Long Spitting Poems
Long Spitting Poems. Below are the most popular long Spitting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spitting poems by poem length and keyword.
"Bat Crazy 5"
Some say
she was batsh** crazy
life hits the windscreens
in the labyrinth of life
that way
the foot remains pinned
to the metal, fast to the floor
full speed, left brained left hand
holding hard-gripped the gear stick
an upwards inflection, “You know”,
in the Queen’s Land, "all under control"
the open palm under the shaft
moving all the way up to 5,
reflecting on the mirror rearview
she watches the eyes
of her child
dreaming of open highways
the foot remains pinned
to the metal, fast to the floor
full speed, left brained left hand
holding hard-gripped the gear stick
never once moving from 5
the left all the way up to targa 5
right hand up on the wheel
left hand down right up to 5
windows spitting emeralds
like a baphomet
the two finger salute
the other above so below
watches on
"here we go again",
the 1 above it all
watches on
as above so below
that 1's long-suffering
that way, aghast, but resolute,
that 1 has never-ending reserves
of eternal patience
and watches on
perplexed
her mind geared on
how to kill off
a spider
and his sister, next
changing lanes
easier said than done
when you're hell-bent on
Freedom
the highway sign
Happy New Year
flashes ever onwards by,
foot to the floor
left brain baffled
at forgiveness
at Christmas
long gone by
right hand on the wheel
left hand down
open palmed
shifting gears
accelerating increduality
towards the accuracy
in the justice of karma
drivers sitting on both shoulders
inside the vehicle
holding the wheel
the internal speaks
to the universe
listening
for kindness
and answers
on a lost highway
Blue Sky
nods, as if in agreement,
that 1's always amused -
but never confused, that way
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
“Is it possible to switch dimensions?
There is currently no conceivable way to get to these if they exist, and they may only be possible, not actual. To travel between realities, they need to be in proximity. To be in proximity and not interact, they need to be incompatible. If it is a compatible universe you could travel to, it is already here.”
"Won’t you let me know,
if you made it home that night
Oh won’t you let me know
If our bones made it home alright..."
Down many of the coalmines in Yorkshire , Safety dictated that an alternative means of escape
had to be found just in case anything ever happened to the shafts that raised and lowered miners to their work.
This usually involved keeping a single route open underground to the next nearest colliery .
Old George waiting by the mineshaft
Spitting his chewing tobacco juice
Today with his apprentice
They must survey the mines escape route .
1000 yards underground
In darkness as black as pitch
They reach up to their helmets
Turning on the headlamp switch.
George prodding at the timbers
That support the roof and sides
His apprentice grows more nervous
With every single stride .
A mile down the escape route
The roof is seven feet high
They see a little fallen rock
but manage to squeeze by .
The roof is getting lower
George hears the scurrying of mice
Brought down the mine in bales of hay
When pit ponies and the miners destiny were spliced.
The apprentice is visibly shaking
but only one more mile to go
When a piece of falling timber
Dealt his torch battery a glancing blow.
George could see the boys panic
and as the leader of his team
He reassured his apprentice
Then they shared the single beam .
Suddenly they hear a crack like thunder
Then the splintering of wood
George pushes his apprentice
but a fall of rock stands where George stood.
Young boy on his hands and knee's
Screaming Georges name
More terrified by the second
When no answers came.
Now in total blackness
He inhabits the world of the blind
If he is to help his leader
The boy must use his senses and his mind .
The faintest hint of breezes
He feels on his face
Air sucked down the mineshaft
Just might be his saving grace
He crawls along the jagged floor
Using his sense of touch
Soon in the distance he hears machinery
A sound he has never loved so much .
He tastes the ever freshening air
Hope inside him grows
Then the tiniest speck of flickering light
His tears overflow.
Help, Help, he's calling
As the miners come into view
Two men want to hep him to the surface
Burt he awaits his friends rescue.
Old George didn't make it
He sacrificed himself to save the boy
Broken hearted the boy had a breakdown
and had to leave the mines employ.
The boy became a father
Then a wonderful granddad
but he never tired of telling the story
of the best friend he ever had.
