Long Reeked Poems
Long Reeked Poems. Below are the most popular long Reeked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reeked poems by poem length and keyword.
She was found face down beside her bed
dead long before they kicked in the door
of the deteriorating house that reeked
of cat piss that had soaked into the
rotting planks of the bare wood floor
the plaster ceilings falling in
surrounded by mounds of detritus
boxes of odds and ends that had
been bestowed upon her by those
she had in their last days cared for
Every eye dry at the memorial service
not a single tear shed
for the mother who had decades ago
been abandoned to raise three children on her own
and had died alone
Under the full moon in the backyard of his home
he had been so proud to be able to buy
only a few months before
she’d planned to visit that same day
where she would now be a permanent guest
we transferred the ashes
mixed with the powder of pulverized bone
from the simple wooden box
into the ceramic urn I had helped him to choose
decorated with wine colored roses
fearful I was witnessing my own future
The shuttle travels back and forth,
Grand Central to Times Square.
Since they’re the only stops it makes,
You’re either here or there.
The ride is barely long enough
For any thoughts to sprout,
‘Cause in a minute, maybe two,
The doors will spit you out.
But in my car today, there was
A sleeping man who reeked;
If he had used deodorant,
It long ago had peaked.
I wonder just how many times
He’d traveled forth and back,
Repelling all but those
Whose sense of smell they seemed to lack.
The city grabs your senses
In a way not very subtle.
The proof of that was there today,
Malodoring the shuttle.
The bitterly heavy rains had cleared,
and though the afternoon heat
reeked more of eternal summer
than of spring, we felt her hover
through our wide-eyed gazes,
the unapologetic smiles and in
every wrong turn taken, in
every awkward interaction.
Amidst a meadow of paper and texts,
fresh intellect shows signs of blossom
while the wardens of nature -
the lapwings and ravens - observe
the dawn of a season of rebirth.
A/N: I just started my university journey, and my father (who also went to the same uni like 35 years ago) saw the common areas of the university packed with undergrads and commented on how it looked like spring in full bloom. I really liked that imagery, and I told him I'd write a poem on it, so here we are. I also incorporated some other observations I'd made - like how animals (especially birds) were super tame on campus grounds.
The traveler reeked of weariness,
His companion was Fatigue
Wear upon his clothes suggest
He'd come a million league.
Gaunt were eyes deep set and brown
Above his cheekbones high
His being was pure somnolence
And I heard his silent cry.
Hard roads had been his travel
The pains chiseled on his face
In lines of furrows on his brow
Permanently enlaced
Around I saw no motion there, then ...
His head began to rise
Finally he looked at me ...
Suffering in his eyes.
So quietly I attended
And with a heavy heart
I wanted so to speak to him ...
But knew not how to start
Within his labored breathing
He then began to speak
His words, when finally spoken
Were truthful and unique
His lips worked to form the words -
Then said; "My name is: Common Man,
I'm a father; I've worked hard;
' always done the best I can.
"The road's become uphill and steep with
Burdens I can't propel
I've tried to move on forward -
But, I stumbled here - and fell.
"There are others on me
Who so do depend
I must move on forward,
This mustn't be my end.
"Now I must reach out to you
'Cause before I've never failed
I'm turning now to you
'Fore on hardships I'm impaled".
A calloused hand then extended
Toward my outstretched hand
And I want to heed the call
For this Common Man.
But, Greed and Avarice have won
And assistance can't be lent -
Wall Street, you see, owns me now:
I'm Your Government.
When I was a mere lad, my Dad always cut my hair,
But as I reached my teens and became much more debonair,
To the bald-headed barber I whizzed in my old hometown,
Seated myself in his chair and plopped my quarter down!
I had never been a paying client at a barber shop before,
So I asked about that red, white and blue pole spinning by the door.
Said he, "It was a sign for barbers doing surgery in the olden day!"
At that I gulped, almost choked and turned a sickly gray!
Done with my hair, he'd shave my neck and brush on lots of powder,
And liberally douse my scalp with Vitalis - I couldn't have been prouder!
His shop reeked of pungent oils and stale tobacco smoke,
It was all I could do to sit there, trying to stifle a choke!
The town barber shop was a place to gossip and hear inane babble,
And was the local hangout for ne'er-do-wells and other idle rabble.
The risque banter invading my naive and delicate ears,
Gave me an education far beyond my tender years!
The tales I heard were of the local women, booze and such.
Though I had some inkling, I didn't understand all that much!
Had my dear devout Mother known what transpired there,
I suspect she would've insisted that Dad continue to clip my hair!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
If you’ve been to north New York,
or the western side of Vermont,
you might’ve head of a sea monster,
the vast Lake Champlain is his haunt.
The locals all call him ‘Champy,’
not to dissimilar to Loch Ness,
many folks claim they have seen Champ
rising up from the chilly depths.
