Long Pitchforks Poems
Long Pitchforks Poems. Below are the most popular long Pitchforks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pitchforks poems by poem length and keyword.
lives clogged with gadgetry
like drains on overflow
young minds scurried atop tech pitchforks
that never know a garden
hand extensions clutching spectacles of risk,
cat airs or lost direction
sites that numb and slacken awareness
like selfies that nix the problem of real-time
interaction
web meandering connections
that blunt kooky-cool love
midst screens clutched in hands like roses
because one can't perceive layers of worth
beneath
where influencers babble in throwaway buying
under a stupefying list of 'likes'
under images of self interest
sometimes tic-toc addiction, time distracting
to steal showtime moments like trees
pressed against a multi-colored sky
or the under valued stillness of
reading
oh to chew up the grid of "cells" that flicker
the world in
luminosity,
stark
and fraying
Poem composed June 14, 2023
The Real Monsters
We are afraid of fire breathing dragons and scaly lizards.
Things that go bump in the night. Shadow creatures
who live under our beds and in our closets. Yeti
and Big Foot. Pale ghosts and poltergeists.
Chupacabra’s and vampires. Blood red
demons with pitchforks and horns.
Imaginary monsters that
can do us no real harm.
Why do we fear
them.
What we should be afraid of are people who chose evil.
MS13 and coyotes that traffic in human misery.
Corporate media giants that censor speech. Corrupt
politicians who sell us out to foreign countries.
School boards that label parents terrorists.
Dictators that oppress. Political correctness.
Murders, abusers, gossips, embezzelers.
Wars, hatred and genocide.
We should fear these. For
they are the
real
monsters.
If I were reincarnated, I’d want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hated him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything.
William Faulkner
we know who they are
do we L - O - V - E love them
could be
all the buZZ
we are after
becAUse
they shake our insides
out, make us think,
make us shOUt
others join in the madneSS
raLLy the cause
pick up pitchforkS
grab the torch
foLLow your lead
why is it dark?
who shut the door?
7/21/2022
Not aimed at anyone. Just came to my mind. Enjoy!
It's because of the bacon.
Yeah, it looks good on the menu, sitting there at the rim of the plate. Glistening. Archetypally ridged and ruffled. Positioned perfectly next to the eggs over easy, the pancakes, buxom and buttered, the sausage links, dwarfed but respectable.
Net, the Grand Slam holds its own. At $5.99 ($7.99 in select areas), it's still a bargain. The eggs are fine. The pancakes are as good as any. The sausage links are, you know, OK.
But the bacon... The bacon b-a-con. A swindle, a masquerade, a false promise, a double-cross, tissue-thin, gossamer, anorexic, nervous (nervosa in Spanish), frail, skittish, fragile, and afraid. Overcooked, ipso brittle, short crust, and crumbling. Try to cut a slice, and "snap-chink!" Chips fly everywhere. The knife (if you use one) smacks the porcelain. The fork is stunned, helpless; its tines useless as the spoon.
"Crack!" Oh, I'm sorry ma'am. I didn't mean to do that. Do you want me to brush it off your plate? Hey, a little piece went in your salad, a bacon bit. Do you like bacon bits? I think they're good. And there're not usually made of real bacon."
What are you gonna do with your eggs now? The Grand Slam doesn't come with toast. Everybody's looking at you, waiting to see your next move. "Yeah, I like to mix eggs with my pancakes. You don't do that sometimes? Really? It's good. You want a bite? No? OK..."
It's not the cook's fault. What's he supposed to do? He can barely see the damn things on the grill. Can't blame the waitress or the shift manager. The pigs are probably regular size. You can't expect the stock holders to take up pitchforks. What do you want for $5.99 ($7.99 in select areas)?
That's why I stopped going to Denny's.
Note: The person who lived next store to me growing up invented bacon bits for McCormick. True story.
Roundup lassoes, swinging
Roping stars of wide open country
Sweetheart moon is swooning
Cowboy smiles wrangling darlins
Tobacco spitt’n anywhere the varmint wants
Yellow taxis the color of the sun
Brighten the slate gray egregious city
The pace of walkers as short
Or long as the length of their legs
Spoiled dogs slow them down mean
People drag them by their ordinary collars
Honking horns and finger signs
Freely expressed
Southern gentlemen so polite
Extend an invite with their drawling intent
On fishing, hunting, and a slow cooked dinner
With the misses then a few missed phone calls
Messages overflowing on the other end
fingers tapping, knuckles bruising, years passing
Northerners abrupt but follow through
Quick to snap things done
Even if the wife waits and waits for dinner
The North won
The war but the South is free to ignore
Yet the gentleman runs
Goes all out when his neighbors shout help
puts the burgers on
as his kids obey his every command
yes, sir
US Americans are a riot
A riotting bunch
With pitchforks and torches
No, wait that was Transylvania...in the old country
Still, you get the point
Speaking of stills…
Free to drink since prohibition of prohibition but
Don’t drink and drive or drive and text
And wait until you’re twenty one
Liberating expression
Leads to catastrophic cacophony
Taking knees
Meddling with the media
Flagellating flags
Beating up on confederate statues
Digging graves to bury history
Building walls
Forging freedom rings
Freedom rings…
8/24/2018
I’ve brewed so many potions still you are
I’ve made elixirs from hydrogen to quiet you
Nothing I do is a cure for my lonesome electron
We all have a voice spinning around in our heads
Are yours as loud as a hungry child unquelled?
Are yours like a steel fork dragging on glass?
