Long Slide down Poems
Long Slide down Poems. Below are the most popular long Slide down by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slide down poems by poem length and keyword.
The snow so deep… That it was over our heads… Was a melting by the hour!
Give it a day, or two at most… and with this heat… it would all be gone, forever!
But in the meantime, we were sadly stuck, in mud, deep, within our own backyard!
The water couldn't run off fast enough; our backyard had become a swamp, marred!
Just then, low and behold my old Volkswagen bubbled up, thru the mud it came!
You know, the one, surely you do! Last year it had floated down the storm drain!
Now, low and behold something got out! OH WHAT I’ll never, ever, really know!
Said he was the REAL Swamp Thing, and tired of spring-cleaning his house, so…
He chained the car to a tree, as he hopped out. Said his name was “Gone Fishing”.
Said his Mama read it on a sign, and used it to name her sweet, baby, Swamp Thing!
But then, he saw our back yard, he shouted in delight and decided to visit for a spell!
After all, it’s turned into a real swamp! And he’s the real Swamp Thing! So, Do Tell!
Dragon, the penguins, and all else, followed him straight, to the swamp so profound..
The penguins slid down the muddy slope, and followed the Swamp Thing all around.
But when Dragon tried, his weight got him stuck! We had to wench him, to the shore.
Mud became the name of the day, with mud and snowball fights going on, in galore!
Everyone was in seventh heaven, ‘Gone Fishing’ the same, as they slide, all about!
Fun ensued! For how often can he vacation about? Only once a year! No doubt!
After 2 days of fun, the snow was almost gone, so we cleaned them, as they played.
Yes, the fire hydrant was turned on! Dragon threw his Penguins, happily, into the spray!
That shot them almost to the moon above! The closest to flying they would ever be!
They soared then slide down the street. Even Dragon did play this time! How sweet!
But ‘Gone Fishing’ knew his vacation was up. So he waved a hearty good bye…
As he jumped into the Volkswagen again, and let it fly, and man, could that baby, fly!
It flew down the street, and back down the drain! Before our very own eyes!
That was the last time we saw the Swamp Thing, as we waved, a sad goodbye!
But next time it snows to mile high deep… as it melts, we’ll be looking for our friend.
Here lies our story of ‘Gone Fishing”. It’s real! Honest! To you, I’d never lie! I defend!
And I expect, where ever he really is now… He’s ‘Gone Fishing’…THE END
You and Your Perfect Life.
You boast.
Walking the halls like you're the host of this school.
Well you're not.
You smile.
Everyone lovingly despises you but they always wanna stop and talk awhile.
Well I won't.
You laugh.
There's not a care in your world. You don't have it tough.
Well I do.
You wink.
At all the girls. I look at my self in the mirror, then aadd my tears to the bathroom sink.
You don't.
I cry.
I'm depressed and nobody cares because they want you with them and me to die.
Well I can't.
I'm saying this to you.
Because you don't deserve what you have.
I'm saying this to you,
Because I deserve better.
You walk.
Lazily not a care in the world or a worry in the mind. Fu*k.
I want that.
You have a perfect life.
I don't.
I have a sucky life.
You don't.
...;.;
Why?
You are walking up to me, a frown on your face, now tainted with red.
"You think I have a perfect life?"
Yes. I m FED UP WITH THIS.
"Yes. "
"Do you want to rethink that?" I look down on you wrists, seeing them clenched.
I don't reply and you growl.
Pulling me into an empty hall, you strip off your jacket. I pale at the thought of what you are going to do.
"Answer me. ANSWER ME GODDAMMIT(I am so sorry God)!!!!"
"Yes. You have a perfect life. Everyone loves you. " I yell so much more.
I can't remember what I'm saying.
I can't say I know what I'm saying. Anymore.
You pull of your t-shirt.
I gasp.
Red and dark purple bruises cover your body.
Swollen and fresh scar marks cover your body.
You turn around.
Deep red new gashes seem to devour your skin.
Some are oozing blood and I feel sick.
