Long Stashed Poems
Long Stashed Poems. Below are the most popular long Stashed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stashed poems by poem length and keyword.
Certainly can sometimes get over zealous
In extolling my love for you souls
Suddenly realize how overbearing it must be
So I'll try to show a little more control
Got a bunch of affection for all youse guys
You all have that special something
It's totally unique from one soul to the next
Which gets this old heart a-beating
Just love to discover what each person has
Have I seen it before in someone else
Each one of you adds your own little twist
It determines everyone's wealth
It's not the money you've got stashed away
Or those fancy car you might drive
It's stuff you've got deep down in your soul
It's the friendships for which we strive
© Jack Ellison 2013
Ever since I experienced being significantly monetarily sidelined...
(how about that topic for a change of pace?)
Yes back to getting walloped, decked
and clubbed courtesy cold hearted brute,
who casually, glad handedly, and royally
flushed out mine tailored pricey suit
wherein every pocket
once stashed, and lined with loot.
Ever since scamming imbroglio
(three weeks ago today -
July eleventh two thousand twenty three)
yours truly, a formerly
happy go lucky wordsmith
immune to the plethora
of devious shenanigans
courtesy predacious traitors
to the bywords of honesty and integrity
scamper away with laundered money.
Mine fantasy modus operandi to cope
regarding falling prey
to hoax gullible guy
to surrender crisp greenbacks
entrapment like a dope
no matter poet of Penn Valley
at the end of his figurative rope,
when fraudsters shill and scope
out crosshairs stunning
persons exhibiting naïveté
the following escapist ploy adopted.
E'er since I (a reincarnated cavalier
or gentleman snubbed
by sought after Southern Belle)
at night suicidal ideations
visit psyche as haunting spectre
sublimated death wish
permeates thru mine every cell
courting the grim reaper
to carry me back to carry
me back to Old Virginny,
where lovely bones
of me Confederate ancestors dwell
upon bloody fields farewell
to arms and legs
mounted battlefields when groundswell
of internecine warfare
made life on earth
wind and fire created a living hell
he who fleeced me
vengeance doth impel
to imagine him gunned down
as enemy numero uno.
Moribund courtesy online heist
me entire being feels
chopped, minced, and appallingly diced,
hence no surprise
sheepishly admitting to ewe
how yours truly still feels blue
aghast at passivity prevailed
how grievousness flourishes
checking and savings accounts
frankly zapped analogous
how David regarding Goliath he slew,
yet impossible mission
to know your enemy
with absolute zero details,
cuz the fly by night scamp
flat out sold pack of lies
of course I voluntarily
must admit straightaway and true
mine fingers converted cash
to bitcoin currency
yet entranced, kickstarted, seduced
as Harvey Specter
did courtesy sotto voce woo.
On the 2nd of June, so suddenly it came.
Soft drips of liquid permeating my brain.
Sweat poured like vapors of steam.
Was it real or was it just a dream?
I was stashed away in lock and chain;
No longer consumed with fun and games.
Dark clouds formed and then the storm.
My heart and soul were completely torn.
Raindrops pounded against the window pane.
If I could, I would walk out and kiss the rain.
If only I could, my life would never be the same.
Just dreaming warms the blood in my veins.
The kiss of rain would be just the key.
That loving kiss of rain would set me free.
Was it fact or was it fiction?
Was it just my imagination?
I only know that I kissed the rain.
Another bout of unconsciousness, disguised as a nighttime’s sleep;
Another day of broken promises that she knows she cannot keep;
Another shot to cure the loneliness inside her long, tormented soul;
Another bottle drank to emptiness with destruction as its final goal.
With words slurred and visions blurred, denial leads the race;
With emptied bottles stashed underneath the trash, in attempts to hide a trace;
With lives destroyed widening the void that the alcohol is meant to fill;
With relationships lost as too high a cost for not admitting that she is ill.
Empty bottles lead to empty hopes in an empty future with empty eyes;
She no longer is the beautiful girl that we all once recognized;
Instead of finding help for this illness dealt, people just judge and criticize;
This empty bottle I hold makes the story I’ve told, something with which I can
empathize.
Another bout of unconsciousness, disguised as a nighttime’s sleep;
I drift off into a blackness where the empty bottles make me weep.
Dropped anchor off the Fever Coast
‘board a rake-masted schooner
Spooked by Ahab’s ghost.
Lamps glowered through the yawning blanks
Casting bone-twisted shadows
Over teakwood planks.
Salt biscuits and Jamaican rum;
Heard the deep-throated rattle
Of the talking drum.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Leaned hard against the mains’l boom.
Strained my eyes in the blackness
Of the brackish gloom.
Port lookout gave the counter sign;
Put our boats in the water,
Oar blades dripping brine.
Paid tribute to the pagan chief
In exchange for a passage
Past uncharted reefs.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Slave dealers ruled the hidden cove
Near a shrine to the god
Of the cassava grove.
Made landing on the leeward shore.
Stacked our crates on the beach;
They totaled near a score.
Trade muskets worth some eighteen head
Pleased our hosts and they showed us
To the holding shed.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Grey shackles made a hollow clank.
Moved them out single file,
Guards on either flank.
Fog greeted our return aboard.
Stashed our cargo below
Where once the guns were stored.
Turned to and dodged a man-o-war.
Rode that swift tidal current
Like a smuggler’s whore.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Fair sailing till we hit the Cape,
But we made Madagascar
Still in decent shape.
Brisk business on the auction block
Where a Dutch merchant
Purchased our entire stock.
He sold ‘em to the Portuguese.
We set course for Calcutta
With the morning breeze.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Crew mustered in the open air.
