Long Ribs Poems
Long Ribs Poems. Below are the most popular long Ribs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ribs poems by poem length and keyword.
"I wandered lonely as a cloud”
Quote by - William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a gallivant
Looking for some ways to fill up my days
I came across a mighty swarm of ants
And was completely blinded in the haze
When the air cleared I heard claps of thunder
My heart sunk, there was I going under.
Each cloud exhibits a dazzling side
In my view, gossip is plain to see
But I'm certain the adage is implied
It was joyful to view this bloom of glee
How can I be certain, you wonder?
I'll assess what pushed us asunder.
I recognized the bloom in the sky
Moreover, the crowd pushed me down
I just remained there and froze in dismay
My ribs were slamming and shifting around
Lastly, I was kept in a hospice room
As doubtful as the light, I'm in a gloom.
This bed is where I spend a lot of time
My mental image has instantly formed
Anger, apathy, or tearful glazed grime
Those pink, murky clouds above warned
The agony then spreads across my chest
But I still warn myself to do my best.
Written: September 19, 2022
I Wandered Lonely As --- Challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
UNLEASHED
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I used to bury it,
under layers of ‘shoulds’ and ‘musts,’
beneath the weight of expectation,
a small, frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs.
but the cage is rusting; the lock has sprung.
and the bird, oh, the bird remembers flight.
it remembers the sun on its feathers,
the wind beneath its wings,
the boundless blue stretching,
a promise whispered on the breath of dawn.
so I listen.
I surrender to the insistent pull,
the magnetic north of my own true north.
the voice within,
the one that refuses to be quieted,
is finally, gloriously,
unleashed.
There is a parasite made of pure gravity
lodged behind my breastbone.
The room dissolves around it;
the world turns to cold, uninteresting ash.
Nothing exists except the itch under my ribs -
the sickening, urgent demand to align the dark inside my head
with something I cannot reach.
I am pinned flat.
Sweat drips down my neck while my teeth click together,
a quiet, violent vibration in a completely motionless room.
My skin has been peeled back
and the exposed fat and muscle are boiling in open air.
My organs are being crowded out by a single, agonizing form.
It twitches. It drags its rusty edges across my lungs.
I am choking on the air I haven't breathed for hours.
This is the fever of fixation:
a quiet execution where the blade moves a millimeter at a time.
I lie here, a heap of dry, useless clay,
watching the ceiling fan slice the darkness into strips.
My mind is a meat grinder turning on empty air,
screaming for the precise,
elusive click that will let me draw a breath again.
It moves inside me, writhing, resetting my bones incorrectly.
It burns. It tears the wet lining of my stomach.
I cannot move my hand. I cannot turn my head.
I am forced to watch myself rot,
trapped inside the convulsing, invisible machinery of my own skull -
shaking, weeping without tears,
waiting for the agonizing pressure to snap into place
and finally let me go...
Without pause to the revolving season,
I put a stop to the concurrent words here.
I wish to have you many a cue like reason,
Jokingly, that puts out my lonely cheer.
The beauty of words sent me colors;
I listened to its combination inwardly,
Guzzled many like drinks unto guzzlers,
Without cough, in haste, so outwardly.
My gazes went so thin to its slender;
I bound the so-called cheerful fun,
And a pause cleared my able splendor,
Making the summer seem autumn.
In all the slightest nod, I form the face—
I mean the face of life in peering clay.
I began to draw my paint in dotted trace,
Challenging to outlive the flames of play.
Then I discovered the sun’s ray cannot;
In my first instance, I do chin and scream.
But it withstands not my eyes’ winks’ lot,
Flowing, dripped, jammed—my share ream.
Above toast rest the flames of sweet roast,
I supposed—maybe—but for care, you think.
Don’t mention later, during this twin coast;
North could peck down the valley with thy wink.
And lay you young in the foaming rock,
Just like aches of hope over first moment,
Checking through the tick of distance clock
For good guard gearing given abatement.
The faded image touched my dreaming lips;
Yet from it I sip, close my flips, and sing.
Though the saliva wets my cracking ribs,
Making out tempo of great tune—its cling.
Bottom trouble
Is to follow up;
I mean the beat—
Yes, also the rhythm.
Maybe I fumble
And can’t chin up,
Going to feat
Into logarithm.
Freestyle is key,
Style with choice.
It isn’t easy—
No, not at all.
That’s if you agree
In your own voice,
And stop being sleazy,
That you will fall.
The choir taught I want to sing,
But I have come to catch hearts.
