Long Sip Poems
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Homeward Path 11/08 Roger M. Landry
Wise men say, stay out of the fray,
And perhaps that is logical, and even soundly psychological.
They advise, do not go my son into the dark wood; you will only come to no good.
And I ask, if the road is less traveled, it will leave me baffled?
The trail in the forest tall could it leave me feeling forever small?
Alone, will I not even hear the sound of the stately tree’s fall?
In my craven travels, shall I perhaps see the pellucid pillars of heaven seven,
Or experience the depraved depths of perdition?
But, what if there is no one there to tell?
No singing angels, or laughing demons from hell.
Shall I be weary of my iconoclastic dreams?
Because, in my youth, I had magic visions of being the princely toad,
Of crossing elegantly the paved road to fame.
However, carrion birds now read, feed on my bloody entrails strewn along the lane.
Now, I only wake up in the fevered night, no princess to soothe my stifled screams.
Beaten and torn, shall I become the salacious stripper of old?
That, with nagging words, expresses my vulnerable, and sagging soul.
Like a lost muse, shall the tiger burning bright, in the forest of the night,
Become my one and only frightful and guiding light?
I can see quite far from the gritty solitude of a lofty mountain.
But, would rather sit with my smiling children by a bubbling fountain,
Have someone park my expensive car,
Or sip beer, with friends, in a quaint neighborhood bar.
Going on a shopping spree and wearing designer clothes,
I think, is superior than to society loathe.
To have opulent gold is better than writing poetry in poverty, wouldn’t you agree?
Or, would it be better if I contemplate my fate, eternally alone, under a frigid night star,
While I pluck loose strings on an out of tune guitar?
They say that if you favor the glacier-blue, the flavor will get inside of you.
Now that I have made enough bad choices, because of those niggling internal voices,
I am eternally lost, my mind unloosing in a wilderness of my own choosing.
Like a pharaoh, I know there is a divine treasure in my head,
But, I work and work, feel dead, and just can’t get out of bed.
The road has its own agenda, to which I know my heart must surrender,
Therefore, I shall curb my shameful wrath,
And trust that my soul knows its homeward path.
Form:
There seems to be silence within the serene night,
yet those indoors have eternal cries of unspoken fright.
One man drowns in chocolate, shamefully eying his hips,
as the woman next door kisses the hundredth man’s lips.
Two floors below, one screams out in pain,
as fatal anger has won the game.
The killer, shadowed, makes no remark,
but watches the blood flow, immersed in his soul of eternal dark.
Three doors across, an elderly man sits, rejected and broke,
hiding his face with tendrils of smoke.
His trusty cigarettes always at the ready,
when his finances where never steady.
Another flight down, a woman drowns in her agony sip by sip,
her life seems to slip by like a commercial blip.
Yet all she can think
is that her marriage is on the brink.
Before she fades into the night of another day,
all she remembers is throwing her wedding ring away.
Traveling down to the ground floor,
the troubles seem to equal more.
A woman tosses about in her anxious bed,
while her worries do pirouettes in her head.
Try to let the past and present go,
but the future looms like a horror show.
Outside, in the darkness, a piercing light shines
as a moth flutters by, on the still air it climbs.
It seems this beacon, as bright as the sun,
new hope has just begun.
The moth bangs itself against the glass,
trying to reach glory at last.
Yet no matter how much its antennae bend,
or wings grow fragile and not able to mend,
it seems like the only thing to do
to deal with its feelings, old and new.
Until it steps back and looks at the light
realizing that harming itself won’t set anything right.
With the last of its strength, ending its plight,
the moth flies off into the night.
At this moment, the man decides to rid his house of fat-packed glory,
as the woman on the ground floor takes a deep breath, changing her story.
The killer at large turns himself in,
the end to his years of sin.
The woman pours the bottles of wine down the drain,
finally she can remember her name.
The elderly man exhales his last puff of smoke,
the grueling memories no longer prod and poke.