Everyone, from children to grownups,
carry the world in their hands, they see the past
and the future simply by the move of their thumbs and fingers;
from their very spot they fly in the air hanging onto the mixture of
illusion and reality.
The little glass plate they are staring at is,
though, a two dimensional world, they go
beyond the fourth dimension and reach the world of infinity,
the time of conception to death, while creating a totally anew concept
of time that is a mixture of kairos and chronos.
Because you see everything at the same time
in this little glass plate, layer after layer of thickened image
starts to fall to cause the chaos, the distorted image crumbles.
When a child finds Hydra in the little flat glass plate he held,
he challenges Hydra, and after a long difficult fight, though
he cuts a head off from this great serpent, a drop of blood
numbs the child, with venom spitting out from the mouths
of the remaining heads it deadens the child. Then, after all,
the Hydra’s blood and venom overtake the child’s shrunken brain,
the child becomes a fierce monster himself.
For a grownup,
while watching Laokoon and his two children locked in the coils of
hissing snakes, agonizing. He undergoes unbearable torment himself,
as if Laokoon was tortured by the snakes, stretching his arms in the air
to grab something that may lessen the intensity of horror.
From the touch of smooth
but cold skin of the snake,
he shudders, he frightens, he feels death.
The child, comes and goes from here to yonder world in no time,
led by the move of his fingertip, he came and sat with the devil
face to face, tries to trade junk the devil offers with his soul, though
immature, he is therefore reckless, but innocent.
The grownup who haunted by anguish,
walks on the path of life and death, because
he is unable to shake off the bad-omen he carries;
is now sitting in front of a poker table and through
the little flat glass plate in his palm, gazing at the numbers
on the playing cards; he irons his ragged soul with steaming-hot-iron
for external appearance, the soul that even the devil won’t take in
pledge for filthy lucre.
It’s outrageous but,
all generations alive today, seem to be confined
in the little flat glass plate, they live as the slave of the fingertip.
His hand reached out to mine, open,
Holding it, I smiled, our eyes danced with understanding,
Form and blush outlined his expectations,
But I could see that there may be fear inside.
Mary restated their predicament,
That the child was born out with the marriage bond,
And that people were swaying to the opposite side,
And course dialogue, laughter and spitting were norm.
So I asked the two for their thoughts and predictions,
About the child, if he perhaps could be like, special?
And they specified that he would cure, heal and exorcise,
And also promised that they’d talk to him about the poor.
Could this baby be the messiah?
I pondered and hoped in their certainty;
Was this the predicted son of god?
He would be free from aggressive victimisation,
If we could just name him as god's son.
So I suggested to his parents,
That if the wise men came with a quest,
To accept the name Jesus Christ,
And certify the census, no less.
Freedom for some is in lying,
When there’s no possible alternatives,
But I believe Joseph never lied,
In the population census of Bethlehem,
That just so happened to pass by.
The child would have been suppressed by all,
Assumed to be dirty and unclean,
Not for chat or dialogue,
And certainly not for work in a trade of his call,
Or for work in any trade for that matter.
Nothing would ever have been done,
The poor would never have been healed,
Or not so quickly for sure in history;
The government would not have been rifled,
And Christ would not have come.
Treating the poor for health problems,
Would have come through government legislation,
A long time after Christ,
In an austere, aloof manner.
People to people relationships,
Would not have been respected,
If care had been awarded top-down,
By bureaucrats and officials:
As supervisors of the protected.
Society at that time was narrow minded,
Stuck in traditional religion;
There were outcasts, sinners, infectious people,
And assumptions were remedial and red:
There were no special people,
No exceptions to the rule,
Only one place for the messiah confided.
One baby matters to me,
A life should be saved at any cost and risk,
Because the abilities you show when young,
Shouldn’t be muffled or labeled regressive,
But nurtured in acceptance and love.
Im Saven my freestyle rhymes so I got da proof n soon I'll be raising da mothaen roof, feeling bullet proof..with all my skills shining through..my competitors ain't know what to do.. when I grab da Mike ..they know they through... Spitting dope rhymes til they getting high from da dope fumes rising from my Microphone, now they leaving yo. They know they got no chance 2 win any battle against me. No competition for this oleschool rap musician making them disappear like im a en magician...they b running they b twichen n of course they b en n wishes they didn't motivate this freestyle main-e-ack now they all under attack.
