Long Kicker Poems
Long Kicker Poems. Below are the most popular long Kicker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kicker poems by poem length and keyword.
A cage not of your making
your own expiration date
Your mother branded you with it
and made you wear it even to date
It was announced at family dinners
with strangers in the room
It was told to every family friend
of my own impending doom
How it made me feel was not considered
not given a meager thought
She just had to get that out there
because it was important and fraught
And then when I grew older and objected
she did it on the sly
Took aside my companions
and injected them with her sick dye
I was told I should never have children
I was told I should avoid many things in life
She colored my world and put me in box
and invaded my personal space causing strife
Till I ran away across several states
and she came to fetch me back
And then there was a kind of truce
as she knew I could leave and be free
And I also knew it, so I worked at emancipating me
So she instead worked on my boyfriends filling them full of lies
And I stopped bringing anyone home
and I lived completely outside
And I started a professional life and never again did the two meet
and she was not able to control my life again nor even make a peep
and then I had some peace.
The kicker? I was not sick, she was, but I was too young to know.
Artimus 9/23/23 9:25AM (C) Susan Manley
12/30/20
Their stuff they are flashing
Towards others they are bashing
They get a kick out of it, and continue laughing
They think they are all that
Against me, you'll fall flat
And never get a call back
Just another small cat
Who always tries to talk crap
When you see me, panic and walk fast
Come get it, if you want the ball back
Or continue being a mall rat
Life showing so much beauty and turning ugly
Knuckles often bloody
They always find it funny
They got so much money
And your struggling, daily and monthly
Often self-inflicted
Or from addiction and prescriptions
By myself can't always fix it
Often need help, just can't kick this
Until I'm fully committed
Go figure
There really is a bigger
Picture
I'm working on vigor
And rigor
How dare you litter
Got no time to bicker
Or remain bitter
Don't care if we differ
People often thinking they are quicker
Richer
Slicker
And thinking sinister
Most just trying to get through winter
Not getting upset if they lose and aren't always the winner
Or going around and calling others a sinner
Just trying to remain chipper
On both sides of the river
It warms the soul, or gives you shivers
I'm not being a kidder
Here's the kicker
If you want to be a trickster
Prepare to be chopped liver
My dad built a house on a hill. How exciting to climb to the tippy-top then look down upon the roof, and dog home, the bean garden, and to sled the slope in Winter white.
eyes delirious
dazzled, dizzy, delighted
dopamine kicked in
A truck gets stuck at the bottom of our steep driveway, blocking local traffic on our rural road. I wonder if this sticks in anyone else’s memory? Then like ants, industrious, sweating for donuts and coffee, my dad’s friends work their quads, up and down this unexpected hell.
our walls carried up
unfinished planks, like a cross
friendship marches on
We’d help spackle the parts of the wall scored by nails. Dad would use the saw to cut a wooden floor, like his rest-in-peace dad, who surely stops in to measure his son’s progress, to see his grandkids placing the unstained wood.
this home has no ghosts
brand-spanking new on old hill
but the past’s with us
While constructing, Mom would open a can of Dinty Moore stew, cook over a portable stove, and serve over rice. We would order Pizza from Salvatore’s - my mouth waters at the thought of this New York pie with Italian sausage, sauce and cheese. They’d occasionally order a submarine; I can still taste the fresh lettuce, tomato and thin-sliced deli meats on yeasty bread.
what we remember
is funny; the senses touch
childhood memories
The builder, of the house’s frame, was called one day. He was told my dad went through the roof. Later, they came, standing outside and sizing up the roof, when my mom questioned them as to what he was looking at. Mom rolled her eyes as she told him, what was meant, was that my dad was mad.
screwball translation
the heated conversation
is lost in humor
Shovelling the driveway, in Winter, in my plaid, woollen, hooded coat. My face can feel the chill, the briskness of the wind, and the warmth of mittens. I miss my childhood, even the arduous times, those wonderful family times.
a surprise arrives
at this address; a newborn
unplanned, a kicker
I dilly dally my way through a regular Monday
Icy rain covers my driveway by three o’clock
I slip and slide on it, weather reports come in
Monster storm is coming; the kind you get once in a century
My friends begin calling me
Do I have enough food and water?
