Long Label Poems

Long Label Poems. Below are the most popular long Label by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Label poems by poem length and keyword.


Premium Member Highs and Lows

Often I have been plagued
by highs and lows--
pill pushers
would love to get their hands
on me;
put their label on me
and tell my wife:
"Shake well before using:
may cause stomach cramps
insomnia
and occasionally
a great work of art."

But now with computers
it's easy to print our own
(labels, that is)--
or license to practice medicine
or death certificate
save on the same disc
with a thousand
of our best and worst photos
curses
blessings;
somehow ram is important--
why do I picture
this sardonic creature with horns?
Remember the old TV's?
We called the antenna "Rabbit Ears";
We give anthropomorphic qualities
to our favorites,

and send the rest to institutions....


Cough Syrup

the beatles 
were right when 
they wrote day
tripper instead 
of night

~

flight of the bummble
bee could have been a
hummingbird but 
heard played on 
a tuba was an 
elephant that
couldn't
waltz

~

the warning label
clearly states that:

if combined
with alcohol
may induce
sleepiness

~

my doctor's warning
has always been my:

medication
if combined
with alcohol
may induce
sleepiness

i'm just
trying to
redefine:

mixed
drinks

~

so the poem

~

in the tentacles of floppy
chathuluesque suggested
relish not chutney but
relishing something
that might be more
than reefer madness
or the badass
happiness of
a once in a life
time opium ride
things don't seem
to slide or collide
they really are what
your guitar strummed
them into becoming
never flat as a tire 
or a Dali watch i
can't hang
around too
much unless
i truly want to
confess and
make myself

dead
dangling
hang man's 
noose told
the truth so
the truth be
told since i'm
just hanging
around i at
first thought
but now my
brain is just
stuck on an
oxygen loss
but this is
unusual
since
most
at this
moment
have ginger
bread neck snaps
and have pooped and
peed their own  pants 

butt i'm receiving
like an antenna
ant tv telling me
i need to keep
my teeth clean
not forgetting
to floss so
what's up
with that
pubic
hair

after
eating
a slice of
her hair oh
my her pie in
another poem
where sweetness
just dropped in the
other or what wait for
the other snowflake i let

her drift
in my head
all day maybe
be coming a
snow torn

ado
a do
a deux
      i did
        so, si, i do
Form:

Premium Member Meditation

A question is asked
‘why meditate’
‘Is it really the in thing to do’
being stillness sedate

Rephrasing the query
‘how may we make joy eternal’
We define by pure intent
quest to reside in bliss tranquil 

Accustomed to being a doer 
believing we are body identity 
We dwell in cyclic joy & sorrow
rotating not attention polarity 

In other words we stagnate
in narrow domains of the ego
Our attention entrapped in illusion
attachments we are reluctant to forgo

With this understanding clear
we choose to internalise attention
Thoughts rested yet attentive 
void of emptiness our orientation 

Resting thus in silence & stillness 
in an effortless attention shift
Fulcrum of awareness heart centric
we begin to feel we are not adrift

This inner polarity of our sentience 
dormant for long now slowly awakens 
Stillness softly aligns with conscience 
when voluntarily ego by us is forsaken 

Relegating role of body as an interface
for day to day earth life experience 
Stillness our mode with God as mover
we feel magnetism as joy exuberance 

Having but grazed the outer periphery
of our own divinity resident within
Divine connect becomes our priority
gripping us in thunderous bliss ignition 

We may, if we like, label this as meditation 

24-September-2020
Form: Rhyme

The life of a black woman

Work harder.
Work harder.
Work harder.

You are a black woman living in a white man's world 

You have to be better.
You have to do better.
You have to want it better.

No mistakes - they'll attack you if you do 
Better yet they'll wait for the ball to drop on you 
Don't falter. Don't crack.
If they see that they will attack 
You don't have the privilege to break
The mirror will help you to mask your face -

This is all so fast paced
It has to be, you need to win the race 
No stopping for a breather - they'll take your place 

That's what the world tells a black girl Everyday 
No time to be human 
No time to ask why
You just have to accept it, 'it's not your place to pry'

What outlets do we have,
To save our mental health 
We could try therapy, but the stigma prevents that 
The world tells us to lose a few, 'you can't be black and fat'
Is it really fat or is it the jealousy of what you lack
I'm not fat I'm curvy, either way nothing is wrong with that
Fat, skinny, curvy, our bodies are not a video for you to react

