Long Squeezes Poems
Long Squeezes Poems. Below are the most popular long Squeezes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Squeezes poems by poem length and keyword.
The departure is all I know.
Its familiarity is embedded in the sadistic comedy of my consciousness.
Its affection is engraved in the intimate deception of my own searing flesh.
Its practice plays on a loop in the fond erraticism of my haste.
The malice kisses my tears as it spits salt into my sores.
The isolation tends to my methodical mourn of a mockery.
The reassurance of my ruin strokes my hair; a reminder of my rational wreckage.
The impulsive denial of my fate lingers in the darkness of my preordained doom.
The doom of my dread.
The doom of my denial.
The doom of my destiny.
The deliberate descent into the dusk holds me hostage.
The eerie malevolent vines of its malign wrap around my vindictive matter.
It squeezes until I drip with the decay of my own skin-swallowing dejection.
The white of its teeth gleam at me, gasping in my reluctant pleas of sojourn.
The rot fuses with the warmth of my blood and the salt of my sweat.
This is the end I yearned for.
This is the termination I yearned for.
This is the finale I yearned for.
Calculated.
Segregated.
Anticipated.
The doom of my departure.
Sing out, O heavens, and rejoice O earth
Break forth into song you mountains
Lord comforts His people
And shows mercy to His afflicted Isaiah 49:13
We commemorate St. Patrick
A fifth century bishop
And former slave
Famous for driving snakes out of Ireland
I’ve never been to Ireland
Plus
I live where there are no dangerous snakes
So his deed didn’t hold much meaning for me
Until I realized that snakes are also an image for the unpleasant forces that can sliter
Slide into human existence
Gossip for instance
Poisonous relationships
Squeezes the life of families
And communities
What might be afflicting us now?
St. Patrick is beloved because he offered God’s mercy to free people from what afflicted them
Bringing God’s comfort and the assurance that God never forgets them
Even when they forsake Him
Let’s rejoice in praying with St. Patrick
Mary Marrocco
Turned to Poetry: Jac R. M.
Poetry Form: Free Verse
.
I was holding your hand, …you were such a brave little knight…
On that first day of kindergarten, ...as you walked out of sight
Now, binoculars find you….standing proud in your whites…
I can see you so clearly and my throat squeezes tight
We have watched from the dock, from each shore of your life
There are no words to tell you, how each moment shined bright
~
with bravado, and a winning smile, your spirit and courage, always shining
.........................
Dedicated to my beloved grandson..who has just returned from deployment aboard the U.S.S. Truxtun
Bought an extra supply of stuffing
Cause certain gals keep squeezing it outta me
Don't get me wrong, sure not complaining
Bought some on sale at Target
The stuffing department was filled with us poet guys
All weak and hardly able to walk
I wasn't too too bad
But had to hold on to a salesgirl for a bit
In fact she suggested I go to the stock room
Open the package and put a bit in till I got home
When I got there, there was a half a dozen more poets
Stuffing themselves
I said, “Hey, you guys belong to the Soup too?”
All said yes and all knew this lady from Orygun
If she loves you
She squeezes the stuffing outta ya!
© Jack Ellison 2014
WANDERED AWAY
They once prayed beside each other
you’d see him grab his Mama’s hand
Years ago when just a young boy
Before becoming a grown man.
Special connection when they prayed
Three squeezes give each other’s hand.
Their secret code said, “I love you”
Quietly between Mom and young man.
Parents still hold their children’s hand
right before each and every prayer
Hearts of some Mom’s moan within
No need to reach…no one’s there .
Now alone when it’s time to pray
These Mom’s grief… God’s taken away
True spiritual hope placed in their hearts
“Child’s still in God’s memory today.”
Holy Spirit stands where child once stood
Faith friends, never leave Mom’s alone
God’s spiritual family’s always close
They now claim “These Mom’s, as..Their Own!
