Long Sure fire Poems
Long Sure fire Poems. Below are the most popular long Sure fire by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sure fire poems by poem length and keyword.
Mindfulness
look deep in my eyes you shall see the karma of my lasting legacy willing to achieve
took a zip line down to my baby's grind sought out peace for a sure fire sweet relief
rolling them bones in the back of the joint have a 5th in my hand you all understand
made my first grand at the tender age of thirteen washing dishes busy as a bee
come and sit neck to me a story of a homeboy being capped in the knee
there's a whole host of rubbers when your in trouble make my Martini strong on the double
just like Fred & Barney Rubble need to keep your head up no its not some set up
wear your Sundays best yes life is a big test but now we rest
flirting with fire blowing it up in the most fullest desire coming down to the wire
music is in my blood just like a cow chews on its cud kinda sweep some things under the rug
there's magic in the music scene rolling out the red carpet like a village queen
living in a land so very mean got one foot in heaven the others in hell
but I got a good story to tell two rappers in the night looking so bad for a fight
one hand on the mic the other on the floor sweep blood off the floor sweeping for more
plenty plenty stop shopping at J.C Penney spinning records the best way they can
soaring to new heights that is their right a good cause to focus filled with cement shoes singing the blues
Freddie Mercury died of aids but he isn't a distant memory folks come sit next to me
there's a promise that's made in the dark coming to its fullest light
bitter sweet liqour the ***** was holding my finger don't call me late for dinner
it's a crowning achievement to stay in the zone you maybe home all alone
try to be mindul stay in the moment when you take a shower feel the warmth on your back
here the birds chirping outside the smell of the perfume scent love the decor of the room
treasure a red rose that was plucked a time before you gave your old lady making gravy
not to shady we meet in the middle playing second fiddle as you may dribble
things come and go but this much I know we bust up the beat to promote the tempo
There's a battle for your mind but you say it's just fine
pulling a 9 to your head it's the walking dead
Not since the day of creation did we stand with ovation
A seed was drop from a farmers bag that was bad
Satan the god of this world is blinding good people
Peeps stay at home when they can be at the church steeple
Sex on the beach maybe your favorite drink
But I can't dismiss this earthly bliss in thought
Once a soul is sold it can't ever be bought
Drop some smooth lyrics out on the sunset scene
Living in a land that is so very mean
when I roll of you captures you better be ready
Girl you got a bun in the oven by your kissing cousin
Sweat the technique from your head to your feet
Bare with me son cause you can't do me none
Poetics to poetry we must see reality
search the hood just like Robin Hood
then there's the Maiden Mary Ann who has a plan
yet the battle ensues as you sing the blues
a lot of suckers like to forget me but they can't
start this cause I'm the artist
walk with your head up when I hear whacked rhymes it's a set up
All the brothers don't eat chicken & watermelon
so now what are you selling
let's get back to hip hop in what it meant to Scott Larock
keep your head up & look to the sky
Sweat the technique as you sit in your seat
Right from your head right down to your feet
Got to get in the zone busting out rhymes like Home Alone
we came this far not to turn back now
can't turn around when your hands on the plow
yet in the end I choose to be a soldier in the army of God
got to stay in school & obey the golden rule
only one life is soon to be passed only what's done for him will last
we got followers with no good leaders
blood in the streets & there needs to be better education
many take a break on a long awaited vacation
the crowd is ready & me feet is steady
until my last breath I must confess a rhyme that shines
sex, drugs & rap for some is where its at
so you slip & fall giving you a heart attack
rap & roll is noise pollution
take my magic wand as a sure fire solution
Singers and dancers,
artists and writers,
philosophers and poets,
academics and health professionals,
parents and teachers,
actors and contemplatives,
grandparents and children,
live and die between Heaven and Hell.
Between Heaven's interdependent sensory Enlightenment
and Hell's individual secularized Industrious-Militant Revolutions
Pathology and sin result from severing healthy spiritual tools
for development
from degenerative denatured fake-wealth weapons
for destruction.
Heaven's tools restore peace
where re-tooled weapons
without divine mercy
redistribute Hell's sure-fire punishments.
Sacred tools,
like bicameral hearted minds,
were
and are
for hunting,
gathering
harvesting
cooking
serving
cleaning
recycling
composting
regathering,
impressing
not trangressing,
health-restoring FuturePowers.
