Long Poster Poems
Long Poster Poems. Below are the most popular long Poster by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poster poems by poem length and keyword.
Let me tell you a story from the old wild-west;
Of a terrible lawman with a star on his vest.
His title was “Ranger”; not bound to a town
He studied the outlaws then hunted them down.
One long hot summer; played like a pawn
He’d failed to take down the man called “Big John”.
He was tired and thirsty, his mood like black jet
As he rode into Dodge his sights were still set
On Big John!
He stabled his horse, and checked out the saloon
‘cause he’d heard the big man liked to drink there at noon.
Through the wide swinging doors, he strolled to the back
His face as long as a wagon-wheel track.
The scowl on his face told me this man was risky,
But I was the bar keep, and he needed whiskey.
So I poured him a double in a clean mason jar
And slid it down deftly to the end of the bar.
He quaffed it and gave me a tip of his hat.
I thought it was over, except for the fact
That his mood was still dark, like rain in a flood,
I knew in my gut there was bound to be blood.
There in the corner; his back to the wall,
He waited with patience; said nothing at all.
Just stared at the space ‘bove the wide swingin’ doors,
His hands at his sides, drooping down toward the floor.
It was quarter past noon when the room darkened some,
Big John in the doorway; blocking the sun.
Two shots rang out from the man in the vest.
Two blood stains emerged on the big fella’s chest.
Big John just stood there; there in the door,
Then the glasses all rattled as John hit the floor.
Dry-gultched, like a fox at a watering hole
Big John was finished; so, likely his soul!
The old wanted poster said “Dead or Alive”.
They just didn’t care how Big John arrived!
The Ranger just smiled and sighed, “One more round!”
Then he gathered his pony and rode out of town.
May 9, 2017
Caught in the in between
So cold there now
This time the pain rains down
So lonely now
So scared of what may never come
In a trance blinded by all I fear
How do I grow out side the datk
How do reach for something so far
So close to an end
I have not begun
Time is the enemy
Myself the casulity of in grained thoughts
A product of simply misconception
That I do not deserve anymore then what has been given
There is no consensus way to starting over in love
When all I see is my mistakes
I live with all this regret
A poster child for a failed marriage
What words I branded into everyone
Still burn today
Can't look into the reflection I see no depth
I feel remorse but have no belief
In me to look past and forgive myself
To move forward to state I will not repeat
But there is no guarantee that love will forgive again.
Missing: God Incarnate
By Mark D. Stucky
Last month I lost Jesus.
Maybe he is not lost,
but I cannot find him
even in usual places.
I couldn’t find him in my prayers.
I couldn’t find him in my church.
I couldn’t find him in the hymnal.
I couldn’t find him in the Bible.
If I mislaid keys, you’d ask,
“Where did you put them last?”
I am not sure where I put Christ last.
Even if I knew, would he be there still?
Or would he have simply wandered off?
Maybe to watch over a falling sparrow,
or to catch fish while strolling across a lake,
or to salvage another stray sinner like me?
Should I nail a “Missing” sign
next to a lost cat poster?
Or maybe offer a reward
on the side of milk cartons?
I hope I find him soon.
I’m feeling lost myself.
(First published in Spirit Fire Review, October 2023. See also my poems “Salvation in an App Store” and “God’s on Mute.”)
(Image by Monica Rodriguez on Pixabay.com.)
April 7—Figure something out in a poem
Why Trump?
For the last six years
I have been trying
To figure out
Why 40 percent
Of my fellow Americans
Still support Trump.
Still believe he was
The greatest President ever.
I just don’t understand it
Trump is a racist, misogynist
Sexual predator rapist, narcissistic
Fraudster, con artist, grifter.
Who has lost billions
Of dollars over the years
Never pay his contractors
Or his lawyers.
Has been involved
In over 3,000 lawsuits
And lost most of them.
Who lied over 30,000 times
When he was President
And at least 10,000 times
Since then.
Including the big lie
That he won the last election
Both in the popular vote
And in the Electoral College vote.
Over 90 courts concluded
That there was not there there
And that he lost the election.
There was no widespread fraud
The election was fair and square
And he lost.
Trump is the poster child
For the seven deadly sins
And is not a Christian
Far from it.
Yet to his deluded followers
God anoints him
To destroy the enemies
Of the Christian faith.
Now a court has declared
That he defrauded the State
Of New York
To the tune of 450 million dollars.
He stole top-secret documents
Denied he had them
Refused to give them back
And openly talked about them.
With people not cleared
For secret and top-secret
Documents.
He plotted to overturn
The election
And stay in power.
He openly promises
He will be a dictator
And round up millions
Of illegals, and political dissidents
When he is re-elected,
Why he is polling at 40 percent
And not 4 percent
Is beyond me.
The best I can conclude
Is he appeals to those who believe
The whole system is corrupt.
And is rigged against
Lower-middle-class
Christian white Americans.
They feel that they have been
Royalty screwed over by
The masters of the universe.
Who see workers
As nothing but
Disposable labor units
Of production.
And they are right
And Trump for his faults
Speaks to the forgotten men
And women in fly-over country,
That is why he is still popular
And could be re-elected
And if he is re-elected
Can American Christian fascism
Be coming?
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' P L E AS E! W A I T ' \ ________________________|E
T someone wanted to T \ | |N
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I am your master.
A glorious disaster,
Your beast on string
A crippling disaster
You are my puppet,
my prisoner...my slave.
Your decaying brittle bones beneath shallow frozen graves...
And NO
...I can’t explain it,
Its just a surge
...It’s an urge.
