Long Off hand Poems
Long Off hand Poems. Below are the most popular long Off hand by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Off hand poems by poem length and keyword.
The second time was three years later,
when my cousin called me ‘hater,’
she had gone and got pregnant, see,
despite only being eighteen.
The father had, of course, skipped out,
she claimed,”I don’t need him anyhow!
I am just fine here on my own,
I can’t bring up this kid alone!”
Claimed that she didn’t need a man,
that on her own she’d proudly stand.
I said nothing, but I should have,
maybe stopped it from going bad,
but my cousin was obstinant,
and did not see the detriment,
When a year passed I came again,
saw what she’d been living in:
Basement studio, in downtown,
the place where folks don’t hang around,
could not work with a young baby,
lived off hand-outs, paid for by me,
had been robbed twice, never felt safe,
all of the light drained from her face,
she just said she was,”getting by,”
no hint of sparkle in her eyes.
I can tell you I was quite disturbed,
suggested she seek out the father,
see if he could pay his fair share,
her furry caught me unaware.
She still gave me the same old rant,
that she was fine, needed no man,
she claimed that she was,”Doing great!”
Yet her furniture was packing crates.
Despite the fact she was a mom,
she was a kid, throwing tantrums,
believing that an angry yell
could hide the fact she needed help.
So I went to the drug store quick,
stocked up on more prophylactics,
no kid of mine will live that way…
another stirring of the change.
It's all about to come to fruition
to seath up and boil over in volume and commission
The intention of the off hand is to present the will of the common
driving down to the bottom with no cause to empty the plenty free you see.
I cast no spell to either side tho I hide behind honorable walls ready to peak around the side and utter my righteous mantra.
I might just have fun with the sincerity of others who are afraid of what they are told to be afraid of.
With love so right it's wrong to know when "no" means more to you than to them requiem this intent to stint the stench sent by the unrepentant to persistent intent.
I bask in the glory filled fortified facts that we stack high abroad to attack when everyone is watching.
Desencly watching with no way of knowing where you're going.
If they're told to hate do they know when to cease?
To release all bindings and so called findings of convenient facts
That stack on there mind so high they can't see over their own failure
To see that their freedom has been redefined for their confinement.
Long ago, I built for myself a citadel.
A fortress of stone and shining marble,
deep within the confines of my heart's depths.
I retreated there in my darkest hours,
seeking solace in the vast halls
that swallowed the noise, the screaming and pain,
and left only my thoughts;
a true bastion of peace.
Then one day, not so long ago,
an angel walked into it,
strolled in and so seamlessly became my life.
Every moment stretched into hours of
ecstasy and elation,
four months of happiness became forever.
She filled this abode with splendor and light,
chased away its shadows and held me close.
Then something terrible befell me.
The passion, the spark in her, died;
her interest waned and I was abandoned.
She left with scarcely a word,
and yet it meant so much.
With this whisper, off-hand and mere courtesy,
she caved in these once-mighty walls,
tore my castle down.
Now I roam here, amid the scars and debris,
a ghost at play with the remnants of its past;
yet here I am haunted by ghosts of my own,
echoes of her strewn among the wreckage.
My worn and battered frame hangs
off my drooping shoulders as I stumble around,
staring at the surrounding devastation;
this castle of mine turned monument to my past.
I wonder at the cause,
at the reasons why,
and wail at a fate so swiftly undone;
I know not why I
was left so low and alone.
Tears stain the ravaged cobblestones as
I wander these tormented paths,
the broken stone mirroring the broken man.
I cannot escape her shadow,
regardless of inclination or distance;
I climb the heights of these sorrowful ruins,
the crumbling towers and wasted spires,
and the ghost of her follows me on.
I grow weary of the whispers of time gone by,
but cannot find the steps to leave;
my sanctuary become my prison.
Here, my grief.
Here, my grave.
There's a legion of doc-ologists to keep us on our feet.
A glance in the telephone book reveals a list complete!
Seems there's an "ologist" to care for us from head to wiggly toes,
Prodding, poking and dosing to ease our miserable woes!
Praise the Lord for geront-ologists who care for folks my age,
To ease our minds, hold our hands ushering us t'ward dotage!
Then there are the psych-ologists who meddle in our head.
The practice of the proct-ologists is better left unsaid!
The dermat-ologists who cleansed our faces of acne as a teen,
Now hassle us about slathering ourselves with sunscreen!
I'll never understand how anesthesi-ologists operate off hand,
But I know their potions ease the pain as we relax in la-la-land!
Gynec-ologists specialize in treating ladies' singular ills,
Including that vexatious time marked by hot flashes and icy chills!
Cardi-ologists are vital for keeping us alive and kicking,
Checking aortas and such to ensure our hearts keep ticking!
I'll coin the term "the-ologists" who deal with our languid souls,
Directing our thoughts upward beyond mere earthly goals!
Radi-ologists, ur-ologists, "other-ologists", I could go on ad infinitum.
Lastly, there are cosmet-ologists to pretty us up when we succumb!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
As I look to see the way she stands
when I leave
-I'm surprised as if a wave,
reminds me.
As long as the shadow of etertinity-
drawn from the drip of the cup
of our unspoken insecurity.
Is it purity or impurity?
As far apart
you feel away,
I never think myself the villain.
When when is the stark beneficiary of today.
When our feelings go out to 'plain
from a side-turn you're right of me,
on, what happens with loves burning,
churning a flames symphony
within a sacred play.
We always go off hand,
off road of the clear path.
I mean to say, that come hell or hound,
they are gonna stand on either way-
of our aftermath.
-
Debris of props in our execution of stay.
If a thought comes and if love has taken away,
its place is a man who loves a thing,
even the trace-
Of a day that can be just you.
Shining its beloved face.
When we were kids we used to climb trees,
Get grubby hands; scrape the skin off our knees.
We jumped in deep puddles and made big mud pies,
But what you said next made me shudder inside.
You sat in the sun; I sat in the shade,
With mum’s homemade ice cream and pink lemonade.
We shared all our secrets, our comics and toys;
Had the same pin ups and kissed the same boys.
As we sat with our wine and thought of the past,
Of the fun that we’d had; a shadow was cast.
You said I was black and the dirt didn’t show,
I was speechless with shock, but you didn’t know.
As you sit in the sun, turning darker than me
I try to figure out the way that you see.
How do I tell you, will you understand?
An off hand remark, burns inside like a brand.
Christmas Day has arrived; the thought fills me with such dread
For over twenty years they’ve come to me; it's doing in my head!
I get up at the crack of dawn to get the turkey in the oven
Gran moans about my cooking – she belongs in a witches’ coven
I always arrange the festive table last thing on Christmas Eve
I don’t sit next to granny; her table manners make me heave!
My sister is so overweight; you should see the size of her fanny
She belches loudly when she eats, so I’ll sit her next to granny
The taxi arrives at twelve o’clock and I crack open the sherry
When they sit down at the table they are starting to get merry
I slave over a hot stove; no one moves they act too grand
I’ve given up asking for help, they treat me so off-hand
Well this year I’ve rebelled and put laxatives in their soup
I’ll smile secretly when off to the toilet they will all troop
The soup has been devoured and I clear away the plates
When the laxatives take effect they’ll be in dire straits!
The turkey has been carved; all the vegetables are piled high
Uncle Albert grosses out; he needs a trough in a pigsty!
Turkey, and all the trimmings they will quickly devour
Granny moans about the sprouts she said that one was sour
I quietly sit seething whilst they get all get steaming drunk
Uncle Albert farts loudly – he’s worse than a blinking skunk!
Christmas pudding is eaten, followed by juicy mince pies
Sister Annie stuffs her face, as more fat piles on her thighs
Single handily I clear the table, and then we open up the gifts
It costs me an utter fortune; you should have seen their lists
Annie has knitted me the most disgusting baggy jumper
I smile sweetly and thank her, but I really want to thump her!
At four o’clock the taxi comes and they all go off home
I sit by the fire with a cup of tea, I’m so glad to be alone
Next year it’s going to be different; I’m going to go away
Booked a luxury cruise – I’ll be abroad on Christmas Day!
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I know that it struck me as strange
the moment I first felt the change,
a first inkling, it came to me
way back when I was twenty-three,
was my first summer out of school,
I met with my friend Jo Dankool,
he’d graduated two-years before,
I barely saw him anymore.
We met up for drinks one brisk night,
the way he moved didn’t seem right,
his energy seemed all but robbed,
I asked and he said,”It’s the job.
I like my work, please do not doubt,
but just got my taxes figured out.
I would be making eighty K,
but feds take so damn much away.
Annoyed to work sixty hours,
do all that is in my power,
only to lose a massive chunk,
two years back who would’ve thunk,
that I would look down on the poor
and wonder if they could do more…
For every one who really needs
it seems there are another three
who easily could be at work,
I point it out, they call me jerk.
to sit around while I toil
really gets the blood to boil,
why now has it become okay
to live off hand-outs all your days?”
I just let him rant and vent,
these words couldn’t be what he meant.
Then I got a job selling boats,
and learned just why that way he spoke,
when I sweated quotas every day
to bring down my own fifty K.
worked hard for it, but they’d declare
that I was ‘rich,’ money to space,
that I was just a greedy bloke
not to give it to poor folks.
So why work then? I wracked my brain,
felt the first stirrings of the change.