Long Junkyard Poems
Long Junkyard Poems. Below are the most popular long Junkyard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Junkyard poems by poem length and keyword.
junk yipping and yapping
yard dog n
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• * c B A
k bones and ham bones R K
the
scent of
beef w r now? who is running now
h u w b
o n h o
o w
I n o w
s I f o
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The gun seems gun-shy in this space;
where deer hides hang on rustic walls
and granddad-tick-tocks beat, instead
of hearts in hollowed skins. The gun
a “trophy-bagger” in its rack,
a loud-mouth predator at rest,
this motherless, brother-less thug
perceives no pity-pangs... the gun
now quiet, buckshot empty, cold.
Above the stove’s phoenix soul hangs
an antlered head with prideful tines
the man, with bear-paw hands, had won.
A fox in freeze-frame-trot, a stiff
with cat glass eyes, attests his prize.
Indeed, like litterfall they fell,
unseen his haunt in hunter gear, his gun
a junkyard dog of steel. I say
they're beautiful in life. He says
they’re beautiful in death. Between
our words — a stand of pine — the shot!
that brought the shock of ammo air
that rib-cage-ripped and broke the breath,
that hurled the crows against the sky —
the blast that felled the 10-point buck that failed to sense your goddamn gun!
Yeah... blame the buck his reckless pose
and buckled throes. You felt the king!
Behind tight trees you sat with dawn
in sniper-silhouette. The gun
felt nothing; no remorse, no joy
—it, too, hangs upon the wall.
Contains More Than Kernel Of Truthful
alienation, expulsion, ostracization
from body politick
if member of society resistant,
indifferent, adamant, et cetera
despite differentiation
(across the figurative board)
intolerance opposing ethos,
asper unspoken social graces extant
(albeit manifested amidst diverse
livingsocial variations) within
rubric of global civilizations primal,
oral, nonverbal, et cetera codas
automatically decreeing manual Kant
instilled from cradle
to grave impossible mission scant
acceptance toward recalcitrant
challenging precepts via rave and/or rant
thus when born into whatever culture,
steeped with historical paradigm
one can protest superficial nigh cities
til ivy blue in the face,
or try to concoct a feeble rhyme
but culture club richly identified, endowed,
brewed from heritage long time
ago until the cows come home to roost
hence creative pursuits one direction
can turn to swiftly tailor
if harried styled
with perceived restrictive parameters
and cuss like a sailor
with song and dance routine
(perhaps appearing on Dancing
With The Stars), or
choosing subterfuge viz
writing nefarious malware code, where mailer
daemons spring to life, when computer code
following infinitely jesting illogic causing exhaler
(case in point - myself, hoot
ends tubby humorous) as yukon gauge
yet another Internet end user might experience
greater reason to rage
against the machine before
turning rogue gushing renegade, stage
jing anarchy against disparity
with equal pay, cuz a working wage
aint nuttin boot peanuts
so if strong willed, hook hairs
if you appear like a putz
just realize doggerel
of this pooch iz gaseous boot utterly without guts
and hangs around the junkyard
with other nerdy mutts.
They are forming clusters in the sky, and you cannot see them with your naked eyes you have to consult the giant telescope and go deep sea fishing in a construction boat, and when the wind hits your back you must zoom in everything from the top and the clusters will stare back at you.
Have I ever missed your point, I can see through every joint, the nozzle and the funnel are blocked up with grease and you need a fan to release the heat.
The fanbelt is worn out and the fan is clogged up with dirt, examine the battery terminal carefully and you will see what is going on at the top.
There is a big crack between the gaps, and lugs are bent at the end, the battery cannot hold the charge and that is why the engine takes long to turn and it always shutting down. The battery is very old, and you must take it to the junkyard and replace it with a new one.
I stand in the yard and watch him sweat over the old car, the car is shutting down and it’s the only vehicle he has to take him around the town. He takes it to the shop, but they took all the money he has got and the next day it leaves him stranded on the road.
He try to fix it himself but it absorbs all his energy, and it makes you really feel sorry. Yesterday he rolled down the street and in seconds the tire burst causing a huge explosion in the center of the town. The people start running and the dogs start barking and a big commotion breaks out in middle ground.
He put on a spare tire and hurry to take his wife to the doctor but halfway through the journey the gasket burst spilling grease all over the place, but help was near, and the roadside job was cleared.
Have I ever missed your point? Every meeting you go I have always stood up for you when the bullies come charging at you. I form a wedge between the wall and you and prevent them from hurting you. I have sealed up all the holes and patch up the place and completed the document before the expiration date.
There is cluster around you, and the gigantic whale is waiting for you. I have invested more than a billion dollars in them, and they will parachute towards the heaven. They are on the ground and in the air and they are coming over there. The clusters are everywhere, and you must prepare.
