Long Proctor Poems
Long Proctor Poems. Below are the most popular long Proctor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Proctor poems by poem length and keyword.
I am getting old now, I can only turn over
They can’t get me to run, but I not all done.
My valves are leaking, I often misfire
My fuel gauge will sputter my heart will flutter
I go for checkups, and get the approval sticker
I do get some flattery about my die hard battery.
I mind the cold and I mind the heat
My engine will pump an extra beat
I’m careful what I put in my tank
High test gas but no added salt
My plugs ignite and fire, but my arteries are clogged
Fuel stabilizers are added, but forget the ice cream malt.
My air cleaner is dusty, my hood is rusty
I often hear a thump, but it’s only my heart pump
I used to be a red deuce coup, now I can’t make the loop
I have so many dings that my old age brings.
I enjoyed being in the derby race, but now I’m at a turtles pace.
Ted Mack had suggested Geritol to build up my speed,
Unfortunately I cannot get any pep in my step.
I really need a good scrubbing, and a set of new tires
Don’t need a lot of tools, just some wrenches and pliers.
As you can plainly see my memory is off kilter
Hard to write and rhyme, slow engine bogged up mind
I go to the shop, the mechanic checks me out
I often forget what to say, therefore I need a proctor.
But when I can’t spin and blow up the dust
Then I roll into the office to see my doctor.
I’m all over the road, hard to stay in line
Vertigo sets in, I’m sure I’ll be paying a fine,
My engine would really revive up
Now it only idles, my get up and go takes awhile.
This classic old clunker is just like me
It made this opportunity to write,
Do you think I could remember it and recite?
I am this old classic, as I have traveled so far
Have tracks all around, and parts not found
My old chassis and my grinding gears
Will still get me around for several more years
I can still go, perhaps a bit slow
I go for health checks and pee in the cup
I stay off the highways to avoid a pileup.
So now you know the similarities of me and my car
They’ll put me in an auto auction some day,
My horse power is now like that of a donkey
Resting in the garage, I am here to stay.
Simple things like love arent easy to understand
My pen trembles, my thoughts scramble
All my monsters are weak in her presence
Its sad how they no longer seem ugly
she says I do not write poetry for her no more
I found simple pleasure in her presence
Thieving a man from his madness
Like a candle forcing the darkness to speak
We still play but no longer keep score
She is my poetry but...
But she says I dont write poetry for her no more
I left that role to my daughter sitting in her womb
Her tiny fingers like thunderbolts and tornadoes
She catches placental waters like raindrops
And scribbles like her father
Silent as the night before a revolution
At a bonfire listening to insects recite their stories
About their evolution and our revolution
She says I dont write poetry for her no more
In a world full of fury, sin and silence
Choices choose us. We got nothing to lose except strangers
I live poetry through her beautiful life
The beautiful matrix of our creation embedded in her belly
She says I dont write poetry for her no more
I let my faber castell assault the paper
I write about non existent revolutions
Spread propaganda like a library of lovers
No full stop to my literary nonsense
I m like tepid pause in a witch's cauldron
I m a poetry proctor peddling my stories to wishing wells
I m a failing bridge giving her away to the chasm below
In one life there is a trillion choices
But in two lives there is none
She says I dont write poetry for her no more
Her feet burden with the weight of my world
My secrets and sins between her toes
I rub them off whenever I get a chance
Her legs long and divine like the history of my lineage
They follow behind the absence of my steps
She says I never write poetry for her no more
In my head I found answers, tenfolds of answers
Answers too complex to pronounce
So I decided to scribble this love poem on her maternity dress
She says I dont write poetry for her no more
more...
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At every turn in time, I wish to live the best dream
The best wish everyone could have
That caress the precious grace per luck
Which colors achievement
And can be counted on as reinforcement cum hard work
Which pave ways, wings soar peacefully
That bottoms sit back to reminisce,
Counting blessings worthy of thanksgiving
Many are dreams you once had in gleam
The ones that would've continue to live
But with the dragging of time, you chuck
Thinking when will you be old enough to have its fulfilment
Despite all the prayers you build like a bulwark
Just as the sun fuels the moon's speed
And its light determines its brightness
The florals get human lives' breath feed
And beautifies environment and its forthrightness
Dreams cage plans towards fulfilment
And bless efforts for passions many rewards
Goal is the root of focus connecting achievement
Aiming high at globally recognized awards
I once wish to be a doctor
For the sake of saving lives
But one thing I admired most
Is the smart look of the uniform
On the ones I have come across
I can't figure out how I become a proctor
Many are lazy students I practically forgives
Who have over the years been undiagnosed
And abandoned for the higher institution to reform
How will they be able to bear the cross?