Or maybe, we'll take the deeper route 
And carve a perfect smile on our face 
To cover up the pain,
We could decorate our skin, maybe then we won't go insane 
We are not allowed to cry, so I'll bleed tears my own way 
What I do won't upset them - if I don't live another day

Or maybe a few pills to rid the problem that they see 
Maybe I'll give them what they want and join my ancestors in the sea 
Problem solved, you won't have to deal with the actions that you caused 

The media will call her a burnout 
Then use the label of 'crazy'
To define her personality trait 
Point being for a black woman, there will never be an escape
Just a system reusing a cycle of discriminatory hate 

The life of a black woman 
Is a struggle everyday
From the day of our birth
To the day we never awake 

The world takes for granted the culture we provide 
Take advantage of our nature, we are oh so very kind 
Then burden us with the weight of the problems the world may hide 
And after all we've done they'll take credit, ignoring all our sacrifices and have the audacity to never have apologised

All Bottled Up

All Bottled Up

Bottlenecks are one thing driving down the road
Making one late for work is another
Cumbersome, slow and an all time low

Containers made from glass have their ups and downs
Mostly downs we’re told

Their poisons kill aristocrats, the poor, poets known and unknown

Highs and lows are surely going to come
From bottles filled with rum
At first a happy swirling drunk
Becomes laid out sad and dumped 

Delicious wine waits for me when I get home
The matter is getting beyond the cork and glass
Such troubles are these things 
Bottles simply have no class and make me wince

To obtain the treasure there within
I have to use the cork screw
But bottle with evil intent conspires with the opener 
Will not help me or comply to let me in
What’s the use?  A hammer will have to do
 
Other bottles from long ago held potions, magic, and snake oil brew
Fluids ran wild in the old west causing more deaths than cures for sure  
And no one had a clue it was the containers that they used

When shipping bottles made from glass
I have to label “fragile” and send them 1st. class

The ebb and flow and pour from every bottle 
Illegal in Prohibition times 
Caused many alcoholics to cry
I guess that was a crime 

Consumers today can fill their glasses free from thought
From decanters, jars and urns that carry their own weight
Someone with a bottle will always be around though
To hit me on my head for something I might say
And if the bottle breaks, someone, (I'm guessing me), will have to pay

                                                     5/19/14 Slamming Battle Round 2 contest


The Power of a Label


What is the power of a label?
Does it define,
or simply describe?
Does it set you free,
or place you inside a box?

What labels have you accepted?
What names have you given yourself?
And how many have you carried
because someone else gave them to you?

To walk through life not knowing why—
not understanding yourself,
or the people around you,
not knowing what sets you apart
or why the world sometimes feels
just slightly out of reach—

Would you accept a label
if it meant finally knowing?
Finally understanding
the pieces of yourself
you could never quite put into words?

And if you did,
would you share it?

Would you wear it openly,
let the world see it,
let it become part of how
others know you?

Or would you keep it close—
private,
protected,
something that belongs
only to you?

What happens when a label
gives you language for your truth?
When understanding yourself
becomes deeper,
when the pieces begin to fit,
when you can finally say:

This is who I am.
This is why.
And I accept it.

Is that worth the label
being placed out in the world?

Is the freedom of being known
worth the questions that follow?
Worth the assumptions?
Worth the stares,
the explanations,
the moments when someone
tries to make your label
mean more than you ever intended?

Perhaps the power of a label
is not in what it tells others about you,
but in what it finally allows you
to understand about yourself.

And perhaps the question
is not whether the label defines you—

but whether you get to decide
what it means.

Premium Member The Cat Is Alive-It

Difficult times are dragging on and on,
I dream in self-centric isolation,
sabbatical dreams after quarantine,
inertia will take me to the far sea,
across the vine yard tinged by setting sun.
The surreal feeling makes me tipsy,
the label I hide on the wine bottle.
With unstable steps floating in the air,
I trudge for sojourn by the blue expanse.
With the mind sunk in silent depth I hear
eerie boardwalk creaks near the white sand beach,
bearing loaded rush of maddening crowd,
they told me of the psycho cat’s demise.
Seeing right through them this I couldn’t believe,
find in each of them the cat is alive.


