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.
Packed like sardines in a subway train
a scream and then the samurai sword swings
no escape it's a scene from some sort of sick film
death came from suburbia today
every single soul prayed he didn't know their name
mad man or martyr if it's you slain its all the same
only the sound of screeching breaks, drowns out the screams
no god, he slipped away to see who had died of starvation today
in the distance sirens sound as salvation makes its way
under strip lights peoples souls have slipped away
make the voices speaking to me go silent now , I'm spent, done.
Pandemonium comp entry 05/08/2016
a blue chevy impala basks in a suburban driveway
like a beached whale it oozes gases and black oils
its seeping white walls beg for rubber movements
little boy inside the house sits on a pleated couch
he watches the setting sun through a screen door
fat mother stirs pudding in a wall-papered kitchen
smoking father works a tv guide crossword puzzle
he flicks white hot dust into a crystal glass ashtray
the corner television set transmits black and white
cathode rays of a half-naked wrestler pinned down
the destroyer with mask on lifts his victorious arms
little boy hears calliope music in the green distance
the ice cream man comes with dry ice and cologne
still three blocks away he makes another long stop
fat mother fries bloody meats in a fiery blue skillet
she turns on boss radio to hear elvis sing the blues
little boy goes to the admiral and turns the channel
bishop sheen appears in black cursing the darkness
skipper frank implores the kids to brush after meals
tennessee tuxedo chases tiger tornado to megapolis
smoking father finishes a tv guide crossword puzzle
the ice cream man arrives with dry ice and cologne
Weird,
lost in suburbia of grey concrete.
How did I come here in this tragic desolation?
I just lie down, face up. I cannot get up.
This is no place for me.
What need have I of this place? Where is this place?
Despair.....futility....distress….
No one in sight. No taxis, trams, vehicles,
closed shops, or signs of life.
Just where exactly am I?
Can I retrace my steps?
Like an opened tomb with the smell of stench,
It pervades everywhere as rubbish litters the streets.
There is no illumination at the end of the tunnel.
Am I dreaming? I pinch myself.
No, I'm awake
A door opens; paramedics lift me up.
An ambulance takes good care for me.
Slowly I gain my strength.
I can’t get the moors
out of my skin;
me the indirect descendant of Jim Bowie,
the wild colonial boy
now planted like a
‘Wandering Jew’ in a pot,
in tame Ohio.
Planted in a State
where few venture
far from their high school roots.
The moors grind you
into peat and gritstone,
They keep walking you around
while the open spaces sweep you dry,
even in the downpouring sky,
even under the bitter grasp
of banshee winds.
Who could love such as these?
Who lament
the bone hammering miles
trudged between hags
and toughs, the flat featureless,
rambling, high acres
of heather and mist?
Yet, I find myself to be this longing,
to be this itch to find my own wilderness
here in suburbia.
Here you may find me
strolling along the grassy edges
of Mall parking lots,
spot my shadow
climbing a sunny day;
my head bent into an imaginary horizon,
eyes following paths
that only shaggy sheep can trace.
The stars wink out over suburbia
another dawn has won over
a distant night.
The defeated and dead as always,
hidden between time zones,
a brief brutality too far away,
and not enough to smear backyards
and beer barns.
Upon my morning walk
I lift up my heart in song.
A soft breeze
drowns out the drone
of smart death,
the quieted blood of the gone,
leaving only
surgically dismembered voices
lilting sweetly
in this summer air,
If I look to the East
maybe a bird or two will arrive
bearing seeds of survival,
for now the pinpointed and targeted
tread no trace
thread no words.
After more nightly raids,
after the nocturnal flames,
the collateral and damaged
come to dream with us,
they come as the misplaced
and as our muted morning guests –
fortunately, we have
many soft and spare pillows.
Simon – the protagonist.
18 – year old kid who just graduated from high school.
Lives in middle class suburbia, no designated town, and an every-town sort of feel.
Lives with his mother, his older brother. (Father has recently passed away...a year ago)
Have a small number of friends, most of them through service groups.
Very active in community service, volunteers for church organizations.
Enthusiastically participates in highway clean-ups.
Loves helping old ladies to their cars with groceries.
Brings in stray pets from the street, he’s currently the unofficial caretaker of 7 dogs and 5
cats.
A steady “B” student in school, would be an A student if he didn’t spend so much time with
community service.
Doesn’t date at all, has almost no free time, although he does sometimes feel like he’s
missing out.
Drives a brown station wagon.
Has never put any type of hair product in his hair before, wears a T-shirt and blue jeans 80%
of the time, 20% he is in church wearing something nicer.
Earns most of his money during school at a part-time job at an old folk’s home, taking walks
with them, listening to their stories.
The kids at school have nicknamed him “Simon Theresa.”
He sometimes gets frustrated at other people, that they’re not doing enough for the
community.
In church when he was 13 he stood up and demanded more people donate money into the
basket being passed around.
He is sometimes too passionate about what he does.
He is not very athletic, or interested in playing sports, yet he is ridiculously good at table
games (ping-pong, air hockey, pool, etc.)
He has a hard time socializing with people his age, and fears he is too different from
everyone else.
He has always been the antithesis of his brother and father, who are very much the All-
American male: athletic, sports fans, cigar toting, car lovers, beer buddies, etc.
The only alcohol Simon consumes is the teaspoon mass.
Despite how opposite they are, he gets along fine with his brother, as their personalities
seem to compliment each other.
His father on other hand, he feels like he failed somehow, ever since his death, he never felt
he got his acceptance from him.
And I can't help him.
Friday evening flight,
A touch of urgency,
Changi Airport Terminal One.
Check-in smoothly,
Baggage and all,
A trip Down Under.
Three souls plus one,
Baby in tow plus three adults,
An outback escapade.
A commercial air flight,
Departs near eleven pm,
A journey far away from here.
Baby knows best,
Snuggles and sleeps,
Enjoy the flight with attitude.
Six thousand miles,
To kangaroo land,
High above the clouds traverse.
We feel unease across the miles,
Bear with the far stretch,
Crisp moods to match.
Singapore to Melbourne,
Disembark for stopover checks,
Catch another flight.
Domestic flyaway,
Brief burger meal,
Jumping Jack's respite.
An hour away,
Melbourne to Canberra,
Arrival at last.
Watch who comes to fetch,
Two fathers, two sons,
Two mothers, two husbands.
The baby awakes now,
Squeals briefly cute,
Sonic boom percolates.
Car ride to the house,
Edge of suburbia,
Neat assorted houses.
Unpack luggages,
Takeout Chinese dinner,
Fatigue funds sleep.
Too much excitement,
Weary souls slip, slide, sleep,
Fatigue frames feisty food.
Leon Enriquez
29 April 2018
Canberra, Australia
The sky is news-worthy
the day brightly published,
up-town where the trees live
sunshine plays in the streets.
Later, in the wild-walking cities
there will be donuts;
racers will twirl while they hurl
rubber into smoking halo's,
but here in suburbia
only recycled and ritual sins
are dumped decorously
into well-kept trash bins.
The air is clear in God's manicured acres
where all the long dead Shaker's
had the decorum and foresight
to propagate no more of their brightness,
nor publish simple gifts to the unheeding.
A community grills hotdogs and burgers
through a late summer day,
dullsville simmers away
long into the evening crawlies,
where the glaring stars retell
bygone bedtime stories.
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.
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.