Weapons were
and are
for killing
threatening
hating
condemning
judging
repressing
depressing
suppressing wealthy MultiGenerational Matriarchal FlowCycles.
Technological tools,
post industrial,
have evolved from
WorldWideWebs of Heaven
for cooperative social health information
Too often devolved into propaganda weapons
against WorldWideWalls for self-ghettoizing Hell
promulgating competitive anti-social disinformation.
Sacred tools, verbal and non-verbal,
derive from
and help build
heart-paths toward progressive liberties in love
and conserving equitable and responsible compassions.
Secularized weapons
contrive from
and help destroy
other paranoid
rabidly bipolar
mind pathologies.
Sacred tools serve immortal life.
Secular weapons serve up violent death.
Just as word choice
is the smallest detail
of communal win/win communication,
Weapon choice is the smallest
and also least cognitively wealthy, part
of commercial and residential conscious win/win choice-making
well-tooled
politically healthy
true-wealth conserving co-investment,
Articulating
incarnating
re-creating
sacred life evolving in-between
LeftBrain's ideas of Heaven
and RightBrain's experiences of lose/lose Hell.
Covered Dishes
1
The password is… password, shhh...
Try to remember if possible,
this sure-fire way of getting through the door;
Entering indeed, as with all lithesome ladies,
and their dithering dogs, after
entreating the big dude at the entrance gate,
with licorice sticks and cauliflower juice on ice,
and leaning over long enough to show off the planets,
those spinning orbs of a mathematical universe,
now turning madly and centrifugally, sucking
out the eyes of the pleading fools,
dressed in rage, and wont to feel the ancient eclipses,
those silent but grunting interludes unseen,
all dressed in satin boredom, all flummoxed
as with clowns, dressed in neon failure,
who now offer smiles and winking winces,
to the sad-eyed pedestrians, and
the red-lipped ladies with the wide-brimmed hats,
out to tease with nylon exposures,
around the bleakly lighted doorways
to dark entrances, without eyes to feel.
You were sitting there with legs crossed,
a cocktail dangling from your frozen fingertips,
like a fainted ballerina in the splitting moonlight.
In front of you, on the table, covered dishes
covered tureens, with surprise taste delights simmering,
shouting out in mute languages of the multitudes:
What is under the lid of this blue dish?
What is beneath the cover of this steaming tureen?
I turned to see other dishes and other culinary settings,
and instead, I saw you among the bon bons
and the flaming surrendering soufflé.
You wore that same translucent skirt with
the lightning stripes and the chiffon protestations,
and as you rose from your chair with howling legs,
there was no hell and brimstone in what I saw.
Then as with a silent hungry leopard,
setting exotic eyes on my stilled soul and quivering body,
you took my hand into yours, as easily as one might,
and with straight-staring certitude, we politely exited
from this quiet pedestrian grille,
this obscure café under the yawning stars,
hidden behind festooning flowers,
draped on hungry trellises,
for the hopelessly outraged.
A Spiritual Quest
Through a lazy river bend just suppose...
A bent whinding effect as soon will go,
In caged fury of context in distant gloss
With poor in somen contemplation & frost
We aill make the mends for the survival of its fullest
To cherish a red rose that was plucked a time ago,
The knock on the door that will inflate my ego...
Yet instead shelter lies dormant amidst its call
Many having negate reality will often stare at the wall
Still today there is something stirring in the wind
With just a spiritual test by which to humbly depend...
A solders threat is quite imperative to digest
Through slight whimsical myre as a stranger would taunt
From a far one would soon revisit its inner habitation
A spiritual quest in vested restitution
As a climatic spiritual departure,
A heart must be aligned then saturated with truth
This is a sure fire way to withstand the truest test in time
A spiritual quest toward entering eternal rest lest I shall confess
Through long lines with tense adversity
The heart still vegetates in want for more...
Such as a will for power in its vested store,
With a truckload of fury yet why should we ever worry..
Yet still why is everyone today in such a bit of hurry,
Such as the flight of the Albatross
With wings span over twelve feet wide
To surrender to nature's testing side
In reaching light atmosphere in flight
Soaring ever higher to vast peaks unknown.