Scars thin like razor blades cover your upper arms.
The quote my mother told me before she died ran through my head.
Life isn't about avoiding the things that make you feel scared, or uncomfortable, it's about conquering them and moving forward.
Tears blur my eyes as I look back at him.
"Yes, Hope. I have the perfect life. Yes, Hope. Everybody loves me."
I shiver and slide down the wall I was leaning against. He squats down cradling my chin in his hand.
"Make sure smile once in awhile. It will change your life view."
You walk away. Leaving me there. Shivering.
You cry.
At night when your father, the mayor is beating you.
I'm here Aspen. Run away with me.
Form:
her name was Anne
and she wrote dreams
upon pages;
the kind that roam around your mind
but are always held deep
inside your chest;
and she heaved
under the weight of tears
left uncried
and so many truths
left unsung;
her name was Anne
not of Green Gables
but of Gestapos and Gettos;
not summer getaways
but of guards and gates;
she was Anne of raven hair
with faraway eyes,
on spindly legs
running towards
a woman's curves;
but the hook of her nose
told heritage tales,
that they numbered
with hate
upon her youthful arm;
yet she still dreamed
and wrote,
of longings and yearnings
of the future;
with simplistic thoughts
not comprehending
her reality;
her pen flew across pages,
filled with hope,
yet inked in sadness;
and the winds blew the sheets
upon the prejudice
that surrounded her;
without effect
she was Annie to parents
who saw only the past
of a little girl
with shiny new shoes
pink bows
and capped teeth;
the shoes went into piles,
bows flew upon the breeze
and the teeth
shone only in fillings
of melted gold
instead of smiles;
she was the promise
of a woman's secrets,
yet to be revealed
and enjoyed,
upon silken thighs;
with desired weight
pressing love
upon waiting lips;
she was humanity
destroyed by
inhumanity;
as the world watched
little girl tears
float away,
into subconsciousness,
where we didn't have to
feel them or hear
their weeping moans;
she was a star
from the family of David;
an outcast now
from society
that deemed her unworthy;
outlined by the yellow blaze
as the star
burnt itself out;
and she called to her God
without blame
for he was good and kind;
and man...
well man was man,
so unlike her God;
her name was Anne
and she pressed her face
upon the panes of our illusions;
breaking through the
shaded barriers
that we ourselves
had forged;
but too late for Anne
did we see the truths;
and now she remains
forever young
in our minds;
but dead to our
world;
and her pages
are all that speak;
her hushed whispers
grown finally loud;
we hear her voice
and feel at last
her tears,
as they slide down
those precious pages
to become
our own...
Everyone Surrounds
1998
They gathered around the cake like hogs
at a watering hole. It sat in front of The You
that had been dyeing grey. But today you
painted over yourself in yellows that burst
from the chest. The candles glow against
your shadow, and you used to count the candles
like a chalked tally for every year
that brought you closer and closer
to the something you’ve been waiting for.
But everything has been slowing down.
2000
You used to blow out the candles
and imagine a part of you got lost
in the smoke that curled
and hung above their heads.
But now you inhale—
to take your last breath
of your former self
and blow it all away.
“Happy Birthday!”
“Things will get better!” they say.
2004
You remembered the sound of your voice
that hammered against the walls of a tin can
when you were young. Now it’s sealed
and stored on a shelf in a grocery store.
Next year, it’ll be priced at $3.99
So you get your can opener, pierce the can,
press it to your lips and swallow the preserved
chunks of You that you’ve been trying to get back.
And they shout, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”
While you wish for a blackout
that will bring you back to last year.
2010
You’re twenty eight
now,
and next you’ll be thirty.
Everyone surrounds,
arms around
your shoulders
with smiles
and teeth
and breath
in your ears.
You got lost
again
in memories
of tourniquet
rainbow swirls
of wax
2012
When did it become seventeen candles
too many
Now we just use those big numerical
ones
Lazy. A jumbo three paired with a jumbo
zero
Two candles pretending to be
thirty
2015
You began to slide down the bell curve
of life at seventeen
but you lied to yourself at twenty one,
believing you were
on the come up.