At a point in life, I wanna become a football player
Either I get to feature or not, no cease payment
The profession I referred to as "money making machine"
More than any other on weekly basis
To get life going well visiting places
At another point, I wanna be a bricklayer
Who has never been exposed to an underpayment
But they spend much on colchicine
To make sure the system is active
Then watch to avoid being addictive
I don’t mind failing
If it's only me graded
If my son is off the table
Failing my family
Nothing can be worse
Blame my weakness
Curses have limits on high
Depends on the vantage point
Failure descends to feed
Looking for a pearl in my meat
Humans don’t eat their children
Like the news say they do
Hamster moms do it with ease
Blindly gnoshing on tissue
Yet we eat better selves every day
Digest children of our thoughts
We eat our children’s ego for lunch
It’s hard to be a vegetarian
Do no harm if you want to win
When Slim Jims await at every aisle
It's got corn syrup to make it sweet
Failure tastes like meat byproducts
No one gets their fill of Spam
A diet of failures makes us strong
Myself the tastiest of sashimi
Wait for cannibalism to end
Feast in the morn, starve on goods
Eating a failure tastes sweet
If not for the flush at the end
I would eat endless pups
The ring of fire warns
The scarlet F grades me
I’m no Prynne up to the grade
I’d sell my Pearl if I’d be spared
Just to feel success at a buffet
But I’m as dim as Dimmesdale
Cruel as a bound Chillingworth
We’re feasts for failure
Failure is as natural as sin
If original sin is just food
Then every day is Eucharist
Rocket fuel aplenty to explode
Failure a cold salty feast
Nourishes despite its hunger
If I let it ravage me
Hunger eating hunger
The feast forever replenished
Failure a state of mind
The scarlet letter
A ticket at the buffet
All oysters and no Pearl
Don’t mind empty shells
If my belly is full
Failure, be my proctor
My grade and food
I'll master you yet
I'll win you over
Even if it kills me
I’ll eat better
Just to spite you
word to the wise I came to get down & so you all frown
Gucci Man, Gucci Man, Gucci Man so here I stand with mic in my hand
I came to get down boggy down to the socks this homeboy do think a lot
carry on with a song in my heart to impart the dream bitchs scream
eating delicious ice cream flipping burgers on the grill
cheap thrills it pays the bills in your fancy chills
Theres no stopping while i'm popping just turning up rhymes kiss my behind
silence is golden I'm still unfolding the notion of rapping
when I was young I wasn't ever hurting anyone making love was for fun
Spin doctor proctor as we flow to let you all know pop inflates the common ego
Zip to your zoo I've bitten off more then I could chew now what's new with you
I'm your real Gucci man while I'm working on my tan got flames that bite you all understand
thirst for words crushed in ice will make you think twice to roll the dice
a new escapade we got it made spending my nights in the shade so behave
Dazzling light go in deep for the bite that is my right
Gucci man makes his one last stand I cant complain through the flames
a reason to go deep I summon my peeps outside on the streets
Roxanne you don't have to turn on your red light those days are over you don't have to sell your body in the night...
We are the champions come to discover is it any wonder jst ask Stevie Wonder what a blunder...
Got rhymes that rap got rhymes that roll pump up the beat to increase its tempo
take you to places where you need to go stand strong ya'll get your fix down at the mall
I'd been throwing up a lot.
My food stuck in my throat,
So every time I had a meal,
I'd cough and gag and choke.
I went to see my doctor,
Time and time again.
They gave me Barium swallows,
But found nothing in the scan.
For seven years they fooled around.
One doctor even retired.
Then they'd start all over,
'Stead of looking at the priors.
Finally I had had enough.
I went to see my doctor.
You must do something, after all,
Of my health you are the proctor.
You've given me those swallows,
Umpteen dozen times.
You never find a single thing.
Let's try a different line.
Let's do some X-Rays then, he said,
And then an Ultra Sound.
What a capital suggestion Sir,
I think that's quite profound.
Next time I went to see him,
The doctor said to me,
I think it's time we sent you,
To have a biopsy.
The lab report came back at last.
The doctor called me in.
We have good news and some bad.
Now where shall I begin.
We've found that you have cancer,
In your Thyroid gland.
I looked at him and took a breath.
Well now, ain't that grand.
Would you care to elaborate,
On your diagnosis?
For this you really must admit,
Is more than halitosis.
It's the slowest growing cancer,
And the easiest to treat.
We'll just remove the Thyroid,
Then you'll be fine, you'll see.
So now I'm waiting to go in,
To have my operation.
I'm really not too worried,
'Cause God knows my situation.
Until The Lord will call me,
Nothing can take me out,
And when my God is ready,
I'll leave here with a shout.
THE OLD INDIAN
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
A story making the rounds about an old apache
Who said, I remember everything thats happened to me
A New York newspaper picked up the curious news
Invited the Indian to the city to explore his views
An ace reporter was assigned the task of verification
To see if the story was false or worthy of accreditation
Met in a New York hotel and started the conversation
Where born? In a tipi just outside the reservation
What was the name of the doctor? There was no doctor
I was brought into this world by a midwife named Proctor
What was the name of your first grade teacher
It was a man called William Bailey, a Baptist preacher
What was the date and the time when you met your wife?
