Long Punching Poems
Long Punching Poems. Below are the most popular long Punching by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Punching poems by poem length and keyword.
hell's gate opens
drawing the curtains
love became the ball
chains a soulful heart
laid in broken
shattered piece
stirring the darkest poison
evil boiling hot
into the darkened dungeons
as darkness creeps
eating light
dark twisted pain
bland emotions
whistling
as the storm rises
screeching
in breath blowing
ebony clouds
the earth moves
like trees bent
first defence
against the gale
weighs heavy
on the shoulders
thrown from heaven
a fallen angel
spiraling
like a hurricane
into the darkness
off mind
punching deep
into the chest
taking the wind
clean out of life
a beauty
becomes the beast
lost in colourless pain
dull void
of nothing
fading heart
beats
the dagger
straight through
piercing
exploding died
in hell
PART 3
etc., etc., etc., and the negativity just keeps steam rollering on and on, it just keeps on coming and coming, like giant waves crashing upon a serine beach, tearing it apart and depositing it’s garbage, littering what is beautiful with an ugliness that is unbefitting, yet the wellspring of understanding, desire, hope seems to be endless in it’s patience as each new day brings with it, the same old, same old as new cracks in my persona – she perceives, judges, creates and makes my reality – are put down, belittled, criticized as she, in her audacity, believes, perceives
that her creations are my realities .
These are the materials from which I should fashion the keys – if so chosen – into a solid mass, keys that would open ?,
should open the prison, the cage doors in order to set my soul, my spirit, my life free. Why do I let the essence of these potential keys come at me with such force, slapping me in the face all the time, punching me in the heart with such force it breaks in two, kicking me in the ass ?
I need to make some calls but I can't even use this phone of mine.
I live in a hick town and me and my neighbors have a partyline.
People are always squaking on their phones and I've had enough.
When I ask the people to hang up, they tell me to get stuffed.
I need to make some important calls but I'm out of luck.
Women are gossiping all day long and that really sucks.
When I asked them to stop gossiping, their hubbies broke down my door.
They each took turns punching me and I wound up eating the floor.
When they finished beating on me, I was in a lot of pain and I'm still wearing a cast.
This is the twenty-first century for Pete's sake, partylines should be a thing of the past.
If you move to my neighborhood, buy a cellphone or you'll be driven out of your mind.
I'm not kidding when I tell you that it's both annoying and dangerous to have a partyline.
(This is a fictional poem.)
Redmon Yost lived in Iowa
with mother and siblings,
the oldest of seven children
had just turned seventeen.
His pa had passed on two years back,
Redmon had gone to work,
punching cows at Holloway’s Ranch,
long hours made bones hurt,
but pay was good
and all relied
on what he earned,
so he did ride.
Had no room to drink down his pay
or in the saloons lurks.
Redmon differed from his partners
in that he had no gun,
his family were all Quakers,
he was forbidden one.
They ribbed him about that sometimes,
but he paid them no heed,
Ma said turning the other cheek
beat making pour sols bleed.
She said it was
the law of God,
so Redmon rode
without a rod,
and this town was a quiet spot,
so Redmon saw no need.
Until the day an outer ranch
was hit, the men away,
the bandits took horses and cash
in the bright light of day.
News ran fast across the prairie,
a true posse was formed,
but the trail was lost by the men
in sudden prairie storm.
A twister was
no little thing,
no robbers would
be seen to swing,
And everybody hoped that life
would return to the norm.
But normalcy was not to be,
a stage was hit that weak,
old Amos Tanner was gunned down
while driving to get free,
then came a string of robberies,
a murder and two rapes.
Who did this? Nobody could tell,
the town was fit to break,
Redmon saw the
increasing harm,
began to think
of going armed,
but his mother cried,”No, you fool!
Don’t join in with their hate!”
This didn’t make much sense to him,
did God want them to die?
Peace was great, but what evil man
just nodded and passed by?
If God have given him this life,
if it was his great gift,
would He turn and say,”I forbid
you from defending it.”
But mother said,
“It is his will,”
But did He mean
To get folks killed?
Redmon couldn’t believe He would,
and those thoughts made a rift.
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
"Judge not lest ye be judged yourself" Matthew 7:1
That phrase is appropriate.
I am who I am.
I am WHAT I am.
I make no bones about it.
I am a poet.
I write when I write.
I write what is in my head.
I write what is in my heart.
Some is fiction, some true.
Some of it is scenarios in my busy head.
Some is a dark. Some light.
Some perverse. Some nice.
I am a friend.
One who stands for what I believe.
Even if my friend is wrong, I stay
I am a lover.
Not in a physical sense.
But a lover I am just the same.
I am a child of God.
Just because I am NOT
A bible thumping, card carrying
Member of a particular church
DOES NOT make me any less
A daughter of God.
He knows my heart and
He loves me just the same.
I am tired of people looking
Down on me because I do
NOT live their way!!!
This is my life!!!
God gave it to me.
I refuse to be beaten anymore.
I refuse to have a husband
To take what is supposed to
Be a act of love and have it
Whenever and however he likes
It, no matter the hurt.
I refuse to be punching bag!
I refuse to be the wife that smiles
For all the world to see and pity
Because her husband is off screwing
The cute young woman that batted
Her darling eyelashes at him,
I have tattoos.
So what?
So what if I want to
Date a younger man?
I am a good person.
Take me as I am.
I am me and for ALL
Of you that judge, I am
NOT committing any sins.
The only sin I committed
Was believing I am worthy.
I know I am not.
