Long Manhole Poems
Long Manhole Poems. Below are the most popular long Manhole by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Manhole poems by poem length and keyword.
Looking at the mirror
What do I see
A shadow looking at me.
With wondering eyes, crazy thoughts
Silent whispers, faint voices
Crafty hands, wicked ways.
How I hate this gaze
Its like I am in a daze
Going through a phase.
I am not at all amaze
Wicked ways never pays
I have to escape from this maze
Before I set myself a blaze.
Looking in the mirror
I can't believe this is me
Mischievous heart, heavy burdens
Crafty soul, I need to get a hold.
Before I loose my soul
I need to aim towards a goal
I need to take control
I don't want to be on parole
Nor find myself buried in a manhole.
While chasing after my beguiling muse
I fell into the bottomless abyss
Free falling into darkness does confuse
Despair replaces fragile happiness
This chill of loneliness I've felt before
No longer does the darkness summon fear
Cause hope is like a beacon on the shore
And love of friends provides a net of tears
But getting out is not an easy task
It all depends on just how far I fall
And when I reach the top I'll don my mask
To hide the shame and stigma of it all
Then once again I'll strive to reach my goal
To find a cover for this damn manhole
an original poem by Daniel Turner
He said, "Old folks ain't worth nothing."
He said, "I'm thirty! and if you're over thirty you ain't nothing."
I said, "That's a lie! I'm seventy-one and young at heart."
He hadn't seen me sunning alone around the bend
While by the elevator, he stood waiting with his friends.
And I saw that his Counselor was my age
And I thought of my nine-to-five days
And volunteering in snow, sleet, wind, rain, and brine
And the sidewalk manhole in Brooklyn I climbed
And the emotional horse I fell off
And some folks may have had a good laugh
And the skylight I looked up to
And hands that healed and renewed.
And I say... my age is none of my business
I'm seventy-one, and life and me is not yet done.
*
Form:
A sunset can I see, nor yet moonrise,
Nor at the sunrise how moons melt from eyes,
Nor from city's tall towers any star,
Its polluting lights when my eyesight mar,
Seeing just hundred feet seems when afar,
When trees get felled daily by a dozen,
The sole bird I see around is pigeon,
In touch with Nature how can I thence be?
When I must watch where I walk, plant my feet,
How can I marvel at open sky's treat?
Spare me from tripping 'pon an unpaved stone
On roads, many a pothole-manhole prone;
When stumbling blocks all over say, come on,
How much of Mother Nature can I see?
___________________________________________
Tongue-in-cheek | 11.03.2017 |
I am watching 3 inches off of the floor,
The man outside waits at my door
I know the screams from within the box
Howl and call upon your order upon the rocks
But I know you can hold your tongue 'till the end of the night
And I know you can wait until I seem right.
Feel your spite, wait for the burn
For we all want, we all yearn
Wait 'till the rafters waft clear air upon your neck
And slither the silver lined tears that slipped as I begged for you not to check
Went as you dreamt and I wept as my days fell to waste
In haste as the rafters breathe my name and a lack of accosted face.
Calm the wolf from within the box
As it grazes your poisonous flesh to protect my infancy from the fox
And I know its not time to let go
But the manhole beneath my feet pounds at my door, as I fall slow
The stars dont seem so far, I have found
Wait, for the words beneath the world may fall down.
This cant last for much longer, not anymore
But there's so much water pooling beneath the door
I wait for you to pick up your head from the floor
Before I fade away and fly
Further towards the future prediction of faded grave
And engraved words that spoke of one, and none that forgave.
Wait for me, wait as I wave, hold upon my lacquered oak door
And hope your unsustained kisses sing the words slipped beneath the door
In my heart I had a place for you
In my mind, I thought you knew
through and through, your fist would always break through
Before the chain of the swing broke and the manhole only grew.
The poem never ends heartfelt
We forget this flesh, blood and bone was borne to be felt
Forget this sad life, for I'll slip by silently
And we can separate separately
Before your order is recieved
And my door can recede.
Treat the right side of face, made up and out of place
Criss-cross down and turn before the water can swallow what is left of the face
Lullabies left to ripple across with words sang through a silver lined haze.
An easy- go-lucky man passed by an open manhole
And thought of putting back the lid after his dance at the hall
He partied all night long 'til hardly drunk before dawn
Passing by the same manhole... swooped deep down.
An ambulance siren was heard before sunrise
Paramedics pulled up his body twice then thrice
His mom came running to hug his injured body
Mom, I didn’t wash dishes then cover a manhole. Sorry.
