
no colour in their lines
bingo
POTD delivered
applied
He’s dressed in
Gold Lamé
Sacrificial
bright
But they spit him out
he’s too Blue dyed
Easy
release
he came for a while
he cried
They nodded knowingly
they smiled
He was an Anomaly
Not part of their mouse-clicking pride
They all wanted
a pretty reliable Relatable
just like them
Tie-Dyed
He was an annoying
buzzing fly
Less than equal
they ignored his
Soul
Sigh
He was a treasure box of pearls
spilling before swine
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"Joker"
https://youtu.be/uzWv8m-it3Q
"Vision & Fury", humanising the Villain
https://youtu.be/cKpjCJlZViQ
International Suicide Hotlines:
http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html
Walking along the Tiber's River walls,
one discovers hieroglyphics
depicting images of Romans
engaging in battles; they seem
mythical warriors so appealing.
As legend goes, Romulus
became the first roman king,
he founded Rome once
an insignificant rural village;
in the shortest time,
it grew into a powerful city
that ruled the ancient world
with intimidation and atrocity.
Each hieroglyphic tells
a story of victory,
of defeat, of conquest,
of cruelty and dominion:
hear Julius Caesar
speak against his enemy
in the Roman Forum!
It's such a sorrowful echo of distrust;
hear the shouts of proud citizens
overtaken by anger and disgust...
even louder they would be after
his premeditated assassination!
Every empire old or new
has known its glory in full;
and Rome more than any
empire has excelled them all.
If those hieroglyphics tell
of its greatness and superiority,
they also should expose
the evil minds of some emperors:
like Caligula, Nero and Diocletian
who ruled with a steady iron hand.
Constantine's conversion
to Christianity brought harmony,
the inhumane slaughtering
of innocent Christians was halted.
Would this empire have survived
without its legions of mighty stronghold?
Hieroglyphics itched in triumphal arches,
temples and monuments attest:
that the rise to power takes
an ingenuity which begins
with a strategic concept.
Today a world government
is in its raw state, other
hieroglyphics will be carved,
and along with holograms,
one sees images beyond
imagination and belief.
Will humans leave
a testament of their
existence with
a science so brief?
Strolling down the streets of ancient Pompei,
I discovered the tomb of a freed noble man;
unearthed from the volcanic black ashes,
now it blooms surrounded by fragrant lilies
as it appeared in its imperial, glorious days!
Looking closer, I noticed tools itched
on its sides, the trade of a freeman
once enslaved by his wealthy master,
and to prove that he was also of a noble
spirit, he wanted to be remembered
for his achievements and his intellect!
Not all Romans were cruel as History attests,
but had a good heart helping the lower class;
had the Emperor made aware of such generosity,
they would have been killed or thrown to the beasts!
Our greedy society is similar, workers being underpaid;
its an invisible slavery and yet it gives us shivers
for their unhuman condition and horrible abuse:
Rome's mentality of slavery survives to our day!
The proud sons of immigrants will arise to avenge
their fathers rage, they will sit with the prominent ones
sharing the same ideals and status that honor freedom!
Build my marble tomb by the shade of cypresses,
plant jasmines and lilacs around it and let them bloom;
the late image of me on the top with a pen on the right
and a notebook on the left...what a lovely display
of my vocational trade! Will someone discover my grave?
The brief epithet itched in italic letters should read:
" Born a free man and died a free man in a foreign land."
'Twas the night before Christmas
and there was a heat wave
Poor Santa's beard itched him
The man was dyin' for a shave
But I've got a brand to protect
He reasoned with mirth
As he glued on his fake beard
and adjusted his girth
So Santa waddled shed-ward
to saddle up the reindeer
When his eyes lit on a sight
that ruined his whole year
Now just what did he see
that disturbed him no end
Why, he saw Mrs. Claus
in the arms of ten men
Those new elves he'd just hired
Millennials all
Handsome as hell
Every one over six-foot tall
What could he do
'Twas time to depart
How could he go out there
with a big broken heart
'Folks,' Santa shouted
'Whatever this looks like --
No presents this year
~ 'I'm going on strike!'
November 21, 2019
The Night Before 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May