It narrows its gait in place of fate
The flight of the Albatross on its specific date
Through its perilous encounter through the sky
Down below a lonely butterfly takes part in the journey
We can see through a tinted shade of flurry our destiny
The ellaborate sounds of natures call lay hidden
Yet still the flight of the Albatross takes flight!
It's particular journey is for certain...
Through vast vanquished path of resistance sway
In marginal callous through its covetted vibrant way
Overhead shadows in tyranny
The flight of the Albatross on its merry journey
Oh death,
You are ugly!
Get away from me!
Each time you laugh
Your guttural laugh,
Like a Python,
I know you have devoured
Another poor soul
I know because evil forest
Lives next door
Every witching hour,
I observe your lifeless victims
From my tiny window,
Where I plead my own case
As they ferret one unfortunate soul case after another
To the church yard
No one knows who is next
Or what hour you will cold-cock
Even the most vicious witch,
Witch doctors are impotent
When you register for them
Your confederate earth and earth worm
Know not to pique you
For fear of famishing
The day a coffin maker
Swears at you,
He goes home without a bounty
Doctors who snooze with cadavers
Shudder ceaselessly when you sneeze
A morgue attendant
Would rather have his eyes plucked out
Than peep through the window of a morgue;
For angst of what lays in wait...
What the peeper has spied
The maw cannot orate
An obdurate hover,
Knows not to stalk
A soul case into it's crypt
For death angst
I have hailed you Ozoemena
And christened my folks Onwubiko
That has not pacified you
You have only lent a deaf ear
To my feverish entreaties
Tonight,
I shall restrain all sacrifices to you
And your allies
I have heard of a sure-fire Ace
Who once bequeathed you
An undying pin-fall
Before you skedaddled from Hades
And commenced afflicting everyone
The poor and rich
Are at your mercy
My folks and I
Shall seek solace in the sure-fire Ace
Oh!
I see your guttural laugh dissipating!
Because you know
He is coming to judge
The living and the dead
Death, concoct yourself
You will not be passed over
Your internment is at hand
As our people ventilate: death dey smell
You have caused enough pain, sorrow and suffering
To our people
When the master descends on you,
You shall get an overdose
Of your own pills
Death,
You are already ugly;
You are going to look
Even uglier six feet under!
Eliza: You''ve lost a child?
Martha: Yes. I met Harry when I was sixteen. We were so in love. He used to take me to the races at the weekend, and I''d wear a big hat and proudly walk around on his arm. We were born to be parents, and when little Lucy came in to our lives we had never been happier. There was talk of a war happening and I could not bear the thought of letting my Harry go. So he trained up as a teacher, the only sure fire way of being able to stay in London with me and little Lucy. Then one day, whilst I was at the grocers getting some shopping in, there was a screaming over and over and over again. A noise so loud it burnt right into the centre of my heart. I wanted to be home. But there was no home. A crater where it should have been. A crater where my babies should have been. Years and years of torture followed. Thinking ''Tomorrow''s not another day. Tomorrow is today, separated only by a a few restless hours. Sleeping on my Harry''s bones. Slipping in and out and in and out of consciousness. Clutching my stomach and screaming.'' I died when I was just thirty. Pneumonia. Though I''m sure many would call it heartbreak.
Eliza: Your story is beautiful.
Missy: Trust me, it gets old when you hear it every day.
Martha: Well the pain never leaves!
Eliza: Yes. So what''s behind the door? (She points to the door labelled ''depart'')
Missy: We can only guess
Martha: Heaven, maybe. People are so drawn to it. Even I was to begin with. But I was too scared to go through. Eventually I grew to love this place. Nobody expects me to get dressed in the mornings when I feel like sleeping forever. Or to know what day of the week it is. Or to care. Or to go to church on Sundays and pray to a God I''m certain hates me. For forty years I was alone, and then along came Missy. And together, we stayed.
Missy: Might be heaven, might be hell, all I know is, I don''t want to be the one to find out.
