Long Splotched Poems
Long Splotched Poems. Below are the most popular long Splotched by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Splotched poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s Sunday,
and I’m drawing myself again,
third time this week.
This version features a haunted air fryer,
a coupon for free emotional labor,
and Janice—
the shoebill, wearing my ex’s hoodie
and threatening the moon.
She’s perched
on a folding chair I stole from a church basement,
clutching a Slim Jim like a relic.
Her breath smells like copper wiring and vengeance.
She doesn’t blink.
She’s been through things
I wouldn’t survive in metaphor.
Next to us is a gas station floral arrangement
wilting under fluorescent light.
In front of us is me,
in my paint-splotched pajamas,
asking Janice if she thinks
my inner child should unionize.
She says nothing,
just tilts her prehistoric head
and sh*ts squarely on my manuscript.
I call it divine intervention.
Later,
we walk into the city wearing matching trench coats,
one of us smoking,
one of us quoting Adrienne Rich,
neither of us offering apologies.
When the world ends,
it’ll be a clerical error.
Janice will fix it with duct tape and a spell
written in cut-up tomatoes.
I’ll be there,
editing the horoscopes.
And when someone asks
What kind of bird is that?
I’ll smile, say,
Oh, she’s mine,
we found each other in a storm.
feathers twirled,
long into the night.
ebonic ink,
splotched and saturated,
with the heart’s content.
t
e
a
r
s
created the first draft
of watercolors,
s
e
a
r
i
n
g
of the candlelight vigil,
long forgotten grief,
h
o
w
e
v
e
r
God never
f
o
r
g
e
t
s
He bottles up the flagrant fluid
of our awfulness, kept for
the day of wrath. Careless,
never; He eyes antiquity.
Once, when no star shined
on slick, black, asphalt roads,
the murky wetness of November's
watered nights a freedom-feeling
and strangeness-sense inspired.
The moisture lubricated
sluggish mental cogs that
all the dirty, dry, autumnal
season rusted tight and atrophied.
Wildness no man can tell I knew then.
All November's labored length
my nightly notions filled:
my bacchic spirit soared, and flew,
traveled far, saw much in waking dream,
along a single street, wet and splotched
with light from cars which coughed their fumes
and passed my momentary immortality.
And now...time has come when
I no longer feel delight to revel
in the wildness that I knew:
senses, now subordinate to sense,
defuse the spell and November nights
are merely murky.
Behind my desk of daily duties, I hide obliged,
blind in perceived intent in days debilitating me,
grinding relentless against my need to find meaning.
My bleeding mind leaning against my breaching heart,
preaching intent I cannot grasp.
I gasp for a breath of substance of a sort,
distort in my own demand of dithering paths,
like a slithering mole sniffing the trodden ground,
drowning in my intentless surround.
My splotched mind now fired up on a frigid stove,
an imposter, a trove dug up and claimed,
framed...
As thought the picture of perfect suffering is rule
I plunge…
Posing in intent’s pool I seduce my own pseudo smile
and all the while spirit leaks from my soul.
This hovering abandoned hole day in and day out
I’ve filled with doubt of a truth led astray the stars,
as hardened scars plow my unburied grave
like the brave face I wear disgraced.
My life…
Misplaced...
This space of intentless surround.
Random occurrence pounds and pierces my felt fate,
my soul mate of self-sacrifice awaits.
As choice’s debris freezes my will to incite,
I back down …
From a fight I should fight with formidable fury
as the only jury be my yearning destiny freed,
as self-sacrifice waits for me.
Poets stumble over half written sonnets
find themselves trapped in dark poetic throes
Not for the lack of interest, but they often wilt
as petals wither on the stem of a plucked rose
Their Haiku go on hiatus; lingering on vacation
Romantic writings drag on without decent rhyme
They are not procrastinators, but often tumble
down a mountain side they cannot seem to climb
Writing sharpens the points of dulled memories
black ink is splotched by an onslaught of tears
eyes blur as their hands tremble from sorrow
pens draw deep scars across hearts like shears
Long held melodies keep playing across their minds
unfinished lyrics that lay resting in regions of nether
tunes haunting them until tears rain and lips quiver
Impossible to complete when shackled by love's tether
I'm not a man's man, man
I'm just what's left in the garbage can
Mixed in with all the rubbish
of some yuppie's leftover dinner
And oh boy he's quite the sinner
With that Donald Trump smile
Don't mind me, I just wannna relax awhile
And read yesterday's coffee splotched news
To see who will be igniting the fuse
Of tomorrow's worthless wars
I'm not a man's man, man
I'm a teardrop or two away from drowning
Got this nice little brown bag in my hands
A curse from Satan if there ever was one
But I'm chasin' the bottom of the bottle
Hoping that maybe the last drop will bring the fun
That the rest of the drops failed to deliver
And if I could get a tiny sliver
Of that silver platter of the 1%
I reckon I'd be more than a garbage can man, man
But I'm no man's man, man
I'm just a hot summer's day that stuck around way too long
It's just it's too awkward to say I don't belong
So people just pass me by with a half-smile
It's like I'm wearing yesterday's fabulous style
No longer hip and with all the cool kid trends
But all the cool kid trends end
And they end up in the garbage can
With me, the garbage can man, man
But yesterday's old news is my brand new treasure
And, sure, I'm no man's man, man
I'm just the used up remains of a worthwhile life
And I dove into the depths of the bottle one too many times
And I swear sometimes I feel like it's 1958
With all these smoke clouds blossomin' overhead
And if I could just find the strength to climb out of the trash can
Maybe I wouldn't be such a smelly garbage can man, man
But my days of climbin' are already over the hill
And pretty soon I'll be a snapshot in time, a long dead still
From a movie nobody gave a damn about
ink scratches on paper
tears smudge the words
scribbles and nibbles
for wisdom and love
meanings flow in and out
of consciousness and thought
emote passion and wonderment
a path of no return as it stands
as poets we don’t go but flow
with musings and feelings
reason and reflections
condense and prise open
the poet’s cradle weeps gently
rocks doubts and composure
envelops discards and contains
everlasting impermanent time
weeping willows inhale tears
cosmos flowers shed smiles
weeds become herb gardens
as a tomb stone beckons
in my warm grave I’ll be happy
if mourners wear orange and purple
when my epitaph becomes prologue
and I hand on the pen and a torch
when worms sift through the debris
my coffin rots and gives birth to soil
kind memories may keep me going
and proceed with my journey
26th November 2020
written for the contests 'where do we poets go'