But remember
to smile, because they’re all watching you now,
be happy,
they’re here for you,
be happy,
you were born
some odd years ago,
and now it’s time to count the candles.
Blow them out and escape through
the smoke
that rises
through
the dark
tea room
2019
They’re burning higher now,
It’s getting louder
now.
Everyone
surrounds,
everyone.
Each step upon those attic stairs took me closer
to mesmerizing clouds of sandalwood and jasmine
that lingered in the musty air of a dark, foreboding room
that certainly held more than just my secrets.
Candles burned unevenly on wax-encrusted wicks.
The ashtrays placed strategically,
no need to empty one.
A picture frame and loose photos lay beneath the dust.
My altar held all of this and became a witness
to the destruction of my soul.
And, on those stairs, in between my room and the attic,
I swear, my honor slipped away.
The power of a soul to regenerate itself offers us
a second chance with which we're faced with
brand new choices in the same cold world.
And time gives us the luxury of being able to forget
and continue on carrying invisible scars that only
rarely get noticed, but do serve as a cruel reminder.
The front stoop was always good for thinking.
Reflecting on the static between the trees in the woods behind the house.
I never meant to cause such distemperedness.
A deranged condition, I couldn't see that I caused.
All the while, those ghosts fed off of me.
The turbulence got worse around a time of
white-covered rooftops and a high gas bill.
The psychotic shrieks of the cat in a corner of the bathroom
confirmed that it was evil I was facing.
And so I tipped the bottle and feigned a smile.
Because I knew I lost my honor long before that day.
A trip to the church, then a stop at the hospital
impacted the perceptions held by the eyes looking on.
Behold! What they see matches an idea of what should be
and suddenly they hand you your honor back.
All this time I've lived without honor and
according to them, I've earned it's return.
Lift the dark heavy storm clouds and
slide down the rainbow that awaits.
Their masks have smiles I emulate
and together we sit and wait.
The day has now come and those eyes are
once again, keen to what they see that shouldn't be.
A realization has not yet hit,
that the honor I was granted was based on the same
abhorrent dishonor that has come to light today.
Why should I be concerned with this honor,
when it's they who decide when to give it and take it away?
Now I find my own honor
completely outside of them everyday.
She was a tiny angel of a woman
mindlessly moving, in a chemical faze
her heart baracaded, tormented
from her long, lonely days
while dancing on the edge of a pin.
Dreaming images with her feet, twirling
oblivious on a pole,
trying to live a shoddy role
stripped of dignity, ripped of grace
imposed upon her lifeless soul
Her teardrops falling, slowly slipping,
silently dripping, leaving behind
their clear, salty trace
as they slide down her cheeks,
like icy blue, watery veins
on her tear, stained face
She dances mindlessly
from one seedy cloud to another
in faded memories blurred by her past
Through hazy, watery depths she bleeds
tying to quench a thirst so deep
in her hemorrhaged, sedated heart,
so worn, so torn,
by her dreams that did not last
As she slides down the pole~
she floats in a hazy, igneous swirl
of aqueous diluted anesthesia.
Demons eat and devour through
her darkened descent of amnesia
Painful depths that turn and twist
in her hazy, muddled reality
of unspeakable memories
that cannot exist,
lest they drive her deeper....
to a shattered demise
Her childhood dreams
stripped cruelly of their parts,
allowing her mind to wander
in an unconscious state of grace
from hungry teeth marks
left on her innocent, delicate skin
Cheap neon lights bathed
the trashy, shoddy floors
that smell of stale cigarettes
and booze in seedy, darkened bars
Dangerous, dingy, low rent neighborhoods,
leased by lurking, slovenly men
who try and grope her every move.
She sits on a bar stool
sipping amber, colored water
from a dirty, shot glass
waiting for drunk, greasy men
to approach, handing her
their rumpled, grimy cash.
Two dollars a dance~
to the tune of one weary, old song.