Coins were stacked on a blanket
And I took my share.
Two hundred stone of human freight
Brought me four Spanish dollars
And a piece of eight.
Christ Jesus, we be ruthless men.
Tell the god of the cassava
We’ll be back again.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words:
Guilt and compassion? Sh*t for the birds!
There lies a way to heaven by that lake,
My sickness gone, I fear no chilly mist;
A redwing calls me, dawn is now awake,
The fragrant autumn air I can't resist.
There is my home far from this cottage small,
Where honeysuckles with gold aspens mate,
And purple sweetgums love their mother Fall,
Oblivious of their harsh wintry fate.
November Rain! Your icy arrows smart
Those scarlet berries on the woody hill.
Let the thrush sing once more till I depart,
Let his mellifluous throat subtly trill.
True is this blazing hue— October's art,
A timeless souvenir stashed in my heart.
10th November, 2019
New Fall Sonnets Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
This forgotten poem was written without form,
and furtively stashed away in an old oak drawer
and as lifeless as my unspoken words,
it lamented its imprisonment too cruel and unfair:
until someone discovered it without haste;
now, this name is rising from obscurity...
shining among others who have reached eternity,
others who still speak to us through their spirit
with voices that can come alive in hymn or song!
Some of us sense the modesty
expressed through the poet's silence,
and like to reward it openly
by showing a sympathy so intense;
and however unacceptable this seems...
it dissolves that darkness
surrounding a mysterious mind,
which was concealed from real time!
Those heart-felt words are read aloud
by someone exposing their merit
to an audience which choose rivalry,
wounding the humble narrator's heart,
and denying his voice a thrilling sound
to repress his joy and humanity
by any methods he has yet to try...
when uneasy times allow him to cry!
Some of us find solitude detestable,
putting the blame on others other than ourselves;
and into it only I seek refuge as the one creating images
from the insights that remain perpetual...
but rising from obscurity should mean money and fame,
and if all that I seek could be accomplished without pain,
and life could grant me everything...
would I ever grow tired of living?
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
The Lost Art Of Composition
too often my thoughts and the ability to express them
are taken hostage without a clue to the cause
this is an affliction familiar to many a writer
as if madness wasn't enough
it proves to be immune to every method I've used
to relieve my minds constipation
it enslaves your ideas and duct tapes the mouth of your soul
binds your fingers and hands so you are unable to write
I Whiskeyed and Scotched it self medicated with drugs
the addiction that resulted I thought could be bribed
held a knife at its throat threatened, bullied and beat it
poked and scratched at the eyes
Kicked it in the balls
pleaded and begged even got on my knees and prayed
all my efforts were ineffective
it only pissed it off more and tightened the grip
around my Muse's neck
I had exhausted my resolve to this disease that consumed me
there was no other option but to surrender
I decided to give up , knuckle under call it quits
not answer the bell for the next round
I disconnected my computer and turned off my cellphone
the typewriter on my desk just for show
I've had since college every once in a while I have at it
so I stashed in the closet with books by Sexton, Wolfe and Burroughs
Cisneros, Bukowski and Gonzo
I turned down the lights and lit some candles
sat at my desk to prepare my suicide note
what happened when the ballpoint touched the papers surface
was the key opening the front door lock to home
an energy manifested that I had known long ago
before Technology had deadened it's nerves
it sparked the transfer of thought into a word
forming the shape of a sentence
this cosmic electricity flowed into my hand holding the pen
then designed a paragraph the child of chapter
I touched every noun felt each verb envisioned the adjectives description
heard every "ly" in the adverbs reply and ignored the rules of punctuation
I had discovered the remedy to restore my inspiration
the cure I possessed all along
The lost art of composition was my salvation
my own prescription is what I wrote
the poet is an artist that paints in the darkness
a poems words the colors that create light
a writer is blessed with all of the answers
cursed in the search for what questions to ask
Judge Burdon
Mind the wet paint.
My mind is just simple and quaint.
A breath that strolls in the morning,
slumbers while the sun is not shining.
Of style and originality,
an art gallery
made of various sizes of canvas
color palette of madness;
abstract scenes of hopes and dreams,
a universe trying to break free,
hungry as the sea.
Splashes of summer, fall, winter, and spring.
Whiz it sometimes does bring.
Touched with inner muse,
florets of cardinal hues,
an abstract mind still creating, nor yet set.
Now, mind that the paints still wet.
~
chocolate egg shell
stashed full of colored foil treats
please do not disturb
3/13/2018
Anyone Game? The Mini Reeses Cup Mystery
Yes, it surely did boggle our minds!
And at first, only I had seen it...
but I knew to speak out was a must!
Some big trouble he's going to face
if for sure he did eat them all up!
for his sugar would go through the roof!
"Oh dear, NO," he now answers..."sorry,
for I thought, likewise, YOU ate them up!"
All the Reeses cups minis are gone;
and we have no clue where they all went.
So our 'cranium', we have to use...
try to guess who took all of our treats!
Aggravation like this, we don't need.
With our plan of precise perfection,
we search all of the room...then spot it,
finding one Reeses near TV stand...
we quick open the wide, the middle door,
and, ker plunk, one lone cup falls right out...
with some thirty or more stashed inside...
a few munched on or foil slightly pierced!
Such a, keen operation for sure!
He had stuffed them thru large hole behind.
So we scrabble to find a mouse trap!
Took a risk, yet somehow, he was caught.
A Monopoly he had in mind;
and his trivial pursuit....soon grew
to become quite a real major heist!
Try to steal our best candy...taboo!
Sandra M. Haight
N/A
Contest: Anyone Game?
Sponsor: Carol Connell
19 Words Used