Long Private property Poems
Long Private property Poems. Below are the most popular long Private property by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Private property poems by poem length and keyword.
Roman à clef tragicomedy...
overlaid with façade of fiction = Mein Kampf
No need for yours truly to dig deep,
(albeit bonafide figuratively)
by Dickens thru mine Uriah Heep,
a gnarled mass creep
ping, comprising, encompassing, glomming
abysmal existence strewn with hard times,
such that I wanna leap
out this metaphorical bleak house,
a black hole in the wall swallowing
i.e. disallowing any peep
ordinarily yawping, proliferating, flirting...
now fumfering lamely issued by keep
ping low profile super tramping cheap
trickster, our mutual
friend Matthew Scott Harris,
where lack of functioning heating unit
(think male organ if ye will)
upended, rendered, discombobulated...
scrappy body electric hominid
to experience quality sleep.
Principal reason I write
to balance and aright
unexpected largesse
(thank you dad), where
eyes suddenly got bright
and bushy tail incessantly
wagged day and night,
a sensible palliative temporarily
eased penury plight,
which cash equivalent,
viz four Benjamins alleviated quite
helpful thwarting necessity to fight
off bill collectors brandishing
armstrong lance's compelling me
to summon black knight
in shining armor lodged within white
castle amidst prickly bishop
obviously one prone easily to excite
amusing little lord Fauntleroy
groomed as heir to throne,
enthusiasm since his birth did ignite
(Aesop pose) storybook life,
where fanciful elation did take flight
buzzfeeding, droning, feasting
on par with Mister
Bumble bee in flight
sweet nectar amidst lilies of the field
analogous to stripling Adam - fine lad
eve vent chilly seeking delight.
Ah to gather rose while ye may
tis futile wishful thinking,
now at mine three
score orbitz round sun,
which libido far out at bay
prurient predilections once
spawn time wracked to lay
waste vestal virgin such as... Little Dorrit,
now... raging hormones stagnant clay
hardened, atrophied, eutrophied,
jackknifed limp bizkit
long bereft testy tickle
yar seaman quizzical,
slack jawed, and sullen at
deserted abandoned cobwebbed quay
ignored do not enter, keep out,
private property signals desiccated,
no place for Peter to take holiday
barring ingress to ply skin flute
amidst hollerin hootenanny,
perhaps convincingly explaining
welcoming Voldemort without delay.
Bob Robinson had been born in the ghetto,
and his childhood was not a nice thing,
single mother, just a teenager herself,
in a neighborhood known for gang-banging.
But Bob was a truly tenacious soul,
he got his first job and didn’t look back,
determined he’d never let himself become
a welfare case stuck addicted to crack.
Though he never had culinary schooling,
he learned much at the restaurants he worked,
until, at thirty, he opened his own,
his own place, his own menu, his own turf.
He had a great spot right by the highway
near a suburb that housed much big tech,
he just called it ‘Bob’s,’ and soon was known
for serving up the town’s finest Tex-mex.
Bob usually liked to be the bartender,
he met all sorts of near people that way,
life went smoothly, at least it did at first,
until his nephew was sent out to stay.
Jamal was the first of the family
to receive an offer to go to school,
a local four-year gave a scholarship,
since Jamal was anything but a fool.
Now Jamal did not want to wait tables,
but Bob fed him, since he was family,
and not long after he started classes
he began to behave aggressively.
Began to say folks were out to get him,
that the ‘system’ was rigged to his loss,
then pale-skin folks were all ‘keeping him down,’
would never let folk like him be the boss.
Now all this seemed quite bizarre to Bob,
he himself had seventeen employees,
but Jamal kept saying he was ‘oppressed,’
that he would fight as a minority.
For the first year Jamal was quite active,
never missed a rally of protest march,
but then when he got himself arrested
Bob worried the his path soon would get dark.
When he got off with community service
it seemed just to invigorate Jamal’s rage,
he started calling for ‘reparations’
for the actions of a dead and gone age.
He started spewing out Socialist tripe,
said private property only oppressed,
that all who took part in it were ‘slave-drivers,’
it all left Bob feeling more and more vexed.