I have enough to last six to eight months.
Also a hundred pounds of dog food for my two pony dogs.
Tuesday I awake to snow as tall as my porch
It is not bitter cold, but it is uncomfortably cold.
Wednesday is the kicker.
We are supposed to have more snow, more ice and fifty mile an hour winds.
My feet are cold tonight; I wonder how things will go in the morning.
Our temperature is going to drop from 28 to 16 degrees.
The interstates and highways around and through Kansas City are closed.
Mayor asks us to all stay home; schools are cancelled.
The electric company sent us a notice to expect outages.
Monster storm, you deserve a name.
I will call you Monster Helen after the meanest teacher I ever had
And the nicest teacher I ever had, both named Helen.
The grandstand is gelid by a sharp wintry breeze
Carried off from the field are the last of dead leaves
The shrill of the whistle, muffled calls from the crowd
From the tunnel stampede, metal studs echo loud.
With high, flick-tossing coin each Captain his reason
To kick-off with his mates a new rugby season.
The kicker announces starting ball high and long
And on lumbering wind sings a rugby man’s song.
Fifteen players below impatient stand waiting
Eyes fixed to the heavens, the ball falls rotating.
To arms of the hardest with sweetest possession
Grueling match has begun— the rugby obsession!
Steaming bodies in scrums, deep grunt of engagement
Weary boots grappling earth now frozen like pavement
By tackle-ruck-lineout, each man one-and-for-all
With a powerful push a try-bound rolling maul.
Players leaping for joy, heads of others hang low
Elation, deception such do rugby games go.
So Grand Final is here, a long winter has passed
The crowd and the speaker say it happened too fast;
Cut-throat right to the last; Wing, Second Row to Prop
A try, then conversion, to make every heart stop.
(Far left of the uprights flew last quiet ball spent
but with westerly drift over black dot she went!)
…
And with sweet summer grass blowing crisp in the sun
where butterflies frolic, spider webbing is spun
White sidelines are missing, fields all ripe, rich ‘n’ green
Rugby season has passed, but young spirits are keen
A rugby ball punted, a lone boy, polished boots
To play for his country, his dream built on grass roots.
-------------------
Alexandrine Poem in balanced six syllable cesurae for each 12 syllable line
My young baby roo I love and protect
He's a bit of a kicker and a fidget
He lives safely inside my kangaroo pouch
With stronger kicks felt, ouch! I cry out.
As little ones do, he won't keep very still
For my body ache pains, the vet pops me a pill
Roo pushes and twists while awake or asleep
Power kick gifts, from his little long feet.
High jumper or boxer he could turn out to be
Up pops his head, his new world to see
Ouch! another kick; again to my ribs
A sudden spring jump, he's out from his crib.
Jumping, exploring, very much excited
In-out play; then back in pouch basket
Not one for climbing in or out gently
Always kick butting, my poor sore belly.
A grown boy now, he'll be leaving home soon
No more protection from mums tum cocoon
My ouch in my pouch, my baby roo joey
If human he'd win; gold Olympic jump glory.
"O" Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsor Constance La France
Written 23.09.21
When my Dad's mind failed, he started shredding tissues
They littered the floor, the least of his issues.
When Mom started to decline, she dropped napkins on the rug
I dutifully picked them up, then I gave her a hug.
My parents didn't believe my delusions, they were appalled
I said I attracted bad guys, but my explanations stalled.
Though they thought me mad, they thought meds could control
No proof for my stories, so they went to a black hole.
Then Mom had two mini-strokes, her mind was not the same
She wandered halls at night, caused us all much pain.
We took her to the ER, they found dehydration
That thickened her blood, also blocked urination.
Then she got a UTI, and Leukemia came back
It was like fighting off birds on the attack
She said she wanted to die, refused food
Her alertness mostly down, along with her mood.
