Long Rack Poems
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July 25th, 1996 tied the Gordian knot,...
(I spent noose cents)
begot deux daughters, the major events
both since flew cuckoo's nest,
the eldest angry at papa for offense
sieve behavior fatherly bond
forever sundered permanent rents
unforgiving progeny vents
bile, explosive vitriol whence...
Aye yen for bachelorhood every
now and again doth mildly abate
after saying "I do...,"
when axed by justice of peace
nearly two dozen years wedded
bull hissing, rest assured
I will abbreviate
encapsulate, fulminate, narrate...
and forthrightly admit,
yours truly oft times
yearned to abdicate
spousal unbridled warfare and injustice
reason enough to abnegate
null and void husbandry role
ex post facto finding thyself
questioning pledging troth even
Frosty the snowman would abominate
to say "screw this -
marriage nut for me"
bolt in a huff boot (dang)
ne'er did absquatulate
altercations that adhere
to rule of physics
and tended to accelerate
as muzzled, neigh saying saddled
former groom did
lament and accentuate
his physical needs,
she did not accommodate,
cuz this solitary soul
(with good n plenti horse sense),
never did fully acculturate
with female species,
one whose blunt cold front
seemed to accumulate growing
gripe list bestowed courtesy this mate
tit for tat wrathful pitiless,
(not so cherry) feedback unmatched
within annotated coupled courtship of fools,
this scrivener with steely
iron maiden breastplate,
nonetheless did rack up and accumulate
battle scars hitting bullseye,
since donned with
corrective vision spectacles
hen pecking, needling termagant
untameable shrew did acerate
(worse fate than death -
validated by grim reaper)
avowed covenant thru torturous years
exponentially punishing innocent soul
(slightly biased) did acervate
popping one after
another over the counter acetylsalicylate,
no ampule adequate
to relieve permanent suffering,
thus lifetime electric shock treatment,
nsync quaffing prescription
kool aid battery acidulate
ineffective to activate
palliative, and restore
liberty (yeah) sense and sensibility
subsequently providing freedom
against further wifely scourges
whereby Doctor Phil Ander
refused to adjudicate,
perhaps understandable why I advocate
selfless mercy killing (euthanasia)
for this urbane country bumpkin.
South Of The (United States) Border...
(Reigns A Welter Of Disorder)
Caravans comprising multitudinous
peoples plodded a steady course
analogous to iron filings drawn by
strong magnetic force
gravitational pull generated
by North America
an irresistible source,
which tug felt
nearly all the way round
webbed wide world beckoning
for waves of humanity
figuratively donned as spawning fish,
toward which currently dimming
beacon of democracy flickr
Trump might extinguish
though tis quite heart
breaking to experience
vicariously as one collective soul,
these desperate folks
ambitious to seek asylum,
(and eventual citizenship),
while this "FAKE" president
invents many a...holy SMOKES
outrageous, nefarious, and malicious
dagger o type cruel barbed wire
accusing, condemning, and emasculating,
(I could continue),
but ye dear reader would tire
unless individuals
affected by xenophobia
countenance same stance
as Commander in Chief,
or contrariwise some
like minded
thinkers, rack coon sitter
the migrant situation dire,
would effectively serve me
as preaching to
the Unitarian choir,
yet any sensate
person must admit
tis quite upsetting, lamenting,
and agonizing to witness
hordes of persons treated like
some pestilential
eyesore dagnabbit,
yes this chap can
endlessly spout flibbertigibbet,
though thee crux of my opinion,
inspires a poem express
sing supportive emotions
particularly acknowledging,
how these masses (thousands)
of vulnerable individuals
show true grit,
nonetheless yours truly,
would be hard pressed
for an immediate
humane solution to corral
this extensive kit
and caboodle, though this generic guy
with a poetic knack
shakes his noggin
watching armed flack
delivered from border patrol agents/
United States military, lack
restraint, and who outright attack
trespassers at point
blank range that pack,
a deadly (Judge Judy ish
huss) punch smack
king young ones
upside the head forcing
everyone to backtrack
to their homeland of
persecution by crack
headed gang members, which thugs
violently land a deadly whack!
We kept our silence in the room as we waited for the verdict to be read an innocent man sitting there with a murder hanging over his head, the image of the blood stained sheet is all over the screen and his only alibi is the woman of his dream.
You cannot be in two places before the horse races, there are four rooms in the house and an exit next to the kitchen, there is a basement two layers below and that is where you prepare for the show. You have a studio and a small study and a rack filled with oldies and goodies; sensational music of the past ring loudly in his ears and a library with an experiment table and newly designed module of a gadget sitting on top.