Then when Jamal jabbed a finger at him,
and cussed out his fiancé for being pale,
Bob threatened to cut him off for his crap,
but his threats seemed to be of no avail...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
'Knock, knock' on the door,
But, I won't let you in.
No, no.
The chamber of my heart is closed.
But 'knock, knock' you say.
Oh no!
I am stronger in this position than any other.
A huge 'liquidation' sign hung,
For months and months,
At my window pane.
I gave away everything I had to give,
To you,
To family,
To friends.
Nothing is left here,
Nothing for you,
Nothing for me.
There is no you and me.
My heart is closed.
I sacrificed,
I worked,
I gambled,
I lost.
I am fine.
'Knock, knock' you say.
But my door is closed to you,
Always now.
I won't let you in again.
No. no.
Go away, now.
I have nothing left to give.
The chamber of my heart was looted long ago.
Gutted.
Raised to the ground.
Left empty.
Dilapidated.
Condemned.
Like a broken down warehouse,
In some sort of insurance scam that went wrong.
Was that it?
Was this all some crazy scheme?
To gather insurance on care?
On love?
To put me in line?
To own everything I have?
Everything I am?
To control me?
Insuring against me,
Then ripping me apart,
Stone by stone,
Day by day.
No, no.
You can't come in again.
Not you.
Not ever.
Go away.
This fraud went wrong.
I build back up,
Brick by fragile brick.
I put up a wall,
With a sign,
'Private property',
Keep out!
Yet, 'knock, knock',
So, now I say,
'Trespassers will be prosecuted'.
Oh yes.
Come near me again,
I will tear you apart.
I have emotional dynamite,
Golden.
So much you don't know.
Oh yes.
Come near me again,
I will blow your life apart,
Just as you did mine.
'Knock, knock'?
Really?
'Knock, knock'?
Honestly?
You think you have a right to ask?
For anything?
Ever again?
Oh no!
Not now.
Not never.
Test my walls,
If you like.
They are steady.
Knock on the door,
If you like.
I'm not listening.
My chamber's closed,
My heart is not open for business,
Everything went in the recession.
I don't have a thing to my name,
Emotionally.
Except ambition.
And drive.
And a whole host of strength.
You can lay siege,
I won't notice.
You can knock,
I won't answer.
No, no,
Not ever again.
You are not welcome.
Oh no!
No more.
Please go.
Spare yourself the trouble,
Of the incessant knocking...
The drunk
A thick plastic curtain of the type used in warehouses he could not see through
to other than shadowy figures moving around he knew he saw a past that
no longer belonged to him.
He sat on the edge of his unmade bed, drinking warm beer when a sharp knock
on the door of his flat
it was the landlord looking at him with contempt, said he must pay the rent tomorrow or else!
Despair sizzled through his body needed a strong drink one mixed vodka and cold coffee,
while asking himself how it had come to this losing his job because he had been
“outspoken”, told his boss to off
Drinking the rest of the beer, he decided to take the bus to the farm he once lived
as a child; he had been happy there and to trace his life from there
He got off the bus in a small town near the farm. needing a drink, but it must have been early
the cafe had no ale he had a coffee which he mixed with vodka; when that
was seen they had told him to leave
He bought a tin of cola and sat in a park drinking thinking of this unfriendly town full of Jesus
people with no sense of humor
He took a taxi to the farm, now a gated community the river was gone, the wooden bridge
across it too, where he used to sit under and see tiny fishes nibble at his toes- gone, ing gone.
A man came and told him it was private property and looked as burly guard on duty
Down the main road where they were widening the road, a workers’ shed
he got in a found cold coffee and mixed it with vodka, he must have lost the sense of time
all of a sudden it was morning the workers were coming.
He got a bus home and walked to his flat the landlord said his mother had paid the rent
and taken my belongings she wanted to see him
At her flat sat many people, even the boss who had fired him; thought this assault is called
intervention; telling him his problem was booze, he was a good guy when sober
They left in time for him to go to the nearest café for a few more beers before closing time.
The next day, he had, a shower and dressed in clean clothes
He went to a meeting where people appeared feverishly happy and laughing out loud.
Dead now, Jackie Walsh?
Smolderingly blonde like a strawberry,
protesting your stolen innocence; one snuffed candle.