Here's the kicker, I ran into tissues outside
Delusions got on my saddle, began to ride
I'd come home on the aqueduct from the store
A crumpled tissue on the path that the sane ignore.
I'd walk down my lane, and where it met the main
A tissue sat there, was the message plain?
I went to the bike path to the hospital grounds
And in that pristine path, white tissues found.
I took Mom to get an implant, and stopped short
on the facing table, a white tissue held court
I then wheeled her wheelchair to the blood testing place
A crumpled tissue on the sidewalk, mocking in my face.
There's a parallel world that you don't want to intersect
Messages deniable, can delusions be correct?
I get the message, after a while it can't be missed.
If I went to the police, they'd put me on a list.
What the Dickens! Santa ain't wearing knickers
well his pants got caught inside the chimney
now here's the kicker...
Little Joe woke up in the middle of the night
and gave Santa such a jolly fright
now here's the kicker...
It was drafty there wasn't any gas nor heat
Mrs. Chump snored upstairs like dead meat
now here's the kicker...
Mr. C was 5 feet tall and wasn't a Clause at all
he didn't know how to rob Peter to pay Paul
now here's the kicker...
The real Ms. C owned a solar panel, Oh what fun
gave it to Ming Ming who flew like a Son Of A Gun!
now here's the kicker... Eh !
He burned Santa's pants then laughed, giggled, scoffed
but as Santa danced around the sun poured in the loft
now here's the real kicker...
Christmas was a blast now little Joe C could finally be,
toasty as a glow worm in a house built for three.
Merry Christmas Everyone !
Love,
From Santa's Girl :)
Well first of you have to be black
So if your not sorry about that
I guess you're just gonna have to be believed
I know for once your not included
How does it feel not to be the centre of attention
I guess it must be hard having white privilege
Oh and also being favoured
And no I'm not joking
Anyways back to the point
Black girls listen up
So what you are gonna need to is just open your mouth
Cause they don't like that
They'll call you violent
Kicker is they hate when your also silent
And use that as an excuse to discredit us
To dismiss us
They do this intentionally
So people won't believe us
I know
How scandalous
You're also gonna have to just exist
Yeah this one's gonna be the easiest
To accomplish
Us living apparently really hurts them
So they are probably gonna do everything
To make sure our voices are ignored by everyone
Because who is society going to believe
I'll give you a hint
The ones who have privilege
Sucks don't it
Well that's how you know you're doing something right
Cause remember we don't want to be believed
I mean it really is just that easy
Because when you're black
You're automatically not believed
(my friends i wrote the piece below in one long exhale. i did not change a word but
rather let it sit as it fell. could the writing be improved. yes it could but why try to
create a masterpiece when finger painting is so much fun. you have greeted me with
wide open arms. you have been a great support at a stressful time in my life. so here
it is from my heart to yours.)
they are those who ride us on their backs
send us on journeys to places they built
one chess piece at a time
they put into words
what we knew
but could not say
why am I telling you this
there are wonderful poets here
choose a dish
visit their buffets
taste more than one feel
give it a whirl
experience worlds you'll never find on a mac
visit their vivid dreams
drive one of their soap bubbles
ski on the end of a needle and thread
discover the barely open doors
the naked flesh between the creases
displays lined in scrap paper
that one can absorb eyes closed
crawl under and over the sea
tunnel the milky way to a brand new galaxy
witness a sky that like curtains part
peak at what is on the other side
life is short play nude
spend a bitty bit of time
with bitty bits of folksy folks
on a striped colored blur
they are special the poets who live here
so do yourself a flavor
put on your roller blades
and go for the tricycle ride of your life
here is the best part and get this
(i hope your holding your breath
and turning red white and blue)
some of their poems rhyme
some of them even use styles
here comes the huge reveal
( unlike me who is not really a poet
and doesn't actually know it)
they use good grammar
extensive vocabularies
and here's the kicker
capital letters
and proper punctuation
go figure
which they also use
well that figures
there are great poets here
you do yourself a disfavor
if you're only here to write
and not here to read