Form:
Well some they say though straight or gay
Get fun from innuendo
While others wait ‘til dark
To get their kicks outside your window
Some do the deed without a sound
Some labour in the dark
While others roars would wake the dead
Some sing out like a lark
Variety’s the spice of life
And while there’s a great selection
We’ve all been screwed from time to time
At every new election
There’s watersports and bondage
There’s even golden showers
Beware though not to mix the two
Or you’ll stay wrapped up for hours
Some wear a mask with eye-holes
Or some dangerous protrusion
Some sport a tail or riding crop
While lost in their delusion
Some women favour veggies
To chippies sparks or plumbers
They relish every celery stick
Or juicy green cucumbers
There’s tales that tell of fishermen
Quite partial to a skate
Though fond of fish I always was
I prefer mine on a plate
Some wrap up like an onion
For fear their skin is showing
While some rush in all fingers and thumbs
With boobs and buttocks glowing
There are those without a conscience
Who swear they’re not the owner
Oh deary me it had to be
Someone elses *****
Though some would up and go all night
Some finish in a minute
While others just the thought alone
Would push them past their limit
While girls dress up as men
And Lads like Cinderella
It takes a little work sometime
To tell female from fella
Uniforms are common place
Considered rather arty
A sturdy pair of coppers cuffs
Are the rave at swingers parties
There’s beads and balls and bangles
They may become a habit
And a whirling whirring weapon
They call the Rampant Rabbit
When picking out a present
For your partners Xmas box
Have Duracell a plenty
In her little Xmas socks
So while sex it has its ups and downs
Even Daniel would agree
It’s a sure fire cure for unwanted frowns
And it beats a cup of Tea
How come many mothers forgot that breastmilk is STILL,
And ALWAYS will be BEST, for babies suckling lips???
What’s next then?
The twinkling of a star turning into cliché,
Repeated only in nursery rhymes?
Memories of long walks drowned by the ever turning,
Wheel s of cold, metallic and unfeeling cars?
The Lover’s Moon losing its magic,
Against all of electronic medias?
Bill’s words fading to echoes of classroom walls vandalized,
By students apathetic of Romeo and Juliet’s tragic lives?
The aroma of home cooked meals forever gone from,
Refurbished houses whose kitchen’s gravitas are nuke boxes (and limp pastas)?
Damp “Homes” generally viewed by all as dumping grounds
For graying (former) loved ones seen as burdens?
Many more young lasses cramming fingers against throats,
In pursuit of vanity and skeletal perception of beauty?
Stock market denizens hurling their bodies against speeding trains?
Green and be-heroed paper bills overrated,
Against all other of life’s simple joys?
How many still remembers…
That plants cure and most meds packaged in fancy boxes,
Are miracles drawn by roots from the humble earth?
That the most sure fire way of treating boo boos,
Is TLC to the umpteenth level?
That even though a day’s good job brings satisfaction,
It can never compare to a loved ones approbation?
That one can never get enough of kids’ hugs and kisses?
Indeed…
It will really be a future oh so bleak,
When humanity’s mind- to simple but powerful truths,
Becomes weak…
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When mankind forgets the true value of NATURE and NURTURE, we will surely forget to
define our humanity! There's tons more of examples why and how this is happening. If you
can add up, I'll put them up there! Thanks!
Medical and/or scientific experts
doth now corroborate,
promulgate, validate...(wait
don't go there's much more)
linkedin with falsehood
that requires me to terminate,
an average dumb founded guy
(noir) tasked with rectifying
(with quiet riot) eek quate
absolute zero truthfulness humans
only use 10 percent
(or other small percentage)
brain power in (Jean) Nate,
or anybody else for that manner
("say hypothetically
gals named Kate)
which unfounded,
which urban cowboy legend
persisting in perpetuity, I hate
tubby the bearer
of unwelcome news
(doubling up and
down as a pernicious
cherished rumor squasher
boot nada one
reputable specialist studying
intellectual potential,
would unilaterally vouchsafe,
(and risk their judicious, marvelous,
and prestigious reputation,
which years to elevate),
yet such stubborn presumption
firmly maintained latched onto
(analogous to fish unknowingly
snagged with "FAKE" bait)
nonetheless specialists of the
(egg shaped) noggin
do attest in aggregate
that some n'er
do well (christened
Matthew Scott Harris)
did whimsically create
believable Trumpism,
which invalid conclusion
adopted to enervate
his own cognitive impairment,
thus motivating him
tubby poetically great,
and even though, he got told
afore stated said
baseless, groundless and/or
premise, aye intimate,
the sure fire way
to expunge (purge) nagging notion
(short of a karate
chop to his fountain
head of noodle,
which idea to in Tim mate,
would not rank as emphatic,
dramatic, and/or climatic,
as electric shock therapy
last ditch effort to operate.