Long Pointer Poems
Long Pointer Poems. Below are the most popular long Pointer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pointer poems by poem length and keyword.
The urge to travel,
to spread your wings and fly away,
never rooted to one spot.
never spotted on a route.
signpost now defunct,
map a feeble pointer,
direction only by one’s nose.
Intuition in ascendence,
as day and night blur anaemic edges.
Fleet of foot dream chaser,
never-ending sequence,
is chaotically just that.
Event foreman cast,
in a starry-eyed plot,
script writer of their own unique journey,
stagecoach vagrant from,
a who-knows-where platform,
speed bump skipper on a blind course,
taking the "lie" of the land.
In every sense a false scents,
trailblazer has a life of their own,
but tragically a life that both owns,
and disowns them in "equal" measure.
Time-lapse photographer flagged,
by ephemera but doesn't notice,
loop by loop square off,
under amber moonlight passage.
faraway green seeker,
bereft of halting site,
with no stop off in between,
momentum the only resting place
I knew a man
who smoked one cigarette each day,
mid-afternoon,
accompanied by a cup of black coffee.
Beyond feeding his ego,
control was his raison d’etre,
so he probably did smoke just the one.
Not so with me.
I was far too gone,
reveling in excess on several fronts.
Cigarettes were
my shield,
my pointer,
my distance-keeper,
my comfort in the evening
with one or more neat scotches,
and, of course,
my addiction.
I’ve left behind that obsession,
yet I am plagued by
a particular cigarette memory:
that sweet after-sex smoke.
I miss that singular pleasure,
but then, life requires loss.
I suppose I could try it
one more time,
just the one cigarette
to see what might happen.
But that wouldn’t work.
Unlike my unpleasant
one-a-day associate,
my self-control requires vigilance,
else it dies with a vengeance
that I’m ill-prepared to manage.
Given that,
a smile of recollection will do nicely.
Against the back drop of green leaf copses,
dulcet bird chirp, and bubbling pavement fountains,
that dawning from the azure blue sky a silken whisper,
to follow street signs on my ritual trek to work,
with a hearty ample gusto and potent verve,
metal pointer to destination a micro mirror on surround,
stoic indicator of known direction that upright,
ubiquitous unique urban stylish compass,
clustered by behemoth scenic grandeur,
at its fresh and fragrant mint spring zenith,
and those surging throngs who sashay in brisk step,
rimmed patterns so diverse yet firmly focussed,
as I am whilst counting on that reference point,
that fixed point usher, informative ally,
that deep-dyed friend at each crossroad,
safe in the knowledge of doorstep arrival,
and in tandem with some spotless day,
heroic toil in constant bright prospect,
how symbolic are these pathway guide rails,
to one who warms to flagship growth,
in its august transit on fervent foot slog,
pitfall strewn road of sheer expertism,
pole mounted emblems, silent sentry solid,
detail for me on daily route without waver, to muse, reflect, enthuse on chapter ripe simile,
terse life token for the yet to be completed cycle, where analogy is typified but oft so misconstrued, coincidence, happenstance by foot or by wheel, skewed secret elemental scheme at dim veil core, tip, counsel, auspice, yardstick, beyond outer limit
I've always been a mellow
type of fellow
Laidback like dem seats
in that Cadillac
Yeah! Real chill like that
sleek '73 Deville
Even as a little boy,
The jukebox was my toy
Sweet rhythms of life
abating all ills and strife
A manchild in a candy store
Robust bass, lovely strings, classy keys,
Harmonic horns...Need I say more?
No worries! I will continue___
so vast, so deep, so true
Riding that old country road,
just shaking off the load
Hip-Hopping to the urban ghetto
Tupac and Biggie fo sho'
Miles and Miles of Trane
jazzing through the sun and rain
Blues up, blues down, blues all around
Willie Dixon and that Chess Records sound
Feeling it deep in my spirit and heart
The voice of Mahalia Jackson I can't depart
Luther Vandross to Bob Marley
Bob James to Uncle Charlie
Madonna to Marvin Gaye
Earth, Wind & Fire to Coldplay
Jimi Hendrix to Janis Joplin
Stephanie Mills to Phil Collins
Blondie to Muddy Waters
Whitesnake to Crystal Waters
The Beatles to Bobby Bland
Sam Cooke to Duran Duran
Jackie Wilson to Jackson 5
Otis Redding to the Maroon 5
Cassandra Wilson to the Doobie Brothers
Earl Klugh to the Pointer Sisters
Regina Belle to James Brown
Patti LaBelle to Chris Brown
(Pause)
Man! I think I'd better stop
Before I start talking about Prince
and the King of Pop
But I have a confession to make
Please hear me out; it's not fake
I can't help it; I'm a melophile
Now, excuse me while I go tune
in for a while
Disseminated information...
(perhaps theme broached before, yes)?