He cannot imagine himself killing anyone and he cannot believe that he have blood stain on his hand, “I don’t even know how to use a gun and if I did I would probably be on the run”, he shouted as he speaks his thoughts aloud. It is the form of confession you hear when death reason with death and passion run through veins spilling anxiety in the air.
We kept our silence in the room as he recalls the story of what happen that day at noon. He said that he was with the woman of his dreams walking on the beach, talking about the future and how they would spend their lives together; they booked a cheap hotel room and had lunch at noon, then made love the entire day.
He went on and on describing the woman of his dreams and never talked about the murdered man on the screen; his story of love was so convincing he mesmerized everyone in the room, and when he said, “my eyes met with hers and when the golden stature flashed across his eyes the interlude began, and they both became one.”
Their eyes and mouths open wide and raw nerves crashing with nerves and for more than five minutes no one spoke; it wasn’t a joke they were caught up in a romantic rapture and silence broke when the judge read the verdict.
“Not guilty “go in peace the Judge said, forcing himself to overcome the love spell. He brought out the entire old document on the case and throws them in the furnace and watched it burnt to ash.
The accused left the courtroom with his woman holding together their mesmerizing passion burning in the stomach. “I am a free man,” he shouted, I am going to travel the whole wide world and make some money telling stories. Not guilty is the title of his first book.
Have you ever had something happened to you that scared you out of your wits? I have. It
all began on my birthday last year. (This is not a true story, by the way.)
April 1st, 2009. 8:00PM
My mom threw a huge birthday party for me, everyone in the family was there. A few hours
after the party, my mom was invited to dinner with her new boyfriend. She was going to say
no because she didnt want to leave me alone for my birthday, but I love her too much to
have her give it up. An hour later, my mom and Ray were heading out for dinner. When they
left, I went up to my room, laid flat on my bed, and fell asleep.
10:00PM
Two hours later, I heard a crash coming from downstairs. It woke me up with a jolt going
down my spine. I grabbed my flashlight which was on my dresser, and headed down the
stairs. I checked out the living room, nothing was wrong. I checked out the hallway, nothing
was wrong. Then I walked into the kitchen. Everything seemed to be in place. Just as I
started turning out the door, I noticed somethig odd in the corner of my eye. In the knife
rack, a knife was missing. I searched around the kitchen but could not find the knife. I
ignored it and went back upstairs, back to sleep.
11:00PM
My mom came back from dinner. She screamed up to me saying, "I'm back from dinner. I'm
gonna get some sleep. Good night, and happy birthday."
12:30AM
Later that night, I heard the crash again. It sounded like it was coming from the basement.
So I grabbed my flashlight, raced downstairs. I first ran into my mom's room to make sure
she was alright. She was perfectly fine. Then I ran to the basement and looked around. A
lightbulb had fallen from the ceiling and broke on the ground. I swept it up with a broom, and
put it in the garbage can. I started to climb the stairwell once again, and there I saw it. There
was the kife sitting on the middle of the floor in a pool of blood with red footprints walking to
the closet. I picked up the knife, slowly walked to the closet. The closet was inches away
from me. I could hear a gasp of breath coming from inside. I closed my eyes, swung open
the door and stabbed away. I could feel the blade penetrating something, but what? I opened
my eyes, and realized what I had just done. Apparently, my mother was back from dinner,
and here lies her dates.
releasing me - of minutes, hours, days - of being bored,
as age creeps into my bed, and what is left, is in my head
- providing nourishment for my soul – my spirit being fed
by looking glass images, images that slip through the crack
in my day dreams, my nightmares as my brain, I rack
for images, memories, experiences - that lay dormant in a stack
upon stacks - waiting to escape the boarded up shack
that has been the villages claim to justify its existence.
The grounds, the foundations, reasons to take a stance
and say yes, yes there where days when I knew romance
and as ever the fool, no one around to kick me in the pants
as all has become history, – fourteen thousand pages – turn a leaf
and you will find that this one’s life is far to empty, far to brief.
In it – between the covers of seventy-eight – can there be any relief
from all that has been laid before you ?, can there be belief ?,
in what is before your eyes, as you look into what is laid before
you, as I reach in, grab at, touch that slow closing door
with hope that it will be possible to get a glimpse of more
before my soul, my spirit, my essence takes wing, begins to soar
beyond this plane, all the pain I have known before.
In here – these lines – I feel the loss.
Upon this stone – know – I see no moss,
for on here, I offer no direction,
just many hours of histories reflection.
Empty- I feel in this alone place.
Emptiness - I see in this aged drooping face.
Where is ?, that I might seek to go ?,
to gain wisdom, to learn what I do not know
of a world of spirit, of soul, of a fine mind.
It seems to me, little hope to find
- among humanity – the true essence of woman kind
as she entombs all- such waste – leaving all behind.
