Long Newsprint Poems
Long Newsprint Poems. Below are the most popular long Newsprint by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Newsprint poems by poem length and keyword.
It wasn’t that she was the only woman
in the group, that mingled precariously
beneath the bronze figure, or her classic
stance, when placing immaculately the
newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly
breached, but more her opulent style, her
contrast of attire, her hair as yet unspoilt.
Although jewel less except for a wedding
ring in her recently pierce blood stained ear
lobe, (this bearing signs of some street wise ritual?)
she still wore a suave sophistication, eyes
that bred a wanton life, fingers more use to
the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than
the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of
the common brown. But alas maybe the
corrosion has not as yet penetrated her
foreboding mind, a mind that in time will
be given to surrender, never to realize that
this volatile life will plunge her deeper, into
one shambolic life, whilst still trying to escape
from the previous. But! Who knows what ills she
was force to bear, what tribulations life brought
upon her, maybe her new found acquaintance
comfort her, listen to her sympathetically,
understanding her predicament, also a novelty
this sharing, this caring, respect and reverence
showered upon her, like solicitous petals
falling gracefully upon her shoulders,
removing the burdens of a lifetime.
Her head
began to lift higher and higher with every
mouthful of distant courage, every courteous act.
Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle was
released from her reluctant deep red lips, a
senseless shake only proved her greatest fear.
Immediately to her aid, came one of her new found
companions, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge,
he commence to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit,
with his mucus soiled cuff less sleeve, before
passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly
awaiting its return.
One can imagine when the long day
is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley bench will be hers, only the best that fleet street can offer, will cover her chilled body, her metabolism soon accelerating, to become one with theirs, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will all options for her diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction almost completed!
© Harry J Horsman 1991
It was not that she was the only woman in the group, when mingling precariously beneath the bronze figure of William Booth, or her classic stance, when placing saintly, the newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly breached, but her opulent style, her contrast of attire, and as yet her hair unruffled. Although sparse of jewelry a gold ring dangles on a chain, catching the light as it shines in the noon day sun, a tinge of blood trickles down her neck. Her recently pierce ear lobe, bearing signs of some street wise ritual? Evidence of suave sophistication, exists with movements of grace and elegance, fingers more use to the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of a bottle of brown ale.
a fork in the lane
no signpost to guide one home
a need or a deed
Her head begins to lift higher and higher with every mouthful of distinct courage, every courteous act. Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle is released from her reluctant deep red lips, a senseless shake only proved her greatest fear. Suddenly to her aid came a wayward chap, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge. He commences to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit, with a mucus soiled cuffless sleeve, before passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly awaiting its return.
a lane to despair
not alone but in the palm
existence or life
After the corrosive day is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley park bench will be her abode with printed tabloids to cover her chilled exterior, her metabolism accelerating, to become one of so many, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will options for her begin to diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction rapid along the highway of completion!
first rays of sunshine
a trial or tribulation
the signpost renewed.
© Harry J Horsman 2018
…from as far back as I can remember I have made, “things”. I remember before I began school, at my grandmother’s home in Detroit and working at her kitchen table, where we would spend hours together drawing, coloring, cutting and gluing shapes, making things. Once I began school, Catholic nuns complained to my mother that I was always drawing. My books were always covered with my drawings. Friends would ask me to draw this or that and they would watch me. My father had skills as a draftsman and he passed his training on to me. My mother developed an interest in ceramics and I remember watching her paint the pieces before they were fired. My older cousin, Ron, had skills in painting and drawing. I loved visiting with him to see his latest psychedelic paintings that covered the walls of his basement where he worked, as the MC5 blasted on a record player. A particular memory from the fourth grade stands out in my mind. A teacher invited her artist daughter to visit our class and during her visit she gave us an assignment that consisted of a sheet of newsprint paper that had a single green mark on it and instructed us to draw something that began with this mark. Each student’s sheet had a different green mark. I recall being excited by the challenge of the assignment and dove into it without hesitation! My finished drawing consisted of three one-eyed clowns surrounded by balloons. She gave my work much praise for its composition and color and I was thrilled that a “real” artist acknowledged my ability. Her recognition determined my life course. I would be inspired by other teacher/artists throughout my education, but none so affecting as from this chance encounter from the fourth grade. Art has been a constant in my life ever since.