It’s the beast within me.
My instinct to purge....
Ahhh yes...
I taste it,
I’m obsessed...
your praying to your faith...
For a better place to rest?
...yet? So noisy!
The voices Schizophrenic in my brain. My thoughts are cluttered I’m a mess, Twisted & deranged
.... Riddle me this?
Is it cold and scary when your dying all alone?
Should we set your name in dirt Or cast into stone?
I know exactly what your thinking
.....inside your scattered head,
Your probably wishing right about now You were already ing dead...
Your face will be spread Across the 6 0clock news ,
And with all the havoc and panic
I’ll drop em some clues.
But still I’ll up their tormented heads Leaves questions un answered Leaves answers unsaid....
And While I’m digging your hole dropping you deep in the ground
I’ll shovel real deep...7 feet
So you’ll never be found.
And time will go by,
Your missing face on a poster,
Your lifeless body will be Lost and never found!!!
Just the spirit of your ghost.
Rotting 7 feet under the ing ground!!!!!!!!!
BY; SHANTAE PAPPACOSTAS
ORTEGA-ZELE. {11~13~19}
A lifetime of waiting, stacks of National
Geographic half as tall as me, piled on
every step. A girl with nothing to do but dream.
The yellow-black jackets buzzed, I flowered
as I turned the pages. The relics of Tutankhamun
fascinated: gold, turquoise, lapis and the slaves
in mud-brick houses they live in still.
I longed to be the Pharaoh’s daughter;
I kohled my eyes.
Egypt called to me. Pyramids, deserts baking,
heat mirages, and oases of palms with still blue water.
The twenty-first century’s reality is far different.
Cairo teems with discontent, Mubarak’s campaign
posters hung from each lamppost.
Two weeks before the Arab Spring, I was there.
The only safety found behind the gun-guarded,
razor-wired gates of the upper class, and even then—
A country espousing religious freedom was killing
Coptic Christians in the streets, and bombing churches.
Cairo’s one poster child synagogue stood empty,
except for tourists—dark, decorative, haunting,
full of tales of Christ’s sojourn in Egypt?
The pyramids rose hen-pecked by pollution
through a surreal orange sky. Masked women
walk the male dominated streets. Women
live in fear in or out of the hijab.
The majesty of yesteryear, the pyramid of Giza
squats like a discard in the ashtray of desert.
Vendors and tourist litter the site.
Baksheesh is the only God in Egypt,
baksheesh and the horded water of the Nile.
First Published in here & there magazine
in the UK
When I painted this poster of my life
There was so much black and so much red
There was no yellow or blue
Just tan and blain
When the rainbow was cast
The shadows of what has been were colored
But what type of color was it
You see when darkness lurks all around
The grays seemed attractive to me
So what I saw as beauty was really ugly
How my life was then was no climb only falls
How do I fall if I won't climb that is the question that I needed to answer
When you step on those around it may seem you climb
You seem to reach the highest peak but the illusion is you really fall
Farther away from reality
It's a curse a self destruct button
It can only take you so far then the void locks you in
To put a poster out there of my life you would think it is no masterpiece but what is a masterpiece to you
To me it is what I try to color now
Life now as a canvas for change you see the blacker the canvas the whiter the reality could be
So take that brush the thoughts in you mind and search out for what a real work of art could look like in your own eyes because in the end that is all that really matters.
He’s a broken leg performer with a crooked second act.
Went from Brooklyn to Las Vegas with his sarcasm intact.
Does a Smith and Wesson stand-up, voice as sweet as antifreeze.
Tells you how he lost his cherry to some hooker overseas.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
He’s as salty as a used spittoon.
MCs the neon circus
Where he shines just like a plumber’s moon.
Doesn’t pander to his critics. Slanders movie stars for laughs
Wielding heavy-handed put-downs like the jawbone of an ass.
Always orders top shelf vintage; likes his girlfriends under-age.
He’s the truth behind those rumors they found bloodstains on the stage.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
Claims a hammer as his only tool.
A shylock rooked his agent,
Left him face down in the swimming pool.
He’s a smoke and mirrors pundit; all his opinions are strong.
Pegs some yokel as a sucker and he slams him all night long.
Bet the house at Caesar’s Palace; he was shaken, never stirred.
God, I hope that pregnant widow didn’t take him at his word.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
He’s as wholesome as a canker sore.
Don’t ever lend him money.
He’ll just blow it at the liquor store.
He’s a poster child for rehab at the bottom of a slump.
Tried to come back with a wisecrack when Aunt Sophie found a lump.
He insinuates his poison to the marrow of the bone.
He’ll be praying for an encore on the night he dies alone.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
He’s as funny as a dry monsoon.
He isn’t Mr. Starbuck.
He’s just a prick with a sharp harpoon.
Did ya hear the one about those crazy corporate chemists?
They’ve crossed the ebola virus with e-coli bacteria.
It’s being marketed in West Africa by Monsanto as Ebo Cola!
The Fillmore East and Fillmore West
Had shows with bands who were the best.
Bill Graham, the Fillmore's promo man,
Was the performers' biggest fan.
They loved him, too, today I learned,
Respect which both ways was returned.
He often flew from coast to coast
To manage those he loved the most.
A near museum had a show
And I'm so glad I got to go.
With concert clips and poster art,
I traced both Fillmores from the start.
One concert ad, most likely rare,
Meant more to me 'cause I was there.
I closed my eyes and saw the stage,
The memory not dimmed with age.
The past is gone, my husband states,
And thinking back he really hates
But such exhibits, bittersweet
Though they might be, are still a treat.