I've been writing a lot lately, poetry. Comedy n freestyle raps, giving mothaers heart attacks. My compatision fallen fast, blasted n smoked. I ain't no joke. Everyone finishing last. Day taken snapshots at my sexy ass. I'm now standing alone at da Top of da class so all my haters can kiss my ass.. . Fast or slow.. it ain't matter yo..I am unstoppable, like an F5 Tornado, blowen my competitors apart ..morning, noon or after dark, sreadding MC's like im a great white shark!!
Tearing the mothaers slowly apart from every possible angle. Die-angle to a en triangle. I got every possible angel covered til them mothaers smothered n I'm so hot they starting to smolder n smoke. Take a nice long toke til u start 2 choke..now they know what dis freestyle rappers all about. Turn u out ..choke u out til you en passen out. While I'm passen out my demo.. that is gonna demolish anyone in my way yo. Either way ya wanna see it I'll be undefeated n I en mean it. Gotta gansta lean a gansta limp with a tight gansta grip on my .45 with an extra 50 shot clip. This is real n legit n I won't en quit with da.45 hangen off my right hip with that extra en clip..
Maken mothafukers limp like they a dope pimp...
Now I'm heading 4 my dope ride..
2 get da away from dis homicide...
The seen was messy, the seen was sick..
Mothaers learning arithmetic..
5 glock 9 rounds will kill ya quick!!!
Or it will kill ya slow..
Either ing way your gonna die Yo!!!
ing with me n keeping yo life..
Don't ing mix, n I'm not gonna tell ya 2wice...
Once is enough n s gonna get rough..
U gonna get roughed up ..stuck up ..n hit up..Your body on da back of da pick-up..
Not anymore able to hick-cup..!!
In the desert waste Chester Miller looked out,
saw the rest of the gang riding back slow,
fresh from the bank job in Copperstone Creek,
a place that Chester could dare not go.
He’d spent his teen years in that little ville,
caused much mischief of the criminal kind,
if he had rode in with the gang today
he would surely have been recognized.
So he’d drawn up a plan and then stepped back,
let the rest of the boys do the hard work,
given the sacks tied on to their saddles
they’d succeeded, and got away unhurt.
But on the horse of his right-hand man,
an old rebel who the boys called Bret,
rode a scared boy, his eyes wide with terror,
fighting not to sob with every breath.
He tossed the boy down in front of Chester,
who said,”Why did you bring a young kid here?”
Bret said,”Took a hostage, held back the marshall,
allowed us to escape with nothing to fear.”
Chester looked closely at the ten-year old,
seeing something familiar in his face.
“Besides,”said Bret,”now we’ll get a ransom,
his father looked the type who could pay!”
They bound the boy’s hand with a stretch of rope,
but made no other effort to restrain,
as they all drank, Chester watched the boy,
where had he seen him? He wracked his brain.
As night started to fall, the gang dropped off,
Chester suddenly saw truth before him:
the brow and the forehead, the sweep of the jaw,
a spitting image of his brother Tim!
Chester knelt down, look the kid in the eyes,
asked,”By what name are you usually called?”
The boy stammered,”R-R-Ronald Miller.”
Said Chester,”Named after your grandpa.”
He did not have to ask any further,
the boy was his nephew, without doubt,
and with not a moment’s hesitation
he pulled a long, dull Bowie knife out.
Ronald’s eyes bulged from his head in fear,
until Chester quickly slashed his bond,
took the confused boy, lead him by the hand,
said,”Now we have got to move quickly, come on.”
They picked their way over to his horse,
up on the saddle the small figure went.
Chester was about to clamber up to
when the night by a loud shout was rent.
Bret was awake, the others coming ’round,
they’d be drawing their irons before long,
said to the kid,”Tell Tim Chester helped you!”
Slapped the horses, and in a flash it was gone...
CONCLUDES IN PART II
entering into the Sea of Words contest by Leighann Anderson 7/3/2011
Remembering...
