Long Slam Poems
Long Slam Poems. Below are the most popular long Slam by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slam poems by poem length and keyword.
I don't exactly know the how or why
I can't even explain it
But i have or was given a gift
I am a fortune teller / medium
I can read card's
Decipher tea leaves
Predict and tell the future
And converse with the dead
Wow can you talk to god as well ?
Or are you in fact rather a fraudulent snake oil griffter
con-artist
Who scrapes a living off the insecurities
and vulnerabilities of the longing and loss of the distraught
Because otherwise you would know what
lies ahead of you in your future
And if as the saying goes payback and karma is
a son of a dog
Then may i suggest you take an eternity
of treats with you for the journey because
you are bound for a long old stretch in the
dog house fed on a diet of humble pie
SLAMMED -
D
O
W
N,
To the ground,
C-R-A-C-K -
The only sound -
Made,
Knee on neck,
Blood blanketed the pavement,
STAY DOWN,
He did nothing wrong,
STAY DOWN,
His only crime was being Black,
STAY DOWN,
In the eyes of the police - it warranted an attack.
He could NOT speak back
He would NOT speak back
He can NOT speak back
Why?
He was DEAD,
Blunt force trauma to the head,
Slammed down with a cracked neck,
The police couldn’t care less,
No panic, no stress,
They know, without a doubt - they will get a not guilty verdict,
They are white with a badge - this means they are protected
The cycle repeats over and over again,
The cycle never ends,
And now police brutality -
Becomes their favourite trend,
And if they get caught they will claim self defence
Car doors slam, country quiet broken
A race ensues… front door flies open
Dogs start barking, excitedly running
A happy day... grandsons are coming
Overnight bags in a flash are dropped
Energy released can never be stopped
"Papaw! Momo! We're here!" they yell
All that is missing is a ringing doorbell
Hugs, big smiles, checking all rooms
We stay mostly outside all afternoon
A walk up the driveway for a short hike
Playing on porch or riding their bikes
At supper they tell all that they know
Story after story and swear it is so
Baths, snacks, teeth brushed and bed
Tucked in kisses after prayers are said
Tired dogs look at us with questioning eyes
Is this temporary or for the rest of our lives?
Beside each child they settle for the night
On alert for a sign something's not right
Exhausted, we smile at our pride and joys
Grateful to have this time with the boys
8/10/16
Pure Childlike Fun and Enthusiasm Contest by Carin Krutsinger
Third Place - June 2018
Any good judge and jury would convict me
Slam the door shut, toss out the key
High crimes and misdemeanors in the first degree
Caught in cahoots with poetry
Armed with pen and paper in hand
Stealing from me all that I have
Until my muse says there's nothing left
Empty's the till inside my pounding head
I'll sing like a stool pigeon in the hot seat
In a police line up I'll point out the poetry
Say that's the one that did this to me
The one with the sly smile and rhyme in his teeth
I'll throw myself on the mercy of the court
Plead insanity as I cackle and cough
To tell the truth if you only knew
That last statement is not too far off
Pop, grind, slide,
Baggy pants, oversized shirt,
Who washed?
Here comes a novice with wood.
We ignore him until he wanders away.
My pal Doug is practicing a 186 change
Flipping his board over and over, landing on it.
He’s a beginner too, but for some reason it does not bother me.
Maybe because we are friends.
I wander up and give him a couple of Chinese Nollies
And a Biebelheimer
I am such a showoff on my board!
Cannot help it.
Spent a year or two practicing all these moves.
My cousin is practicing the stairs.
Ends up with a loud slam.
We clap for him.
Sounded like he broke a couple of teeth.
He gets up, pleased, takes a bow.
Hey! Watch me do this Fakie 180, the new kid yells.
We ignore him. He’s not one of us.
He does a hippie jump and lands on his nose.
I wander over to check on him.
Maybe I was too harsh.
stop telling me, trying to persuade me
that you won’t do what you do no more ‘cause
the first time left me blind, but now I see
it is what it is, you was what you was
the games the same men and boys like they toys
where you from a project slum taught you s---
tomorrow brought sorrow and little joy
what’s your point light the joint and take a hit
a change of mind can sure mess your mind up
fools and lies can be a futhamucka’
I brought all my bad habits and my cup
call your mother and tell her you love her
your sip and flip make me want to holler
cut the bulls--- and loan me five dollars
The Fist in the Word
Poetry is not a flower placed gently in the hair of a soft Sunday evening,
It is the fist that comes from the blind corner and shatters your teeth without reprieving,
It is the ape inside the man that screams when the word hits it square in the snout,
It is the blood that runs beautifully down the white page... and cannot be stopped... and will not run out.
