Long Public Poems
Long Public Poems. Below are the most popular long Public by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Public poems by poem length and keyword.
. for public domain
Where talking descends into mere decoration,
like ornate glass reflecting pretty wallpaper,
I yearn to walk through an arid desert a mute
and savor the pure and honest silence ringing.
Where gestures are bound by the polite customs
taught in finishing schools of refined behavior,
I stand there statuesque to avoid offending
practitioners of the craft of fine movement.
I lurk off in a corner beyond all the chatter,
not knowing my words, or in what ways words matter.
I become the mark of amused titter-tatter,
not knowing my hands, or in what ways hands matter.
I offer the best excuses I can gather,
slink off onto the patio and into the wood,
draw a deep breath of the fresh mossy, musty air,
a roguish and languid unchained solitaire.
Here I am my familiar self, rough as oak bark,
a soul soiled with our most original sin,
with no desire for baptism or the Lord's blessing,
with no desire to know myself more than I am.
"Come back to the party. We all want you there."
My mother gently chides me, combs back my hair.
"Your cousins, your uncles, your aunties are there."
I shrug and I smile at her, "I just needed some air."
I think they tease their hair
just to look a bit wilder
a little more… “coyote ugly”.
Perhaps a dash of “sports make-up”
under the eyes
to cut down the glare
of the headlights.
They roam the streets
hang out behind dumpsters
(probably smoking, telling coyote jokes”)
wondering why Mom and Dad
moved to the city.
Their den is in the Arboretum
overlooking the Boston skyline.
They go to Public School(s)
dumpster diving….
Covid box lunches.
Soon there will be more
a litter is due.
They may have to move
find a bigger place…
in the city….
good luck with that.
John G. Lawless
©11/20/2021
Oh, what a strange yet seemingly typical phenomenon it is these days
But hearing of folks sinking into a state of forgetfulness -
Lying on their beds or in the public streets, drunk or stoned out of their minds.
It is most unfortunate that so many people today wish to
Vanish themselves from the world and bury themselves
In deliberate ignorance, unmindfulness, unawareness,
Or even complete unconsciousness to escape their miserable circumstances.
Nobody is meant to be perpetually oblivious unless they're in an actual coma!
March 25, 2023
for Writing Challenge - 'O' Words Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Pavement cafe, nine fifteen cradling a coffee (as you do)
from my left the china doll with clicking heels strode into view.
Tempting lips kissy-kissed with crimson, cheeks caressed
with blush, and poreless,
painful teasing made those scimitars for eyebrows nigh on flawless.
Hair of sunlit copper billowed like an Eton teacher's gown,
open trench coat followed suit as china hurried into town.
Head turned sideways, in each shop window she looked at her reflection
checking for the slightest hint of any sort of imperfection.
So wrapped up in herself, my my, how deep self worship had bit you
that you didn't see the lamp post until suddenly it hit you-
walked straight into it with quite a clang at such a rapid pace
recoiled, lurched back, bewildered- it was then I saw her face.
The laughter from the passers-by just made it even worse
as, shaking, she sat down near me and fumbled in her purse.
Tearful now,still reeling from her public humiliation
she got the make-up mirror out for damage limitation.
Haughtiness gone, the facade broken sat lovely Amanda,
legs like a flamingo but her right eye like a Panda.
How dare you I thought to the questioner
Out of bounds
The NPR reporter asks Annie Clark aka St. Vincent
Are you, are you, you know ok?
Referencing her latest song Smoking Section
Ok so maybe she takes pills I don’t know
Lives on the stage
Of bravery or depravity but it’s just a way
It’s ok
Like as Robert Plant once said in another interview
I’m basically public property
And she loves it ok! Center of attention
Because yes she is that interesting
Pantyhose torn down her sultry love-to-lick-it left thigh
But Annie stumbles to answer that odd last question
I could almost hear her head on the radio
Tilt into the microphone and register
I’m embarrassed
I thought no no how unfair
Let me pick up your ancient GHB from the floor
And dust your vulnerable seashells off
Don’t let someone make you feel that way Annie
That’s what makes you so special
Ok
So you wanted to kill a guy then kill yourself just to scare him a little more
So?
