Long Stiff Poems
Long Stiff Poems. Below are the most popular long Stiff by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stiff poems by poem length and keyword.
This "plague" isn't going away anytime soon.
We're openly told this is our new normal.
To bend over and over without any lube.
There's much to be gained by prolonging the pain.
From the made-in-China masks you're wearing.
From the made-in-China parts that go into COVID test kits.
The reds dream of pulling hearts from freedom's chest.
Barbed things are being thrust into our bloodstreams.
One vaccine, concocted from cells of two aborted babies from the seventies...
A boy and a girl, given letters and numbers instead of names.
Just like Jews that were stuffed into Auschwitz cattle trains.
This plague isn't going away anytime soon.
For it's a bonanza for big pharma and conglomerates.
At the deadly expense of the working-class stiff.
While they tell us not to gather in numbers.
The privileged party in Martha's Vineyard.
They released hordes of convicts onto the streets.
To protect THEM from a bug and not us.
They inoculated nursing homes with covid patience
While a mercy ship sat empty in Big Apple Harbor.
Fully equipped with a thousand empty beds...
This Plague isn't going away anytime soon.
A gale force wind was blowing one cold October night
With a hunter's moon in the sky that was shining so bright
I took a shortcut through the cemetery as I'd often done before
And in ten minutes or so I'd be at home at my front door.
As I neared the cemetery exit, I had one hell of a fright
I saw a tall ghostly figure that was dressed in all white
I was seized with sheer terror and ran as fast as I could
My heart was pounding and my legs felt like wood.
I trembled as I fumbled trying to get the key into the lock
Never before in my entire life had I had such a shock
I reached for the Jack Daniels and poured myself a stiff drink
Had I been hallucinating? maybe I needed to see a shrink.
The next morning as I walked past the exit, I had a surprise
And laughed at what I saw before me, I couldn't believe my eyes
In last night's strong winds, a white sheet had blown onto a tree
And that was the 'ghost' that had scared the hell out of me.
My eyes groaned , morning arrived, I realized,
Then a moment of dire shook my entire stiff body.
Did that night really happen? Did that happen to me?
Was that a “gift” from my uncle Toddy?
I was high, couldn’t move, when he raised my back up and then
… oh no, I had to go spew.
I couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, my body was numb,
No one knew what I knew what I went through?
Then, it never happened, not to me, I was in control,
I was only crying from watching movie features.
I had to get busy, that was it, at fifteen, study at school,
I’d concentrate on each of my teachers.
Since then I can’t play footy, sleeping’s a memory,
I don’t talk to family about sexual assault.
I hate being in crowds, don’t touch me, I don’t go out,
And, yes, this is all my own stupid fault.
Now my beautifully effective tool dealing with nightmares
Is to drink and smoke and inject.
I think I’m coping alone in my head really well,
But my wife says I’m emotionally wrecked.
Teddy lives in a world of strife,
Where fight for existence is stiff.
He writes poems that show his daily struggle,
As he tries to understand why there’s no mingle
Between different tribes and clans;
God, well maybe has better plans
His eyes are black, and his skin brown,
Like the Mother Earth he has grown.
Poverty and corruption is the norm,
As crime gangs day to day always form
His world I say, is so different from mine
Jan tries hard to make folks smile
Forget their troubles for a while
She writes poems that may make you weep
Other poems she pens you may wish to keep
Her eyes are green, her hair is titian -
The colour’s out a bottle - that grey CAN be beaten!
She lives on a little Island surrounded by the sea
Where the air is fresh and there's no poverty
Unemployment is low, there is little crime
Her world is so very different from mine
We share a love;
A love for letters, words,
And verses,
Knit together to create a deep message
That forever echoes deep within our souls.
Difference in race, nationality and ideology
Are all fused together in rhythm and sonnets,
Making us citizens of the world,
Enjoying the anarchy of love.
We are miles apart across the sea
But we share a love called poetry.
06-23-17
Collaboration between Jan Allison & Teddy Kimathi
I follow the home underneath the stars tonight
stars which show me the lies in your eyes and I
want to lie next to you
lie in your head, bath in your hair tonight
and carry away your eerie last goodbye
this evening breeze, all around us tonight
streams with my memories, now you and I
we merge right here, right now
turn to dust and fossilize tonight
never come back to life
bodies stiff like trees by the lake tonight
feel the rising freeze in your breath now, but I
I won't try to survive
that light in your mind is on your side tonight
only if you will keep on shining bright
and I know I will lose my poor trust tonight
thanks to you, you used to keep me alive, but I
don't need to see you anymore
'cause you finally fell in his dreadful trap tonight
just to be my only bride of the night
the queen of my dreams tonight
Android Charlie II:The Sequel: The Drama
OH, Charlie had money alright!
A great house, wife,and a quite intelligent child, too!
Very opulent, he!
Three cars, vacations and a complete
lifestyle, too.
Alas, those cell phones came along!
Charlie just had to become part of
that techie crowd.
Soon the phone took the place of his wife!
Tell the truth, of his entire life!
And any visitor to his once warm and friendly home?
Well, now, a sad update~all relatives and friends,
in total silence do sit, while Charlie,lost soul,he,
Only had eyes and time for his phone!
Charlie, unknowingly treated his guests
as less than gnats!
No jovial conversation ever ensued.
Only if the TV, with irritation,screamed: Breaking News!
Yes, this meaningless drivel~ made Charlie swivel?
As to his phone ,it sadly appeared. permanently glued to his hand.
Dinners with candles, are you serious?
Once grand and beauteous were never lit!
Just his pasty white face, how ghastly
it looked.
Like a stiff corpse in a coffin.
My Lord, what a technological schnook.
Now that once laughter-filled abode
stands empty!