Oh !, if only the fickle hand of fate
could lay upon these drooping shoulders, in these arms, a mate
that in ones darkest hours, a soft glowing light, shine
upon this old soul and in the light of day be mine
that would share on a world , not to compare
with anything like my world of despair.
The hour has passed, the rest are in decline.
The minutes that remain – with stain, are mine.
There is little I see, that will make life fine,
for the ephemeral time left to me, little will shine
through as I look into the black, storm cloud ahead
that rage, stage battles, assassinate instead
Making my way through the Dollar General hoping to get an economy pack of Thank You cards to send out to all the people who had just given me expensive gifts
(Not really; I was there for cheap cosmetics),
All I could smell was that discount store smell I can’t pin down, but if I had to describe it, I’d say it’s the smell of spilled Prell baked on raw plastic packaging and industrial strength Irish Spring spread all over the place to repel insects and people with disposable incomes
I heard Elton John in the background, and it was the same song I heard as a nearsighted but proud third-grader at Kmart with proud young parents doing their best, too, as they had me try on all the reading glasses on the spinning rack, hoping one of them would be an affordable solution to a suspected vision problem, but none of them were going to help me read writing on a board more than a few feet ahead of me.
But it was fine; for now, everything’s fine. My grades are good, and everything’s fine for now. Prescriptions can wait a few years for now. I can only see what’s right in front of me, and it’s fine for now.
Now here I am thirty years later at Dollar General under the same overhead music and florescent lights, and the same smell that I can’t positively identify. These discount places all seem to smell the same and I can’t explain it, but maybe it’s in my mind the way it clings to my clothes and hair almost as bad as cigarette smoke
And as stuck as that smell gets in my clothes, so I’m stuck in this place as a ghost wishing to move on, but trying to save money on scar concealers, ignoring pains in my jaws and sides and back,
So I’m back, and still not sure what that smell is exactly
And all there is to do is be glad that for now, everything is fine.
I can see what’s right smack in front of me just fine, now, but I ignore the distance as I did then, saying it’s just fine, still believing I have a chance to escape and move on to someplace better, if only in my mind.
Gratefully I’ll head home with my discount concealer and change, and like that nearsighted girl, see nothing far ahead.
Everything’s fine today. The smell of rain will send that discount store smell away with the breeze for now. Tomorrow will soon be today, and as long as today is fine, it’s fine for now.
Continued From:
10. BTK Coming Attractions Part 2
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195844
****************************************************************************
BILLY the Kid's Great Escape.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again you'd kill me on the spot.
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. Show me what you've got.
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two,
because I'd love to be the one who gets to kill you.
I've got 16 silver dimes in each barrel of my shotgun.
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run.
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door?
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet loving whore.
I'll kill you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet."
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet.
" Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut.
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?"
"Don't do it Bob," Bell said angrily, "or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure
for killing a man in cold blood who was chained helplessly to the floor.
It's time for the other prisoners to be escorted across the street to be fed.
The Kid's not going anywhere. He's chained to the floor by his bed.
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn.
Go and have yourself a beer and I'll stay here and guard the Kid until you return.
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack.
Before he left he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back."
No one can say for sure if the above dialog ever truly took place.
One thing's for sure. Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace.
They were arch enemies who fought against each other during the Lincoln County War.
Ollinger was in the posse that killed John Tunstall, Billy's employer, friend and mentor.
"I have to use the outhouse Bell," Billy said to the deputy.
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key.
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor.
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door.
****************************************************************************
To Continue Go To:
12. BTK Coming Attractions Part 4
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195841
I hit the master switch
And all the lights and racks come on at once
The mood lights overhead, the rack equipment, flashing, glowing
Keyboards, amps, mixer, recorder, effects, EQ, sound mods, sequencers
Screens, laptop, pedals, playback system, and reference monitors ...
All with their own sets of colored LED's shining, flashing
Seems a silly thing, but my heart surges whenever I hit that switch
For that is IT to me ... there's nothing I do that brings me more satisfaction
Recording and producing music that I've written
Arranging and programming the drums and percussion
Layering the keyboard and guitar parts
Piano, electric piano, organ, strings, horns, synth sounds
Building the rhythm tracks around the melody and vocals I know are coming
And, ultimately, adding the vocals, the lead first
Then the background vocals, layering harmonies to support the lead
Often a solo section last, a guitar or sax or synth solo, but always after vocals
That's the frosting on the cake for me, to wind it together
When I'm satisfied with everything, individually, I do the final mix
This is the key, and the most delicate and precise part of the process
Very often I'll take days on the final mix alone, for it must be PERFECT!
It goes to the mastering boys at 'Bernie Grundman' when I'm done
That's an expensive process, so the least amount of clock they use, the better
If there are issues with my final mix, everything slows down
That raises costs, so I HAVE to be sure of the final mix.
