Long Puddles Poems
Long Puddles Poems. Below are the most popular long Puddles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Puddles poems by poem length and keyword.
when one stands up against injustice
when one spits in the face of those that oppress &
shows not one ounce of fear in their eyes
often, if fortunate, standing amidst others who have come to
the same conclusion,
at first, it is like a joke being told at a comedy club
where there isn’t even a drink minimum---
for the need for customers is so drastic,
the club doesn’t want to ruffle any feathers by
asking at least that as a price for sitting all night
under a roof & listening to comedy.
as the plague of convention
spreads like the contagion that it so blatantly is,
more come to the conclusion of the initially brave
(and to many, thought to be the initially “insane”)---
people begin to see that things are being done wrong to them
as well,
and suddenly, because others have already put their lives on the line
in order to lock arms & fight
what they no longer think can be ignored,
this kindling gives way to a larger fire
which soon spreads on its own,
counteracting the wall of poisonous status-quo, complacence &
all out submission to the will of those that
feel that they are unstoppable,
offering not a crumb to the individuals challenging them &
still, the seriousness of the matter is not fully understood
by those which have become desensitized to any possibility of
actual change in their lifetime.
as the fire continues to grow & spread, becoming fiercer with
every gust of wind, ever new addition to the flames,
those that felt unstoppable begin to question their own ability
to crush the fire,
if they deem it out of hand,
that is, if their kingdom is on the fringe of being
invaded---
and it will come,
the bludgeoning of the spreading fire will be one of never before seen
ferocity,
for examples have to be made,
in order for those in power to prove that they still have power &
blood will be spilt, in fact,
blood is being spilt as this writer types
(little puddles now, written off as “unruly dissidents,” only foreshadowing a river of blood leading to a vast ocean).
it is the spilling of blood which ignites the last few,
those that thought it would all blow over &
that their lives could stay pretty much the same,
if they just stuck it out---
when friends, relatives and neighbors begin to bleed,
be it through destruction of property, incarceration, injury or death,
the once comfortable are forced to open their eyes &
decide which side they're on.
~ (~) About a teaspoon it takes me in the morning-coffee-that-is. (~) ~
~ (~) Cream more, sugar, a little-less, though truly I still do prefer my cup fresh brewed... its
superb when piping hot you know it sure is tasty. (~) ~
~ (~) Searching through those IM's e-mails trickle-trickle-hiss-bubble-pop-pop love-is-groovy
you bet man red lights hot lights an honor yes-I feel they're all an-honest testament that
hollowed ground is sacred... . Illuminating one and another their shadows dandling-along-a-
part-of-the-simple-collection-of-rain-puddles offering-their-jest, and from the beginning you-
know-I-believe they all exist as one light dancing together-until the very end. Because as
they vary; pale shades of poetic Grey, they carry for me of feeling but one of two tones
jocularity;
bitterness... . (~) ~
~ (~) Intoxicating really the harshness of Winter-fervency-of-Summer sweet rejoinder
cultivation of all our prayers... Spring... ! (~) ~
~ (~) Took a stroll amid the saffron all grown up in the Autumn laying down beside the day
lilies wisteria grace gently caressing them enchanting... . (~) ~
~ (~) Vibrant I find it all to be so very encouraging. (~) ~
~ (~) Looking now the frost once thick-crisp driveling down beading up upon the many grassy
shoots tulips lavender flower the mighty pines-now-reflecting-a-dewy-vapor, refreshing to the
touch, taste; hues of virtue mirroring this, glistening-upholding-all-things, in-their-
timelessness. (~) ~
~ (~) Life evolving hope offers this proposal questions often posed answers granted remain
open... because I believe peace and freedom this way friend are forever evolving,
while love all year 'round, it waits... pondering-this; as it deliberates... . (~) ~
~ (~) Like glistening crystal pools of alabaster sands scented-up diaper dusty-talcum baby
baby powder, funny contentment privy-so-privy I love the way newborns their eyes tend to
wander as they coo, all jovial, and-warm... surrounding all they know of God themselves in
the wake of the room... . (~) ~
~ (~) The birth of enlightenment a burst of individuality in every glance; I can't today but
maybe you, tell me now God is a farce, remaining kindle to the kind-less...