So much promise you had, the favored cousin,
my own father loved you best.
All gone in an instant, one busy street, and one turn of the spoke
or hand at the wheel.
You could have been a draft pick or a scholar or a hired gun.
Go now to your brother Barry and father J.P., to cousin Jimmy Scanlon;
they sit waiting for you in easy chairs, sipping poteen.
Ghosts of Rawlings Avenue, let Aunt Madeline rest in peace.
I did not name my own son after you or your father consciously.
We drank the last can of Uncle Tommy’s Coors, all the way from Colorado.
It’s safe to share that secret now after 34 years.
Trading baseball cards by flashlight, remember, Jackie Walsh?
Staying up all night, waiting our parents and uncles out.
Their pot of Irish stew stirring and simmering,
their loud whispers sharp but glimmering.
Leaving them to point the finger at one another for all these years.
Passing the collection plate at Italian mass,
you knew the priest; we kept the silver dollars.
I have not really seen you since then (not even in my dreams),
except for a crazy subway ride
and a bank robbery, inside job, of course.
We all have a little larceny in our souls;
all to the sizzle and whiff of crackling eggs and Irish bacon.
I would ask where did you go, but I know it was that you stayed,
that little boy waiting for big brother's return.
Feeling jealousy and admiration for you at the same time,
then later, after, feeling lament for you and eventually contempt.
We could not fathom your loss because it was your own private property.
Stung to the soul you sorrowed and raged.
With tears on the keystrokes I offer this dirge too little, too late
for you now, to purge my own soul.
I missed you all these years, Jackie Walsh.
Sleep well now for this dream is over.
(Prov. 3: 5, 6 / Jer. 10: 23 / 1 Cor. 10: 12, 13)
While Driving Down A Winding Road
On A Day So Humid–Hot
Out of The Way and To The Side
I Glimpsed A Half-Hid Spot …
I Almost Did Not See It
It Was Guarded Well By Trees
But There Was No Fence or Signs
Of Being Private Property …
It Was Still Early Afternoon
On A Lazy, Long Weekend
So Instead of Going To The Mall
I Drove Closer & Got Out … To Get In
There, On That Plot of Ground
Gleamed The Smoothest, Inviting Pool
So Still & Surrounded By Rocks
It Looked So Tranquil & Cool
So I Took A Sturdy, Leafy Limb
Of A Fallen Branch On The Grass
To Climb Down That Stone-Mound-Citadel
… but I Fell – It All Happened So Fast!
As The Pool Rippled Around My Body
Concentric To My Shoulders, It Crept
At First I Could Wade Neck-Deep
But The Pool Changed To Bottomless-Depths
And Down I Went Further & Further
Tho’ I Strove Up With All My Might!
‘Til Nearly Drowning & Passing Out
As Lungs & Heart Were Squeezed So Tight
But Something Touched Me With Fluid Grace
& Began Lifting Me From This Pluvial-Pail
Drew Me Up In Steady-Splashes
Like A Bucket Being Raised From A Well
But The Day Had Changed
& So Had The Place
And The Pool Now Showed
A Rain-Plop-Plop, Lapping Face
And I Don’t Know How Long I’d Been Gone
Now I’m Just Trying To Make It Back Home
In A Wet ‘n Wild World – That’s Not My Own …
‘Cause A Pool Made A Fool of Me Turning Wrong
So, If Driving Down A Winding Road
On A Day So Humid–Hot
Beware of Out of The Way & To The Side
& Don’t Look At … That Half–Hid Spot
Written & ©: 7/2/2013
By: The MoonBee
You Are My Formidable FireWall
My Memory Image Chip, Thru Flash Floods
You Search Thru and Rescue my Heart-Site…
With A Barricade that Blocks Viruses – like Blood
You Are My Screen-Saver and Life-Log-On-Line
Top-Tech-Support; My Very Own Version of Refreshed Breath
… if they could Spam or Shutdown You, from my System…
… there’d be Nothing, but Frozen, Empty-Space Left
You Halt Hard-Core-Drive – Hacking Rain
You Turn Back Spy Infiltrating, Triple Whip Wild Winds
… more than All Other Hosts/Sponsors Here
… You’re My Best Net – Blog… Faithful, Code-Friend
My Address: is Your Laptop - Yeah, I’m Your fEMAIL…
Sent or Waiting @will for you.come
To Download hope, trust, most learned Tools
And File Past Pop-up - Back-Door-Programs Done
You Are My Formidable FireWall
My Free-Path and Private-Property MainFrame
My Fault-Delete, My Final Password and Future Link…
And My Full-Force, Public Domain-Flame://______!