Or ten dollars an hour
to some bleary eyed man
for an endless moment
she'll dutifully belong.
Shadowy features, biting at her heels
Unnamed creatures
gripping, ripping her heart
into clawed, broken shreds of steel
from many wounds that cannot heal
One sad morning,
the headlines of the daily news
printed one more obituary
of a life badly abused.
Her parents were sent
a note from the club
that said:
"Your daughter used to work here,
will you please stop by....
and pick up her clothes and shoes?"
Donning rubber gloves, the wife does washing of clothes and dishes...
(plus cutlery, pots pans, et cetera) in the kitchenette sink.
She started what would immediately become
a first and last generation tradition
(the spouse as washer woman
and scullery maid)
soon after we moved here
eight years ago come July 1st, 2025.
I trumpet her pioneer spirit
to apply elbow grease
(to tackle tough
heavily stained articles of clothing
(after her weary cowboy husband
comes back home on the range
after a hot day rustling cattle)
think underwear of mine -
whereat even bleach
falls short of removing
stubborn noticeable discoloration)
such gusto similarly applied
to glassware or cookware caked
with crusty hardened food.
After washing wearable goods,
she squeezes the excess water
from saturated item(s)
and drapes still moderately wet garment
over drying racks
despite the availability
of clothes washers and dryers
here on the premises
of Highland Manor Apartments.
Though she continues to threaten
with colorful epithets
never to wash my clothes ever again,
her words ring hollow
when some time elapses
and... guess what?
yepper, her hands slide down
into the behavioral sink
and I make sure
to acknowledge gratitude,
yet admit to falling short
of filling in the blank
(with a select response),
when she asks me
what will I give her in return.
Earlier in our
almost thirty year marriage,
we (I more so than the wife)
used to be conditional
and if asked a favor,
the immediate response
from yours truly (me)
just so happened to be
what do I get in return?
That Pavlovian feedback loop
occurred way before
my libido took a kamikaze dive,
into a suicide mission
a strong suspicion arises
(but I dare not utter
a premature ejaculation)
videlicet that being adverse effects
linkedin with one or more
of the nine prescription medications
ingested for mental health issues
such as anxiety, dysthymia,
obsessive compulsive disorder,
and palmar hyperhidrosis
could be the only logical explanation,
and interestingly enough,
I breathe a sigh of relief
cuz all to often sexual fantasies
ofttimes filled every waking
and sleeping hour of mine.
Donning rubber gloves, the wife does washing of clothes and dishes...
(plus cutlery, pots pans, et cetera) in the kitchenette sink.
She started what would immediately become
a first and last generation tradition
(the spouse as washer woman
and scullery maid)
soon after we moved here
eight years ago come July 1st, 2025.
I trumpet her pioneer spirit
to apply elbow grease
(to tackle tough
heavily stained articles of clothing
(after her weary cowboy husband
comes back home on the range
after a hot day rustling cattle)
think underwear of mine -
whereat even bleach
falls short of removing
stubborn noticeable discoloration)
such gusto similarly applied
to glassware or cookware caked
with crusty hardened food.
After washing wearable goods,
she squeezes the excess water
from saturated item(s)
and drapes still moderately wet garment
over drying racks
despite the availability
of clothes washers and dryers
here on the premises
of Highland Manor Apartments.
Though she continues to threaten
with colorful epithets
never to wash my clothes ever again,
her words ring hollow
when some time elapses
and... guess what?
yepper, her hands slide down
into the behavioral sink
and I make sure
to acknowledge gratitude,
yet admit to falling short
of filling in the blank
(with a select response),
when she asks me
what will I give her in return.
Earlier in our
almost thirty year marriage,
we (I more so than the wife)
used to be conditional
and if asked a favor,
the immediate response
from yours truly (me)
just so happened to be
what do I get in return?