And the woman kissing her hundredth man
lets him go, heart no longer sinking in deadly quicksand.
The light of dawn finally breaks,
and the darkness of the mind no longer takes
away from the people’s lives
as the light of hope is now by their sides.
Everyone hates my poetry
Because it doesn’t wear makeup.
Because it stares too long,
or not long enough.
Because it mentions the body
like a room that remembers
every man who left his name in dust.
Because it’s too sad,
too loud,
too holy,
too raw—
because it does not ask permission
to bleed
where others would politely weep.
They say I should whisper.
I scream in stanzas instead.
Line breaks like broken bones —
each one healed wrong on purpose.
I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”
and call it a sacrament.
I flirt with ghosts.
I give grief a seat at the table.
I write what I can’t confess.
And then I press send.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
?
Go your own way, they say.
But I was never theirs to lose.
I won’t be your throat,
your mouth,
your Sunday-quiet muse.
Dance in the avalanche —
I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.
You butter your toast,
I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.
I’m Dracula,
you’re limpets —
clinging to shores of should.
Sinister mercy monsters
with teeth made of wood.
You won’t take mine.
I’ve bartered them
for metaphor.
For myth.
For the kind of flame
that never asks to be understood.
I sit on a throne
shaped like an electric chair,
burning truth until
only the bones of beauty remain.
You?
You live in living rooms.
You collect pretty things.
I braid your betrayal
into a lei of lunacy —
my madness in bloom.
Say I’m too old.
Too female.
Too much.
There’s something in the water.
Damn right.
I am the water.
I merge with ocean light.
The moon kisses me goodnight.
Why do I need your approval to feel seen?
Must just be a throwback trauma dream.
Your eyes — not galaxies,
but black holes,
sucking the light from my becoming.
I offered constellations,
you brought collapse.
But still—
I orbit my own flame.
Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,
sequined with scars.
I chew the fat
with better men than you,
men who don’t flinch
when a woman burns through.
Men who sip my fury like wine,
and still
ask for another glass.
You?
You watered me down,
then called me “too much”
for the mess you made.
?
And still I write.
Faith is a warm, hooded coat whose
Furry softness provides a barrier
From the icy blasts of cold-hearted people
Who are jealous of the embrace a well-constructed winter garment provides for its wearer, me.
Love bids me open my coat and offer it
To the filthy stranger with an empty bottle of booze
And a tattoo of a pentagram, with a skull inside.
So I hand him the coat and say, "From Jesus because He loves you."
Truth provides me another coat, and one to spare
Because giving away our faith is the best way to multiply it.
And I look for more truth, and see Jesus across the crowd.
He is giving His coat to a man who tightly clings to the hand of another man.
Christianity bids me to give my extra coat
To the boyfriend of the man who just received his.
My call, my mission, to be like Christ, and
I share my coat, my faith, with anyone left out in the cold by The Religious. I cannot pick and choose.
Sin is a reality I live with. I see it everyday.
In my mirror. It is everywhere. And it sickens me.
Yet still I sin and sin again, ashamed of my inability to live a standard
Worthy of the Son of God who knows my name.
Grace is the tiny sip of water you take when you have been in the desert too long.
Slowly you trust that it is no mirage, and you drink from the well
Feeling yourself replenished, rehydrated, reborn.
Everything that was awful in the place you were before is better, washed away by the purity of the water offered freely.
Freedom is knowing that your job is not to identify the wanderers in the desert
But to introduce everyone to the well.
Offer them that free sip that will change their lives as it did yours,
Knowing that you are in no way better than any of these seekers except that you, by some miracle, are allowed to sip from the cup of grace everyday.
Hope paints in my heart a picture of warmth,
Sunlight, people, everyone wearing their faith, knowing the truth, and loving Christ.
Hate is the cold wind, the whispered rumor, the whitewashed judgment that has no place here.
This is a place where we walk not only like, but with Jesus.
Regret is waking to find that you are no longer where you were before.
This new place is hot, not like a sauna, but like the sun itself.
