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.
Village full of boys and girls playing
strong arms around waist romancing
old friends on porch with guitars singing
merry farmers on green hills harvesting
not a bird on trembling wire singing
grabbed by hair like doll earth is shaking
rumbling lava torrents on city descending
burying under darkness encrusting
spitting ashes at planes faster than panicking
anger of revolution once dormant exploding
family tradition of unity unearthing
easy of gadgets virtual love ending.
Boys and girls again in village playing
tailor shops and sound of shoemaker tapping
from complexity to simplicity remnant circling
fields of flowers dancing and robins singing
knees in gratitude bent marveling
at mystery of Love life continuing.
There is ice in the veins of people still giving vaccines, proven to kill.
There is ice in the veins of those creating a ministry group to silence us.
There is ice in the veins of those who kill babies after they are born.
There is ice in the veins of those allowing an unsafe border invasion.
All the while, they are giving billions and billions to another instead.
There is ice in the beings of those who are reporting lies, spitting hypocrisy.
There is ice in the veins of those abusing young children in our schools.
There is ice in the veins of the proven corrupt people harming our country.
These people’s actions are evil and their souls are like depth of winter cold.
Then, they project these things onto innocent people who are speaking truth.
Projection onto people who love our country and want to love and help others.
Regardless of what happens, from all those with ice in their veins;
God sees, God knows and nothing will be done without consequence.
Because all along the way, through their destruction, the knowing of it has froze!
Heidi Sands
4/29/22
Who is the ugliest at the ugly bug ball?
Is it the hideous gnat or giraffe so tall?
Could it be that spitting camel with the ugly hump?
Or the orangutan with the butt that makes us jump?
Mayhaps it is the blue-footed boobie, a weird looking fellow
Or that weird looking duckling whose suit is off-color yellow.
Bloody turkey buzzard with mouth full of gore just came in.
He is not only ugly, but his carnivorous ways are an evil twin.
Octopus, penguin, goat, quail, each with an oddity.
Scorpion, wasp, rattlesnake with pattern of a vee….
Who is the ugliest at the ugly bug ball?
Starfish and squirrel get to pick but they went to the mall.
Could it be the mongoose, the peahen or yak?
Let’s choose the winner before they get back.
Sturgeon has a suggestion. It sounds like a wow.
Let’s call it a tie, and give them all a big whack.
A Warped Tree
Today, when not arguing with Walter the Jew on Facebook
the ambiance in the house was surprisingly calm since
I got a key to my study in peace to read my latest collection
and found, at times, the poems had an internal rhyme and
were little stories
The pity is that I have to write without a publisher
can't afford to hire one; those I dare to ask run a thousand miles
one of them, a poor man, is a lecturer at Udevalla
Last year, I visited a crooked tree so shy its roots curled
in bashfulness, and its leaves took an autumnal color
I wanted to know if there was a way for me to help get
her more gracious and straight
She took offense and said she was 105.
I felt like pointing out the tree by the drive into our village -
an olive tree is so old there is a possibility
Jesus sat under it, writing protest notes to the priests
in the service of the Roman church
One day the came, the uncouth people from the traffic division
chopped down ancient history and threw the remains
down a drain
Angrily, I protested to my doctor about the vandals
with my fist hit the table so hard a stethoscope fell to the floor
then the porter came, and I was made to leave.
When I came to Portugal, the natural thing was to study
and learn the language, but at the time, I was wrapped up
learning English
The Portuguese language is superbly fitted to Fado, but as a "lingo" for conversation, I failed,
I knew enough to get married.
The Norwegian vocality sounds like a Dane trying to talk Swedish
and is like wet cement being poured down a ditch dug by Lusitanos
spitting tobacco.
Ach, mein lieber Gott, I have lost many friends in the last sixty years.
Cheer there is such a thing as political karma
Sneer as your career fell off a pier Keir Starmer
No panacea clear nadir we jeer at sheer drama
Come forth King of the North such a charmer
Life so rife with strife & won’t make it calmer
But better go getter trend setter & vote farmer
Coup not out of the blue...Andy the embalmer
Outwitting Keir who’s been spitting like a llama
Might not become a peer or knight in armour
Rejection then ejection he’s an election harmer
A phony baloney Tony crony no Barack Obama
More banal bananarama than BBC's panorama
Out of date mate like melon & ham from Parma
Chance of return from exile same as Dalai Lama
Lost to a show pony time for a holiday in Palma
Verse 1:
Pretty brown eyes, you know I see you,
Across the crowded room, a silent cue,
A flicker of something, a hidden desire,
Burning slow, fueled by the fire.
Got the vibe on smash, no need for a lie,
Spitting rhymes like a king, baby, I’m fly,
While the world spins ‘round, we move in slow-mo,
Feel the beat drop hard like it’s Tony in a dojo.
Heartbeat racing like a train on a track,
You bite your lip, girl, and I'm never looking back,
Lighting up the night like it’s 4th of July,
Hands up high, let’s reach for the sky.
Drink in my hand, toast to the life,
Roll with my crew, you could be my wife,
Swag on E, but the love’s on full,
You’re the queen of the night, let’s break every rule.
Chorus:
We gon’ party till dawn, let the music play,
In this club full of dreams, yeah, we drift away,
Pretty brown eyes, get lost in the thrill,
Feel that bass pounding, got the world standing still.
Verse 2:
Streets alive, neon lights illuminating,
Rhymes so heavy, you can feel ‘em vibrating,
Grinding on the floor, moving to the beat,
Sweat dripping down, yeah, we turning up the heat.
Got my peeps around, loyalty’s thicker than blood,
In this concrete jungle, we rise from the mud,
Hustle hard, party harder, that’s the motto we claim,
Bright city lights, we ain't ever gonna tame.