To fall on a rush hour flow of taxicabs below
Unnoticed by anyone
Happens in a song
And any way it’s not the end as you finally said
I want to tell you I think I understand
The powerful woman in you
Though I don’t know you
At all
That song
Long before that interrogation
Was a fetched pail from the well within me
Lifted and overflowing with poetry
Made me fall hopelessly in love with you
And I know ok? How that’d make you laugh
As an artist
Mission accomplished
That song from you
A few innocent bullets fired at my retreating feet
While you are apparently required to live your life
Hereafter
To the chains of that one song and moment of strife
As if that is all you will ever be or…Are
You ok?
I guess
That’s what I’m trying to say in a long-winded and poor kind of way
Ok?
Judge not
It’s just all a great song.
"Both devil and angel on one's shoulders, scenes from yesteryears, little did the public know that it's when one falls, therein, lies the benefits ... for it's when one rises, gives one meaningful purpose, an eye-catcher, a life-changing event, and so on ...," ... by the Poet.
When you have died and know naught why, sitting while you're thinking
perhaps a dream, let out a sigh, go back to your drinking
Got a bottle in your left hand, a baby in your right
you drink the milk, tastes like bourbon, a babe kissed you, "Good night."
You looked underneath the table, you see the battery,
you then checked all of the cables, but can't find the car keys.
You asked the driver parked by you, can he give you a light
flicked his Bic, you said, "Forgot, I'm through--smokes, sorry, and good night ..."
You looked under the hood again, found a glass of bourbon
head up you say, "My dear, sweetheart," she says, "No, it's me, Ben!"
Now you have your drinking buddy, and the fun of your life
until you know you are woozy, caused thoughts, --just like Lot's wife.
You were on top of your bar stool, you slowly lean on Ben
but now there's a smell of car fuel, you try to wake your friend.
You feel Lot's staff hook round your neck, you feel ground rub 'neath you
you look towards the car, a wreck, it explodes from the fuel.
You cry out to the dark for Ben, hears voices all around
"He is right beside you, your friend." "You are both safe and sound."
It's Sunday, two souls in church pews, "Welcome, today's sermon,
Sodom and Gomorrah, Good News," "I hope they're naught Mormons."
"Why, you have a problem with that?" "They don't allow drinking."
"Thought we quit, swept it 'neath the mat." "Say what are you saying?"
"We jumped verses? That makes no sense!" "I thought it was implied."
"Inferred, there is a difference." "Inferred, implied--denied."
"So what, I'm drinking hereafter." "Aha! After--That's it,
afterlife--caught in the rafters, or 'twill be the fire pit."
"Your choice my friend, want to kick it, live and keep on livin',
or, a lifer, --alcoholic, die and keep on dyin'?"
"Eh, H-E-double hockey sticks, (HELL) I'll stay for the sermon,
Christian-like, ex-alcoholics--they may not be Mormons?"
All those shells you hide behind
Keep you in the empty womb
An egg with no arms to hug
No fingers to use the spoon
No soap to wash the sin away
Without them you lose yourself
More importantly, you lose supper
The closest cousin to love is food
Gossip can not be consumed
It is not a sweet pastry or cake
Not on the menu for today
Redemption has a bitter taste
Sins are like feathers in the wind
The priest orders you to catch them
Return them to the chicken, every one
Attach them back exactly to the bird
From where you plucked them firstly
Your original sin was to tell lies
Pray to the chicken for forgiveness
In their native language at lunch
Don't show your tongue in public
Words spoken wrongly don't come undone
You can not return them once they do harm
False ones against your neighbor don't return
Once the damage is done, lost in the wind
Words should not be taken lightly
As light as a feather from the skin
From innocent chickens sinless
Minding their own business
Sentiments should not be stiff
As stiff as a board with scorn
Lips should speak softly with truth
With the logic of gossip still born
Beg for forgiveness before dinner
The priest will understand if you are late
But don't forget the chicken and feathers
That would be a mistake
*Authors note: Remember to wash your feet before eating. That foot and words you eat may be your own if you go gossiping.