still the kinder... . (~) ~
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zcGJb-mPMmg
“The Purple Reign”
by: Eric L. Boddie
“I Want to Be Your Lover” is so “Insatiable” to some
But I “Adore” you because the “Holy River” is where I’m from
And “I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man,” that’s “Scandalous” to think
But I answered “The Question of U” is “Strange but True,” so don’t blink
Maybe it’s this “Erotic City,” or, perhaps, it’s because she looks so good in that “Raspberry Beret”
But I want to be “Somebody’s Somebody,” but she must be the “Marrying Kind” I say
So “Lady Cab Driver” in the “Little Red Corvette”
“Let’s Pretend We’re Married” with some “Dance, Music, Sex, Romance,” and I expect
To be the “International Lover” for every “Irresistible *****”
Because I Love every woman from “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World” to “Billy Jack *****”
Let me leave you “Satisfied” in puddles of “Black Sweat”
But I “No” all that I want so “Damn U” before I forget
That “Nothing Compares 2 U” plus I Love when you “Call My Name”
“U Got That Look” that lures all the “Girls and Boys” just the same
This “Cinnamon Girl” named “Anna Stesia” is the only one I want to call baby
Even if it took “A Million Days,” I would tell her “Let’s Go Crazy”
Maybe I got one of those “Colonized Minds” that will never let me say “Eye Hate U”
But “One of Us” must understand that “The Love We Make” is true
So if I gave you “Diamonds and Pearls” or took you “Around the World in a Day”
Would you “Do Me Baby” or let “Bob George” get in the way
Even back in “1999,” I was somewhat addicted to the “Pop Life”
Because of a “Condition of the Heart” that made me want a “Friend, Lover, Sister, Mother, Wife”
But there is “Joy in Repetition” every time we try a “New Position”
And “Baby I’m a Star” so my “Darling Nikki,” you should know my intentions
But the “Rainbow Children” provide the best “Sign ‘O’ the Times”
I want you “Forever in My Life” because we like to “Play in the Sunshine”
Because “When 2 R in Love,” there must be a sincere sense of “Trust”
And when it’s not so “So Dark,” it looks like “Purple Rain” to us
And that’s “When Doves Cry,” in light of our “Private Joy”
Without “Controversy,” it’s the “Love Sign” I employ
So “Gett Off” of that hate train, and let “Positivity” spark
And if you’re “Willing and Able,” that’s what is done at “Paisley Park”
RIP Brother Prince Rogers Nelson…..God Wants you In His Choir…..
The dirt path quietly calls my name, gently pushing me to take the fist step.
My backpack strapped firmly along the curve of my spine, holding the very things I need to survive.
I am alone. I shiver. I move on.
I lift my eyes from the ground and remind myself I am strong.
The weight on my back brings comfort.
The weight on my soul brings pain.
Another step up the mountain. Another step toward my salvation.
Another step toward my freedom.
I climb. I listen. I climb. I look. I climb. I remember. I climb. I forget.
The sky above holds puffs of clouds safely in it's arms
I wonder if I will be so lucky to feel the same.
I feel wild. I feel free. I feel fierce.
I pray my god will protect me and teach me all I must learn along the way.
I miss my babies back home; their silhouettes shadow my every step.
My silhouette? Incomplete and cracked.
I climb. I smile. I climb. I laugh. I climb. I cry. I climb. I sob.
The birds above float rapidly by; chirping their praise to one another
I wonder if I will be so lucky to hear the same.
I feel alone. I feel tired. I feel pride.
I pray my god will take mercy on my soul and forgive me for the pain I have caused.
I miss the comfort of my home; it's smells and sounds wrap themselves around me.
My smells and sounds? Foreign and alive.
I climb. I ache. I climb. I hurt. I climb. I reject. I climb. I accept.
The trees sway peacefully in the breeze; lulling themselves to sleep
I wonder if I will be so lucky to do the same.
I feel lost. I feel broken. I feel hope.
I pray my god will shine the light of the sun on my path and the power of the moon on my camp.
I miss the life I once dreamed of; it's colorful and icy facade melts into opaque puddles at my feet.
My facade? Melts into nothing.
I climb. I grasp. I climb. I beg. I climb. I exhale. I climb. I surrender.
The mountain stands tall and proud before me; confident in its strength and ability.
I wonder if I will be so lucky to believe the same.
I feel raw. I feel forgiveness. I feel peace.
I pray my god will guide me down the mountain and gently lay me upon the doorstep of my home.