Sip that Henny neat, chase it with the vibe,
Stacking the good times, we all here to ride,
With you by my side, it’s a whole different game,
In the chaos of the night, love is never the same.
So let the DJ run it back, spin the record right,
Got that energy, girl, we shining so bright,
Pretty brown eyes, lost in the moment,
In this dance of life, we never gonna own it.
Chorus:
We gon’ party till dawn, let the music play,
In this club full of dreams, yeah, we drift away,
Pretty brown eyes, get lost in the thrill,
Feel that bass pounding, got the world standing still.
R u ok?!
I don't know.
R u ok?!
How should i know?
I'm just your spitting image.
I have no soul.
You need to get a grip,
get a hold.
Of what your lacking,
in this world.
R u ok?!
You're not looking so good.
You're a mess.
Must be from all the unwanted stress.
R u ok?!
Maybe you should pop more pills,
then go lay down.
You just need some sleep,
thats what it is.
Wait,
Wait,
Don't you leave this mirror.
You need to see you a lot clearer.
R u ok?!
No!!
You're not!
Stop looking at me for answers,
that you already got.
Now fix our face,
and be on our way.
It's a brand new day.
Shake off the stress.
Yeah!!
Your right.
I'm gonna have a good time tonight.
All that was left was,
a print of her lips.
On the mirror,
where she saw things a whole lot clearer.
As others was doing the same,
in the mirror.
She decided to look one more time.
At her reflection in the river.
R U Ok?!
Was her last words.
Written by;
Gloria perez-barkaszi
Jump, thump, six graders jump
from stone to pebbly stone.
Chirp chirp the robin flies
Across the sky alone.
Crunch chunch the graveled feet,
Sh. . . shoo, a breathy whisper,
Hard, cold bench for a seat,
Rough wood, perhaps a splinter.
Puh, puh, puh, a boy spitting,
Mosquito slap
A girl is hitting.
Scarlet leaves on willowly stem
Dance in the crisp fall air.
I hear a chuckle.
Is it he
Playing over there?
The last bright orange, Autumn mums
Await their yearly demise.
A glance at my watch.
Oh, no, it’s time,
I’m thinking as I rise.
Fall day, sublime
God’s perfection.
What a task to study!
Until next time,
We’ll have to leave
Renewed, refreshed, unhurried.
~ Judy Bausch
Hold your horses,
use all your resources
and force your thoughts
to not follow the course
that stigma endorses.
I figure I was sent
to present a different
style that you think is rap,
but rap is spoken aloud and vocal,
it serves verses in urban slang verbal,
this isnt like any rap I've heard,
for a start I'm using dictionary words.
You think rap is ghettos, gangstas, gats and hoodies,
while poetry is cellos, mansions, top hats and pretty goodies,
and rap isnt poetry but poetry reads like rap,
but you know to me this flow needs a new name so stigma is detatched.
If I rapped this reactions would stick as I'd look as stupid as rats,
so dont call it rap 'cus rap wouldn't do that.
No not at all,
this style is based around the bouncing vowel,
a sound that's allowed anywhere anyway around.
So hold your thoughts
'cus this mould is ought
to be sold as ROLLING RHYME.
It sorts and then reveals it's skills caught
constant in roll like a wheel,
with words written real
and a free structure to its build.
It's rolling rhyme
told in rhyme
that strolls and holds in time
and does not fold or decline
only to rhyme at the end of the line.
The rows flow with ease
and it's easy to read
free flowing and blowing along like a breeze.
Rap rhythm isnt driven
by the way the words are written
'cus when rappers are spitting
pronunciation differs if you listen.
Rap ink revolves around slang
but you think of revolvers gangs and the bang bang,
this is poetry, you know it be,
it's rolling rhyme this style of mine.
Clad in his double-breasted royal toga
Filled of nothing but pride and anger
His face as grim as a Pallbearer’s
His gaze dreadful and fearful like that of
A raging rattlesnake about to strike
His eyes crackling charcoal fire-red
His dancing tummy under his “Agbada”
Reminds me of a dancing Porcupine
He paces round his palace
A house built on a Rock in the Niger-Area
He fumes and puffs like a spitting Cobra . . .
“My eyes of pity had gone blinded
Only those of nakedness built on wickedness
Shone in my vibrating Golgotha
Let no man speak of hunger with anger
For I find people not scavenging on the garbage
Let no one talk of thirst in a haste
For our River Niger is like that of River Marah
It brings only taste of grouchiness and sullenness
Let men in the Niger-Area speak not of hoarding of food
For Farming is the only way to more days of famine
Speak not of hike in the Oil from our ground
For its very dear in the other neighbouring lands
Rejoice my people for the benevolence have shown you
I shall rule and rule forever till there are people to rule no more”
Our King is indeed insane for sanity left him long ago
A vivaciously looking Chimpanzee in the Niger-Area Forest
A chirpy Chimera of the Black Race, unto him I bow piously
I have impatiently listened to his drunken fits of eloquence
My king smells like a gouard of wine full of petulance
As I bore the sting of his unrivaled drunken ribaldry
I weep for a King who is as old as Methuselah
I wonder whether he had ever smell childhood
For he looks as if he had always been old from
The very scaring day he was let out of his Mother’s womb
His Majesty old and worn out like a dry hell
Let him run into the Market with nakedness on his head
Let our people beat and stone insanity out of him
Let the people in the Niger- Area Arise and thread
Like the Strong and the Mighty with history of Victory
And arrest our oppressors and other fanatical Kingpins
And let them be taken like urchin for their tyranny
And turpitude has attained untold heights
Alayande Stephen .T
5th December, 2005
12.45pm
Conceptualized after the furore of OBJ’s
Third term bid for continuity of hunger ,
Anger and excruciating Poverty for mass of the people.
Form: