Long Ramps Poems
Long Ramps Poems. Below are the most popular long Ramps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ramps poems by poem length and keyword.
Plants need water; stamps need glue.
Bricks need mortar; hair: shampoo.
Cars need gas; food needs spices.
Technogeeks need new devices.
Dogs need leashes; letters: stamps.
Folks in wheelchairs need nice ramps.
Zoos need visitors, so do shows.
Igloos wait for Eskimos.
Bands need tubas; singers: mics.
Hiking boots help out on hikes.
Laundry needs detergent; church needs sinners.
Marathons need runners, with some winners.
Teeth need toothpaste; dentists: drills.
Roller coaster riders require thrills.
Tattoo artists must have ink.
Skaters need a skating rink.
Gyms need trainers; schools need teachers.
Stadiums require bleachers.
Beds need pillows; sailboats: sails.
Hammers must desire nails.
Symbiosis sees us through,
Which explains why – I need you!
I told the world about my cure
Nobody gave a damn
For a moment, I felt just like a god
I’m reminded I’m a man
That boulder that’s upon your back?
It’s a tiny pebble, bro
How big you think the audience is
To your one-man show?
In the theater of the deep escape
Nobody’s willing to pay
They just want junk and velvet drapes
And to block the crisis away
I told the world about my dream
They nearly spit out their drink
I thought they were all just waiting to hear
Exactly what I think
That guillotine your head is in?
Seems to fit like a collar and tie
And before you know it, it’s laundry day
Ain’t nobody cryin’ no soapy tears
The day on which you die
In the theater of intoxicants
No talk of want or privation
(Just) the carrying of buttery hands
From the lobby of negation
Deus de muitas formas
The god of many forms
Lights the ancient darkness
Killing European norms
So come and swoon the Soma dream!
No curtain can conceal!
Tiny vagrant aristocracies
Amid sugar and ramps of steel
The maddened wench of river escape
Kills her child to feel
Don’t you be another Lennon ape
Crying, “Nothing is real”
Don’t be another Lennon ape
Singing, “Nothing is real”
Was it a reproduction
Of a Rothko in a book resting on his lap,
A swathe of black sky over
A grey sea, perhaps,
That triggered it.
He recalled pictures of
Brutalist concrete bunkers and silos,
Sinister dark steel ramps,
That carried doddlebugs and V2 rockets.
He relived a moment in a
Museum, a Messerschmitt 109,
Hanging from the ceiling
Tilted at an angle
Ready to dive and attack;
Remembered black and white grainy
WW2 photos inside an album,
The fresh faced pilot and crew,
Next to a Wellington back from a raid,
All smiles and thumbs up.
The images came to him tumbling
One after the other like slides from a projector.
Then he looked up,
It wasn’t grey at all.
As if imitating the Rothko,
The cloudless sky,
Floated over a calm,
Cobalt blue sea.
He got up from the sun bed,
Dusted gold sand from his feet
And headed towards
The beach bar.
He thought of stopping
For a drink, then decided not to,
The people were too noisy
And the techno-music too loud,
This was Sopot 2014 after all.
Crossing the wooden walkway
To his hotel, he saw
His girlfriend.
She was showing
A woman an amber necklace
She had bought the day before
At the market.
He moved closer; as the
Woman held the necklace
Towards the light,
He noticed a dark spot on one
Of the stones,
It was a fly, trapped,
And screaming to get out.
By the nearness of you...
I can say: I might never be blue..
I have someone to embrace and coo..
I have someone not too early; doesn't ask for dues..
In the nearness of you..
My cheeks turns red into flush..
Magical feelings commence to gush..
Like butterflies flying in hues and rush...
By the nearness of you..
I feel a quiet caressing warmth..
Enveloping me with passion affection; not harm..
Inviting me to wish forever; not quick as ramps..
By the nearness of you..
Oh, through the nearness of you..
I feel heaven in a wrath of trials hell..
Yet, it stops me to say and tell..
For I'm confident, I'm safe from any jail..
By: olive_eloi
sept. 6, 2013
1:29am
Dedicated to: all persons who have been so near to someone so dear...
I write most in advantage
with wind blowing
in me,
wine in the glass, but
no toxic and no
expectations...