(alternate title:The hunger for knowledge)
Whither hearing, vis (ideally,
liberal commentators I adore),
asper "NON FAKE") news,
more than weather, latest sports score
or reading, (yes of course
out loud applying index finger de rigueur
of right hand as pointer)
poetically mentioned once before
ditto via select publications
(oh...alright TIME Magazine, The Nation,
and/or Mother Jones) all of which boar
like a mellow red bull at four
after midnight, nonetheless, who decrees
(hmm... maybe ludicrous to ask courtesy deplore
able basketcase, but inquisitiveness persists
what body electric discriminates furthermore
freedom of what gets published, or
determines permissible broadcasts
made by Federal Communications Commission
allowing, enabling, and providing galore
of choice morsels pollinating
mass media buzzfeeding popular culture
additionally permitting opinions shared by hardcore
investigative journalists, putting life and limb at risk
nonetheless inherent within constitution delimiter
i.e. bureau to censor radical, subversive, more
treasonous than Socialism
with Iron Maiden on tour
must serve as kickstarter
to stifle: tyranny, mutiny,
anarchy, et cetera and shore
up defenses (perhaps in guise of a
reinforced wall) toward those who ignore
codas defining complex edifice of government
trumpeting defiance, uncivil disobedience,
insouciance, et cetera in an attempt to restore
totalitarianism stripping away inalienable
rights of life, liberty and pursuit
of happiness endowed by a smoothbore!
A mystical cross on the inside of your palm
Means your life is foretold in a glorious psalm.
Lucky bracelet rings around your dainty wrist
Means you were created in energy’s mist.
If you palm looks like she’s been sliced in half
Right down the middle, get the fatted calf.
The lifeline which sails widely around your thumb
Cuts in quite deeply, means you are not too dumb.
The heartline across the top chooses her finger.
If she stops at the pointer, marriage will be a zinger.
Headline in the middle between heart and life
Each nick across indicates a tiny bit of strife.
Stars and whorls, crosses, and well-cut lines.
Palm knowledge is as cherished as Pharaoh’s gold mines.
In Gentilly she reigns as Bastet, the daughter of Ra,
An unrepentant drop of golden sun.
Then come some rascal Baphomet, an outcast by law,
A desperado conman on the run.
She teased him with her laser pointer cat’s eyes
To get him sniffing ‘round her litter box.
He jumped at something spooky and she got his goat;
A perfect puss and booty paradox.
She’s a Fat City kitty cat
Sitting in her parlor with a Ouija board.
And she’s conjuring visions of feline intent,
Clawing at the night for her reward.
In Jefferson Parish she covers the odds
With fifty shades of gray behind the door.
Her menu offers Creole faire on Sundays;
She’ll let you taste her etouffee, and more.
In Algiers she appears like an omen,
Then vanishes again as sure as sin.
You can bet an honest dollar on her virtue,
And lose it when she plays her violin.
She’s a Fat City kitty cat.
Her Tarot cards can turn a pretty trick.
Her rivals try to plagiarize her voodoo.
She isn’t just another Cajun chick.
No, she’s a Fat City kitty cat,
A diva with a loyal entourage.
She’ll do her Fat City this and that,
And treat you to a Bourbon Street massage.
Imagine for one moment, one misty mystic moment,
how best to use those golden float seconds,
moments, hours, we as mortal creatures
abnormally fritter into some quaint spurious
void known as passage.
Time's colossal collateral bequeathed unbeknownst
to each and everyone of us earthlings
that slips through a porous filter into
endless futile vapour trails, absent-minded ventures,
and vapid finger gazing.
However, sweeping statements aren’t and
never will be that sermonising torch I
brandish in broad daylight.
Such a pointless pose, a consummate dismissal
leads to skewed off-course compass points.
An aimless drift on anybody’s part beyond
the versicolour dawn, nascent noonday nugget,
rich resplendence of a sapphire twilight
should not be met with brusque distain.
A subtle pointer deftly spun seems
more than ample whenever hidebound aspect lurks.
Day and night should be immersive in their
ambience, without interlude or vacuous intrusion.
A galaxy of Three D screen epics await tellurians
divorced from deep fulfilment.
They, as spellbound junket, are poised around
each bend for instant capture, to seize and duly savour.
Why not revel in each in the moment wonderland,
that dazzling enchantment, ushered by each stroke of the resonant clock?
I owned a goofy Pointer,
as goofy as can be;
He wasn't worth a quarter,
'cause he'd only point at me!
I took him on a hunting trip,
to shoot a lousy duck;
I didn't feel too well that day,
of all the rotten luck!
Way out in the wetlands,
Went "quacks" from a 100 feet;
"Go point 'em out, ol' boy!"...I said,
"Bring daddy home some meat!"
He darted in one direction,
as far as my eyes could see;
He made a sudden turn,
Came back and pointed at me!
Oh what a "BLEEPIN" goof up,
he was pointin' without a care;
Little did I know behind me,
was a big ol' ugly bear!
I could hear its heavy breathing,
this bear was fresh from a cave;
I bolted like a track star,
Quicker than a runaway slave!
I dropped my beloved rifle,
this beast was on our heels;
We dashed across a shallow creek,
To my truck at the top of a hill!
Safe inside of our pickup,
I put the pedal to the floor;
That bear was kissin' bumper,
as the rain began to pour!
My Pointer's dead and gone now,
though smarter than he'd pretend;
We'll meet once more in the afterlife,
he truly was a man's best friend!
Variegated yarn slides
and loops through my digits,
shifts from sunset hues to earthen curlicues.
Tension knots the forward carried yarn
like tales of old
in a “Sock it to me!” movie.
Serpentine needles circular as the sylvan sunset
kiss to form dance to born,
hues of orange and puce
on daring pairs of
socks for winter clogs.
Variegated angora wool seams
loop over pointer and linger under
ring fingers caught on the calloused
edges of sorely worn flesh.
Colors dimming to shades of gray
softly singing cotton halleluiahs.
“Sock it to me!” in a Goldie Hawn dream.
Click click the tips kiss pointed tongues
of steel stealing over bamboo yarns…
of jungles and fierce tiger yellow
onward knit the form
of summers socks born.
poet: Debbie Guzzi