I miss the girl I hoped to become; her image never traveling far from my thoughts.
My image? Combines with hers to become whole.
I climb. I question. I climb. I atone. I climb. I greet. I climb. I arrive.
Endurance is not of your nature,
Solidity glides in wavering motions upon my pitiful neck,
Now brazen silver does linger,
Trite lance, ravenous knife does make one last,
Sorrowful trek...
I know you'll adore each compassioned endeavor,
And your canvas lay pared, splayed and sculpted tissue.
You've rendered such precious jet-black clouds...
They drape their vile vined misted shrouds...
Within my gray eyed gaze,
Such hues temper your violent palette...
Vanished breath-flickered candle haze.
Lifeless wick, gurgling crimson wax.
Your beloved paint trickles in balmy clotted puddles,
I shudder adorned in radiant rubies rolling from my fingertips,
I feel your veteran-mastered art pouring from my throat...
Am I not your first? What imaginative vision you possess!
For it is not to say mine is fading, fleeting plasma afloat.
They told me of your gift,
How endowed you are,
Able to plunge, plunge, plunge,
Your hands into the crevices of torment,
In your swayed, celestial delusion,
You heaven's exile, wicked-bound and hell sent.
Engraved in lifeless form ascending from tip to hilt,
Still I lie mesmerized by the atrocity,
Of apathy jaundiced guilt.
Predator, what is your name?
May I slip your ill-willed syllables from my lips,
for you have brought my tamed veins shame.
I value your corrupt knowledge found pledge,
As you mar my shivering body to your own image,
Ingenuity, you said was the plight laid upon razor's edge.
Poetic justice you explained was reason to heal,
Mankind in his errors,
Of humanity's devil-signed, soul-phantom deal.
If I could speak I'd ask for the pen,
Should I sign in ink? Skin pricked red-wine?
Rolled parchment, contract or covenant?
Sign here along the dotted line?
I lift the golden-feathered needle,
And pierce, finger signature in place,
Advocate of Satan take my soul,
Where we are then,
Vaccuum-voided into fiery space.
I look back up at you with word choked reply,
Sputtering the eruptive branch volcano,
You snicker an exaggerated pain cry,
You tell me my soul's been granted,
I was never given choice,
You said, "You gave that up when I slit,
Your moral stained choral-voice...."
How I regret your wicked lures...
Your profound and deafening words,
The afterlife has no meaning,
Only death does gleam,
On Steel Sharpened Spurs...
Form:
I search for words
To describe this feeling...
After you told me
You hate me...
I remember when
I went swimming in the ocean
One day in January...
Ice was curled in elaborate design
Of wind-blown swirls on the sand...
Snowflakes mixed with grains of sand
And bitter wind blew both into my face-
Sea foam blew across the beach
Like stray, sodden mushroom clouds
And the ocean waves were dark
And angry...
It was so cold, this January...
But I wasn't scared.
That day, I had I thought of
The ocean in autumn;
When I swam last in autumn,
It was October, and the
Wind was harsh and strong;
Waves were wild with
The fresh memory of stormclouds,
So they crested high and broke hard
On the beach...
The sun hadn't shone that day either.
The water, when I dove into it,
Was cold, but warmer than the air-
Vicious to look at,
But under the surface of the waves
Still gentle as summer...
Familiar...
I had gone back in more than once
Just because I loved the feel,
The pull of the current, the raw energy
Of the water against my skin,
And I dove through waves again
And again...
I knew it would be worse this time,
A few months later
And so many degrees colder...
I almost decided not to do it
When I peeled off my coat,
My shirt, my boots, pants, and socks...
The wind bit my skin hard, tearing
Into my warm body, and the gound,
Icy, was like bared teeth against the soles
Of my feet...
Too late to back out now.
So I ran, barefoot, over ice-ringed
Puddles of seawater and snow-flecked sand...
I reached the water, the first soft waves...
I was slowed by the foamy surf,
Which, only knee-deep, was a strong deterrent,
But then I was past it, and I dove...
That first, frigid, smack in the face
As the water closed over my head
Stole all heat, all memory of heat,
From my body all in an instant...
I surfaced gasping in shock,
Heart about to either stop or burst-
I'm still not sure which,
All I could think of was the cold...
It was so cold...
Colder than anything I've ever known...
