Long Pouches Poems
Long Pouches Poems. Below are the most popular long Pouches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pouches poems by poem length and keyword.
Sparrows enjoy a certain reputation
For intimacy and hope
Crosby Stills and Nash sang of them
In Suite: Judy Blue Eyes
As compatriots to the morning
Air
With guitar strums and high notes
Truth be told
Sparrows are bulkier than the normal song bird
And not particularly
Pretty
Brown and gray as a mound of dirt
Chirpy jerky punk band
And they have no problem with crowding out
From a bush or bird feeder
Finches and chick-a-dees
They’re kind of a bully
Push around those that are smaller
Who carry pouches of yellow and pink
And tiny symphonies
They clog up my eavestroughs with nests
Right now
I watch one sparrow land on top of another
And the tree branch bends down
Under their heft
Bounces up and down
To their sex
Again
The limb
Seemingly
Waving them off
Or so it tries
As if it’s saying
Get off me you animals.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The reindeer folded their hooves in protest
demanding no more rooftop dashes,
no hauling toys in winter’s blustery blast.
Picket signs read: No More Sleigh!
Dasher, his loyal and faithful reindeer servant,
even burned his harness! What should Santa do?
A desperate Santa, opened ZipRecruiter with a click~
Urgent: Sleigh Team, No Flight Experience Okay.
The squirrels showed up with acorn résumés,
gnawing the reins and forgetting the route.
Team Squirrel was speedy, but slightly unkempt,
cheek pouches bulging with ill-gotten tempt.
They zigzagged the skyline, dropping acorns like coal.
Even Santa’s sleigh wobbled left, then right~
At dawn, the squirrels parked crooked on a power line,
cheeks stuffed with stolen candy canes, utterly divine.
Dragon
The mystical dragon pictured in today’s print and movies never existed.
Many mystical creatures are based on exaggerations of a creature that did exist.
Possibly, a medium sized tree lizard with the ability to jump from tree to tree in search of food.
It had very strong stomach acids laced with biological silicone gas. The gas slowly rose from tubes to fill pouches on both sides of its mouth.
When confronted by a predator, it hissed releasing the silicone gas toward the predator.
The gas was self-igniting in air, and the flames burned the predator.
Over centuries, seeing fire in very tall trees and telling and retelling of the story with additions,
Give us descriptions of the mythical Dragon we see today.
A large flying reptile with wings and the ability to release huge flames at will.
hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love,
dear reader, stir them as you like,
if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth,
you may smear them on your body
or you may sprinkle them on the ground
and then chant the name of god
with love and enjoyment
1.
the simplicity that rolls down
from the body of the sweet-meat
made by my mother
let it bring light
to our radish-red love-story
to hear or to notice
love
does not need
putting an ear on the wall
of the wall-street journal
the bottle could be filled
from the voice
when you go to fill the bottle
you would see that everywhere
the arrangement of picnic is ready
when i want to take part in that feast
my neighbours would drive me towards
the home
although i’ve spent all my life
running behind the love
2.
who’s won the muddy-battle
was yesterday’s politics
my addiction is actually to cater
the pouch of love
to develop all vitamins
and all bathrooms
people say you don’t love
the claps of the rats
yet i’ll come down
from the branch of a guava-tree
as a wave-of-shopping-mall
to the lake of your love
now i’ll jump out
from this computer screen
to register a kiss
on your lips
don't miss to applaud
by clapping the hands
3.
the heart is half-sunk
in the window
to some extent
in the lipstick too
on the dinner-plate
there is the feelings of the lord
that means
i’ve to be burnt more
i do agree
i would become
the sculpture of khajuraho
this happenings may have been
the right search for love
on either-side of which
a green is being worked out
by the nostalgic-cycle
whose colour-texture is very much harappa
which has too many geometric-memories
4.
an undertone is speaking
from within the solitude
now i’m in very much
distress
or i’m in love
i don’t know my love is what-for
may be that’s an arrangement only
so easily are those interactions
stitched with words
strenuous or effortless
in flight
initiated
with seclusion
but when in the sinking of the playfulness
i write the games of the street-charmers
the birds again and again
pierce the archery
thus becoming ashes
through travelling
in time-gaps still
the audacity to compose poems
on you
Prologue
Abandoned and in disrepair the mansion
Is dark now; a story behind every stanchion.