It is dark, and you feel no welcome, no recognition, no love.
You want to speak to the man in charge, but know it's too late.
Your most recent interest in observational truth in laptop monitor
Gave you an ultimatum today.
He , as she, in he, as she again, grabbed you in all kinds of tree ,
remnant there before serenity
What is poetry, in the end?
Thinkable pedagogy, is , for the most bizarre reason, telling you
That this is comparable prepositions, with positionality
And the fruit of loom, or something relatable, there.
I felt a bang , and got a downsizing pounding sound,
Between, Jerusalem, Nazareth and prepaid Jesus to pay
More and more for a daycare say.
For a sip from the cup of the finest exported loose leaf tea
Are you a mere sip there, or you started to travel there, onsite
Creating all kinds of copyright issues, as the illegibility
Never declared you anywhere, in norms, in mother’s winter coat
Exactly how much was fatherly charm there, and how much there was a mere setting warmth
As people learn to happen in alibi as there is no straightforward way to find a definition or vision
Your cat was unthinkably your budget failure key, as they mew and sigh
But they were there, truly, with your most delicate caring try.
I think it is a joking endowment
As it will be a mere lump some .
Your rides and ride share with the knight rider storyteller
Only comparable to Little Red Riding hood
Changing the destined persona too, irreversible and altogether
I do not blame , judge , or juxtapose, there, I never pity too
But Bangla, and exactly 21 years long stay on this territory, with often heavy Bangla
I think I dreamt you last night, where you , as a soul and Clover, in a body
Did happen as the most charismatic duo! With a Zulkarnine monitor truth in!
Licking on the other side for hours and hours in longer duration
Will lead nowhere , exactly nowhere , other than, this, mortal life
Is a conscious choice between claim, proclaim and proclamation
I am a reluctant reader there, trying to look through, even beyond allegory and alighieri
You do not hold them accountable for your compositional hype for a dirge
That does not act linearly with your issue room, tissue room, and culture vulture too!
All you can say should stay there, for ever.
Do not send help reaching out there, never there
Simply a one liner truth for falling short from a papyrus poem, anyway
As this must be helping to internalize, more than anything than that.
What did she say when you told her you still loved me?
Did she turn away or try to disagree
Did you think about her or how she would be?
No you were only thinking about me.
She stands there now, all alone
Facing her fears of the unknown
Turning her head on what she's once known
Realizing now, she's on her own
With no one around to help her choose
She stands her ground, not ready to lose
Her head held high while hearing the news
To accept her fate, she must refuse
She tries and tires with all her might
To win you back every night
She has no plans to give up the fight
Any hope is out of sight
Her heart is now filled with hatred
Will all the love that you desecrated
With just that one sentence that you stated
Her entire life is now dated
Did you ever stop and try to think,
Just how far she would sink?
How close she was to the brink?
Or how it could all end with just one drink?
Just one drink to end all the pain
Just one little sip to break the chain
Just one to do the job, to her disdain
Just one and she will die in vain.
You don't even care to attend her funeral
To you she was just a girl that you could treat cruel
How could you be such a fool?
You don't even know of the fire you've fueled.
You come to my door and ring the bell
You send thousands of messages to my cell
Repeatedly the words "I LOVE YOU" you yell
But for all I care you can just go right on to hell
I don't want you anymore you Silly boy
I am no longer your stupid little toy
As for the loneliness you feel now, I hope you enjoy
Because you had your chance and my love you destroyed.
I am my own person without you
I no longer rely on your every move
I am no longer clueless on what to do
I know now I can move on to someone new.
As for the girl that you threw aside
I hope you think of her every time you cry
You're the whole reason that she died
If you wanted someone to love, she would have been there by your side.
She would have loved you the way you love me
But you never opened your eyes and seen what there was to see
I'll never love you no matter how hard you plea
So wallow in your self pity, you'll get no remorse from me
I hope you drown in your misery
Thank God that sad little girl is finally free
Thank God I knew it was time to flee
This is goodbye, so don't bother calling me.
