Long Pencil thin Poems
Long Pencil thin Poems. Below are the most popular long Pencil thin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pencil thin poems by poem length and keyword.
Down that street. The big house, teeming transmissions
of penciled degrees from paper thin ‘pedes,
has basic nature themed accommodations.
Mud wiped under feet. White fresh carpet steamed
and obvious windows certainly so
I walk on hands. Here’s a photo I can’t hold.
Denver on rental skis on stolen snow
a sneaky crook took (much later it snowed).
Pencil thin frames. Too much foundation. Here’s more
in the kitchen. A pumpkin on the counter top
hands over a knife. I open a door
then I carve through a window. Snow hasn’t stopped,
but Cinderella (who’s a lunatic)
undressed before one (still) looks pretty thick.
12/17/2018
Dogs recognize me, own me,
cats tolerate the space I move in.
Long nights have concertinaed the days
into narrowing perspectives,
yet still a pencil thin sunrise
is worth getting up for.
I hear a train coming
it is loaded with happy waving children;
they lean out of the window
their gaily colored scarves
fly in the wind.
O no, another train
coming fast
on the opposite track.
O no, everyone is headless.
I am headless
even though I was not on the train.
The dogs are yelping, the cats
are as stiff as statues.
My eyes are half-open
like train carriage windows.
My head is rolling now into 2020,
apart from the sink holes, fault lines
and cliff edges, it will be, of course,
all downhill,
and I'm thinking:
'it's great to be alive.'
An actor returns to his Beverly Hills mansion –
blows his brains out with a 38 special.
I must have dozed off,
cops at my door,
a line of chain-smoking flashbulbs
in baggy turn-ups.
I watch myself being taken away in a body bag.
The movie is badly spliced.
Black Packard’s keep morphing into flying saucers.
We are all wearing hats,
even the writers in the backroom
are wearing wide-brimmed hats.
The women are wearing hats.
They wear pencil thin skirts,
and talk out of the side of their mouths.
A screen flickers;
a skinny man behind an obscuring microphone
apologizes for the delay.
Meanwhile, space aliens have landed in Brooklyn,
and are exterminating people in hats.
It’s a radio show hoax,
but I don’t know that –
until I wake-up
into a world filled with terror and chaos,
there are no aliens and few brimmed hats.
I can’t sleep.
The sky has climbed over
its usual low cloud cover,
today it is high, blue and vertical
with no hand holds,
those places for the eye to cling to.
In the city we don't get 'big sky'
we get pencil thin shafts
that sweep the dust off ledges,
we have foot-slogging
staircases and elevations.
where the sky cannot rise beyond
one last viewless window.
Far below
upon those hemmed-in streets
some seem forced to grow
into hybrid creatures
that must suck upon
each other's fears.
There are trees, a few stretch and reach
like mountain climbers,
yet all that high air above us is not reassuring,
it creates a feeling of smallness,
our arms too paltry to grasp the infinite.
Mostly we give no thought
to the sheer narrowness of it all,
and so with only these
manmade clifftops to jump from
it's no wonder some choose to leap.
She jumped the cables of this earth and landed on their stratosphere
not much was interlocked inside that interstated space except a high
the coded silence telegraphed in tetrotonic voice was plugged in near
twas' all she heard... computer telepathic knots and sounds of nigh
She had been in an MRI machine and she was saturated in their vibercy
she was a conduit to their human questionaire and viaduct's enscry
pitching her a high pitch sound they pierced the quiet longtitude of chi
then rocked her world with their achromatic lense and telescopic pry
They asked for her binary code dumbfounded and in lack she kept to mute
for it was long ago and way back when the numbers of her match encode
imprinted on the fascmile of mind's extole. Adrift in the sky with no refute
she glided on and found that life is different when your not a metal node
She was sent back to earth with a mind erase and a pencil thin memory
and it was so that when they came to find her many years from then
the only thing that she recalled was the momentary freedom's history
twas' all she knew... that once upon a time she was coded in their glen.
The End.
October 20, 2018
I don’t care what you think of me
Or the label that you give
I don’t care what box you’ve found
Cause in there… I won’t live
I don’t care what thoughts you think
Or how you judge my soul
I frankly couldn’t give a damn
If shaming is your goal
I don’t care you think I’m base
Too fat, not pencil thin
I don’t care, cause you know what?