An unwitting monument to a way of life,
Since foreclosed through bloody civil strife.
Antebellum
The hush of summer evenings cued the trilling
(Fiddled on hind legs accompanied by warty pouches)
Chorus; pierced only by the discordant creaking
Of unseen stairs rising to the house slave's quarters
Portending the disquiet of antebellum martyrs.
Wittiness trees attest in angles and chains
To the master's grid and shade the lanes
For the surrey whose wheels rutted the gateway
(Become artifacts) en route to soirées of gaiety.
The prairie land, violated by steel and condescension
To the roots of its towering grasses and purple gentian,
Forced to nourish seeds of an alien flora for hempen
Riches, patiently awaits its day of redemption.
Bricks of fertile earth fired over an Osage hearth,
By chattel hands, in mortise and tenons, gave birth
To a mansion at the prelude of a moral sea-change
That would divide the nation and break its chains.
Current Era
Their lives deprived of enslaved labor, the once-lived
Voices ebbed a little as each generation removed.
Shrouded in leaves of time they are a mute bequeath
Indelibly recorded upon the stories that lie beneath.
Dreamer boy speak for them now. Sing for bluestem that switched
Against the sky nourishing the thundering herds that provisioned
Native tribes. Rage for those hobbled to sow but never to reap,
Weep for a Nation gone mad and seeds planted too deep.
Reflections after touring an abandoned antebellum mansion.
Copyright Paul M Thomson September 2011.
Whole countries abide in my pockets.
Places that live in closets of cloth,
pokes, pouches, and nests hid darkly
as the cloistered and inert.
Mossy dens and dimples of lint they are,
until hands fumble for a castle,
a temple or even derelict homes;
then as fingers recall their shape
they reform to places
that can be entered again.
Once I was in a prison
I strode many lands
climbed horizons, journeyed by the light
of waymarking moons.
yet I was a prison within a prison.
I live in a small plot now,
it can be counted in feet not acres,
yet I own the whole sky,
I can only be measured
in expanding circles.
There are worlds in my pockets,
each one represents
a pebble picked from one beach
to take to another.
That other shore is not far now,
there I will empty those pockets,
all thoughts of time and place.
Sire she's been sighted
two miles south of Sinai,
our sentinels say she has brought a river,
her baggage train stretches into the ancient sands,
the envoys of her retinue spoke of marvelous gifts,
beasts and creatures of the Orient
gems that glitter like the eyes of children
summer baskets of gold bullion
and satchels of spice from Siam,
our men said they could smell the barrels of balsam Sire...
To travel with such unmistakable wealth
the Queen must have brought a war machine along,
have desert brigands been spotted near the route...
No my King, no raider encampments have been observed,
just the regular rabble and agape villagers,
it's been confirmed that her associates
are passing to the people pouches of cinnamon...
I don't trust the Egyptians,
they may try to incite the Bedouins to foolhardy thievery,
our Nation's honor demands
that not even the dust of the devil's danger
deign to dry upon the clothes of her most distant servants,
if the House of Zion can secure a partnership
with the trading powerhouse of Sheba
our supremacy over the Babylonians will be indomitable...
I pledge my life, and that of my family's
to her caravan's safety Sire...
So mote it be General,
your loyalty is my blessing,
may it be as strong as the staff of Moses,
dispatch 333 of the Lion's Legion
to reinforce the Queen's guard
and send a circuit of 15 water wagons...
What does a Queen dream of
in the calm desert nights...
I dream of roses melting
into snake bitten hearts,
I've dreamt of citadels broken
by the grips of greed,
I've seen a child walking out of a tomb,
what does a King dream of
in the shadow of paradise...
I dream of thorned stars,
the division of labor and wages,
of priests and Judges
whom wish to rule quietly without blame...
Do you know what thrilled me the most
about the Court reception...
Tell me, my cinnamon Queen...
The seduction of your Servants' silence
as I entered your meticulous throne room...
I understood their awe,
you moved so gracefully,
your body like an ancient lust
your face a flame of royalty...
I think I fell in love with your eyes,
there is something rough about you Solomon,
but your eyes and lips
relay a sweet mercy to me...
Mercy is never free Veronica...
I will pay the price...
We will pay the love cost together...
