Long Last drop Poems
Long Last drop Poems. Below are the most popular long Last drop by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Last drop poems by poem length and keyword.
No objection to cold weather, but...
ah jest wanna boomerang
back into the womb
versus being threatened
courtesy beastie boy gang
beating me to a pulp
after accurately discerning
being scared less pang
suddenly imagining myself
buffered, and buttressed
within zen Sibyl
prophet table Chinese philosophy
known as Yin and Yang.
No matter birth canal
long since got breached,
countless scores of years
I quickly grew
impossible mission to plunge
(think Nestea commercial)
headfirst back into utero,
haint got any got any
handy dandy blues clue,
nonetheless said wish
I broach to you,
whether ye reside in Baku
Guangzhou
Kalamazoo
Kathmandu
Peru
Thimphu
Timbuktu.
Sudden pang roared awake
nsync like blazing saddles
hot enough to sizzle steak
torpid, humid, and
arrid extra dry to take
breath away analogous vacuumed
courtesy fire breathing dragon
chilling parched scales in great lake
already this doubting
Thomas doth hanker
for global warming yore
less than six months ago
geesh for goodness sake,
when Earth did bake
triple digit temperatures
no thirst could slake,
thus intravenous feeding
in tandem with trach
still inadequate to brake
yours truly did pine... for chill
against dehydration, ah only to wake,
when came the morrow,
where Jack and Jill
sweat buckets, this
before they climbed uphill
akin to madding crowd
clamoring, thirsting, gulping...
every last drop
essentially emptying damn
immense reservoir spill
futilely swilling parched lips till...
Old cranks shrugged off
exceptionally hot weather, and did scoff
younger generation's creature comforts
old geezers recalled
back in the day
as laddies and Tom boy
lassies did slough
no trespassing signs
skinny dipping after they shuck off
clothes giddily swinging
atop highest bough
playing hooky averse
learning would ever payoff
pitying other kids in school
former gathering rosebuds...
around lunchtime hunger
relishing stealing stroganoff
under nose of Mister Groff,
one former German World War II,
who colluded with American "boys"
despite heavily decorated luftwaffe
and posthumously honored
Veterans day getting last laugh!
While doves flutter, dying words whisper
Silence becomes haunting and Angels sing
A lone filtering light, a soft glister,
casts a fleeting shadow from dove's wings
As this arrowed light pierces the dusk grey,
on bended knee I pray for you, My love
Touching hard cold floor, where your casket lay
Seeking unanswered questions from above
( The loss of love is far beyond love's means )
( and tomorrow will see the end come true )
( To know depth of sorrow when it convenes )
( When light changes color to deeper blue )
( To bow their heads in open palms and cry, )
( as painful dark begins the day now new )
( Love's last memory fades away to die )
( and hearts now bleeding hide from times it knew )
No comfort did I find in your last breath
Forgive me, as I taste this bitter wine
Release me, from the vow I once confessed,
by the shadow of your spirit confined
( This love once sworn is now of colder mind )
( Desire dissolves leaving a vanquished shell )
( Neither clings to fragments still left behind )
( They search for springs to fill their empty well )
This last drop from the bitter wine I made
Brings dark, silent dark as the cold light fades
( The passing of their moment won't be crossed )
( and the bond between their hearts shall be lost )
contest Intermingle
Frederic Parker 2/16/15
poem When Love is Lost 7/20/14
poem As the Light Fades 6/25/14
I do not ask for much, just the last drop of honey said Baby Bear.
We gave him his wish in the bathtub and on the stair.
We gave him the last drop here and there.
We gave him the last drop everywhere.
I guess you can say that we both care,
About our baby, Baby Bear.
We give him the last drop everywhere.
Since he is an only, he does not have to share.
He is now having the last drop on the table.
He’s drinking it in front of his cousin Mable.
He can do this happily, for he is able…..
To see that she has a bunch of honey in her stable.
Just the last drop, says Baby Bear.
We give him that most everywhere.
Because we care, because we care
And because he is our Baby Bear.
Reject
If you today set your sails
The boisterous currents called “reject”
Blowing from the people’s anger and wails
Wallowing in usury and neglect
Betrayed trust and hopes facing fails
Innocent of cause but guilty of effect
Will blow you where the desire hails
To making finding reprieve the project
There’s insatiable appetite to take
But there’s a limit to the give
We baked this national cake
And of its partaking we were positive
As it cooked you pinched stake by stake
Asking for more and making believe
That in the cooking fire’s wake
It shrunk and so less we achieved
You want our money and patience
Try telling it to the pangs of the nation
You quench the last drop of our resilience
And only a pushback will you occasion
You make hard any honour or obedience
And make many transgress even religion
You rob Godliness of prominence
From whom you got your ordination
If God in heaven sets up the earth
And all that inhabit
To turn on His foes His wrath
Will you be exempt from it?
Is righteousness the name of your path?
Is God’s Word the lamp of your feet
For your countrymen just can’t math the math
And so they address you from the street
Change your way while you can
Serve them today, they’ll serve you forever
Humble pie never choked a man
They only ask you don’t stifle endeavor
You kill them, you kill your plan
And the doom threatens to be forever
When you are banished by your own clan
Signing out a man who fell out of favor
Very brutal by nature my mind can confirm,
Poetry marathoners need a cap laced with wisdom,
To grace the desired seats of battlescarred warriors,
The skillet must still burn hotter than Hades.
