Long Narrowly Poems
Long Narrowly Poems. Below are the most popular long Narrowly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Narrowly poems by poem length and keyword.
Now I'm not complaining
Just a little whining
'cause I feel the need to vent
for there're times things get too hot.
I work all day
twelve hour shifts
Look forward to rest
then play with my sons.
Up my driveway I go
then through the door
Home at last .
When ....zap ! zap! Zing! whissssss! pop !
Ducking and weaving
I narrowly miss the bullets
from the wife's drawn tongue.
Nothing can stop her
once she starts.
A slam of the door
is all it takes
to start a volley of bullets flying.
I hold my breath,
say a prayer and
God does intervene.
She runs out of bullets
retreats, quickly reloads.
Sliding along walls,
easing thru' doors
I grab the boys.
By the time she's ready ,
me and my sons?
Boy, do we hit the road.
My mother died surrounded by those who knew her only by a
narrowly defined role and failure of expectations. While to this
day, only seen as the blame for their short-comings, deficiencies
and mistakes, due to choosing to grant them a life where she had
very little control and all needs unmet were also burdened by
resentment of society. That her plight is invisible due to gender is
a story of discrimination that goes untold or just unheard. She --the
mother-- may as well had died alone, since who she was, just invisible to
those surrounding her, while there being anything more about her
than they knew is just incomprehensible as she faded away from
a life so unfulfilled.
Any state of being manifesting a contracted feeling
is invariably brought about by our ego narrowly perceiving
in turn has to do with our consciousness identifying & associating
with an object real or imaginary it is deludedly fearing or desiring
What the mind interprets to be detachment is more oft than not indifference
that we know deep within as sinking ennui rather than joyous exuberance
Likewise then we may reason that what some of us may call meditation
is quite different from self hypnotic thought controlled healing sedation
Meditation being simply shifting our attention from the ephemeral external
to mind-body rested identity-less awareness simply present in silence eternal
wherein neither repressing nor sublimating any ego associated negativity
we being formless awareness re-connect to divine love magnetism in entirety
As such there is no doer present within and yet all the doing is invisibly done
while we as pristine awareness simply resistancelessly be to become
Love itself in fullness filling the voids of emptiness within
in identity dropped presence still and sanguine
On Cottingham Green
Have you got a light he asked
Breathing whisky fumes in my face
The hand rolled ciggie in his mouth
Miraculously staying in it’s place
As he lifted the bottle
Up to his lips
Then returned it to its carrier bag
After one or two sips.
He said he was owed thousands
From a PPI claim
The money was there somewhere
Waiting in his name.
If they got a move on
And didn’t pay it too late
He was going to buy a caravan
And drink whisky by the crate.
We sat there enjoying
The early spring sun
The he mounted his byke
And was off at a run
The bottle in its bag dangling
From the byke handle bars
As he shot across the street
Narrowly missing two cars.
I watched him ride down the road,
Through a red traffic light,
And then he turned the corner
And was gone from my sight.
I’d been feeling desolate after
Visiting the grave of my wife
But after chatting with him
Felt I was coming back to life
On Cottingham Green.
A faded white shirt
accents his rumpled brown suit
He takes his place unobtrusively
sits content, quietly
His preferences pedestrian
narrowly bourgeoisie
Guests sample exotic liquors
His pleasure is tea
He cares not for flaming duck, nor for pheasant-under-glass
His pudgy fingers put a chokehold on a peanut butter sandwich
For dessert, the raspberry tort was recommended
~ Buffett pockets two mints, peppermint-scented
____________________________________________________
Of course, it's 'The Oracle of Omaha!' Is there any other Buffet
on the world's radar?!
I walk the streets alone searching for a permanent home
I walk the street alone trying to comfort my soul
The season is dry and not a single tear is coming from the eyes
The sun dries it clean and not a drop of water is flowing in the stream
But courage kept me going and my determination kept growing.
Paradise is sitting in the sky counting the days as they go by
Paradise is sitting in the sky directing the “orchestra”
and manipulating the artistic director.
I rose to my feet to greet the people coming in from the street,
The reception was great, but I had no clue what was
transpiring at the gate, some guests were in town
and they were moving the orchestra around.
They stopped at the bar and flood the air with musical brawl
drunk people become sane and they evacuate “hell” from the controversial lane
I had no clue what was going on and so I start pacing about the contentious lawn
with brittles beneath my feet while tension starts flooding the street.
Paradise is sitting in the skies calculating the traffic in the street
and communicating with the people we meet, I had no idea that
destiny was waiting for him at the corner near the gate,
and all of a sudden everything becomes still
and even the trees had to submit to its will.
I saw a shadow walking down the lane
and there was nothing I could do to ease the pain
someone hurled a stone at him
but he narrowly escaped the injury
but just as I thought it was over
a mob emerges from the corner
they were hiding in plain sight behind the light
but they were wrestled to the ground and whisked away
before they could inflict more pain on the open wounds.