A boy. Short. He goes to school and cowardly hides behind every corner, scouting out what lurks behind the next turn. Always shoved and disregarded, he seemed to have no friends. He was bullied everyday by this monster. Someone who terrorized him since day one. “Why me?” was his battle cry, just before every black eye.
A boy. Alone. He was adored at school. A big jock. He hated his life, his choices. He picked on this kid, a rather small kid, who was simply pathetic. He would catch glimpses of him, cowering behind corners, and hiding in bathroom stalls. It was this kid that made him popular. He did not hate this him, but simply saw him as an stress reliever. Anger reliever. He was praised at school, abused at home. School was his safe haven; his home away form home, but no one knew what truly went on behind that strong, muscular smile. Divorce. Abuse. Shame. His mother was a prostitute, sold every part of her just to manage to keep him alive. His father was a drunk. Abused every inch of him to relieve him of his intoxicated wounds.
A mom. A prostitute. As a little girl she was very bright. Did well in school, and even managed to get into a good college. It wasn’t until that one night she mad a stupid mistake. It was one of those fraternity parties. “All the cool kids went, right?” She would tell her self. That’s all it took. One kid. One rufie. One sip. Next thing she knew she was pregnant. She dropped out of college. Told her boyfriend it was his kid. Got married. And had a beautiful baby boy. It took five years until she told her husband the truth. The truth about the conception. He left. She was alone, receiving no support. No money. It took her one month until she found herself in the back of a strangers car in an alley way for $200.
A frat boy. A stupid hazing ritual. “Host a party. Drug a girl. Have sex.” Only he made a mistake. He got drunk. Too drunk. He had no control over his actions. The demon residing within him took over, raped a girl, and impregnated her with what ruined her dreams, his dreams. In frustration he went to get fresh air. And made one more stupid mistake. He was conscious of what he did, and knew he could not live with his mistake. Police found him hung from the fraternity balcony the next morning.
This is in dedication to all those who suffered from something that was no in there control.
When I was a kid, my county was 'dry'; meaning that alcoholic beverages could not be purchased legally. But there was always plenty of it, because there were home-made stills, and the next county was 'wet'. In my home, it was often seen in the refrigerator, especially on weekends. Seems my occasional stares and curiosity would never end until one day, looking all around less I get caught, I could resist no longer. One sip and I knew that I had never tasted anything stronger. I did not see smoke, but my head must have become a fiery furnish shooting flames from every exit point in my little body. I wondered how anyone enjoyed drinking such wild fire. One sip set my feet racing away from any future desire.
I never saw grandma drink; Mama, once in a while; daddy, every weekend. Some people did bad things when they consumed alcohol; daddy slept a lot. Seems he was nicer toward us, always saying, "I'm going out west where the eagles build their nest". I guess he only desired to go west when he was drinking, because he never moved.
Other than put my daddy to sleep, alcohol served no good purpose in our home. Strong drink consumption and smoking perhaps contributed to his early demise at 58. No, I think that alcohol was a curse and a terrorist that never did anything good in my community. When drinking, people were loud and fought like cats and dogs. Like fools, men drove their cars faster, or staggered all over town acting like clowns. We say that people get high when they drink alcohol, but seems to me they always go low, and sink to the bottom.
Alcohol is one of the greatest abusers; and it is unashamedly villainous. The opinions expressed are my own. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
10152017 PS Contest, Alcohol, TS *Proverbs 20:1
A is for Australia, full of weird beasts,
Where even the cute ones can bite you at least.
B is for Brazil, where football is life,
And people dance samba with joy (and no strife).
C is for Canada, polite and so nice,
Even their insults come with advice.
D is for Denmark, with pastries divine,
And a happiness level off the chart line.
E is for Egypt, land of the old,
Where mummies stay wrapped and pyramids hold.
F is for France, where bread is a dream,
But don’t ever mess with their wine or their cream.
