Long Suburbia Poems
Long Suburbia Poems. Below are the most popular long Suburbia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Suburbia poems by poem length and keyword.
Ah, twas most indeed innocent!
We had our morals, in our sights!
The scent of floral spring trees, on starlit nights.
In safe suburbia, for you and me.
Blessed were we, to live , virginially .
Life today has so changed!
As drugs of all kinds have driven kids
deranged.
Death by gun, is considered, normal
not strange.
A quick snapshot for you, of today’s
world, so changed!
Death you accept, as normal as any sunrise?
Funerals, you think are normal,I
Surmise.
When will you ever expect to live free
of fear?
You have given up totally,haven’t you my dear!
1/29/2022
Impressive
behemoths
iconic eyefuls
clutter its
cortex that
is of the
manmade
plateau as
it rises from
end to end
sloping in
its outstretched
suburbia that
is hunkered
down as its
supportive
role model
surrounding
the panoramic
scope of its
hub, the
lifeline both as
survivors in their
own respective
appearances,
branching
outwardly made
up of smaller
towns and
villages of
cul-de-sacs,
mom & pop stores,
schools, and
playgrounds
that sorts out
as a piece of
a miniature
Americana
being its
salvation
from a workday
to a night play
a microcosm
of endless
tearing down
and building
up in this
city of lights
a metro-cosmos
that never sleeps
amidst tomorrow
eyes . . .
2020 January 26
Cityscape Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
We love this road,
it has trees.
The manicured ladies
stand upon the lawns,
beacon with unwinking eyes,
scrutinize beneath shading hands,
pry open primped lips,
proclaim their fierce love.
We love this road,
it has folks.
Those maladjusted to suburbia
hear and move on
knowing they are not to be loved.
The road goes along
until it renames itself at a quaggy stretch
riddled with renters and other suspects.
We love to be just here
where everybody loves our road.
The mowers go chagigah here.
The lemonade stands go chug-a-lug.
The chemically clean love to be seen.
Minivans rage quietly as they bake,
and drive backwards into the sun.
Every day our love is green and yellow
and sprinklered.
In every way we testify
to the love we have for this
well-regulated wellness.
Neighbors slow-pass
gawk in their cars,
arms parading and waving
at the well turned-out children,
the small curly dogs.
A cavalcade keeping up
to whatever is better.
We love this place,
it has yards,
love to be this well situated,
planted and plotted, mail-boxed,
and groomed to be fixtures.
Buzzards whisper on high,
as the toothy and pumped-up
flex their love openly,
declare a solid solidarity -
watch each other closely
for any flaw in the matrix.
‘Blessed I was to be young in an age of charmed dreamers.’
Childhood in suburbia wanting for nothing;
Kickball and flashlight tag ‘til dinner was set;
Be home by the time the neighborhood’s lit.
Painting the sky with the glow in our eyes no
worries we were just free to be kids;
Talking we always wished that we were older;
What would be able to do? Whatever we imagined
we could do. Rock, paper, scissors all ended
with a killer idea; Started from different sides
but always met in the middle;
No one’s tools or process was better than another,
that was the magic of such innocent times.
Staying gold until the sun set.
Creating with fire;
Streetlight imaginations
burn just like the stars.
branches and leaves catch ultra violet rays
you can almost taste the cool summer shade
little hands and feet are there most of the day
marbles, jacks, and double-Dutch are played
suburbia served from the tray of life
beneath Miss Hunter’s tree
on the highest branch between the leaves
a fortress of twigs house chicks who plead
to their mother for the board they so need
to grow, survive, and one day leave the nest
a budding ethologist adjusts their shutter speed
beneath Miss Hunter’s tree
lovers descend upon this tranquil site
anticipation declares their hearts were right
they begin to coddle through the din of night
carved initials on the trunk reveals their plight
they share a kiss and a bit of moonlight bloom
beneath Miss Hunter’s tree
Through the mire, lie rows of houses,
in fact there all around,
This is suburbia the sprawl,
Spreading in all directions,
Concrete and steel surge upwards,
Indigenous trees bulldozed down,
Roads dark alleyways fester,
Behold this was once my town.
Weaving through leaky tunnels,
Stench permeates foul air,
Organization of the multitude,
Rats in a Rubik’s cube maze,
Where else can we go,
peasants of urban growth,
Incognito behind our masks,
Eyes burning, smog chokes,
A caveman of bricks and mortar,
Blind man who doesn’t need light,
Awoken from my life of slumber,
Searching for the high ground,
Find a weird monstrosity,
Towering above my head,
A ski slope, shopping mall,
I only seek, milk and bread,
Never seen the future coming,
Perhaps looked, the other way,
I helped create this Frankenstein,
To call it civilized would be a mistake,
Once reaped what was sewn,
Now concrete over everything we see,
Where in hell, has the sky gone,
Dystopia now, Can this really be?
COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (43)
Sponsored by Brian Strand 18/02/2021
I have these manly hands,
Not pretty, not soft.
They hold firewood well though,
A fall from my child, They'll stop.
These hands are feeling tired,
Once again learning the land.
In suburbia tools are accessible,
Easy to come by and less elements to withstand.
There is home in the bush for me,
The open skies call my name.
The ease and the convenience repels me,
Leaving me in debt, emptiness and shame.
A real woman, I feel within me.
Whatever my definition is.
She uses muscle and heart,
Holds faces, smiles and finishes with a kiss.
This woman within me,
She walks up hills and creates life,
She nurtures and toils,
Prays for seedlings to flourish in sunlight.
I forgot how sacred she was.
Her beauty, it glows from the inside.
Unable to be seen by the empty,
When in process she tends to hide.
She stews in her fire,
Her brain hot and her hands clenched.
Ripping out the unneeded,
Hair behind her ear, sweaty, opening a beer while sitting on a bench.
What a woman she was,
Not everyone's cup of tea.
Despite all of the attempts to run,
This woman came back to me.
The darling, delightfully, dubious, delectable despicable day
No one thought to warn me; no one noticed maybe, never mind
It was an extra special, extraneously exciting, and exacting day.
I did not even notice at first, deliberating about dungarees,
I was exasperatingly naïve about anything except my wardrobe.
Unaware of what was whispering in winter, wishing mine had pockets.
So when the bodies bounced in, and the babies begin burping,
And the men marched madly, at first, I frankly did not notice.
But when I finally got dressed, in my extra special dungarees
There they were – the lonely, lithe, lively, luxurious long fellows,
Picketing, pirouetting, posing, and pinching, everyone notoriously
Not being socialized, seriously sassy. A despicable day in suburbia.
There is one we have not recruited yet, the small minded ones cried.
They chased me for hours, trying to get me to bend to their madness,
But although I had not been warned, I was fast, even in hard blue jeans.
My choice wise that delectable despicable, dubiously dangerous day.
For had they caught me and turned me, I would not be writing poetry.
I would not be throwing paint onto a canvas and laughing maniacally.
I would not be able to live my truth, and stick out my tongue at the masses.
But they did not, and so I can.
Why, in a gas oven, dear Sylvia,
did you stick your pretty, middle-class head?
Was the life of upper suburbia
too much for you that you'd rather be dead?
If, like you, we gassed ourselves to death at thirty,
we'd never forgive ourselves for leaving
behind our children. We'd feel unworthy,
and selfish for causing them much grieving.
But, at eight, you witnessed your father's demise;
and bore for life an emotional scar
(which you never were able to exorcise),
a grief which you relived in “The Bell Jar.”
You should not be condemned, dear Sylvia,
for we knew not your melancholia—.
Dark women and their softly lit shadows
haunt our days.
Men who dwell upon form and beauty,
are attracted to moths,
they grow too old, too fast,
their erotic minds
like over-sharpened pencils,
wear-down too soon.
Women who follow men
seeking the dangerous comfort
of strange desires,
blossom, then disappear into suburbia,
where they grow their fingernails,
de-claw their hungers
watching shopping channels.
Are we not all a portion,
and smatter of both these
gender frailties?
We live avoiding
the genitals of angels and demons,
yet the anatomic ****
of the over-sugared,
and unleavened breads,
grow ever stronger
in our backroom eyes.