I was 27 years old, and in my second year of working for my first real "grown
-up"
job. There is something powerful about wearing a pair of pressed matching scrubs, a
name tag addressed by first name only, and a stethoscope around the neck( a lot
heavier than the plastic one I was so accustomed to in my junior doctor kit.) I
thought I had the answer to any medical problem thrown my way...I was wrong.
In between bringing patients to their rooms, the receptionist, who is the spitting
image of Barbie, minus the plastic legs, informed me I had a phone call, and is very
important.
Being my first "personal" call at my job as a registered medical assistant, I
immediately had to remove my "work hat" and don my "me hat", something I tend to
lack some knowledge in.
My head overflowing with a thick fog, I try to navigate everything out before saying
the usual greeting, to no avail.
My sweaty palm takes hold of the receiver and a voice I barely recognize mouths the
appropriate greeting;
This is the phone call that would change my life forever...
I could sense through the black receiver plastered with a large "911" sticker, my
mom has been crying for quite sometime. Her trembling followed the same route I took home from work everyday after I left work and went
home. This is my safe haven, no one or nothing could harm me here. This is home
voice cracking the words of an accident.
With the word accident replaying over and over like a 33 vinyl record skipping at the
best part of the song, I hung up the phone.
I began to wipe the stream before it formed a puddle on the dirty blue carpet of the
doctors office.
Coworkers hands patting me on the shoulder, back, hand and arm, I was taking on the role of the patient, with not a clue of what to say or do.
I got in my beat-up white Mazda 210, not sure where the road would lead me. I followed the same route I took home from work everyday and went home. This is my safe haven, no one or nothing could harm me here. This is home sweet home, where
everything is so routine. I so longed for that right now. I pulled into the driveway, alone, scared, confused, and filled with the question of why .
I stumble to the front odor. to be continued....
They’re cute, little opossums; riding on Mama’s back;
her tail rail, secures precious brood.
They’ll grow to be lethal rats;
they’ll try to eat your dog or cat and they will probably win their battle, as they have, giant shoulder chips.
My Manx once tangled with opossum female and
since she had little tail;
great mouthfuls did her hinny make.
Proud of the white upon her chest,
she quickly cleaned up the mess and us,
none the wiser be.
For several days she laid around, our little calico clown; but she was aged and likely to do so.
Around the house she trod; with no marks or blood on bod; until she could no more and it puzzled us to our cores,
why she’d stopped eating.
We took her off to the Vet; a virus, we surely bet and
what a shock we did get, when Vet said,
“Opossum’s chewed up her behind!”
Surgery was our next option;
because an opossum went’a‘chomp’in.
In a couple of days we’d have to stop in and
pick her up, once again.
Listless at home, as our tabby roamed;
her little sister, her ego blistered;
examining tube sticking out her butt;
wouldn’t leave her alone,
so violent hisses and growls ensued.
For days on end, our humiliated furry friend;
would her long days begin, in such a moody brooding.
When that tube came out, happy calico clown,
like “Tigger”, bounced all around.
Table to table and chair to chair she leapt and
made us all shout; “Bad cat!”
Nevertheless, not one thing was broken.
Her sister, how she sniffed at the stitches,
in her hips; our Manx finally laid down the law and
let a big paw rip! Swatted Tabby was offended!
The hissing, spitting fight ensued; with Tabby rolling through the room; Manx, she released such gloom and doom that made Tabby a bit smarter.
Perhaps Manx’s situation, demonstrated by her jubilation, coupled with her agitation; rejuvenated her.
A lively “kit”, she was again
and I tell you, my Manx friend,
enjoyed her newfound days again;
happy that she was saved.
For a while, Tabby quivered;
dazed, she sat and shivered,
because Manx had sent her up proverbial river.
A double lesson, it had been;
though Tabby did irritate Manx again;
Manx from then on did engage in more careful play;
but not with an opossum.
"The Hummingbird Cake"
The day started bright -
Bright Eggshell Blue
and ended in percussion
dark and cloudy stormed in
thunder pummelled drums
against a backdrop of
bruised eggshell dijon yellow
sweating heavy sage green
spitting spoilt the swollen pride of purple,
a wet abrasion against
Electric Blue
crackling along her lips
like Lightening
Sizzled on
her bitumen
her mind
winked at you...