Paradise sitting in the sky protecting me from the
hidden eyes, I kept searching for a permanent home
where my spirit could roam; I felt compelled to go the East
where life was merely at ease but that too will soon change with the breeze
I want to escape the burden of the west
For sometimes it causes me to fret,
I keep going back and forth in the west with
daggers aimed at me and it is hard to map out my destiny
but paradise in the skies with wisdom in its eyes
knows what I want and open the windows before dawn.
Mineral is flowing beneath the rocks in the corner of the sea
while paradise in the skies keeps its eyes on thee.
A wind blasted tree,
not lightning struck,
but raped
by a heartless wind.
Just the one tree
on a bare-assed hill,
It stands pallid and naked,
its bark striped away
by raging teeth.
I pick up a stick from the ground,
it’s a severed branch
as stiff as an artificial limb,
tap the storm-shorn trunk,
note that the tree
is not hollow yet.
If lightning had split it,
it would have echoed
a deeper, deadlier silence.
Within the wood
is a narrowly constricted throat,
it is still able to speak
through that elongated windpipe.
What did I hear?
I heard a caged wind
being strangled to death,
and death, it had a ghost-white face,
that’s what I heard,
that's what I thought I saw
through wide, and astonished eyes.
When all that spanned the void were landline phones,
AM/FM, network broadcasts, and, of course, the US Mail,
We might have often thought ourselves especially alone,
But we never had to fear the threat of Facebook jail.
Now it’s “likes,” and “shares,” and “memes,” and “tropes;”
Everyone must learn the ropes,
But someone’s always changing the rules of the game.
Today and tomorrow are never the same.
The climate seems firmly determined to change.
Even glaciers are getting impatient.
There’s a solve for every problem,
And a plan for every fix.
If we’re headed for derailment,
Overlook the politics and lean into the brakes.
Excuse me for taking this seriously.
But as a survivor of several previous train wrecks,
I can attest to the literal fact
That until you walk far enough away,
You can’t possibly grasp the full extent of the damage,
Only the harm you’ve narrowly escaped.
Our world teeters on a delicate balance point,
With existence threatened by the movement
Of a butterfly’s wing.
Everyone needs to do what’s right
For the sake of everything.
My dorm room was bright this morning. It was disorienting.
The sky outside was a cloudless, striking neon blue.
The air was so crisp and clean, I could hardly feel it going in and out.
It all sparked to create a diffused sense of well-being.
Gone, it seems, were the concrete bunker feels of winter.
There's been some loose talk of ‘spring’ lately—I thought it was fake news—but from my third floor lattice windows I could see what looked like people outside. They were walking in the sunshine, riding bikes, throwing frisbees, kicking ??hacky sacks, a couple was making out in the grass—it was a riot of activity.
Sunny skiffed out of her room (which looks like a hotel room trashed by some rock star), she seemed lighter than air. Three days ago, she announced there was someone of “particular personal significance,” in her life (translate: girlfriend).
Start the schmaltzy, string-drenched soundtrack—love is in the air.
Our challenge now is to carve out a poised and measured final act to our undergraduate years. There’s a scurrying, cynosure, beehive, hyperfocus to labs and classes, a heightened, almost cinematic quality, as if, up to now, we’ve only been practicing for some undefined ‘real thing.’
.
.
Songs for this:
Daylight by Harry Styles
Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing by Michael McDonald
Dizzy (feat. Alfie Templeman & Thomas Headon) by chloe moriondo
.
.
Skiffed = narrowly missed hitting someone
Cold shower today - (early afternoon)
September eighth two thousand
and nineteen more challenging than June
dog days of summer test tolerance
to feel alive and bark at the moon
hypothetically imagining myself
alone in the (suburban) wilderness
fabricating, envisioning crossing pontoon
bridge while humming nonsense tune.
Jolt to body electric induces zing
unlike missus who cannot wing
subjecting her sensitive skin
versus modest bragging
rights of this faux king
please pas din me boasting,
but perhaps explanation
I shower without hot water
linkedin to aging.
Which (no matter cumulative
chronological orbitz around sun
just a number), the fleeting
passage of years doth stun
more so forces me to assess
mein kampf, retrospective
devoid of nothing merit but pun
hushing disappointment plus
self deprivation of fun.
Alas within narrowly
circumscribed realm stale
stagnation doth prevail,
I easily overwhelm
courtesy panic attacks of this male
bred avoidance behavior
(cue Pavlov's dog) hearty and hale
trained to withdraw
from challenging tasks
markedly pronounced when fail
my middle name,
where besieged psyche doth ail.
Fatherhood, albeit necessitated taking ace
sip of courage, sometimes
adept to chase
fear of unfamiliar, though
never totally erase
sing passive behavior
I attest infrequently to face
anxiety inducing situations
poise zenned clowns
feign amazing grace
me convulsing with intimidation
agitating, flinching, recoiling...
retreating into isolated place
while profuse sweat drips
from every porous space
heart beat does madly race
despite absence of any threat
exhaustion spent without
factual, logical, rational... trace.
Time and again work fraught
self into lather for naught
recurring soap opera taught
me impossible mission
to rinse figurative suds
unlike showering/washing hair,
whereby cleansing wrought.