Barbara Barry-Nishanian
Feb,11, 2018
(Also for dad’s and parents whose
unbaptized children have wandered away.)
above the mist of
kohl tombstones . . .
moon hides its face
Wind screams through the graveyard,
and leaves on the ground are scattered around old tombstones
where a modern Cherokee man
lies on top of the grave of his dead wife,
wailing with a passion that matches
the aching tone of the wild unbridled breeze.
Months have passed, and
nobody could trace the secret of her demise.
Fog envelops the cold cemetery.
It’s as if the night has been frightened white,
and the trees tremble in late autumn’s frigid air.
Above the grieving silhouette,
a great horned owl peers down
with deep, bright, yellow eyes
from its perch on the gnarled limb
of an ancient oak.
The man, unaware of the owl’s stare,
continues his wailing, pounding the grass
above his beloved’s final resting place.
Suddenly, the great horned owl hoots.
He looks up to see
what seems to be a glare emanating maliciousness
from the owl’s nocturnal iris.
Acquainted with the superstitions of his people,
the Cherokee cannot break his gaze
from that of the owl.
It cannot be, it cannot be, the man cries.
He is captured by an unshakable feeling -
the presence of a spiteful and unforgiving spirit -
that has been with him for many eclipsed moons.
This time, however, it is glaring down at him
with utter loathing. The owl hoots again.
Dread pierces his remorseful
yet culpable heart.
Seized with angst, he claws at the grass beneath him.
His fingernails cake with dirt.
He must see the face of his deceased wife.
A tightness squeezes his chest as his heart gives out~
the owl hoots its third and final requiem.
the abandoned perch
as the fog lifts -
an owl flies skyward
The target stationary in his sight.
The trigger finger feels it's might.
The heartbeat slowly keeps him calm.
The ground is cold, temperature's going down.
This is what he's trained to do.
This man's life is now down to you.
There's no question about what you're going to do?
The breath is held as the target is set.
He squeezes the trigger in the cold of night.
The bullet spins down the barrel and out of sight.
The man that was there is now not in sight.
He moves the weapon to check the figure is down.
He's dead - the target has hit the ground.
A cold, dark feeling rushes through his mind.
He realises that he is a killer of humankind.
He looks again and sees the body down.
He slowly moves away without smile or frown.
He's done his job, the enemy is down.
Silence, broken the heart just squeezes tight
Nothing feels normal nothing seems right
Each breathe burns like alcohol it has a bite
Too tired to keep on with this fight
Every step taken in your direction
Loving you so much yet hating my reflection
Pulled apart one side only giving, the other offers only rejection
All this going on clogs up my words impossible ejection
Filled to capacity cant take any more
Knowing a blow up is on its way so sure
This mind this soul this rot has no cure
My purpose this night far from pure
Self destruction would only descibe the very tip
So tired of the mouth, that constant lip
Tongue going so fast cant help but trip
Watch reality as its center starts to rip
She cast a wistful look
At the side table
As she lay on her bed weak, old and infirm
Her two children with cherubic smiles
Look back at her from the frame
She reciprocates- a weak smile
“Remember, I would say
‘You are my angels’,”
She whispers to them
Unlikely they would hear
Both now successfully settled
In their lives
Their occasional phone calls
The slender connection
Between her ‘nostalgic’ past
And ‘abandoned’ present
‘You still are my angels’
She again whispers
But two treacherous tears
Roll down her shriveled, hollowed cheeks
While she squeezes shut her dull, moist eyes
Meanwhile her delicate frame
Continues to wait for the ‘real’ angels
To take her away.
Raw! His red pen fetch for more top designs
Her paper squeezes and her table shakes
Thus, he fears to keep writing his free signs
She can't say if it sucks or really aches
Soon the paper becomes so wet in chain
And the depth of his free writing was deep
His cum couldn't appease her groaning pain
Yet, it was a violent and intense weep
Down the lane, it rocks and frequently rocks
Above the cliff is a roaring silence
And the pale innocent heart got more shocks
Of his unrelenting push drowning bunce
Should she vomits that messed love without trace
She will be ever thankful for the grace
© 2020
® Olábòsóyè Wèmímó Oláolúwá