Long Spit Poems
Long Spit Poems. Below are the most popular long Spit by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spit poems by poem length and keyword.
Pass Trade Already
Do not waste more time!
It is fire and spit,
thin water and urine.
All lies from city folk.
The swamp smells,
it is dying.
No new water,
just the old cesspool inlets,
all the outlets, blocked.
Cockroaches running,
for the sides of the room,
but there is no trim…
to scurry beneath,
or under.
It has been removed…
Rotten with the passage of time,
and lack of care.
Termites eating “Our” democracy,
from the very roots to the high bows.
Crocodiles and alligators,
government entities,
joining forces to rule,
not voted in,
but brought up…
through the ranks.
Tyrants are not born,
they are created in the dark,
by those that are afraid,
and must build a Frankenstein,
to match a voted in...
Superman!
Wake up,
your party is not well,
it is in the last spasm...
of complete loss.
Folded by socialism,
betrayed by religions,
coddled ideas...
politically correct,
by the smaller percentage,
Benedict Arnold’ed by Pharaoh,
in favor of outsiders.
Not of home at all.
Making way for the elite to rule,
the small
and take the heads…
from the tall.
On the fence in indecision,
burning flags and screaming rights,
while accepting federal aid,
or living at home.
The mirror is evil,
it does not lie.
Author note:
I just watched a woman on the news crawling on the ground in Hong Kong for her rights... They are talking about living and dying. Human rights...
Venezuela is not better, they just stopped talking about it so openly.
The President is doing a good job for all of us, even if you hate him.
I walk inside the room
Everyone whispers
Suddenly turns a scream
Can hear people’s rumors
You exactly know my name
But you heard no stories of me
So please stop judging me
You don’t know me at all
Since you are dying right now
Just to know who I am
Now let me tell you this
You’ll surely blow your mind
I am not an ordinary one
Someone you usually know
I turned myself as diamond
Everyone actually knows
Don’t step on my flesh
Put mud on my clothes
I am well known to be respected
Work hours inside classroom
Don’t spit on my face
If you’re unsure with your words
I almost build my castle
Everyone looks up on me
Not saying you’re better than me
But know me who I am
If you want to earn my respect
Respect me for who I am
Six legs, two arms and often a tail
It greets its own kind with an expectant wail
They may well converse and they may form a pack
But what do they keep in that very small sack
There’s others that come bearing more heads and limbs
And some that appear when the light of day dims
Its plans for a peaceful encounter can fail
Often the culprit has foreshortened tail
Quite unlike what might occur on the X-files
It doesn't spit fire but does hurl projectiles
It then splits in two, it knows where each one lands
And rushes them back to its other halve’s hands
It’s salvo continues ’til someone cries ‘ouch!’
One half then watches the other half crouch
It scans its surroundings to feed the small sack
Wherever it’s from it’s then time to go back
But first it must visit the red hi-vis bin
The small sack, now loaded, deposited in
Its travels may take it up hill or down dale
Six legs, two arms and often a tail
*
If you don’t get this, your minds full of fog
Or your brain just went south on a train
It’s only the tale of one man and his dog
So why don’t you read it again?
gave me the mic
God bless the day
the mic was made
so gave me the mic
I have a message
I have them in quantum's
don't ask too much question
I sick perfection too
just listen and be bless
is not difficult
so turn on the mic
my soul is willing
gave me the mic
if got a soul
heal the world
we are so wild
our evil destructions
are obviously obvious
so now my mic is on fire
as I spit the light
to the dark world
there is no time
to wait
the time is now
so if you got a soul
let heal the world
with love
gave me the mic
let me heal my soul
wild to the world
polluted by lies
destroyed by illusion
I am not the first on the mic
with worlds of wisdom
so I provoke another soul
to rise to the mic
cos together we can heal
the world
I wish I can do it alone
let me die if I think twice
let my days be short cut
if I let down
sadly I can't do it alone
now I know why my mic
is on fire
cos it echo's life
to the air of freedom
it is loud on the ears
of the weak
cos we all need each other
to heal the world together
with love
gave me the mic
play me the deep tone
just let me be only
with this mic of mine
am a beast on the mic
I fear not cos this life I bear
I already have died to be alive now
too hard to understand but
only God knows the truth
from the heart of
the son of man
so he place his divine
blessing on my soul
and now I can set the mic
on fire with out a lighter
but by the words of wisdom
from the supernatural blessing
of God
calling on the world
calling on all people
to together heal the world
with love
Winter is hiding around the bend and forcing its way towards the center, it is carrying a hundred thousand shovels in a boat and generators pile up to its throat.
Hundreds of snow boots, gloves and battery made heaters lay flat on top, snow blowers galore and insulators to line the floor. Hundreds of wheel barrows and bags of barbecue coal to heat the house and everything you need for winter was on the boat.
It is docked around the corner with an elephant standing guard waiting on the signal to move.
The weather pattern is not right; you have got to roll the dice to get the weather pattern back on track to ripen the fruits and furnish the ingredients for the one pot soup.
You must go back to the international space station and check the angle of the moon and position the weather spoon, before the sun rises, then place a snow bait on top of the gate, before day break.
Something has shifted up there and is causing chaos down here, you must find it and repair it before noon. Observe where the rain is falling and where the fire is burning. Place a tag over it and mend it with your spit.
The year is coming to a close, and you have got to tie up the loose ends and get everyone back in line to cooperate with the divine. You have to examine all the countries on the list and make an offer that they cannot resist.