Your judgment is YOUR sin
I don’t care, I do not CARE
I do not give a DAMN
So scroll on by or disappear
Or get caught in this SLAM!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
People see what they want to see....nothing more...nothing less...
This is a sample of SLAM poetry.
She's lived a lot of "almosts"
She almost drowned under the pulsing weight
of the river's temperamental waters when she was 12
Later on, she felt time itself suspend as she spent
her last few seconds wondering if death would
take her quickly, while her car spiraled down the I-50,
barreling off the ice-ridden road at a deadly 80 mph
into a ditch.
But it didn't
She could have died riding top speed into the back of
a jeep, but walked away from it, granted it took her memory
Deep into the sweltering heat of the desert,
she nearly escaped the strike of an infant rattlesnake,
and walked away, unharmed, after slipping off
the beautiful sandy red rockscape
In spite of all these "almosts"
the most dangerous time of her life
was when the escape of sleep continuously escaped her,
and her body could no longer regulate its own temperature,
among several other things,
including hunger, so she didn't eat a single thing for months
while the tube down her pencil-thin throat continuously
fed her, forever, it seemed, since none of the doctors
could tell her what was wrong.
That was the worst of all - not knowing -
and the most dangerous of all
because it left room for possibilities, probabilities
and contingencies that only proved to be mere fantasies
Over and over
Over and over
Over and overrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
And over
A cycle which holds space for only one capacity - insanity.
Indeed, the most dangerous "almost" of her life was when
hope not merely left her, but became her enemy,
and her dreams of not only finding relief, but of coming
to an understanding of the reality that was haunting her
slowly fermented into a continual round of "almosts"
and, finally, in the madness, one round almost hit her
when she almost took her life.
That was almost the last "almost" of her life
These days she continues to daydream of finding answers,
and reaching a full recovery
as she learns how to wrestle with the desperately fickle
personality of uncertainty and "almosts"
This day
in the deep country, the sky it is high, blue, and vertical,
with no hand holds, nor anything for the eye to cling to.
In the city we don't get 'big sky, we get pencil thin rays
to sweep our dusty ledges, we have elevations
where the sky fades to gray on viewless windows.
Far below, down on the hemmed-in streets
a few trees, stretch, reach like mountain climbers,
In the ghetto, doors clutch at pidgin cluttered roofs.
Mostly
we give no thought to the sheer narrowness of it all;
how the city closes in on itself.
it's no wonder some choose to leap,
rather than foot-slog up an ever-descending
staircase.
A slip of a girl, button-cute, pigtails flying
her first figure-eights traced on roller blades
Effortlessly following the crude colored chalk lines
Emily aced the whole field her very first time
Number eight was magic, no matter where it appeared
In hop-scotch, in jump rope, or even in school
She traced it flee-flowing, vibrant with joy
Little Emily, the envy of even the boys...
She began to understand where all this might take her
to nationals, world capitals, and always the Olympics
in the back of her mind every four years, thinking that
the gold would be hers, no nervousness, no fears
At sweet sixteen she ruled the world, a pencil-thin body
with soft hair and curls, racking up 10's on those figure eights
Emily was a kewpie-doll sensation on skates
Sure that top honors awaited, she circled the dates
Now, of course, you are waiting for Emily to fail,
to fall, to prove that she's human
But forgive me, dear reader, you see
there's a wee bit of Emily,
in every leaf of my family tree
An actor returns to his Beverly Hills mansion –
blows his brains out with a 38 special.
I must have dozed off,
cops at my door,
a line of chain-smoking flashbulbs
in baggy turn-ups.
I watch myself being taken away in a body bag.
The movie is badly spliced.
Black Packard’s keep morphing into flying saucers.
We are all wearing hats,
even the writers in the backroom
are wearing wide-brimmed hats.
The women are wearing hats.
They wear pencil thin skirts,
and talk out of the side of their mouths.
A screen flickers;
a skinny man behind an obscuring microphone
apologizes for the delay.
Meanwhile, space aliens have landed in Brooklyn,
and are exterminating people in hats.
It’s a radio show hoax,
but I don’t know that –
until I wake-up
into a world filled with terror and chaos,
but there are no aliens and few brimmed hats.
I check that my Glock is loaded.
I can’t sleep.