You Are My Formidable FireWall – Forever
Finest CPU; Fearless-Forward–Pentium-Pointer to Light
GOD!… I Love This Guard-Upgrade, speaking MicroSoft Words
… while pressing Safe=Surf-Kisses and Key-Strokes at Midnight
My FireWall…
My Far-Reaching…
UnFailing…
UnFlinching…
Formidable…
Fantastic…
… FIREWALL
Some ten years ago, a business owner went to bid for a cleaning job. Her's was a cleaning service for both private and commercial properties. This was a private property, and part of the conversation went like this:
Potential customer: "Our last cleaning service charged us $50 per clean." Reply: "How did you ever let her get away?" "She moved from the area", was his response. The bidder then said, "We could never do this job for $50. Perhaps she was not liscensed, had no insurance, and paid no taxes. She takes the cash and moves on. We have far more overhead. And furthermore, we never try to be the cheapest. We work hard at being the best".
The business lady did not get that job, because the homeowner was looking to buy the "Cheapest Service", and the business owner was looking to sell
the "Best Service".
07212017FBPS
You made Death grumble, boy
He not pleased that a little squirt like you got away
He had you choking on your mama's apron strings,
with that foolhardy, playful dare you made
Said you was gonna cross Bim Argut's field,
and you wasn't scared of his menacing sign
Hope that pretty young thing you were trying to impress,
comes to your funeral in her best Sunday dress
"No Trespassing" is what the rusted, buck shot at, sign said
"Private Property," so that means you better stay off
You can leave walking,
or you can leave being carried away on your back dead
Yeah, Death thought he had you, little bugger
Had you in Bim's gunsight, but he didn't squeeze the trigger right
Even after you turned tail and ran,
Bim was still trying to hit you with his bad arthritic right hand
Just missed you,
Grim Reaper thought he had you
Dead to rights, you was almost his
At that distance how did he miss ...
with a 20-gauge shotgun, even a blind man
could've gave you a silver pellet kiss
Maybe your big friend from on high helped you,
if he did, I don't know why
You ain't nothing but a troublemaker,
a short life is written in the stars
You won't live long enough
to raise glasses in honky-tonk bars
Now gon' run back to your papa
in your blue jeans with the brown backside
Yeah, run back to your mama
in your white sneakers with the yellow streak,
like you done cried
Death's gonna get you one day,
everybody knows that Death don't play
Yeah, Death's gonna get you someday,
so you better start learning how to pray
Bottles
Pass me another bottle to pour down my sorrow,
My love I wrote you poem of me being drunk in morning tomorrow,
I love the poison poisoning my mind to come up with slick rhymes,
So pass a blunt I'll roll one tonight,
Getting fading as I puff puff pass here the lighter might,
Lose myself in the time I have,
Not at a club more like backyard with a bonfire,
As my lungs fill in exhale as we get higher,
Please let the Remy Scotch Bacardi kick in,
You'll see how inspire I be,
For my words curse you out at sea,
A sea of grief of a thief stealing my heart would be,
A hole in the chest am I a mess?
Dealing with stress so blast the music to the police come arrive,
Wait they cant private property as you probably will see,
A Jello shot is the best.
My love I'll have a swimming pools of liquor like Kendrick stated,
As you hated the way I dive in,
Born sinner you brought to your family dinner,
As I see you in a faded vision I can barely be.
So pass me an other bottle to the point I have bottles on bottles to where the European models,
I drink my sorrow,
Wait.... I forgot what I was saying---
Until the arrow that hit my heart burn,
To the ashes that our bridge is apparently appear apart,
You try to find me well turn in the darkest forests of Alice in wonderland,
Where I'll be where the wild things are,
As you stare at my life in a spiral,
LSD for I forgot about theses so pass me vodka,
Ten shot to you ten shots to me.
Written: 10/14/15