Once the list is clear and everyone must draw near, those who refuse to join will be cut out off permanently from the divine. You will recall your ambassador and cut off all international flight that go to their land and cancel all foreign aid, trade and business transaction.
And withdraw the multitude from their land the multitude will leave before dawn.
The one pot soup is easier to cook; the one pot soup is in my playbook, read it carefully and gathers the ingredients from every culture on the list and combine them together and give everyone a bowl to partake of the one pot soup.
Was not the trip to Calvary enough for you
All the mocking and insults and all that scorn
Just the stripping and all that humiliation alone
Is not that enough for you
What about all 39 of those lashes
Each ripping into the flesh and muscle
One after another after another after another
Wouldn't even one suffice for you
And that heavy cross He was forced to carry
So beaten, tired and thirty Jesus fell three times
Spit upon, laughed at, cursed and jeered
Wouldn't that be enough for anyone
But then his hands and feet being pierced
That crown of thorns upon His Head
And that sword that finally pierced His Side
Who wouldn't say that that is enough for me
The head centurian overseeing Jesus's death
Well, It was enough for him
Saying, surely this was the Son of God
Is not it all enough for you
Dying He destroyed our Death
Rising He restored our life
Lord Jesus coming Glory
1 Corinthians 15:3
For I delivered to you as of first importance
what I also received, that Christ died for
our sins according to the Scriptures,
Nerves hang out at the idle pump
Gas don't pump itself thinks Mr. Rich
While Bubba plants himself out front
Like an un-watered flower in the sun
Picks his nose and spits tobacco
Scratches private parts at no extra charge
Snorts, “Talk is cheap.” “What-l-it-be boy.”
The idle rich don't speak hillbilly
The sun-glassed man points at premium
A finger is a dialect Neanderthals understand
Red necks preferred language over clicks and grunts
That comes with understanding inbred afflictions
Eloquently executed elocution with a simple digit
To replace the usual marbles in the mouth chatter
Chewed up words spit out as garbled
Not fit for consumption under a hot Texas sun
Who said anything about manners?
Mr. Sun-glasses just wants some GD gas
Not reptilian conversation
When you don't know English you pump
Petroleum comes from fossilized plants
Formed over billions of years
Why must we wait for man to arrive
Over eons for creation to take place
For the simple evolution of a smile
It's not like there is a line stretched for miles
To buy some petroleum products
From a creature covered in grease
Standing there with hose in hand
Wondering with his best laid plans
How to spell gas and make change
And how to propose to his cousin
Mick, Mike and McGee
Were at the pub together
Just sitting at the bar
Talking about work, and the weather
When Mick looks down and sees a fly,
floating on the froth of his beer
Motions for The Bartender, saying
"What in the hell we have here"
The Bartender sees the fly
Then looked Mick straight in the face
I'll pour a fresh one my good friend
And he did so, employing great hast
It wasn't a moment till Mike, found the same
Floating around in his brew
He pulled out the fly, pressed the glass to his lips
And drank it until it was through
McGee saw the same when he gazes in his pint
And quick, pulled the fly from his stout
And shaking him by his wee little wings
Demanding that he spit it out !
The Roman Guard was so good at causing death
Knowing how to take everything but your very last breath
And after they beat my Lord, they tied Him to a pole
Where 40 torturous lashes took such an agonizing toll
And the Romans were also experts at using just such a whip
As it was studded with metal fragments at it’s long reaching tip
Each and every lash ripped into Jesus’ skin
And each one of those lashes was caused by our sin
That next day they crowned Him with a reed of thorns
Mocking Him and abusing Him just like the devil’s scorn
Dragging His beaten body and pushing Him upon His way
And this was just the beginning of Our Lord’s final day
For as He picked up that heavy wooden cross
The crowd spit on our Savior as cruel insults they would toss
And through all that Sweat and Blood covering Our Lord’s Face
There was only one from the crowd (St. Veronica) who could see His Grace
Being prodded by the guards all along His long journey
He fell for a third time on such a bloodied and battered knee
Simon was thrust forward, finally coming to His aid
But this wasn’t a decision that he willingly made
Now atop Golgotha, they stripped His garments away
And would cast lots for them later in that day
With three long nails they pierced each hand, and then His Feet
All His suffering and pain for me, makes His Story hard repeat
Then for three long hours He suffered in such agony
And He did all of this, all of it, for you and me
Are you one of those people cursing Him in the crowd
Spitting and mocking Him arrogantly ever so increasingly loud
And as He finally bowed His head and closed His eyes
Ominous looking clouds began to fill the skies
And all of the ground began to shake too
Causing many to look around and think, what did we do
And on the third day He gloriously rose from the dead
Fulfilling Scripture and every Word that our Lord ever said
So I wouldn’t doubt that Jesus is coming back again
But if you are in that crowd, it will be too late then
Poets, do not give up
Whatever you write
Whatever you spit out
A genius will be up
To it somewhere. Someone
Will understand the tone
Of your voice, the hieroglyph
Of your thoughts, the myth
Of your vision and the dactyl of your wit
Someone will be up to it. The perennial spirit
Of your global view is astounding
Although few comprehend your writing
And the mechanical process of your brain
No need to call a surrealist surgeon
Everything is absolutely normal
Only the Poets fully comprehend
The intricacies of the supernatural
Being, who is not afraid to make a stand
Poets, do not give up
You see things from top
To bottom and from the wrong-side-up
There’s no need to bring a novel map
An updated or an archaic GPS
Many Poets fully comprehend the methodized mess.
P.S. In the memory of all Poets...
Copyright © January 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.