Silhouettes of thoughts ready to gnash
You are resistant to my entreaties to stop
Noises should retreat to the background
Mine craves the foreground with monster wails
My voice hates crowds and pounces when alone
I am a captive company trashing our home
No amount of lithium will quiet your voice
No lurasidone will quiet your psychosis
Till death do us part we thrashing for release
There was a time when you and I were one
Somewhere in my youth, your evil entered me
You were thrown into the closet with my childhood
Now I’m old the hinges have rusted
The locked door has been clawed to death
I feel your evil talons gnashing a way out
As a scarred door portends, we want freedom
Do I bring out my whip or feed you treats?
Do I show Heisenberg’s theory of uncertainty?
When my spirit is low, it welcomes me home
I welcome evil, but the tiger invites me in
It asks me to enter, but I open an empty sack
Evil comes like a kitten to its father and enters
It calls itself Pygmalion asking me to loosen up
I teach it English, but it drills in me monster speak
I teach it how to use forks and spoons
It shows me how much pitchforks hurt
Thank you for being my test subject
It’s my life’s work to say thanks with sincerity
An education with graduation day out of reach
It’s my life’s work to enter the closet with a tiger
The way out is in without a care of consumption
As it feeds my body daily, I will teach satiety
May it teach me to no longer fear hunger
The potion I longed for was myself
My biggest fear is that people will understand the oddities of me
At first they might be intrigued and charmed, but that will pass
They will try an intervention, ganging up on me, trying to fix me.
Trying to make me like them.
That is my biggest fear
I can smell them coming, feel their disdain for me and my life style.
Armed with pitchforks and tar, they sneak up to my house in the dead of night.
They are angry because I refused to change.
I did not know it was imperative until now,
but now it’s too late.
They knocked down my door.
I can hear them stomping up my stairs.
I do not know their names, but their intent is clear.
I imagine they will give me a lobotomy, or worse.
That is my greatest fear.
Shebang Squirrel was the fastest most frolicking squirrel in the yard.
She could outrun pitchforks, farmers, and toddler in leotard.
Her reputation soon came to the attention of the Squirrel Queen.
Who watched her gathering skills, and saw she was never mean.
Shebang Squirrel shared her pile with the entire squirrel town.
She was generous, and polite, and enjoyed hanging upside down.
She could take a bird feeder apart with one paw behind her back.
For every squirrel quality, Shebang surely had a terrific knack.
One day Shebang was invited to the palace high up in the oak.
At first she thought this must be a weird, cousin Lim kind of joke.
Lim assured her he had no ideas at all what this summons could mean.
She fluffed her tail, and picked up a walnut to take to Squirrel Queen.
You share your stash with the commoners, the Queen said right away.
Scared Shebang's squeaks froze up. She did not know what to say.
You are here, Shebang, for you are going to be my successor.
Queen snapped her fingers and said to her staff, “Please re-dress her!”
I am a common squirrel, Shebang said to the queen in her humble way.
Of course Queen had been looking for such a squirrel every single day.
She agreed to try it, and the whole Squirrel Village rejoiced and sang.
They all loved her new role, their darling generous Queen Shebang.
Topsy-turvy seems so
well, it seems so cute
relentlessly cute
saccharin cute.
Until and unless you're in it
and then, well then the
belly comes to regard
its place in you as
something less than
...certain.
Topsy-turvy, ugh
abounding now
injured this, and angry he
fractured that, and we less she
ugh
pitchforks are being sharpened
and eyes are narrowing
the hits keep coming
and then sooner than
we're ready, before we've
absorbed the first hits
they're covered
before we've recovered
ugh
and now Leonard has gone
and left us
(his poetry)
and now Leonard has gone
and left us
(his view)
and now and now.
And now
we're left with
only what Leonard
left.
You left too soon
I hadn't yet
learned how to
live up to your death.
Topsy-turvy
Unnerves me.
And my Buddhist rock
has turned to dust
and left us to just us.
Walking along from the public house late that night
My lantern giving just a little light
My thoughts as I walked, was I very late?
The time unimportant the year eighteen thirty-eight.
A scream I heard, from a far off distance.
Commotion coming my way, do I make a stance?
A lone figure running towards me, I stop dead in my tracks.
Do I move aside or run away, or even turn right back.
My lamp is only a candle; its light is very dim.
I see a tall figure with glowing red eyes; he is tall and very thin.
With a hooked nose and ears, those look as if they are pointed
He bounds past in the lamp light, with a hood and cloak appointed.
I know not what it is, but to me it looks very evil.
Wrapped in cloak with hideous looks, I am sure it is the devil.
The mob that is chasing it, finds me standing in their way
With cudgels and with pitchforks, but they let me have my say.
Satisfied it was not me, the chase begins once again.
I join the mob in the chase; my heart begins to feels the strain.
We chase the devil along a dark narrow path hoping it makes a gaff
We catch up and corner him, he gives a demonic laugh.
The devil turns to the mob; he’s trapped by a fifteen foot hedge.
His laugh rings out his claws are drawn, silver talons, light glistening on the edge.
One of the mob shoots at him, but the devil opens his mouth wide.
Blue flames and fire shoot from it, blinding the shooter, who steps aside.
The devil leaps the hedge with a great agility
I am aghast with fear and shock, a demonic laugh reaches me.
We stand not knowing what it was, will it be coming back?
A voice from the mob, whispers you know what…
That was spring heeled Jack
Spring Heeled Jack was seen during the time of Jack the Ripper in the streets of London in 1838.