Yiu can walk a mile in a mirror stance and
never feelyour own re reflection. Your glaze gaze
bends on invisibility--a certain humor
crosseyed cleverly cleared like the rooms in the
Winchester House or a traffic jamitis through
the Mac maze at sundown. Feel ferr to co caress
your tired instep and take a loud load off
hope for that new impact that will tell
the torrid tale page by page compact dutiful
but united in a duffle bag born of poise
pronounced zipper closed but not finger
forgotten-A minor standing at the Bebop
wishing well cool crammed
with apast B&W luxuries like a passed used
kleenix round for loose nose hits--picture
frame elements often snotconceived, but
always matted for ignoi insignificance. Like
clean tree pages waiting to be messed by
someone's illict penmanship, dry but butt bold,
promising but hiding those grammar grabber
glib gratuaties in hopes of a chance for a fat
freeload advance and a creamy handshake which will
sale set the ass o nine critics on their
Keep pseudo salient the echo encrusted
think thoughts you columinize- like a pants
pair without the cute cuffs--hope your midsection
is in tune with the public bulge extroadinarre.
Simple times, simple terme, simple thoughts
simple solutions knowtellseefree for all course
bookings on a thorny stitch stage- pious prowess
butt ugly unique paychecks pay roll a sham stabbing
sliky slander most of the toime home prompt
legal-though low-some in in intent and
dubious dime parlor dance demeanor. Customize, cannonize that cowper's
culprit calamatious catastrophic claim. WTF?
Freight train is moving out; a big black Mally s’ pulling lead
The Mally’s fire s’ getting hot; she s’ belching smoke an’ blowing steam
Her big drivers ah’ drumming out a rolling rhythmic beat
Whistle blowing that lonesome wailing moan; a warning for all to heed
Caught her on the fly; grabbed a gon and rode it through the night
It’s a gondola on a sunny day; a side door Pullman in the rain
For a drifter on the bum; tis the life he s’ chosen to lead
The rhythm of the rails induces sleep; till the early morning light
Pack slung or’ his shoulder, got it all bundled up tight
Tis a cardboard mattress, newsprint blankets; just a few
tin can cup; bent lid spoon all tucked well inside
Hopped to a jungle; further on down the line, sun was shining bright
Smelt the aroma of a steaming jungle pot; tis purely a delight
Pulled up a bucket to set a spell; dips him a cup of that steaming jungle stew
savors the flavors; up to his fill; jaws a bit, seeking events along the rails
Will catch another slow mover again; when the time seems just right
An explanation: This is from observation of these “hobo type individuals” as a result of my having worked in large rail centers where railroads merge many years ago. The “big black Mally” refers to a type of large steam locomotive. “The jungle” refers to an area where these individuals could rest a spell before moving on. A “jungle pot” refers to a small barrel that served a cooking vessel that always seemed to be steaming with a stew of whatever these folks could beg barrow or steal to contribute.
On the edge of metropolitan midnight
he lays in a breathless silence
rasping the evanescing yesterdays to his windows
both open and locked,
while the unknowing below in stale smoke barrooms,
wait to sear his wounds and retell his life
in putrefied requiem.
Abashed metropolis
echoing of muted voices once adorning the streets
in practiced synthetic ritual,
the vile awash and seeping through asphalt cracks,
the scent of rot, old and new, smattered on old brick edifices
silences the ascending smoke plumes
belched from and within dirtied concrete towers,
the final endeavor from within a dying mans spirit
reaching out to no one
City’s voice wails from the antechamber in darkness
anxieties fracturing the panes amongst the downtown fire
of urban panic
lucidity congealing away within him, kept only in the moment
by metronome dripped medicine
exposing him to his damp streets, dirtied culverts, sewer ditches
chemically induced and maintained.
Fighting for his identity within this sterilized chaos,
whispering for the few of open mind somewhere below the window sill,
quicky stepping onward, over his newsprint life,
calling out one last time
There he lays in cold white sterility,
calling silently to his windows, both opened and locked,
watching his stories catch and fade in the dull humid streetlight
wisped away on steam grate stale winds,
the dying soul, eyes closed, his aged lined face
muddied, scraped, and walked over,
through the grime of progression left on sullied pavement.
When all opinions are the ink of newsprint
Repetitious in the speech
A presented little gift
Wrapped up in the tinsel glittering eye full
Of something called the truth
But is bought the cheapest wall paper
To cover up all the crack inside their proof
Religion is the grand avenue of neon
The bright and sucking casino of a thoughtless heaven
The immediate acquiescence
To accepting disavowal and asking for forgiveness
A panacea for the sickness
An ever ready cure all
For the chill we feel inside the retina of our soul
And all the countless implications
Wrapped in the need for some ready cash
Become the excuses we use
To explain the seeming lack of love
We become the property and commodity
Of the society for sale
Slaves to the mediocre shadow of ourselves
Survive; it’s the least you can do, while you are alive
It’s the most you can achieve
In your precious and be-gifted life
To cling knuckle white and bleeding
To the dogma of your skin
Competing with every human
For the little you have been bequeathed
There is more sorrow in the numbness
Than any of us can conceive
How split and unrequited
How fearful we believe
And how desperately we see
When perception hangs on beauty
And our tears echo from how much of beauty, we really need
Even though entertainments and all their useless possessions
Fluffy warm us in our overly implied contentment
Keeps us from detecting or even questioning
The chill we feel inside the retina of our soul
News flash
Paris attacks;
Violence strikes
~~~~~~~~~
Innocent deaths
Terror unveils;
Death delivers
~~~~~~~~~
Madness conspires
Human debris;
Bigotry unleashed
~~~~~~~~~
Evil men scheme
Distorted agendas;
Self-destruct roams
~~~~~~~~~
Good people die
Bloodbath escalates;
Terror unleashed
~~~~~~~~~
Signs of our times
Deceptive turbulence;
Mortal casualties
~~~~~~~~~
Moods swayed
Fear catapults;
Distorted means
~~~~~~~~~
Uneasy chimes
Violent crimes;
Explosive times!