October 1, 2020
Syllable count : 10 each line
Checked on howmanysyllables.com
Contest : Collaborate With Me
Sponsor : Kim Rodrigues
Form: Verse

Premium Member Rats and Politicians

Lower you say? No way!!!!!!
Sewer rats fare better
Politicians are the bottom
Of this poetic society

Yet for all their failings
We are protected
We are spoiled
Laziness is our new Idol

Oh let us sit on our chairs
Ranting poetic verse
Let us not lift a finger
Contributing to society, this must surely be a sin

Besides, if we endeavor to help?
Will they not label us politicians?
NO NO NO not that
Let me complain!!!!!!!!
He who complains is KING

Power corrupts!!!
This is true
The fools who don’t vote
Keep them there like glue

You too can be a politician
If you really care
To get off your azz
Go change the world, I dare you

Oh wait you shall see
Not so easy in that high moral chair
With all your critics climbing to demolish
Re-election is a love affair

Brave men and woman have died
So that you can have freedoms and the vote
Be ashamed if you are a critter on the couch
Of those fine men who died for your right





To do nothing
Yelping like dogs and complain, sure feels good
Politicians are people just like you, yuck!!!!!
Good and bad there is no doubt

When good men fail to speak out
Bad ones fill their shoes
So I say this to all
Stop your laziness……fools

For surely, the fool is the one
Who selects the king he does not want
Unless of course
He was busy with a nap and missed it all

If you are not a politician
Who are you?
I dare ask?


Notes: This sure is not meant to defend politicians, this is meant as a humorous write to show that not all things are so black and white. I certainly do no like the current state of affairs, but I do know this, not participating, not contributing, not helping to make things better, not getting involved, are not the answers. People died for our freedoms, and we have become to lazy to stand up for them. If you don’t like who is in Office, then by all means let’s make it you who is in Office. Many good politicians are saddened that when they get there, they have no support. Here is a happy thought, when you wake up each day ask yourself, “what can I do today, to make this world a better place” and it can be the smallest of details, all great things start with a seed!  

Happy Days to all you Soupers!

Premium Member Ill Fated - Controversial

Ill fated





Life was so smooth 
until one condemned evening
They bundled her up in a van
and then took to a deserted place,

She could sense her misfortune
to their sarcastic smiles,
A sense of hatred and agony
watered clear in her helpless eyes,

Treated as a vegetable
for no fault of hers,
Stripped of her modesty
was it a male pride ?

Five of them and her subtle being,
not a stitch on as the body shivered bare,
Hunger for flesh, scarring the soul,
wonder her strength to survive that scare,

Not a human being, she was just a consume,
rights can we talk as insane hooligans roam ?
Pity them for the crime not so heinous ?
or punish for murder of the soul as well ?

Unconscious they threw her on road to die,
to hospital she was taken by a passer by,
There was no end to the ill luck,
label of a rape victim dumbstruck,

Inquests, courts and then the ugly game,
in name of law, it was such a shame,
Her bubbly heard bled, stabbing cry,
Ripped soul could heave no sigh,

An year now, guilty roam free as tears burst,
as if females are born to quench their thirst,
Why not teach our sons to respect ?
Ill fated or is it our bringing up neglect ?

Quick justice the need of the hour,
she is no lust, she is a man's power,
Can sons ever prosper at daughters' price ?
Hold the flame high against gender crime rise !!





Written Sept 12th, 2015
For Charlotte's "controversial" contest

dedicated to all brave victims- lost or won the battle, but have given a tough fight.

Golden Shovel Meets Blind Goddess of Justice

… after Langston Hughes


You know how they do. They say that  
we run, that we fit descriptions, but justice  
ain’t blind, she just sees who she wants. Is  
it any wonder we hold our breath? A  
body ain’t a body when they label it a threat. Blind  
fold her, watch her peek, call her a goddess.

Watch her drop the scales. Watch how balance is  
a myth chased between our nana’s prayers and a  
judge’s gavel. They got this thing  
for claiming fear while standing over bodies. To  
serve, to protect—who? Which  

way to run when history's got a knee pressed upon the we  
aried? Red light, blue light, a flash, a name gone black.  
Mothers wailing thru the street. We are
n’t new to this. My father knew. And his father wise. 

Still, she won’t look. Her 
hands steady but the bandage  
doesn’t stop her from peeking. It hides  
but we see it slip. MLK's two  
Americas on display. Wounds keep festering  
and this country born of scars and sores  

struts like a wayward siren. That  
same scream, same prayer, same fear. Once  
we thought time might change things. Perhaps  
we were fools to hope. Seems we were.  

Though standing here. Still, we look her in the eyes. 

###

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