I retreated clumsily-
I should have recoiled from the ground,
Stepping quickly and lightly
Over cruelly sharp grains of
Equally mixed ice and sand,
But I could no longer feel the cold...
I could feel nothing...
Could think nothing...
When you told me you hate me...
It felt like that.
There lived an old lady
On Widegulley Street
Who owned a black cat
With little white feet.
One Halloween night,
She formed a cute plan
To dip the cat’s feet
In black paint in a pan.
With her fully black cat
Tucked under her arm,
She dressed as a witch,
Complete with some charms.
Out on her porch
She stood waiting to greet
All the girls and boys
Who’d soon come trick-or-treat.
From the old lady’s hands,
The cat wiggled free,
And fell to the ground,
Then took off down the street.
The cat sped on down
Towards the end of the road,
And on towards three boys
Exiting their abode.
The three boys were leaving
To go trick-or-treat
When they heard the patter
Of the cat’s little feet.
All three in the group
Were all superstitious,
So when they saw the cat,
They treated him vicious.
The three boys chased him
And tugged on his tail.
They grabbed him and caught him,
And drug him to the well.
They aimed to get rid
Of this “evil” black cat
By having one boy
Throw it in with the bats.
Before reaching the well,
The cat scratched the kid’s arm,
And the boy then dropped it
In fear of more harm.
The cat fled to a tree
Where it ran up it quickly.
All three boys followed,
And looked up at him sickly.
One of the boys
Began up the oak,
But he picked a wrong branch
That was too thin and broke.
He fell to the ground
Right on his behind
Then the cat leaped on down
And shot to the curbside.
The second boy bolted after
On the soft, squishy ground
Still wet from the rain
With puddles all ‘round.
He tripped on a root
And tumbled on down
Face down in a puddle
And came up with a frown.
The last child watched
As the cat hurried on.
Its feet splashed in a puddle
And the black paint was gone.
The young boy realized
They’d wasted their time.
Their night was near gone now
Because of their crime.
The cat scuttered home
And up to his keeper,
Where she picked him up
And treated him sweeter.
She took him inside
And placed him in the floor,
Then sat down with him
After closing the door.
In front of the fireplace,
They both stayed and rested,
Because on that night,
Their fear had been tested.
She was glad the cat was home,
And he was glad to be there.
Next Halloween night,
Both of them would beware.
4/14/2018
This responds to “Operation Raise the Colours,” where some have painted the St. George’s Cross across streets, roundabouts, and takeaway shops. Claimed as patriotism, these acts are vandalism and an attempt to erase community spaces and stirring division.
Red bleeds across zebra lines,
slick on high street asphalt,
smearing over takeaway shutters,
stretched across roundabouts, stubborn as lead.
Rollers scrape and flake,
pigment cheap, sunlight shakes it loose,
drips into puddles,
history seeping through plaster,
like damp under primer that never hides the past.
The streets run red and white,
paint claimed by hands insistent on marking stone, brick, asphalt—
silence made loud in streaks and drips.
Roundabouts stand proud under fresh layers.
Slash Dulux over despair—
coverage meant to hide, but failing.
Paint bleeds over more than tarmac—
onto takeaway windowpanes, footpaths, shop signs—
a mural of identity, impulse, defiance.
Undercoat logic tries to cover the past,
but no sealant ever lasts.
Brushstroke patriots,
emotion disciples,
armed with rollers like substitute rifles.
The painting’s wrap is hollow,
decorating decline as if it were fate.
Every slogan,
a stencil sprayed on the breeze.
Pigment flakes with ease,
truth showing through the layers.
Heritage red becomes eviction scarlet,
brilliant white papered over target.
Crowns drip Crown paint onto stone,
monarchs in tester pots,
empires reduced to monochrome.
Borders cut by shaky hands,
masking tape straining against the straight line of intention.
Private bleeding edges,
lines never straight.
Revolutions run off into puddles of hate,
mirroring the sky distorted,
clouds stretched, colors torn thin.
Tins are stirred, paint slapped on the ground.
Every revolution circles round,
because property cannot be glossed,
despair cannot be mapped.
Whitewashed roundabouts cannot hide the cracks.
Paint peels, drips, bleeds into puddles,
but the fissures of history remain—
veins in stone, stories in asphalt,
layers no roller can erase.
Crowns, crosses, streaks of red and white
twirl and fall like the last dance
over streets that remember,
over walls that refuse to forget.