J.A.B.
it was cold, yet hot,
a fever.
i am surprised,
as though I didn't fill myself with poison
just the night before.
my arm is taped down,
attached to an iv,
four pouches of medication seep into my veins
it burns,
yet any tears i have left have been taken by my father,
crying in the seat beside my hospital bed,
next to my mother, a stoic statue.
how rare to see your father cry,
how jarring.
to see the grown man who has been a fortress all your life,
break down like a child
the violence of the sobs,
the sharpness of the gasp as he realizes my eyes are open,
as though he were drawing his very first breath.
this is not how i wanted this to go.
and to see your mother,
silent and still,
for once, she had no words to say.
her pain would come,
but as the world told her,
she needed to be strong.
the plan was simple,
sleeping pills before bed,
the perfect excuse to lay limp.
eyes shut,
it'd be over within a few hours,
a smile rests on my face when i realize, this funeral bill would be cheaper than the countless medical ones.
a hug to my parents,
who i never hug.
a goodbye.
i play my favorite song on repeat
and close my eyes,
waiting for what comes next.
but as i sit up in this bed,
gauze shielding the barcodes carved into my arms,
i see i've simply made things
so.
much.
harder.
their trust would be the last to come,
that's for certain.
but first would be sleepless nights of my parents arguing about where they went wrong,
loud whispers as though our walls were not thin.
debates,
not knowing who to blame.
mimicry of their actions,
going through a range of motions,
they are no longer whole.
i wish i could say this changed my perspective on life,
my taste of death inspired a new life,
but it didn't.
they took out the poison but left my brain,
my body's one true toxin.
Dear world do not mourn me
I’m under the earth and still this world will turn me
So dear world don’t mourn me
I put my soul in a rhyme
Accepting the fact
That I’ll never grow old with time
After Sunday
We should expect to see things a lot different on Monday
Should we spend less time living
And more time thinking of tomorrow
That for which I do not have the answer
Would you borrow another’s sorrow
Just so you could live another day in horror
Saw Mtv’s Cribs
It’s kind of funny how these celebrity’s live
I guess if you got the money, why not
If you’re saved, then why go where it’s hot
So dear world don’t mourn me
Under the earth and still it turns me
So dear world do not mourn me
As promised from my father
He’d release sperm, run out, and not even bother
It doesn’t really bother me
I just need someone to blame if case becomes robbery
Sleeping on couches
Tempted thoughts of stealing money from pouches
How can I love this world
When it so often makes me hurl
Better yet, how can I tell the world to keep hope
When I’m about to lose it
Wanted water, got saliva
But I thank got for letting me choose his spit
So dear world do not mourn me
I’m under the world and still this earth will turn me
So dear world do not mourn me
She rose from the table moving slowly to the sink. This was not her favorite time, too much time to think. Her body moved from memory now, the right bit of dish detergent, she must refill that bottle soon, moving the faucets to memorized positions, water streamed out on cue, precisely the right temperature, “hot to clean - not to scald”.
She and water worked well together, having partnered in so many chores; laundry, toilets, sinks and floors. One plate now, one knife, one fork. Sometimes she would cut things like meat loaf or fish with the edge of the fork, skipping the knife, one less utensil to wash. Less time at the sink, less time to think. Against the outside darkness she could see her reflection in the kitchen window. How old she had become. Reminders were everywhere of how her life was dwindling, shrinking, shriveling. She felt too small for her skin, which hung loosely on her like a half-filled bag of potatoes, pouches and folds everywhere. She would need to put this dishcloth in the laundry after finishing. She always rinsed them in cold water to inhibit the bacteria growth but they would start to smell after only a few days. She had become accustomed to foul smells. The smell of dying cells and incontinence pads and bad breath, side effect of certain medicines. She hated eating alone, living alone, being alone, but sometimes she hated it even more when memories of better days settled in upon her. it was like a visit, full of joy and expectation, exciting conversations, catching up, and sharing fond memories. But it was always followed by goodbyes, the pain of separation, and a return to loneliness. She put her plate in the cupboard and was reminded of how she had put other things in her life away; her younger sister from an accident, her only son from someone’s war, her husband three years back from cigarettes she had threatened to divorce him over. She put her silverware in the drawer and closed it tightly, closing her mind tightly at the same time. It wouldn’t do to dwell on any of this, what’s done is done. The dishes were done