~~~~~~~~~
Details of gore
News galore;
Killing fest
~~~~~~~~~
Retribution
Constitution;
Revolution
~~~~~~~~~
Sorrow sums
Deadly outcomes;
Cruelty strikes
~~~~~~~~~
Newsprint copy
Headline news;
Terror firms madness
~~~~~~~~~
Propaganda hurls
People fodder;
Bombs and bullets
~~~~~~~~~
Create if you must
Lodge your complaint;
Body bags not included!
~~~~~~~~~
Atrocities
Exclusive news;
Pain sells well
~~~~~~~~~
Face to face
Terror redecorates;
Body debris trophies
~~~~~~~~~
Why do you do
The things you do?
Tell me
~~~~~~~~~
Love hurts
Violence hurts;
We all hurt
~~~~~~~~~
Precious times
Ransoms forfeit;
Sad humanity mourns
~~~~~~~~~
The cycle of circles
Bad and good;
Seeking balance
~~~~~~~~~
Maybe we can
Find tomorrow;
Safely better?
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
15 November 2015
Singapore
I saw an old man with a hard hat on
Walkin' down the road as the sky turned dawn.
I said, "Howdy Bub, where you headed to?"
He said, "Don't much matter - just west will do.
I been roughneckin' seems like all my days -
Got to thinkin' 'bout how little it pays.
Then I thought hard about this drizzlin' rain -
Whether the sun would ever come again.
An' then I remembered last summer's heat
With the oil soaked boots that ruined your feet
Well, I broke my glasses and swore THAT"S IT !
Stormed off the floor and fell in the mud pit.
I got back on dry land, drippin' and soaked
The young rascals just laughed, pointed and joked.
Well, I just shrugged and said 'send me my pay'
Hiked up my britches and went on my way."
I said,"Well, Friend. have you figgered it out
Are you gonna make money or do without ?"
He said,"Yessir, there's somethin' I'll espouse,
Play the piano in a bawdy house."
Well sir, I laughed so hard the tears ran down
This mudsoaked roughneck was surely some clown
I let him out when it came to my stop
He told me his name - he looked more like "Pop"
Years later I saw that name in newsprint
In the Obit section - his life was spent.
Seems he was famous, jazz played at its best
Got his start in a whorehouse, somewhere out west
All I could see was that muddy roughneck
Leavin' that rig headed west sure as heck
Mudpit to cathouse ain't a new story,
But it's a long road from cathouse to glory
April, 2013
Rhyme AABB
Odd roadside stall
Newsy newsprint;
Brisk disaster sells
~~~~~~~~~
Hardware insights
Self-Help projects;
Crafty poise
~~~~~~~~~
Evening dark
Deserted park;
Empty ark
~~~~~~~~~
Primal pose
Playground excursions;
Kiddy laughter
~~~~~~~~~
Traffic accident
Human error hurls;
Proud regrets shout
~~~~~~~~~
Brisk brush strokes
Calligraphy moves;
Artwork erupts
~~~~~~~~~
Old miniature book
Tells another story;
Beyond print run
~~~~~~~~~
Another tale
Tells on you;
Business acumen
~~~~~~~~~
Line by line
Echoes rhyme;
Poetic impulse
~~~~~~~~~
Joy seeps
Charm knows;
Sublime moments
~~~~~~~~~
Grass verge array
Unnoticed flowers;
Grace attends
~~~~~~~~~
Morning Glory
Floral vines creep;
Warm sunshine styles
~~~~~~~~~
Old memories haunt
Stagnant corridors;
Sepia escapade
~~~~~~~~~
Talk of town
Rumours sublimate;
Non solid state
~~~~~~~~~
Little boy here
Don't ever grow up;
Helpless strains smear
~~~~~~~~~
Passing clouds
Fluffy dreams float;
Cotton candy
~~~~~~~~~
Precious Moments
Cute figurines sculpt;
Strokes heart health
~~~~~~~~~
Morning espresso
Caffeine intervenes;
Sleepy eyes droop
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
02 June 2016
Singapore