I don't want verses that caress and lull and rock you and lie to you with grace,
I want verses that burn through the stomach like an ice knife finding its place,
I want you to read and slam the book shut and curse and rise up from your chair,
I want you to feel that something in your chest has been broken... and nothing is left there.
True beauty is ugly and dirty and sweating and real and raw and unashamed,
It is the ape in a man's suit staring at itself in the mirror where criminals are named,
It is the moment you recognize in the verse exactly what you hid beneath your masks,
And the fist comes straight from the page... and there is nowhere to step back... nobody asks.
The word that shocks is not obscene and not crude and not vulgar just for show,
It is the naked truth without apology that breaks every protocol and every flow,
It is the stanza that grabs you by the collar and tells you exactly what you don't want to hear,
And leaves a mark on your face... and you go home... and you can no longer pretend... it isn't clear.
The ape inside the man reads and recognizes and rages and throws its stones,
Because the verse has seen its instinct hiding beneath all its clothes and all its tones,
Good poetry is the shame you feel when someone catches you with your hand in the flame,
It is the fist that does not strike the face... but drives straight into the soul... into the softest place of blame.
So write with blood and with fear and with everything you never wanted to say,
Let the ape howl from the verse and let the man take the blow without delay,
For poetry that does not shock is just beautiful noise in the air that drifts and dies,
But the real fist... stays... and hurts... and leaves its mark... and never fully dies.
Nobody believes me!
We are killing ourselves and each
other everyday.
And no, we don't need a gun.
But, come on, they tell me,
Stop being a party pooper!
No, I won't get on the train of yours.
Anymore than "Old Sparky."
The train called "Technology Express"
Heading down all nations, ruining
brains, and bodies with no discrimination.
The engineer called WiFi infecting all.
It's not my responsibility to care for you!
that's up to your fascination.
But know please our government acts
without any moral discretion.
Technology effects blood, body and brains.
And~as long as the gov turns a profit,
to hell with us?
We have new toys.! Never a thought that
they harm us.
Googling it, won't say a thing, they
want to hear their cash cow ring
So to our ears the cell phone goes,
Planting tumors row by row.
Some in our breast, and sperm counts are falling.
And what do we do?
Of course, keep calling.
And sadly we ignore family and friends.
A face, a kiss, a warm embrace?
A text is just a text.
It's not a hug, but a curse.
With our eyes going to hell reading
backlit screens.
Even sex, online,with God knows who?
Welcome to the Technological Zoo.
Panagiota Romios
2/24/2019
And believed people had integrity.
She took their words as verily true
The innocent fool, aye, she has much to rue.
That afternoon, in deep confusion cried,
As though her heart was gnawed by a rat.
She realized she had to live in mortal combat.
To trust never again another living soul.
Slam all windows shut, then chain the doors.
Her belief in her fellow man was never more.
That imbecilic fool, with mind made of mush.
We, here to crush you, making people think you be ill!
While we take joy, preparing your violet-lined coffin!
On a bare, ice-covered, windy, gray hill.
3/7/2023
On the news today
The headline storyline was presented
and reported as follows
In Liverpool today some local right wing
protestors who's arms are up in flame's
replacing pitchforks for placards
Which was later retracted in place
of rabble of lawless youths one as
young as just age 15
Causing and terminating in a riot
and remonstrating outside a 4 Star
Hotel
Currently turned into a hostel or facility
to accommodate Asylum seekers
Because and due to according to official
press releases and reports
Misinformation being posted on social
media platforms
Which left the male only residents inside
traumatized and fearing for their own
safety and lives
So much so they do no longer wish to
stay as are now so fearful to even
contemplate leaving the confinement
of the building let alone venturing outside
Now it all depends on what and which
you as individual choose to be believe
As everything unless you were actually
there to witness it with your own eye's
and for yourself
You have no choice unless you know
someone who was actually there
But to take onboard the way it is
reported by the news media believing
they are holy trustworthy
Like in the aftermath the very next day
a reporter is stood outside interviewing
One of the Asylum seekers describing
exactly how bad it actually was and the
general mood and feeling amongst
those inside
With not a scowl but rather a broad
smile seemingly more than willing
actually happy to be interviewed
With what appeared to look like or
be a backpack as if he was just off
out for a morning strole to the shops
for the maybe daily milk or bread
Not someone in fear all dressed up
well prepared in expectations of an
impending fight
And granted that I did not see the
contents of hidden inside his bag
I'll have to rest my case
Otherwise I am in fear of falling into
the same category of what the media
do ever so well
Like insinuating presuming and making
things up as I go
And never letting the truth get in the
way when trying to embellish and
over egg a story