Long Shells Poems
Long Shells Poems. Below are the most popular long Shells by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shells poems by poem length and keyword.
California Avenue
Shells of two story houses
line a brick-laden street
single dwellings
converted into apartment buildings.
The street of acquaintances
becomes one of strangers,
and no one seems to care
about those who come and go,
and they don’t care, either.
Stories told resonate,
of summer nights
when people sat on porches
and invited passersby
to join conversations.
Facades of houses remain
and hide parceled interiors
now rented, lives hidden
in walls of their creation.
snakes on a wall
rattlers all three
no pictures or any
pretty things
just demon scalps
no
they're not evil
I ate the big one
he was old and rough
three days from pay day
half a tank
two shotgun shells
no mourning doves
and there he was
yuck
they're better young
taste like chicken
and not so tough
won't shoot 'em anymore
just shoe 'em off the porch
little bullsnake last night
on the patio under a box
picked him up before the dog
got his scent
tossed him gently
over the fence
I see 'em crossing the road
and stop to help them
wherever I roam
not to get crushed
maybe a snake is
what I was
or maybe a snake is
what I become
I will tell you a sorrowful tale of an ancient time
when the turning years carved grooves into vinyl,
a time that changed everything and nothing.
He was a lad, a stripling, knobble kneed and roughly handled.
A youth with a common history told a thousand times
in any slum-clamped town.
A cultural weather mellowed him,
it gave the young a way to be poets, cynics, heedless pundits.
Rainbow children beguiled; they wed their minds
to a street corner weed, past its vows between them.
Then it was that mop haired songsters
again stirred his angry blood; he defied ruler and book,
forsook the hierarchies of the hard boiled,
long hair grew into words that shook as he danced
defying the soft shells of faceless egg men.
The boy drifted, still raw-boned, still trapped
by the rats in his head. Jail house beckoned;
bars griped his knuckles tight.
One night he became a storm in a windowless room.
They held his body down, beat it black and blue.
All he could think of as fists pounded broken ribs,
was if he yet lived, he would write it all out one day
yet still leave out the bad parts.
Funny the things you find out
With a curious mind
And walking shoes
How beautiful
And priceless
The view
From atop the headlands
At Red Rock
Of course, the rocks are red
Jasper
I believe
But could be wrong
As I was to connect
The name to the colour
Of the rocks
As its Called red rock
Not because of the colour
But The blood
The spilt blood
Another massacre site
They headered them
Onto the headland
And drove them off
The cliffs
To the sharp rocks below
Another tribe
Killed for no crime
Killed not even for the land
As its not suited for
Agri-culture
Just first nation culture
Now
White holiday culture
Another dead tourist town
With a dirty little secret
I tender the small plaque
Replace fallen shells
Adorn it
With wild flowers
Wipe away the dirt
And tears
Make a promise
To write about
The blood stained
Red Rock
The cuckoo heralds their arrival
The scent of Petrichor confirms it
Falling into the tough shells of oysters,
Turn into elegant pearls
Falling on the hard coats of seeds in fields
Allow them to send tiny sprigs out
Falling through the ceilings of caves
Form hanging icicles
Falling from hills and rocks
Metamorphose into spectacular cascades
Falling on the ground and seep into it
Evolve an invisible sub-terrestrial water body
Falling on stones and pavements
Present a concert with rhythmic splashes
Falling on the flushed cheeks of the child
Tickle and makes it wriggle.
Place: 2nd
What whispering, wandering worries
Wash through your mind at night,
When sleep stays slippery and distant,
And stars strain softly for sight?
Do your thoughts surge and scatter,
Like restless, roaming seas,
A mind in tidal free-fall,
Pulled deep by unseen degrees?
Maybe the moments you managed that day,
Maybe the sentences said,
Like shells and soft shattered memories,
Still shifting inside of your head.
For me, it’s simple and certain,
No secrets, no stormy disguise,
My mind moves moon drawn and drifting
To the girl gently gracing my side.
She is my shore and still water,
My harbour from heavy waves,
Her legs, her laughter, her lips
Are the calm my current craves.
So I turn like a tide toward home,
Let the world wane and withdraw,
Held fast in her warm, waiting arms,
I sink into sleep’s soft shore.