Being a royal head may make king,
But photographs can’t make images art.
I am so sorry;
I should have told them
What I cared for—
Like truly being sincere.
Don’t care to make a story,
Or to watch and condemn,
But to explore to the core,
Though not in one sphere.
Owing to the view of this gist,
Don’t cast more than enough into memory’s mist.
But if you can teach me to find the line,
And the rhythm to make songs really fine,
Contact me @gmail.com slash slaughter;
Then I would find no difference betwixt mirror and water.
My mind is upset tonight.
Loud.
Angry in a language only my ribs understand.
I’m trying to evict memories that don’t pay rent.
They sit in my chest,
replaying the scene,
rewriting the ending I never got.
I’m sick of complaining to myself
about a past I can’t edit.
Sick of the reruns.
Sick of _you_ in my head
when you don’t deserve the space.
I hate it now.
There — I said it.
Not pretty. Not healing. Just true.
You took something.
Peace, maybe.
And I don’t know how to bill you for it.
They say “forgive and forget”
like it’s a two-step dance.
I can’t do either.
Maybe I don’t want to.
Does that make me bitter?
Maybe.
But bitterness is honest.
And I’m too tired to lie today.
I want quiet.
I want the version of me back
from before I learned how much words can cut.
But she’s gone.
So I’ll take quiet in _this_ body,
with _this_ anger,
if that’s all I get.
So for tonight,you live here,on paper.
Not in my chest,not in my sleep
I'm changing the locks.
You can keep the damage ,
But I'm keeping me..
The Hyperactive Stranger At Bristle Grocers WHERE'S THE BEEF - A Narrative Poem
One day at a grocery shop,
I met a man selling meats,
For the money, he wanted to swap,
But I wanted some wheat.
"Got any wheats?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money."
"No ears of wheat here!" said the guy.
He seemed to find it quite funny.
"We've got some lovely cakes,
I'll give you an excellent price."
"I'd rather have some steaks."
The man blinked rapidly thrice.
The man seemed exceptionally brainy,
And his manner was strangely amused.
He wasn't what I would call zany,
The great disdain he noticeably oozed.
Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit hyperactive.
Still, he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was plenty reactive.
So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the grocery shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearted,
"I can help you, I believe."
"Veggies, kinds of wheat, you shall find.
Cakes, hakes, you can get.
You must now open your mind,
And get down to Bristle Grocers Market.
WHERE'S THE BEEF?
So to Omaha Beef, I decided to go,
In search of the meats, I craved.
The winds it did eerily blow.
But somehow, I felt that the day I could be saved.
There were stalls selling meats,
everywhere were cut Chuck Roast, Ribs steaks in many shades.
Chop them up veggies and meats
Time for stew and pot roast
7/9/20
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©
In the dust of Thessalonica’s street
where sandals scuffed the stones
and rumor of the sky splitting open
hung like thunder not yet born,
Paul stood—
tentmaker’s hands still smelling
of leather and labor,
thread pulled tight through hide
as through the conscience of men.
Some had folded their arms to the sun,
waiting for trumpets,
for clouds to blossom with fire,
for the Lord to descend
before supper.
But the ovens cooled.
The nets lay slack by the shore.
Bread thinned on the tables
of those who still rose
with morning’s ache.
And Paul wrote—
Not with cruelty,
not with a clenched fist,
but with the stern mercy
of one who knows
how hunger humbles a man.
“If one will not work,
neither shall he eat.”
Not for the broken hand,
not for the widow’s trembling bowl,
not for the child whose ribs
count the days—
but for the idle heart
that borrows breath
and gives no song in return.
For faith is no hammock.
Hope is no excuse
to sleep through the harvest.
He stitched the tents.
He bore the scars.
He preached with calloused palms—
that waiting for heaven
does not excuse
neglecting the earth.
And somewhere between
the needle and the Word,
between hunger and grace,
Paul taught them
that love
is the greatest of works.
he spoke of hear the pig's heart
they sounded loudly thru the ribs
his flesh was fresh and would
cause him to wish for silence
"the husk's of the kernal's,
are grounded by those sages who
are brothed by livers and kidneys
the flesh of the swine, damn-it might his
heart be silent
might my ears hearest him not!
she created me with seasons
in the room
beaneath her floor
the heart sounds thru it's aroma
to starve me into my sileance.
might bread be browned
and eggs warmed to perfection
that the I might silence the
pig beneath the floor.
than might you love me
than might you love me!
He wishes to have scrapple egg's and toast.