Long Powder Poems
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This is a poem about addiction and the life style that goes hand in hand with
the addict. The Lady In White is a metaphor that the addicts choice is a White
powder or rocky substance. E.G. Methamphetamine, Cocaine, China White...
I have struggled with addiction all my life......
A warning to you dancing with the Lady in White,
Her medicine stuns, leave’s you HIGH as a kite.
You think back and wonder how it got here,
There are gaps and things are fuzzy nothing is clear
A hungry gorilla lives on your back,
His only purpose is to get a fat sack.
The things you will do and the things you say,
MR. Gorilla will get his way.
How do you kill the beast, the beast is you?
You allowed him in gave yourself up to.
IT takes a lifetime for you to see what's real,
The death of you, your Achilles' heel.
Even knowing you are still willing to play,
If you’re lucky you get to live another day.
Another day is just a day you must hustle,
Sometimes it’s the brain other times it’s all muscle.
It brings temporary pleasure but at what cost,
Among the living are the dead in the land of the lost.
It is powerful overwhelms you and me,
Bounded by chains you cannot break-free.
The lies, dirty deeds and all the shady tricks,
Chasing the bag for your next fix.
I once had hope and dreams to pursue,
Getting High is all you want to do.
The only thing in life I regret,
Is the day The Lady in White and I met…….?
Indigo's child
lives in turquoise walled
creativity.
Her temple roof of cobalt glass
slashed with aquamarine
radiates peace with purpose
steel dolphin joyfulness
as sun's waves reflect
hourly hues, seasons shades
ever-changing.
Supplicants knock on ultramarine door
to hear pure lapis truth.
A lucky few sip tea from cups royal
As powder eyes see all, within
ice hearts dripping sapphire tears.
Her cerulean Zen done,
brimming souls flow away
bearing bouquets of hyacinth bells.
Written 14th July 2018
inspired by Brevity in Blue Contest
Sponsor: Dale Gregory Cozart
Entered Any July 2018 poem
Sponsor Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
75 words
Cuz while ya steel got
moxie, don't nix chance if only a dot
before death finds
flesh rotting alot.
A self-actualized fringe benefit
as I racked up
orbitz round sun -
with increased measured,
(albeit neglected) ragged, and
shot thru tattered (turn shroud) -
regarding chronological yardage
brought to my dimming wattage -
sputtering third eye blind, sans
hindsight surveying extensive
emotionally frenzied groveling with
a lifetime penitential wreckage,
whence urgent critical (update)
foisted upon formerly entrenched
hermetically sealed voyage -
sequestered self wrought fallout,
viz long stretches of
time irretrievably gone with the wind
found me averse toward
commingling with village -
peopled within sin king
precincts of Lake Woebegone
joyus kneaded livingsocial
natives, now visa
vis (nee this past
and present atheist)
discovered the healing power
of powder milk biscuits,
when accommodated within Norwegian
bachelor farmer vicarage),
qua pained obligation now
imposed kickstarted mandate
to pay dying wage
clearly written along,
the sub weighted psyche walls
(over time) easily read
across my wrinkled visage,
where former cumulative
years of existence
pitched yours truly
figuratively teetering upon
precipice of abyss gave vantage
written in telltale creases
countenance spelling umbrage,
against me - asper tonnage
schlepping psychological Matthew
Scott Harris "baggage,"
wrought from decades
worth of uncultivated tillage
cuz n'er did I gather rosebuds...
during prime mortal teenage
stretch, thus present
day agonizing suffrage
yawning chasm miserably houses
bleak (Dickensian) testimony,
sans recovered anorexic
(NO...NOT... NEVER
bulimic), but feebly
endured desultory stage
punctuated quasi (moat)
towed riddled rattle trap ship
of state into deadly scrimmage
defies propped up
moxie succombing unrelenting
weathering, unforgiving savage
nasty, brutal and short sabotage,
wherein futile - short
changed growh opportunities
forfeited developmental stage
opportunities introverted
vehemence doth rage.
High shadows loom on garden walls.
They tremble in the winter’s breeze.
As from the heavens powder falls,
they mimic naked limbs of trees.
They tremble in the winter’s breeze;
forlorn, they sway as low winds moan.
They mimic naked limbs of trees.
Frail shadows now have thicker grown.
Forlorn, they sway as low winds moan.
The winds surcease, no more to blow.
Frail shadows now have thicker grown.
On arms of trees are coats of snow!
The winds surcease, no more to blow.
As from the heavens powder falls,
on arms of trees are coats of snow.
High shadows loom on garden walls.
3/16/15
Entered Nov. 12, 2022
for Mark Toney's 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 20 Poetry Contest
They could plant the fields that lie like open palms
beside the razor wire, lay seed into the warm
Florida dirt that never truly sleeps, let men
who have been buried in concrete feel the soft
argument of soil against their hands again,
and grow food the way the state once did,
slow and honest, fed by sun and sweat.
They could raise cattle where scrub and wiregrass
already bend toward grazing, milk cows at dawn,
collect eggs still warm as breath, lift fish
from green ponds flashing like coins—
protein not poured from a sack of powder,
not pressed from soy and sodium,
but walking, swimming, clucking life.
They could feed their own—
collards and beans, rice and squash,
cornmeal thick as the voice of a grandmother,
milk in real cartons, fruit that stains the fingers,
meals that build blood instead of clogging it,
that lower the sugar in the veins,
that keep hearts from breaking early.
They could teach men how to keep something alive,
how to watch for illness, how to measure feed,
how to clean a blade, how to respect a body,
animal or human, how to make a living
out of tending instead of taking,
how to leave prison knowing
how to grow the next meal.