“Mom, please help me. I’m in great pain,” he added
I think, I’ve broken my arms, leg then cracked my head
“You procrastinate things always my son, Lee Thor.”
Suffer the consequences. Res ipsa loguitur!
Jan. 16,2022 2.21pm
A concealed manhole in a dim city spot somewhere in this world opens at exactly 2am. No one knows about it except for the players and participants who enter the hole.
A heavy, thick metallic cover is a common lid or cover for most manholes everywhere in the world where road/construction workers and engineers pass through during the maintenance or proper operation of any urban/rural's electric (and/or water) supply. The hole was designed only as the freeway for public use in preserving (or restricting) order and prompt, systematic operations within a city, province or state.
The manhole is an entrance for fame if you want to compete in athleticism and vye for physical supremacy. Gladiators and mercenaries are the participants and gamblers are the players who bet in the underground arena. It was once a gambling den for high rollers and big time-casino players, however, it was converted into a bloody arena in later years -- the Elimination Chamber.
There are three stages in the Elimination Chamber and not all participants make it in the third and final stage. And as expected, only one will remain and stand tall as the winner.
After all the gruelling matches in all three stages, whoever wins in the end game will be declared as the National Champion. Different countries have different champions and so a bigger chamber is housed underground somewhere on Earth where not everybody is welcome to enter or participate.
This is a fictional prose, not a reality. It will only materialize as real when the Elimination Chamber reveals itself.
Bruised and broken time and again
Loved and tossed away lover and friend
Innocent and free and lovely you
Now battered and worn what can I do
I weep for your woes and wipe your tears
But love your Blackheart after all of these years
You've fancied the rum, the ale and the wine
Your bodies worn out abused over time
Narcotics for pain washed down with booze
Infections ignored that blatantly oozed
And the women who loved you in your youth
Run from you now because of the truth
Your smelly and dirty you never wash
Your teeth are all rotten you only eat squash
And what of the sperm that you let grow
They are adults now but alas you don't know
Blackheart the heathen, unkept selfish soul
Waste of life and of body a big manhole
So scatter and run and part a wide path
For Blackheart the stinky won't take a bath!
12/06/2020 03:41 PM.
Imagine a long and winding line
all the way to Jabip
upon the handle of small grocery cart
envision mine white knuckle grip,
as the misses commandeers
moseying up and down every single aisle,
whereby an electrocardiogram
would indicate spiky sinusoidal blip.
I experience social anxiety
and feel like screaming aloud,
particularly when series
of unfortunate events
finds your truly
within onrushing madding crowd.
Unfortunately courtesy divine comedy
one erstwhile indiscriminately
cast out obsolete player
creator endowed him
with his trademark shaky spear.
One hapless generic garden variety guy
plagued with panic attacks
accursed lifetime providence
hellacious interminable suffering
until permanent escape
quasi vacation deliverance regarding...,
when grim reaper doth
cometh and taketh me away.
Oh savior enshroud impotent mortal man
at long last terminating suffering
welcoming me into portal
I willingly surrender
and welcome release...
beckoning death be not proud.
Impossible mission to describe
how fast paced life in general
generates utter confusion
analogous to floundering trout
besieges mine mental redoubt
mental helter skelter all about
as if mine entire body electric
forced, kickstarted, subjugated...
to perform (yes folks) hokey pokey
mental gears and cogs
snapping, crackling, popping
inside tumbler like noggin
purportedly linkedin hashtagged
with schizoid personality disorder.
Onset of emotional paralysis
stops me dead in my figurative track
metaphorically wishing me to skuttle
back into hermetically sealed manhole
invisible among interleaved bract
where within mine secret cubby hole
I play knick knack paddywhack...
to idle away leisure time
as well as solve crossword puzzles
meditate (on the gift of a watermelon pickle)
while listening to natural soundtrack,
and self hypnotize courtesy biofeedback.
He said, "Old folks ain't worth a damn. I'm thirty, and if you're
over thirty you ain't nothing."
I said... "That's a lie! I'm seventy-one and young at heart.
He hadn't seen me sunning alone around the bend
by the elevator, he stood waiting with his friends.
And I saw that his Counselor was my age
And I thought of my nine-to-five days
And volunteering in snow, sleet, wind, rain and grime
And the sidewalk manhole in Brooklyn I climbed
And the emotional horse I fell off
And some folks may have had a good laugh
And the skylight I looked up to
And hands that healed and renewed.
And I say, my age is none of my business
I'm seventy-one, and life and me is not yet done.
*