Splits two
into one
not three
Taken slowly
deliberately
cake digested
swallowed like swallows
nibbling freely on air
a symphony of do you see me
in a Hummingbird storm
stairs to you she stares
upwards forever upwards
at lines of ebony tied tight
words kick and spit
like a cat in heat caught up
in a hessian sack
words in a puzzle
shaken and caste
on a playing board
pure white
not black
She,
Third person,
always Third person,
listens to her own heart
and then listens to the
words you have put on
and slowly worn warm
Revisits in her evening
a conversation with an old friend
Lorikeets on the balcony
Passionfruit cake and their
beaks in honey
a day in the life of Mosman
Carmen the dancer
Blueberries and
Raspberry Banana Bread
and Gold Crested
Pterodactyl Cockatoos
commandeering her kitchen
her gangster lovers
dead ends and loose screws
The day started bright blue
Ended in a thunder clap
boiling over onto a glowing hotplate
of flying embers,
reckless kisses and an unplanned
Storm;
A piece of Hummingbird Cake
was fed through a thread
In dreams while you watched
a movie in bed
Spoken to you
through
mind cerebral
not Reality read
Poppyseed and Honey
Bees buzzing on swollen
unheard lips
that silently bled Red
Words
Meanings
Life
Read
Red
Sugar ingested,
Honey to Blue Horse Flies.
Australiana
Fed.
Sleep,
Bed.
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
"Listen to the Hummingbird" / Leonard Cohen
https://youtu.be/hYIeW8bwlWQ
"Meadow" / Liam Gallagher
https://youtu.be/wHVuW7eOPNI
"Cosmic Dancer" / T.Rex
https://youtu.be/GMfjA4gyEcU
"Meadow" / Liam Gallagher, Lyrics
https://genius.com/Liam-gallagher-meadow-lyrics
Part Three of the Sixth poet honored
(Emily Dickinson) in famous poets dedication series
(3.)
From Weeping Tears, No Longer Shall Joy Find In Heart Anything
Creeping thick fog has dimmed my view of morn's resplendent lake
so dreary is life's sorrows, more than this sad soul can take
yet tomorrow promises mysteries that leap from the dark
tho' my life's worries have wrinkled my skin like Sycamore bark.
Night shall come, with its agonies crying to be unbound
as its bellowing howls screech out, horrendous gasping sounds
very soon midnight moon will swallow up my despondent soul
spitting it out as fragmented black-stained pieces of the whole!
God forbid! That from this nightmare I never dare to wake
to that of Life, dear sweet Love, I never again partake
and from morbid sunken state, my heart crumble and be no more
fallen into heaps of crushed bones, spilled blood and ghastly gore!
Woe! The epic pains such broken-heart images dare'st tonight bring
From weeping tears, no longer shall joy find in heart anything.
Robert J. Lindley, 2- 12-2019
Sonnet, ( The Sad Depths Of Sorrow's Deep Epic Pains)
dedicated to Emily Dickinson, poets dedication series..
(4.)
There's More To The Old Forest Than Its Ancient Trees
As years are peeled back, this gladden heart now truth sees
there's more to the old forest than its ancient trees
mystery in places, savagery in its nights
more than just imagination, it hides from sight!
Yet such does not negate its most beautiful gifts
its Autumn colors, songbirds notes that so uplifts
bounty of its harvests, peace it oft can instill
calm that one may find there, treasures that oft so thrill.
Tho' darkness lurks there deep and hides its evil ways
one can visit its truth, find self most any day
walk along its well worn trails and about life muse
all of its many wonders, in this dark world use!
As years are peeled back, this gladden heart now truth sees.
There's more to the old forest than its ancient trees.
Robert J. Lindley, 1- 18-2019
Sonnet, ( Amazing That This Dark World, Has Such Beauty In Its Forests)
dedicated to Emily Dickinson, in poet dedication series
Note:
(1.)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
(2.)
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/emily-dickinson