They could save millions and spend less on pills,
less on dialysis, less on broken men,
and turn prisons into granaries for hurricanes,
into barns of second chances,
into quiet classrooms where the land
speaks more clearly than any judge ever did.
But trucks keep coming, long and loud,
hauling contracts instead of carrots,
profits instead of potatoes,
because someone always gets paid
when a prison stays hungry,
and a hungry system votes the way it’s told.
So the fields stay empty, the barns stay locked,
and men eat punishment three times a day,
because rehabilitation doesn’t fit on a campaign sign,
and growing food doesn’t grow donors,
and corruption tastes better
to those who never have to swallow
what they feed the caged.
13th jan 2012.
By Sashi Prabhu (zeauoxian)
This poem is a wacky one…….
This new year I see that I have a bigger opportunity,
To be a part of the Bard community.
So I take this opportunity to pen a few lines that could be wacky,
But believe me I really do not mean to be tawdry, vulgar, cheap or tacky.
I want to stop biting my fingernails and not the ones on my toes,
As I have now discovered that there are some places unreachable in my nose.
I want to save all my monies, that otherwise is impossible,
So have to stop making calls from my cell phone and give as many missed calls as possible.
I want to save on detergent powder,
So will stop sniffing my socks before I put them on & refrain from cursing with stench alouder.
I want to stop peeving and galling my face book friends,
By not messaging them every now & then, but write about them on their walls & make amends.
I want to stop changing my profile picture 70 times a day,
And aim to keep the count to 10 times a day & admire myself anyway.
I want to stop replying to text messages,
With k, lol, lmao & try to make usage lesages.
And finally I want to brush my teeth every day,
But please excuse Sunday from everyday, in a well mannered way.
My past sits on a shelf, in pictures, books and letters
Occasionally I take it down, to make the present better
Those youthful days back at home, when life was in full bloom
Taken for granted they slipped away, while I chinned myself on the moon
Nameless faces and faceless names, colors fade to black and white
Evolving with perpetual change, like days that hide in the nights
The 50's were a shooting star, for me they passed in stealth
In brotherly love on gravel roads, our dreams were untapped wealth
On a transistor radio the 60's played as social consciousness awakened
In hallucinations of free love and civil rights, faith in tradition was shaken
My long hair 70's were loud, the nation showed both sides of it's face
Personal independence led to parenthood , I failed miserably in disgrace
Finding out the hard way love isn't free, independence has a price
Again the music changed with the decade, and in life I went back for another slice
In the 80's I skied in the powder, the first half is still a blur
As I slalomed down the hill I found true love and surrendered my vices for her
The 90's were a time of gains and losses, old family died as new emerged
Struggling to climb to the top, in my family my worth was submerged
Shunning old friends and old habits, I began turning into my dad
Trying to lead a good example, so my children would make better choices than I had
The dawn of a new millennium, technology spread like a disease
My children were affected early, then poor health knocked me to my knees
My life has seen many changes, just like the times that have passed
But now broken down and depressed, I've taken my foot off the gas
For now, I put memories back on the shelf, like an old dog, I'll gnaw on the bone
But I still hold my head up high, cause I did it all on my own
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Thanksgiving is nearly over
Santa is building toys
He has a list for all
Good girls and wee boys
First, let me be thankful
I'll list some of my joys
There is a husband who
Works even sometimes coy
Then there are the children
Who once stepped on my toes
But at all times now my love
For them grows and grows
God has granted me grandchildren
Oh, now I am so truly blessed
Sometimes I wonder how they are so wise
But then every once in a while, what a mess
Remembering once I was in the loo
My grandson decided to make a drink
Hot cocoa his choice to mix
And not over the sink
He dropped the cocoa powder
Then tried to clean it up
It was spread all over
Boy! That was rough stuff
But I am blessed to have him
He's an angel in disguise
God sent him to fill a void
In our older lives
This is only a tiny tale
Of what God has granted
In our lives
The list of our blessings will last beyond this life
I know this is not true to a list poem but it is how it came out.
Coy can mean shy...
The grocery/ wineshop
Once when he lived in Faro (Portugal) and walking about
he came across a grocer shop that was new in 1950.
As window display a packet of washing powder, fossilized
the name of the powder was Blenda, of the same type
his mother had used and tinned sardines.
He entered and was gripped by the sadness of the shop.
It was bigger than he had thought, barrels of wine, and in
a dark corner, old men sat drinking in silence.
So, it was an unofficial wine shop, a hiding place
for the aged who had resigned to their fate of elderliness.
He had a glass of red wine served by a woman older than the shop.
The wine was surprisingly good. He had another drink
and joined the men in the corner.
My lady need a safety line
When she play her witchy game.
My lady post a caution sign:
KEEP AWAY FROM OPEN FLAME!
You let some friction spark her powder,
Blast you back from where you came.
My honey hot as summertime.
Make your back stick to the bench.
My honey sip red table wine
Like some sexy tavern wench.
She digs Sinatra in a sick way.
Takes her poetry in French.
My darlin’ don’t do gravity.
Walks on water’s what I mean.
My darlin’ strut like royalty.
Long red carpet, star machine.
She play the sultry young enchantress,
Silent siren, silver screen.
My lover like a speedin’ train.
Can’t get off until she stop.
My lover like a little pain
With a leather riding crop.
She mount the stage with dark intentions,
Raise the curtain, let it drop.
My sweetheart, she don’t justify.
She jus’ get herself undressed.
My sweetheart, she don’t sanctify.
She jus’ make a man feel blest.
Her eyes can exorcise your demons.
Lets her fingers do the rest.