But just because I am
Unworthy does not mean
That I can not have a life.
I will answer to God
In Heaven when My
Time comes.
He is the only one
EVER allowed to judge me.
"Judge not, lest ye be judged yourself" Matthew 7:1
Undulations beginning no sense of any ending
Power indescribable surrounds and courses in
My veins, distinct involved conversations take
Place in my mind; I hear the reasoning and details
Of others lives; unknown minds memories intermesh
I saw a man I had known, not well but regurlarly..He had
Left worship for a while, he and his brothers were into
Boxing for years before he accepted Christ, so i was
Looking through the rear wimdow of a van in a dream
I just was suddenly;
There' I saw he was asleep? his arms by his side the
Outside of his hands were deep burgundy fingertips
Up to wrists like he had
Been punching a boxing bag, thats what I told myself
I said John can you hear me? Wow his eyes opened
He had not done anything like dreaded at first sight
I said how are you? He said I have fallen and I can't
Get up, physically can you pray? As I srarted to pray
I awoke soon after.'
When I ran into his brother at church I mentioned it
And that I was praying for him to get back to church
Out loud I thought on his burgundy coloured hands
I asked his brother what he thought, he said look thats
Not important now, he looked flustered he said keep
Praying he comes back.' A year later I met another brother
In the Lord I only mentioned Jhon by name and he told
Me, its a shame he had been taking from the offering
My mind went back to those red hands.'
This morning I noticed the fence leaning,
a tired spine under the weight of years,
its wooden slats splintered, soft as my knees
after too many trips up the attic stairs.
The body, I mean, not the house—though both
seem to sag in the same quiet defeat.
But look at the yard: crabgrass and clover
have staged a coup, their green fists punching
through cracks in the patio’s old concrete.
Ants march in neat rows, claiming the crumbs
of my breakfast left on the wicker chair.
Nature doesn’t care about my stiff joints.
I tried to pull a dandelion once,
thinking I could tame the chaos with a tug.
It snapped, left roots grinning underground,
as if to say, We were here first.
My heart, that old pump, skips a beat or two,
while the weeds write their novel in the dirt.
I sit by the window, counting my aches,
each one a plot point in a story I’d rather
not read. Yet the vines keep climbing the shed,
their leaves a bright defiance against rust.
Maybe that’s the trick—not to fight the green,
but to let it grow, wild, over my bones.
I'll play the bad guy,
if it will make you feel better.
I'll make it my favourite role,
they'll probably award me an Oscar.
I'll stand in the firing line,
taking all the shots - maybe I'm bulletproof.
Put on those boxing gloves,
but punch me hard, so you knock me out.
I'll be your willing punching bag.
I'll act a joker, paint a smile on my face.
I don't know how to play the victim.
You can tell all the media -
I'm the villain.
I'll be your gangster,
rob a bank for you -
but I can never be a killer.
You can belittle me,
stab me with your words,
poke me your insecurities..
Defame me, shame me - massacre my character.
I'll slay your demons, whilst you slaughter my personality.
Let them point all the fingers - at me
I promise I'll be silent,
no courtroom will hear my confession -
a secret I'll take to my grave.
It's ok, I'll hide the truth.
I'm immune to the insults - just numb.
I won't look for tomorrow - It may never arrive.
Forget forever - I'm not evergreen - are you?
In this mad world,
I'll die misunderstood -
just like Van Gogh
Strip me of my clothes,
trample over me like you would on snow.
Leave me vulnerable,
shivering among unfamiliar faces.
Before you go,
cut me open,
let me bleed dry, just like a poetic death.
When I'm just a memory,
remember me when it rains.
Maybe the mystery of each drop,
may explain the unexplainable pain.
Gen X or the
MTV generation.
See a big growth in the
Dept. of education.
A generation of latchkey
Kids home alone.
Rocky hits the box office,
With Sylvester Stallone.
New music with attitude,
The intro to Punk Rock.
Women working,
punching a time clock.
They heard Heavy Metal
Being born.
They witnessed the troops
In Desert Storm.
The first generation to play
Video games.
They watched the Challenger
explode into flames.
Another great movie the
Breakfast Club.
They were the era for
The War on Drugs.
They saw the emergence of
The AIDS epidemic.
They remember terrorism
at the Munich Olympics.
No more Berlin Wall to separate
the east and west sides.
They remember Jim Jones,
And his mass suicide.
They can come off
As a little cynical.
On social issues they
Are more liberal.
The Exxon oil spill,
They tried to lie.
The divorce rate hits,
An all-time high.
They had cable TV to
keep them company.
They experienced a
Single-parent family.
Turbo1904 ?
Saving memories about Mom
(Rub Boards, Bluing & Homemade Lye Soap)
By: Tom Wright
1/2/02
My half century old recollections
of a #2 galvanized tub,
When in use
it covered all four burners on the fire.
With homemade lye soap and a brass ridged board,
the household's clothes she'd scrub.
Doing laundry most every day
sure must have made Mom tire.
We lacked hot water in the house
for use by day or night,
So from this tub's steaming water,
boys bathed, and dad shaved.
A bluing bottle on a shelf nearby,
kept things smelling fresh, and color, white;
so with bleached white "punching stick" in hand,
Mom slaved.
Then, as for the time for ironing
she seemed to find no halt,
Always accomplished with a low tech iron,
referred to as "sad".
It too, was heated on the fire,
and she would periodically rub with salt.
Making this chore time consuming,
and for mom, equally bad.
If you're a woman who don't understand this,
chances are you didn't experience this.
For this, thank God.