Now I once thought Champy was
just a bit of local folklore,
until the day when my friend Pat
invited me down to the shore.
He had himself a fine speed boat,
soon enough we were on our way,
I expected a bit of fun
tubing and skiing on the lake.
But Pat had brought a big, thick rope,
and a bucket that truly reeked,
we motored to open water,
when Pat stopped the boat, and did speak:
“You know how I love my cryptids,
and that I saw Champy way back,
I have discovered, by hard research,
what the beast prefers for a snack.
“That bucket has rotted lampreys,
we’ll drag them by the boat as a lure,
once Champy gets the scent of them,
he’ll come up to our boat for sure!”
I though my friend was a mad-man,
as he set about his strange work,
we dragged a line for ten minutes,
then the whole boat began to jerk!
Pat slowed the boat down to a crawl,
and a Plesiosaur emerged!
One of the lampeys hid a hook,
the ancient beast loved unnerved.
“You need to drive the boat, my friend,”
said Pat as he undid the line,
then he leapt onto Chamy’s back!
Had the crazy fool lost his mind?!
The massive beast did try to dive,
but Pat just pooled back on the hook,
Champy abandoned thoughts of escape,
just one pull was all that it took!
Then Pat pulled the line to the right,
and great Champy began to swim.
I gunned the engine to follow,
but could barely keep up with him.
He drove Champ like a chariot,
gliding swiftly across the waves,
stunned boaters looked on as he went,
all too shocked to know what to say.
I drove, but in one hand I filmed,
recording this forever more,
because what could be more bad-ass
then saddling a damn Plesiosaur!
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Joanne’s first husband treated her like a queen.
He was handy with a toolbox, and built her a fabulous salon.
I was in high school when she asked for a Cinderella stairway.
So the girls who were trying on gowns could walk down the stairs.
Making a Cinderella entrance, showing off for the old ladies.
The gowns she sold reeked of sequins, feathers, lace, pearls.
I remember how excited she was when he finished the stairway.
All of the seventeen and eighteen year old girls in town ran to see it.
We had to try on dresses and walk down those stairs many Saturdays.
Joanne was lured away from her husband by a snake of a guy.
None of us knew what he had but he whisked her off.
She divorced the carpenter, and married the narcissist.
He tried to keep her to himself, but couldn’t.
She finally disappeared; never to be seen again.
We all figured it was his way of keeping her to himself.
Her son was fifteen at the time, and was locked out of the house.
“I never liked that kid!” the narcissist was heard to say.
We all wished she had stayed with the carpenter.
Metallic city howls like a wounded animal
scraped by nocturnal vigils
of grandchildren and elders
emaciated like tuberculosis lungs
gasping from chug-chugs of tobacco soot...
and the face of a night is hammered by
ripped moans like plucked strings in motel rooms;
pagan women opening limbs for a meal in silent fury.
This is the other side of town, so real...
beggars peddling hope; factory shoulders
ranting over shuffled cards and fired gin
as wives’ blistered fingers
clean rented pots, gibbering same monotone of hymn,
“give us daily bread, daily bread”.
Outside, the pier coughs off
the commercial honks of weighed cargo
reeked with labor’s perspiration,
where pawnshops buzz with greed's snicker...
the evening owl attempts winks
under the grime of bloodied moon…
it spits the larynx of tenants’ raged hoots
wishing morsels of fresh sunset
would pour some grace of life’s salve. I weep
before the shrill of red sets in... again.
------------
Truth Contest sponsored by Anthony Slausin
Re-post 5/28/2019
Simple words left unsaid
this blindness of pride
unpinning the twine
a haunting
———-
Draping her shadow
crescents of blood
thickens to drizzle
a river of mud to
his presence
———-
Gloried divine
Savior to sole
unhealed in misery
no growing old
the revelation
———-
Centipedes crawling
pains again
poisoning floods
these misty rains
in exorcism
———-
Easing confessions
of screaming torture
reeked a misery
expelled in anger
a cleansing
———-
Unhitched by grace
serendipity flowered
this breeze to face
tendrils of love
seeped to core
is forgiven
Form:
A phantom horse came galloping
beneath a silver moon
across a field of recent war
where corpses’ bones lay strewn.
With thunder in his hoof beats,
again and then again,
he raced along a river which,
like blood, ran through that plain.
Though frightful he appeared to be
on land that reeked demise,
a sole intent gleamed strongly
in his sad and ghostly eyes.
Then finally, as dawn began
to paint the broad stretch red,
the unrelenting stallion stopped
and seemed to bow his head.
He briefly knelt, then stood upright
and bore away, with speed,
the spirit of the knight for whom
he’d been a trusty steed!
2014 post for Angela Tune's A Ghost Story Poetry Contest
Submitted Oct. 13, 2022
for Mark Toney's 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 17 Poetry Contest