Fur pies don't sell so bakers use eggs
It is evident in the historical records
The unborn remnants inside the shell
Children of the chicken
Are soft and gooey and easier to use
Fur coats are difficult to swallow
No matter what PETA says and they say a lot
I'm not impressed because not all animals are pets
As a matter of fact I eat meat in sandwiches
And wear fur in Winter to keep me warm
It's true. Fur does not taste so good in pies
Bakers will attest to that in a court of law
In fact they do on every occasion of the day
“Yes your honor.” “I am here to testify.”
“Eggs are better for making pies”
“Fur gets caught in the throats of customers”
Eggs come in groups of twelve in separate compartments
Kept in Styrofoam or cardboard cartons for their protection
It gets bad for them when the bombs drop on your house
And eggs happen to be home at the time
They could crack. You could lose track of the count
Eggs can't scramble themselves
They hold up better in bomb shelters and bakeries
Fur comes with a warning, “Wash by hand in warm water”
They should add, “Not to be used in pies?
“Not to be consumed by public or private citizens at large”
Fur pies don't sell so bakers use eggs
But must remember to discard the shells
People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals
Like fur and fury animals and eggs
It is fine to experiment in my estimation
Woodland creatures don't care what you use
Unless you are thinking about making a stew
Making a pie or coat goes without question
I am seated in the dark
Listening to the soundless sound, yet calming.
I'm gazing upon the millions of stars
Some are brighter than the others,
While some gets brighter and then go dim,
Appearing and disappearing
Yet none of them quarrel with one another.
Looking at this live piece of Art
gives me butterflies and a strong sense of peace
that is rare to find from man nature.
So will I keep gazing upon the sky
while there is life to live in this flesh and blood?
I am caught up in a beautiful dream,
Eventually I should open my eyes
else I could be robbed of Life,
What is the meaning of this life lately,
When it gives a piercing stare?
Scared I am not and obviously not wise enough
to balance the equation.
So I gaze upon the firmament.
The Mankind are at war with one another
They are at each other's throats
Fighting for power and dominion.
This is a winning battle in disguise
The Mother of hatred; poverty and suffering.
The Earth is broken
Her Offspring are scattered and far away from home
Some Brothers and Sisters are lamenting from dawn to dusk
seeking for self liberation.
Same people that were supposed to lead us home
are the ones leading us to the doom.
It just becomes more darker by day.
Sons and Daughters of the Soil are in turmoil
Stripped naked their only essence of Life
hence there is a Pandemic of Self ignorance
Clothed with happy Family Selfies and
Boutique Attires on empty shells.
Children are drowning in their tears
Fathers and Mothers are walking decaying corpse
and making ends meet,
Cause there is no food for a lazy man.
Tonight I am Sky gazing
Please wake me up when this is all over.
I need a Sign.
Empty seashore
The seashore is empty!
In the sea breeze, a vision—
your form!...
a puzzle!... with the pieces of your absence
joined in the refrain of the lapping waves—
pebbles, seaweed, and seashells.
Upon the emerging pebbles,
your light tread!...
An Aphrodite passing by,
steeped in the brine of youth,
leaving behind—in the fading wave—
a note of a wild waltz for this refrain.
Amidst the tangled seaweed,
your embrace!...
tight against the body of beauty,
loosened in the storm of desire,
two rose petals surrendered to the foam,
a note of stolen love—this refrain.
Upon the broken shells,
a shared promise—
the vow of an eternal love,
violated in the shifting sands,
like a shipwreck’s keel snapped in two;
the empty shoreline—a puzzle piece.
Different masks I faced upon each day of trying.
Within this shell, I've built with paper-paste
a wall between the fragile form indemnifying,
my soul from all the judgments, I've made in haste.
Over a wrack of bones and weighty flesh thrown
are fabrics light or coarse, shapes and colors too
I use to separate myself from you, unknowns
in the millions ever rising, life too rich to subdue.
If we'd but admit from our birth we're dying;
perhaps, we'd live each day outside our single shells
for the world is full of cacoon's speechless tryings
to create an earthly garden from a dreamt of hell.
What is real and right, what is born, or borne; you see
is all within a skull of bone, what will be will be.