G is for Germany, beer, cars, and might,
And sausages eaten at morning and night.
H is for Hungary, but don’t get it wrong,
They have food so good, you’ll eat all day long.
I is for India, spices galore,
Curry so hot, it’ll knock you to the floor.
J is for Japan, sushi so grand,
And toilets that clean you with jets on demand.
K is for Kenya, safaris so wild,
Lions just chilling while tourists get riled.
L is for Luxembourg, tiny but strong,
You blink and you miss it, but hey, it’s not wrong.
M is for Mexico, tacos and cheer,
But don’t trust the hot sauce—it burns for a year!
N is for Norway, fjords and cold air,
And prices so high, your wallet will swear.
O is for Oman, deserts and heat,
A land where the camels take naps on the street.
P is for Portugal, wine and the sea,
And a love for Ronaldo, as strong as can be.
Q is for Qatar, money so high,
Even their ATMs wear suits and a tie.
R is for Russia, where vodka is king,
And winter is long—it lasts through the spring!
S is for Switzerland, chocolate and banks,
And watches precise to time all your pranks.
T is for Thailand, food spicy and sweet,
With beaches so dreamy, you’ll never want to leave.
U is for Uganda, gorillas so cool,
Living their best lives, just breaking the rules.
V is for Vietnam, coffee so strong,
One sip and you're jittery all the day long.
W is for Wales, with sheep on the hills,
And words in their language that give you the chills.
X is for Xianggang (Hong Kong's other name),
Sky-high buildings and dim sum the game.
Y is for Yemen, ancient and grand,
With mountains and history spread through the land.
Z is for Zimbabwe, Victoria Falls,
Where nature goes big, and adventure calls!
—
So that’s the world, from A to Z,
With laughs along the way for you and me!
(Part One) The first few hours.
I was just a ordinary man
caught up in the unruly throng,
The mob jeering and ranting
insults on the road along,
I pushed and shoved my way
through all the furore
to see what all the fuss and melee
was all about at the fore.
My heart shrunk as I eyed
in total dismay that ghastly sight,
From what befell my eyes, that Friday morn
befouling that dawning day with blight,
Was a Man sparsely clad, and bloodied soiled,
And about fifteen and a half hands tall,
His nut brown shoulder length hair
now caked and matted in disarray.
The way His hair and beard
was parted in the middle down
i knew that Man then
was belonging to the Nazarene Sect,
And brutally entwined upon His head
was a brambled thorny crown,
What more torturous and bestial
torment can a naked body be subject,
His body oozed and dripped sweat
all mixed with blood and grime,
And even more the gruesome
was the criss-cross lashes mark,
So visible, as He staggered along
on that arduous path that morning time,
Dragging a fifteen cubit long sycamore
torture-stake on His shoulder, bared stark.
His back bent and racked in obvious pain
bearing that one and a half hand in diameter log,
Then when, He stumbled in His stride
and before the Roman Centurion Him wanted to flog,
For that Man's wretched agony
and pain, I no longer could bear to stand,
Then in haste that Man to help
I shed my outer garments and tossed it to another man,
I stayed the Centurion's hand
and hoisted that stake upon my own broad back,
For I was Simon an Grecian man from Cyrene
and favoured arduous labourous toil,
When that frail worn-out Man turned
with blue-grey eyes and looked at me,
I saw in that look, relief and gratitude
then I knew, I did just right,
He sadly smiled as He said these words to me,
"Do you too now drink from this bitter cup?",
And added, "You shall indeed sip
its rim with Me to the end of time",
I knew Him then no ordinary, man could be
His voice so gentle and mild,
And I truly then wandered who this Man could be?
to suffer so cruelly, in the hands of man,
When He lightly placed His hand
upon my shoulder, I felt the load lightened,
as if I walked with a feather
on my back, and not His gruesome burden no more,
As we together trudged, on that path
that road, to Calvaria, that place of death,
I then knew that Man at my side
Was a Holy-man by His touch alone.