It was may 29th at 3:50 pm, the most wonderful day in my life
Your brother joined the army, you said he left on a train
Yes, on the bullet express 5:15 pm, during a heavy rain
Every question answered with an authentic reply
The old Indian was accurate none can deny
Your long term memory is right on the money
Your short term memory may not be as key
What did you have for breakfast, the question begs
The old Indian said got up early and had some eggs
The reporter satisfied the Indian was for real
This interview is over chief, your memory surreal
Thirty years later the reporter retired
Moved out to Arizona to a condo he had acquired
On his morning walk he saw the old Indian, as he ambled
He raised his hand and said how, the old said scrambled
Along the glass of a lazy stroll,
The jar popped open the doctor,
Or so I thought, ‘cos attachment,
Honour and protection was proctor.
Amis of gel, congruence and ear,
No disk did move my larynx clear,
Undue was the throat inside instead,
Which elongated my sinews head.
The cerebral hemispheres dance,
To reason’s sediments glance,
The axiom nuclei of radius fodder,
Taxonomic from a cooling splatter.
But my chair collapsed, was rejected,
And my sweated foot bounced unsaid,
Four legs not two around about, head
Their arms detached from pout affected.
Oh the seventies did collide and mix,
With solemnity’s roles and grades,
Under the blankness of the stare,
Came the tare that ripped unaware.
Contingent upon my father’s books,
Magic cards and imagery games,
My piano, pencil drawings, TV flicks,
Starwars did not renegade flames.
Not continent upon the bible black,
Therefore not continent upon the kin,
So not deluded or emotional, gone,
Won the neighbours hearts, pimm, grin.
Silence comes upon the beholder,
Not upon the glancer to extract,
When friends and lovers folder,
The broken heart that stays intact.
Knight the darkness, loon the light,
Put the bedding out into the light,
Bring the muscle into view as stringy,
To by the pound shift the loofah pingy.
Medicine’s chalice guilds the sweep,
Of the dopamine in inner scales,
But when the neurones skirt fit ham,
An ombudsman should call it maam.
I felt a bit like Humbert, or John Proctor,
an ageing vulture drawn to fresh young flesh.
She was a pretty, witty Turkish doctor
(so, not exactly plundering the creche!)
She seemed to like me, though we'd never met.
"Why don't you come to Turkey?" she'd implore.
(You've guessed by now I met her on the Net!)
My mind was moving that way, more and more.
Some hanker for one evening with Stan Getz,
Cafe A-Gogo, in the wee small hours.
My fantasy was always minarets
in Istanbul, those slender marble towers
(which seem too graceful for this ugly world)
and me, enthralled by shape and song and air,
as muezzin's warble hovered, wavered, curled,
calling the faithful to their morning prayer.
One Easter, I had four days with no work.
For once, the bank account was almost full.
"I'll go see Aysin," (thus was named my Turk),
"since Ankara must be close to Istanbul."
One word about the people of that land.
They're nosey. Answer questions, they'll ask more.
They meet an Arab, they can sell him sand.
They're merchants. Sent to Hell, they'd open a store.
Turks want to know two things: the area,
in meters squared, encompassed by your flat,
and please confirm that Greeks are hairier
and darker-skinned than them ("Greek girls are fat?")
Met at the airport by a courtesy car,
I'm gliding through the magic Eastern night,
fielding the driver's questions - "Is it far
from Maine to Malibu? Do I look white?"
I live for vacant white nights:
devoid of stars and ocean hues,
a loose-leaf tainted ivory sky
that's just a whisper short of true.
Life's metronomic father points
his stale batons toward my mind,
though only to be broken down;
alone, I left him ticking blind.
The homeless shadows beg of me
for concrete shells to live within,
though I would never hesitate
to fill my inner evening den.
I am the author of my dreams;
I am the paper and the pen!
I sleep for chronic impulse:
the resonance of ceaseless bliss,
a feeling wrapped in brittle dust
and formless like a will-o-wisp.
Life's bittersweet horizon peers
into my deep nocturnal space,
though only to be torn apart;
I had no need for such a face.
The boundary linking earth and sky
does not exist for chainless hawks,
so like a bird, I'll take command
and pave the path I want to walk.
I am the proctor of my dreams;
I am the blackboard and the chalk!
I muse for vibrant futures:
the pliant maps of mental jumps,
a polychromic destiny
that topples every other trump.
Life's bland reiterations ring
around my silken paradise,
though only to be cast aside;
I needn't play with faulty dice.
The mirror to my distant past
is calling me with whispers faint:
"you must retain your future's seed
and tend to it without complaint."
I am the artist of my dreams;
I am the canvas and the paint!
No reality can keep its grip
on the cryptic force of my dream-tip!