That Pavlovian feedback loop
occurred way before
my libido took a kamikaze dive,
into a suicide mission
a strong suspicion arises
(but I dare not utter
a premature ejaculation)
videlicet that being adverse effects
linkedin with one or more
of the nine prescription medications
ingested for mental health issues
such as anxiety, dysthymia,
obsessive compulsive disorder,
and palmar hyperhidrosis
could be the only logical explanation,
and interestingly enough,
I breathe a sigh of relief
cuz all to often sexual fantasies
ofttimes filled every waking
and sleeping hour of mine.
He smiled as they placed his new granddaughter in his arms and gently cradled her near…and as they rocked together in the chair…he whispered softly in her ear…
I know I am much older…having been born a long, long time ago but I’m going to tell you some things I’ve learned…I hope you’ll remember them as you grow.
Life is to be lived…always do what, in your heart, you know is right.
Don’t worry about coloring within the lines…go outside…fly a kite.
Believe in yourself when others don’t…ride in a boat upon the sea…
Stop often to count the stars at night…and whenever you can…climb a tree.
Swing on a swing, slide down a slide…run…for no reason at all.
Embrace the cold in winter, the warmth of summer, the birth of Spring…and the changing leaves in Fall.
Eat a lot of ice cream… don’t forget to hug…and kiss…and share….
Never knowingly hurt another creature….remember…sometimes…it’s okay to swear.
Travel to new and exotic places…learn to ride a bicycle with no hands.
Never be in hurry to grow up…smile as often as you can.
Remember true beauty comes from within you…never be afraid to take a chance…
sing whenever you feel like it… feel free to cry and laugh and dance.
It’s easy to love life when everything is bright…but try to love it when all seems black
because you’ll find the more you love with all your heart…the more the world will love you back.
You’ll find love is what binds us all together…in everything we say and do…
And those times when you think things are falling apart remember…love will be your glue.
Do the best you can in all you do…If you make a mistake…don’t fret.
Watch the sunrise in the morning…and in the evening watch it set.
Be happy with who you are…be creative…never silence your imagination…
Remember you are one-of-a-kind…unique…
there’s no one else like you in all of creation…
These thoughts will get you started…but I’m sure once you are grown…
the person you become…will have opinions of your own.
And perhaps one day they’ll place your granddaughter in your arms
and as you gently cradle her near…
you’ll have things you‘ve have learned throughout your life
you’d like to whisper in their ear
What is it about me that gives you the impression that I am just your average
sleazy, easy, breezy, from the hood who can't possibly get ahead in life unless
you are by my side.???
Is there a note written across my forehead that reads:
"Warning,
do not respect
always neglect and,
never expect any goodness from this creature unless
legs are open and ready for business?
Does my azz have a "grab me" sign stuck to it
or is that what you would allow a strange man to do
to your daughter
to squeeze your mothers breast or are
the words "touch me" tattooed
across my chest?
Do my eyes unconsciously tell you to come over and try to slowly
slide down my panties
with your,
ridiculous lies
heard too many times
from too many guys
who've more than once tried
to get in between
or better yet inside
my thighs.?
Don't get me wrong, I'm being so sincere
I just wanna make it clear that
there is something that you hear
if my body tells you action like the movie genre
or do I look different in every scene like a world
premiere.?
Is bich my name in another language or,
do you see hoe somewhere on my birth certificate?
Am I not worth more than a single letter?...Ay!
or did I somehow give birth to you? Ay Ma!
Do my features confuse you or would you really prefer
a man...."Man".
How can my body speak a language that I have yet to hear?
Well before you get the wrong idea, let me make this clear.
When my azz say "grab me", that really just a lie
If my eyes say "come here" they really mean goodbye
Don't guess my name just ask and I'll let you know
and whatever my forehead region reads is just a bad typo.
It should go something like.... Always respect, never neglect, and only expect
greatness from this Queen no matter what her pulchritude screams.
The media degrades her as society points its finger and laughes
all the while she's searching for your support
the support
of her father
brother,
her son,
lover.
Why? Because she is yours....
Your mother,
Your Daughter,
Your sister, and
Your Lover.
So...why not?
Love her,
Honor her,
See her for who she really is and
not for what her body says.