We can build an orrery
Yet turn the sky into a junkyard
We're abecedarian, quirky contrarian
Stare decisis from cosmic ovarian
Subaltern, suborbital
Small steps on the heavenly stairway
Pedestrian stardust walking around
Tariffing penguins to tear up the ground
But the stairway is spiral
And it's spiraling down
No escape from the gravity
Found all around
Eyes searching the cosmos
For myopic bliss
In a fallacy galaxy
Far from star-kissed
We're worst when we're first
At least in our mind
Quoting chapter and verse
From each tract that we find
On the ground underneath us
That shifts with each step
Tract's gotten infected
Yet onward we schlep
Each bearing the burden
Of truth stumbled across
When we can patch the thatch
On the roof that we've lost
In that storm of ideas
That threatened the shelter
We've built for ourselves
Unstable ideas full on the shelves
We've forgotten to look
For the beauty inside
While we're gathering dust
From under our feet
Instead of uncovering
What's come from above
While planting our hopes
In the promise of love
Fire-engine
Now that it is autumn going towards winter
I often think about morbid things to avert this
I think of what I liked as a child.
The sound of the fire engine rushing through
the town; ran after it and felt heroic.
Often the fire was far away when I got there
it was too late; the fire had been small
rubbish burning in junkyard sot on a wall.
Firemen, rolling up their hoses, they
were called that, now they are firefighters
to make it more inclusive, mind you, I have
never seen a female among them, I knew
there were women at the fire-house.
I went there to have mother’s kitchen knives
sharped; they deftly wrote on typewriters.
I was going to be a fireman, they looked so
tall and tough, spitting manly.
Alas, a few years down the line, they grew smaller.
Time used to be gentle
like bike bells singing harmony
with a summer breeze.
Time seems to be picking up speed.
A freight train without an engineer.
A Hendrix electric guitar on amphetamines.
When did time become a runaway brute?
A trickster, a taker-a mass grave maker.
The shell game player. Raper of dreams.
Whisking everything you love to the far away...
Putting your cries on mute.
Time is picking up speed.
Withering things but never planting seeds.
Plucking the shriveled blossoms of memory.
Dumping them in a landfill.
With broken dolls, rusted 5 speeds, black lantern dreams.
Time is yellow rings of selfishness.
Forever hungry- lacks any empathy.
It devours the cream of life.
Turns the radiance of innocents into junkyard eyes.
Splashing gray onto the temple.
Welding bent hand to crooked cane.
Smashing everything in its greasy path.
Time is endless clownish-black comedy- a careen off a cliff.
A vintage violin at the bottom of a winter stream.
Time blasts into celebration when you're down to your last breath.
i don't cower to death, he had me in his grasp
faltering through the sudor of illness
my heart beating slower than time's hands
like a worthless clock on the wall needing replaced
ashen flesh bore his mark, a kiss against my blueish lips
somehow missing his quarry, while i awaited my wings
he still abides in the dumping ground of memories
with promises broken, love unspoken, and heartless liars
in a dashboard of broken dreams long abandoned
that stalk my existence, awaiting to be restored
to recommence through the pathways of my mind
as more than just unused rusted out frames of thoughts
that only resurface in the outburst of downcast eyes
when the shadows of sorrow grapple my emotions
as he purloins another from existence before me
I don't cower to death, he had me in his grasp
the attrition of time has left me emotionless
unscathed by his touch yet numb beneath his kiss
through past's rear-views as i unwillingly await my wings
October 4, 2019
My Favorite Junkyard poetry contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
[ [ [ [ ..... ] ] ] ]
frozen with pain she woke to find daybreak
slumped on her crumpled bed again, laid back, cast
aside from god knows what, an unbecoming haven.
at least, this time, this bed was hers and hers alone,
dimly broiled by smells of yesterday gone
stale, drooping limbs to vaguely unbecoming souvenirs.
no longer wrestling fires but lighting them,
hope drained from flesh that craved for expired lotion
crush-boned dreams mocked her unbecoming senses.
she backed off tears that asked how this all happened,
plunging into her heart’s junkyard searching for answers
from wounds buried in near burial of an unbecoming night…
copyright (c)
.......................
For P.D.'s "Collaborate with Me"
Yours truly dug deep with bony strength
in tandem with fantasy notions know
king around in figurative heady
toboggan noggin like cranial carapace
to muster every ounce of strength
in an effort to escape chronic confrontation
with endless streak of bleakness.
Although cursed with brutish,
nasty, and short nefarious fate
as a measly looking human
varmint, this grimy,
grungy, mangy, rangy, et cetera
looking besotted being
clung with all the might
within his five foot ten inch
or so tall and one hundred
and sixty five pound body
to transcend sigh grimly
twerking terrestrial travesty
that tweeted n tweaked laugh-in
fickle finger of fate in my favor.
I tapped into atavistic survival skills
summoned willpower to stay alive
drinking butter bear while heavy cross
of dirty poor poverty borne.
No matter a hard-core skeptic at heart,
this cynic plaintively called
for divine intervention
to help one nondescript human piece
of flotsam and jetsam
to cope - living like
doleful junkyard dog.
In essence, this abandoned, ignored
and shunned vagrant frequently
raged against the Deus ex machine
found figurative amidst
literal lovely bones
slim pick hens with demons
that tormented psyche.
While traipsing along litter strewn
condemned boulevard of broken dreams,
torn and well-worn shoe kicked
a couple of long discarded items.
These weather beaten hands
reflexively bent to retrieve accouterments.
One comprised colorful jagged shard,
in a previous lifetime
housed cheap fermented liquor.
Nothing but crud
filled remnant of dog gone
booze hounds’ favorite drink.