That studio, and everything it holds, is my refuge
Yes, it's my work as well, but even if not, it would still take most of my time
That's why I consider it my hobby, too
I'd be doing it anyway regardless, and it's what I love the MOST
The whole creative process, from writing the song until it's off to mastering
THAT'S my joy, and those little lights are like Christmas for me
That studio is my heaven, and I feel better each time I'm there
No matter WHAT life brings my way, no matter how dark
I shed the clouds when I hit that switch and that equipment goes on
My joy, my hobby, my work, my life
There's little that compares.
Written and submitted on February 24, 2019
For the "Hobbies" Poetry Contest
Julie Leigh Rodeheaver, judge & Sponsor.
Dear Anonymous,
The way she touched her hair. Leaned her head to the side. Her eyes
danced with mine, turning crimson I looked away.
Did everyone see me?
Her voice was magical. My mind acknowledged every movement. My heart
took me to places that were not present. Butterflies still live.
How could this be? I have lived like no other. I am no modern man. I have
seen death. I have encountered danger. I have been both good and wicked.
Who is she? She has picked my lock, opened the gates.
My clothes were the garb of a thrift rack. God, how I felt a stranger. Could
she know this? Had she seen the real me, despite my costume? Need I feel
shame for truth? Truth is all I am.
We walked, she laughed a time or two. The air became cool. I shivered like
a child. How could I tell her; I had no coat. I am poor dear? What is poor?
Her touch was electric. I felt like I had found what was lost. Her fingers
long and slender. She grabbed my hand, held it to her comfort. Did she feel;
what I felt?
She says she will see me, again. Then she will know more. She will know my
life, try as I might I cannot hide my journey. It is a story to be told. I have
accumulated nothing. I have learned, however, more than I can carry. It is
my story that enchants; am I more than a story? Will she walk away? Will I
sit and feel empty; feel loss for the never was?
Yet, how could I not walk that precipice? How could I not risk the fragility of
my being? My soul would not rest without knowledge.
Now I sit, melancholy ballads guide my mind to both heartbreak and bliss. I
both dream and fancy a lovers' tale. Yet, I secretly desire the tragedy. The
dear John letter, call, or lunch. "You know this is nice, but..." Then I can
crawl back in my mind again.
My mental space shares rent, a roommate that prods on desire. I cannot
endure heart break one more time. I am too old to walk on this path, my
angst is gone. I used to say, "Better to have loved, than not love at all!"
Foolhardy! Holding hands with loneliness is safe.
Dear Anonymous, will you be there? Will you listen? For I fear that she will
stay, and I will be lost.
From,
Lost in the forest.
Aunty Curly was knitting a scarf,
She opened a book and wrote it half,
A mouse was running under book rack,
A cat was after on the same track.
They never bothered someone is in the hall,
They were playing as a player with a ball.
A dog was sleeping on a sofa chair,
A cat waits for him when mouse goes there.
She felt anger when mouse turned this time,
Aunty was murmuring a poem in rhyme.
She heard a noise something was smashed,
Porcelain was on the ground and it was cracked.
She bought it last week that was so nice,
A thing was scattered on the floor that was rice,
A container was lying on a one side,
A lid was hiding a lampshade’s behind.
But a dog was still watching laid his head,
He hasn’t noticed anything as he was dead.
Aunty was annoyed she pushed the cat out,
When she came back she also has a shout.
You are lazy dog why did you n’t stop them?
You are mastermind you did that scam.
Get out from the chair don’t cry for food,
I always bothered you disturbed my mood.
I was willing to finish my scarf very soon,
I hope to wear in a party to night’s moon.
You lost my temper I shall punish you,
Don’t come back it’ll punish you if came through.
Why did you co-operate a cat with a mouse?
Who will pay the fine if you don’t pay my loss?
She brought a brush and cleared all mist,
A Chair was empty nobody was on its rest.
She received a letter council was on raid,
Keeping the entire stray dog in a street laid.
She was terrified and jumped out in the street,
She didn’t saw her Dog that was on a beat.
She rushedly closed the door and ran after him,
Dog was in the park after the food has no blame.
When she called Tom where are you?
Dog didn’t listen to her and walked on his crew.
Aunty was after him he stopped on a pool,
The lads were catching fishes it was very cool.
She again asked Tom come with me to home,
You are silly Dog why you are tearing Tom.
She embraced him and came back home,
She cleaned his seat and put new foam.
You are my family member don’t feel shame,
I am getting old that’s why is my blame.
I am on pension and can’t walk a long,
You need to supervise when happens wrong.
I also banished the cat but she is normal,
You always mind whatever it is formal.