Surely Marathons are run with endurance and persistence,
So is this one, for my goals are lofty.
Though I lack great speed, power, and technique,
My oak must stand deep-rooted through the storms.
My drafts litter bins as torn scraps of junk,
Haters blot the ink of my masterpiece.
Negativity weighs on my frail shoulder,
Yet my resolve stands steadfast on aching feet.
But no one can deny good poems their glory.
Like smoke they escape all traps and dissipate,
Clutching throats to make their presence felt.
All I need do is write—and hope.
The songs that masterpieces sing
Are heard by the deaf and sung by the dumb.
Their rhythm washes away the dust of imperfection;
They heal the soul and soothe the mind of sorrow.
So, my pen, fill yourself with ink of perfection.
Write on this paper I lay before you—
Another poem no sponsor can deny the top prize.
Write before the last drop runs dry.
The April morning's quiet
and so is the November.
Wherever people outnumber trees
or the dominant cover type
is unquiet. Nothing wrong with that.
Walt got it right, and Jane Jacobs:
the city is an experienced,
used beauty. Her toes are long,
nails thick and hair thin. Yet
her kisses can be sweet; or
smell of ****. All my life I've tried to point my window toward
some narrow wedge of nature.
On Seaman Ave., over the roof
beyond the chimneys to the park
where every dog was walked.
Could I survive soot and an air shaft now, pigeons and cats,
or even a desk in the legislature for my lot in life. How about
prison like Etheridge Knight,
Nazim Hikmet?
I've gotten soft.
When he builds that house in the pocket
wetland my window now looks out on,
the developer will have given me what I need.
Amphibian mortality,
gravel, fill,
oak, ash and maples felled. Good
to the last drop is our bitterness, our love.
Alarm loud enough to wake the dead.
Need to wake to join the living again
Sluggishly climbing out of my bed to embrace the tasks of today
Feet hitting the cold floor, the chill forcing me to be attentive.
Shuffling across the cold floor to the kitchen, my morning coffee calling to me just like a siren's song.
Yawning, I blink the sleep away for another day.
Watching the machine
Coffee slowly brews with a steady, drip…drip…drip.
Patiently waiting, I get my favorite mug
Sugar and cream awaiting the boiling hot coffee, just enough cream to turn black to an autumn caramel.
I pour the steaming coffee into my mug and relish in the smell of the bold fresh coffee with its hint of nuttiness.
First thing in the morning, it’s like water after a walk in the desert.
Closing my eyes, I take it in;
Steam tumbling off, I lift the mug to my lips. With a slight blow, I take the first sip.
The sip tastes like perfection, almost making a moan slip past my lips.
Sitting in silence, I drain every last drop of my coffee as if it will be my last.
But who’s to say this should be my last.
I heard the promise of freedom,
Became an eager volunteer,
Welcomed you to my country
When you arrived here.
Now, my world is in ashes.
My life in despair
I worked in your cause
But you just don’t care.
You came here as liberators
Stayed here for twenty years
Then like all schoolyard bullies
Upped sticks and disappeared.
A chaotic withdrawal
But that’s what you do,
Turn tail and run when
The going gets hard for you.
You broke all your commitments
As you left most of us behind
It seems to be a case of
Out of sight out of mind.
I am one of the very many
Victims of your thoughtless wars
Who believed in your intentions
And fought in your cause.
Disillusioned and in danger
I ask my self the question why
What did I do do wrong that
You left me here possibly to die.
All over so very quickly when
You decided it was time to go
And my world so very quickly
Returned to a previous Status Quo
Put not your faith in fine words
Because when all said and done
You seem to know no diplomacy
Other than that of bullet and gun.
And we join the millions of victims
Of yet another unfinished cause
As you return to Fortress America
From yet another unfinished war.
This poem does not in anyway disrespect the American Forces with whom I worked in the past, or the American people, just your crazy politicians, who like mine, will fight to the last drop of somebody else’s blood.
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In the terrane of deplorable deprivation manifested
in the wasteland of wretched desertion,
the obscure tufts of the subdued slender grass
struggle to rise through the cleavage of stony destiny.
The frail faces shaping the artifacts of spiteful fate,
flicker with the fading smile of residual innocence,
borrowed from the remnant rays of the forsaken sun,
already sunk in the depth of desolate dark horizon.
The children when they should be blooming like flowers,
stray to nowhere, uncared and soiled
in the harsh squall of the juvenile servile servitude.
Under the fair freedom spread by the unbound sky
the infantile dewdrops devoid of pristine patina
no longer bejewel the puerile grass of our meadow.
Tarnished by the muck of our malevolent times,
the deranged dreams of the dew dry premature.
In the twilight hour on the penultimate journey,
I wish I could give the last rays of my setting sun
to the relics of the dewdrops so they can glow awhile.
I wish I could drip the last drop of empathy from my oasis,
so their innocent smile doesn’t desiccate in inimical desert.
Just one thing I’d like to change is to stop child labor,
show the children of the lesser God
the dreams of dew that would never die.