I have a problem with public bathrooms, cleanliness you ask. No, with drying my hands. Many have no paper towels, only the air machines. Let's go green, I am told. Can you tell me, how do you wipe a child's wet face with an air machine. How does one wipe up a wet counter, with an air machine. Why not have both, paper towels and an air machine. Let the customer decide, decide the one they want to use. Now I have this off my chest, Oh how much better I feel.
Gutless gaffer, grinning gamely, gulled the gullible millions to the polls,
Oozing oily orations of orphanhood “I once walked barefoot, no shoes.”
On crowded corners we conceded, cringing at his crooked crew.
Disillusioned, we drift and drudge, desperate for deliverance from this dull dominion.
Lackluster leader, limp and lifeless, laced with looming lunacy.
Unsteady skipper steers the ship, silenced by shameless syndicate of plunder.
Circles of sorrow, suffering, and slow suffocation the sorry saga of a shallow sovereign.
Embezzlers erupt in ecstasy, excavating endless holes for highway robbery.
Bandits in bespoke suits, besmirching the bench with brazen brigandage.
Egregious evader, cringing coward, cried at cannon fire: “I am no lion.”
Laggard lumbering loon left lethal lunatics lounging at our doorsteps.
Encumbrances engineered by erratic clan erode every ember of love for motherland.
Damp duchess, dull and domineering, dripping with indecent diction,
Audacious accessory, always attached, avidly airlifting assets abroad.
Merriment masked as mission, mischief marketed as maternal duty.
Edgy encumbrance, endlessly entwined in their eager, empty alliance.
Punk pretender, pilfering public purse into private palaces.
Adventurous appetite for aimless globe-trotting gallivanting.
Twitchy tyrant of trivialities, though never voted into office.
Intoxicated by improbable luck, insulting the nation with incessant idiocy.
Euphemistic escapades, erratic entertainment, embarrassing every educated eye.
National nightmare nursed by notorious nincompoops.
Crude crudities casually cast “My fellow widows” to court cheap chuckles.
Encomiums of empty praise turned putrid: “Power” the perfect pipeline for plunder.
Jokers jumped with jittery joy, jostling jealously for juicy thrones.
Onslaught of terror from Boko Haram banished blessed sleep from battered brethren.
Numbed nation nodded “No” to hasty handover, hoodwinked by the horde.
Alas, the audacious fraud, the rapacious rogue, rules ruthlessly over us.
Tyranny thinly disguised in doctoral drapes creek scholar sans scholarship.
Higgledy-piggledy havoc, a hideous hoax hailed as democracy.
Amid the ashes of a fractured federation,
Nigerian overlords observed the obscene spectacle, secure in stolen silence,
While helpless citizens crumbled and cried.
In an ill-advised decision,
Educationally dumb,
New York City’s ranked its teachers,
Which defies the rule of thumb.
For the whole world now has access
To the way each teacher scored,
Though I thought humiliation
Was a means to be deplored.
Only math and English teachers
Bear the brunt of this new rule,
Which eliminates most pedagogues
Who work in every school.
What’s the basis of the rankings?
Well, it’s simple yet pathetic –
Results of standard city tests,
Supposedly prophetic.
A teacher may be patient, smart,
Creative or exciting;
She may inspire thinking minds
Or brilliant bursts of writing.
But all of that won’t mean a thing
If students’ scores are flat;
‘Cause politicians are convinced
Exams are where it’s at.
It doesn’t matter if the kids
Have problems or are poor;
The teacher is the one at fault
When there’s a sub-par score.
And now the public has the chance
To check each teacher’s name;
A ranking near the bottom means
They know just who to blame.
My question to the city is,
For teachers who scored low,
If branding them on websites
Is the proper way to go.
For people are so quick to judge
When labels are applied.
I know I’d feel like Hester Prynne,
With no place safe to hide.
Like educators everywhere,
I’m shocked, appalled, dismayed.
To those in charge who pushed this through,
You get a failing grade!