Simple and complex,
so comes my
writing...
Without honors and flattery,
chasing a distant target
at random...
My poor poetry,
it's no frills and no
subterfuges... up
slopes and ramps, and
somehow it thrills the blind
and deaf...
Poetry that hits strongly
cheers me up and warms me up when
I feel half dead...
so hot it is, that
the cold cannot handle it.... what if
no audience appears,
it is not surprised and does not
cease...
While writing,
the cars on the street beep,
mosquitoes suck
my blood and verses... and
in the silence of the room
hundreds of ghosts
applaud...
The circus music plays, deep organ
sounds as the ramps lower
into the crowds. A roar goes
up towards the heavens,
A path to the savior is found.
the clowns role out, dressed
in makeup and robes, ready
to act out a skit seen day
after day after day all
over the world. Alms, they
cry, alms to repair the roof,
re-carpet the hall and pay
off the newly bought
Cadillac. The music dies down,
the hat is passed around,
and you are frowned upon
if you don’t give enough.
When the crowd filters out
and clothes are changed, out
of your Sunday Best, no amount
of money can change
who you really are once
the circus leaves town.
Today,
The beggar woman on the corner held a sign that said:
"Dance Teacher, laid off, anything helps."
And in the 60 seconds my car sputtered indignantly beside her,
I watched the feral lines in her face
I imagined her skin was soft, and unobtrusively without confession
Swaddled in a thin gray sweater,
I romanticize,
That she threw this on, as she walked into the sharp Autumn air
Veiled in a gleaming burst of creativity.
Her body warm from her feet dragging across the floor
To the songs I secretly like
I ponder shamefully
How many pliés, and twirls and graceful arches with her arms
were made before tripping onto this corner?
Gossiping mouths of freeway on-ramps
That become our living rooms, kitchens and halls.
I love her anyway
When spectators throw dollar bills instead of roses
Out of cocoons
that smell of white mochas
After she left the house for realities unknown,
abandoned rooms became discrete spaces
fully occupied by her thoughts.
Buses still stop two doors down,
sparrows hop over the stalks of dead roses.
Road dust carpets, then is windswept away.
Eventually, Girl Guides selling cookies
scrub her address off clipboards.
The mail has begun to forward itself
to nowhere.
The house whispers to passing pedestrians,
It calls to migrant cats, homeless mice,
indigenous tribes of Carpenter Bees.
A face on a billboard is planted in the yard,
prospective buyers enter and leave,
none move in.
Her spirit returns for a while
to inhabit the once lived in.
half-heartedly she wanders
over her own footsteps,
does not stay long.
Her arthritic presence has moved on
to a place, a safehouse for the forgotten,
where grab bars and access ramps
are reimagined and improved.
Time has its quadrants,
past, future, inside and out,
mapping how we think
Yet the mind drifts across lines
Taking off-ramps into dreams
Fourfold reflections—
reason, desire, memory
with emotion too
Each one hums a soft refrain
angled back towards ourselves
Seasons share one throne—
spring, summer, autumn, winter
each a sovereign reign
yet the wheel's perimeter
pulls the spokes to turn around
Lines divide what's seen
yet center and rim conspire
to keep the wholeness
so the wheel quadrants can spin
around a time-wound axis.
Each day holds four realms—
dawn, morning, afternoon, dusk
daylight in quadrants
in the arc the sun sketches
to divide the problem pie
Beneath these quarters,
a hidden thread is woven—
inner, outer selves
then the collectives we share
in culture, outer systems
"Inspiring them to seek more Light"
Zitkala-Sa ...Native American Activist
Nov. 1st. 1898
I shall not seek to profit from your
Roots, oh noble plants~
Twelve moons ago I ripped you from
Your precious earth, my eyes glazed
With greed~
Drumbeats echoed in the waters of my
Brain, separated from your clan, I filled
My chest with silver on the ash-heap of
Despair, under the watchful eye of the
Spotted Fawn~
Winter changed my heart, I shall gather
For my sustenance only, as you intended~
Honor renews my spirit, as I give thanks
To my Creator for your magical healing~
This is your land, I am but a traveler who
Must not trespass upon your memory~
Hallowed is this ground that takes years
To nurture your growth~
Gratitude, is the blessing you bestow~