The cracks take the floor,
silent but insistent,
and they will not be painted over.
Tonight I will not write
of stars, nor moon,
seeds of wisdom--
just mind flattering
bloom--
Nor will I write of love--
neither here nor above;
though our dearest
sentimentality, the heart,
too often foolishly enacts
its own fatality;
and if I decide to write
(which I have not yet)
it will not be the common
dark vs light--
No, not this, low, literary-fruit
will I harvest, arm and lather;
pick high and low to gather--
likewise, I will divest of
good angels vs evil counterparts--
my rules, my pen; therefore, for me,
some spades can be clubs,
and all pointed diamonds I declare
are now well-rounded, suitable, hearts--
Nor will my Poetic-theme
be of great, vast seas;
nor smaller phrases
of streams—the writer’s
usual surge to roar
that calms to a sleepy bore….
and certainly not
will I write about depth
of self esteem--
the shallow image of self
often incapable of
of deep, worthy gleam;
though seldom do others
see us mere puddles
as we to ourselves
are wrong to deem
(though never approaching
the great-self,
alas, most of us
will only let dream)--
so, tonight, self for me will rest...
and if brought to theme
it will only be for rhyme, my easy best;
Oh! That Poetic Shopping-cart:
shelves of prose! Aisles of mesmeric gleams!
like Poe’s mystic schemes--
clouds feeding voraciously off headless peaks—
those fantastical shoulders we desperate writers
must climb if to find our lofty seeks--
all creative mind’s begging for such volcanic leaks—
No! I will not pontificate on these, for the best programmers
many do still believe are little more than
Charlatans or geeks--
Nor as subject will I attempt the Divine;
our soul’s hope to progress, as wine,
to some vintage state--though, without tasting,
when compared to life’s offered new...
such abstaining, perhaps, not worth
the spirit's residue--
Nor will I attempt metaphors yet more mysterious--
maybe, even delirious; though often told
such intoxicating views, like the morning dews
can be practical lifesaving for both greens and blues--
sadly, such pasture-valleys thoughtless men
have turned to breathless, rat-infested alleys;
No! Tonight
should I decide to write
I will write of other things…
I will write...hum….
I will write… simply, Goodnight….
Success is not a Capitalist Cheat nor an Old Whore that seduces the innocent
Away from the door of Freedom
Good Fortune is not a mere happenstance that unfairly favors the Wealthy
It is the rain of daily sunlight
Into the upstretched palms
Of the embittered man
Who can't take one drop more
Of the sewage he calls Capitalism...
But I understand...
When one has lived too long in the day
He may appear to forget the howls
And wails
Of those whose only light has become the moon
Because they never see the Sun
Because they are at work
From the time before the Sun gets up,
Until after the time He goes down...
These are the night-possessed
Whose only hope is to transform the world
Into peat for the fire
And to burn it down...
But then we would all be were-wolves --
There will no-one left to be meat,
And we will hunger
More than before...
At least let some be sheep
Who will play the Sacred Lambs
And be food
For the poor,
Heart-broken wolves
Who starve in the stick-like forests,
Devoid of happy hopes
Who light the fires
And burn the very forest
Down around them
Hoping for warmth
Until there is no fuel
But only
Cold Ash
What was once a World
Is now become
A nuclear terror
A winter of the heart
Where selfish men
Hand out sandwiches --
Hundreds! --
Without any meat
Between the bread...
Poor wolves!
Skin stretched,
Ribs sticking out.
I would care for them
And feed them
All their lives
If I could
And let them write poetry
And tend
The Holy Garden,
Made Holy by a rain
Of clean sweat
Shed under the Sun!
But I have only my blood to give...
Fine then!
I will bleed
That they might not hunger
Whom the world
Has treated poorly...
Only I can bleed
Only so many days
Till I am dead...
Poor wolves!
Poor world!
Upon whom
Shines only the Cold
And selfish moon
Sent to stretch their shapes
Into eternal suffering...
We had best have a beginning again
That nurtures the Earth
And plants new trees
And teaches the now-silver wolves
To eat fruit
Again!
But only a happy dance
Only a happy dance
Will save them free,
Will save them free,
Will save them free,
Till Victory
Shines down
And they drink from the puddles
Of golden light
From the puddles of golden light
And transform into men
Again!