The front door swings forever open.
Yes, Charlie is still there, totally and
blissfully unaware,
His wife and child have had enough,
Of a tragic life sans human
communication!
A scene not unusual in any nation!
Get a lockbox for your smartphones,
if that addicted you are.
Unless you are a surgeon on call,
best love the humans next to you.
And sorry, but I will not rejoice in texts
nor Emojis.
These are far from human attributes!
And no, neither funny nor cozy,
We need not fear, true, warm living
communication.
Just realize that God gave us tongues
to speak with and ears to hear.
Live life in the real world as much
as you can.
You are loved by people!
Not by the evices in the technological nation.
Panagiota Romios
4/18/2019
SARTORIAL
I went through my clothes the other day
Yes, some are well-worn, others quite new
They represent styles from both extremes
Living, or once lived, a varied life it seems
Can one assume identity from such a view
Maybe clothing choices have much to say
Formal suits on hangers in protective covers
The smarter are even in the tuxedo fashion
One even with a strictly grey striped trouser
White shirts, a formality unlikely to arouse her
But the wing collars may suggest little passion
As stiff necks are quite rare between lovers
A few checked shirts, almost lumberjack style
With a couple of casual jackets, almost sporty
Several predictable business suits, of course
Useful for financial meetings at the Bourse
Almost a City uniform after the age of forty
Occasionally may even raise an ironic smile
Then there are several Caribbean floral shirts
And various T-shirts with a holiday destination
An old style raincoat bought many decades ago
It might still look good and fit me, you know
A college striped scarf reminiscent of graduation
The memory of those younger days still hurts
There’s a woollen jumper and a hooded anorak
Chinos and a pair of jeans that I’ve never worn
Knee rips and faded denim was never for me
With all those echoes of nineteen seventy three
I wish my current extra pounds were still brawn
But then clothes can bring all the memories back
It was cold in his shack and rain squeezed through gaps in the walls
Built as a summer retreat near the beach during prosperous times
A single door creaked under an onslaught of memories and drizzle
Oh well Dylan Thomas wrote in his Boat House
Waves reaches foundations erected on shifting sands and firm beliefs
Thunder resembled turmoil and salt of the earth in search of a home
A sea weed mattress moulded his mind into drift wood of dilapidation
The Old Man by the Sea and no fish in sight
He was freezing his hands stiff and stringent merely holding the pen
Once more he cursed arthritis and age and icy ink in mere circulation
His gaze fell upon a ceiling which suspended possessions and dreams
Carl Spitzweg The Poor Poet umbrella in hand
When the tide reached his shaky resilience and vanishing aspirations
He succumbed to the dire question of how to use the last bit of paper
Buried nearby the iron cast stove which was an alcove to his lost hearth
Dorothy Parker You may as well Live
As frost set in and he hesitantly resolved to kindle a dim meagre fire
Piled bits of a sodden wooden crate onto an opening for new beginnings
He rubbed his fingers and rejoined the quill adorning his crooked grip
No one can make this decision but me
When flames of near forgotten passion flickered a few shadows of hope
He required no pages to write to his lover in the realm of infinite script
The sepia photograph was faded but the picture held court in his heart
He draped an octopus around star fish and dolphins
23rd January 2020
I have an abnormal fear of pink typewriter keys.
I have never seen them, but I have dreamt of them, and they are terrifying.
They type ballets, and love poems, and mushy, lacy, dreamy, girly stuff.
When they are not typing, they are chasing me across fields of Barbie dolls
Dressed in plumes, polka dots, and plaids.
I also have an abnormal fear of Ken dolls.
They terrify me; with their weird stiff hands,
and their glass eyed stares.
They look unnatural and un-normal,
I used to have one and I could barely sleep.
Thinking of him under the bed in the brown shoe box,
thinking of ways to murder me.
Ken, kick, kilt, kill, right?
Pink typewriter keys and Ken dolls.
My worst nightmares.
Disappointed Devil - Hood Das Fume And Fret
'Curse darned demon
of that thar
underworld nudged me abet
as a permanent solution
to a temporary problem
i.e. principally no money
and rising debt
not for a long time didst
I feel so distressed didst,
where no amount of
optimism could get
back joie de vivre ebullient elan,
that oft times fines me jet
ting hither and yon, to and fro,
until spent energy met
fatigue, whence sand
man gave his pet
tickle yore sleep inducing
sprinkling granular set
tat heave, albeit
non off fence sieve tet
deep slumber didst
hone like a whet
stone, less drastic alternative versus
welcoming grim reaper, yet
eventually, aye reckon
this human machine
moost give up the ghost
boot not now,
cuz this moment hike ken boast...,
an immediate diminution
of anguish, viz unlike as told
yesterday, the monthly doled
social security automatic direct
electronic deposit extolled
joyus relief, viz checking account
death rattle didst sense a gold
din shimmer and em bold
qua slight monetary profusion
lowering destitution,
asper dearth of monies
allowing ease to un fold,
which severe dire straits rolled
forward respite
with money for nothing
oppressive full (rick kitty)
full Nelson neck
i.e. near choke hold
rejuvenated brittle psyche mold
during self feeling auld
also attendant temp
purred critical pull
away woe decreased yielding
(all "talk" and no action),
following thru with desperate,
sans destructive (irreversible)
actions unable to hold,
metaphorical tiger of despair
by the figurative tail,
where soul of mine
almost got "sold"
for a pittance (NOT penitence)
to the Prada devil
(or similar facsimile thereof)
rational self didst scold
spewing idle "FAKE"
hollw we ning suicidal threats,
not necessarily bold
cuz, this scribe did not write
his last (nor first,
second, third...) will
and testament before death,
would hove found
me stiff and cold.