Long Swiping Poems
Long Swiping Poems. Below are the most popular long Swiping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swiping poems by poem length and keyword.
I was lost after a night out and
couldn't unlock the screen for directions
you walked to the pub you can't be far just
ease yourself over this railing and
slide down the wall so you can take a
short cut through the car park
cursing all the while but
I know the tube station's nearby
and it must still be open
pushing the On button over and over
swiping this way and that
screaming with rage at this useless device
####ing this and ####ing that
now this isn't the way to the station
and I hear her voice coming through:
- is that you, why did you call me?
are you in trouble?
still the screen is black
- yes I'm just a little lost
- you sound very scared, in fact
it doesn't sound like you at all
If John hadn't died because of drugs, he would've turned forty-nine today.
If John hadn't died, his fiftieth birthday would've been just one year away.
The paramedics had planned to perform CPR but they saw it was something John didn't need.
They quickly learned that performing CPR would've done no good so they did not proceed.
Sadly, John had died and he went to be with the Lord.
His arm was sticking upward, he was as stiff as a board.
I learned about the circumstances of his death from the people who he lived with.
John had done me wrong before he died and the time has come for me to forgive.
I had to threaten him with legal action because he'd been coming in my house and swiping some of my medicine.
I informed him that I'd have him arrested if he came on my property again.
Because of taking drugs, those drugs turned out to be John's noose.
Sadly, he was destined to die because of his many years of drug use.
[Dedicated to John Brown (1970-2019) who died on June 3, 2019.]
Rejected you in her prime, struttin’ through that bar
Said you weren’t her type, then rolled off in his car
Now years have gone and left their trail
At Fifty Seven she’s swiping left with no avail
You reject her in her decline, ain't karma sublime?
Attitudes don’t get better with age, they sour like boxed wine
She don’t love you, nah, she loves what you can give
If you weren’t her first choice, you sure won't make her list
She’s hittin’ the Wall at zero eggs per hour
No man in sight, lost her flirting power
Desperation is a stinky perfume mist
Even her cats are giving her the twist
Reject her in decline, she forgot to rewind
Moved in with her daughter, the feline kind
She’s got a Mind Palace, but no mind inside
Sippin’ boxed sangria with her dignity denied
Ain’t no shame in aging, but pride can turn to rust
You can’t build love on lies and lust
When life circles around and she rings that bell
You just tip your hat, and wish her well
You reject her in her decline, no thanks - nevermind
Looks she weaponized, now just memories and wine
They don’t love you, they love what you provide
If you weren’t her first pick, don’t be her last ride
She’s got a Mind Palace... with no mind inside
I absconded with reader rabbit (Peter), to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day
Ah Sheik Hog - Ho!
One "FAKE" Wingman Flying
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, seeks young sprig poe
whet tick friend in toto,
though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare
naked lady loving bastard oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,
and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held
at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair
tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%
grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware
shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, cus the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
fine pOwder
O
what a pleasant
mOrning
intake
cOffee
eee…ew
keep the dOOr
clOsed
bathe
the steps & car
thOse
hazardous
areas
the mat
underfOOt
handle
that can drive
yOur nOse
craz…eee
O
what blOOming
daffOdils
willOws
wisteria
bradfOrd pears
O
my
eyes
see
flOaters
flOtsam
pOllen I thOught
swiping at my hair
nOt gnats drats
strangers with wings
O
Spring
we sing
sOngs of thee
hutchOO
and
eee…ew
sO
beautiful
tOOdOOlOO
tO the cOld
sOlidly sOld
On glOrifying cOlOrs
hutchOO eee…ew
O
my
Spring’s
dreadfully beautiful
THE SURGE
You came like as expected
Winds furiously shaking the ground
Rain unstoppable continuous to pound.
As hours passed, your fierce marks the town
water increases up to its heights but still
you never stop swiping every corner, left nothing to spill.
Scampering, they're trying to lope your ailing temper
Mother and child crying for help but your sound is a tearful killer
parent's cuddled the youngsters, but too strong your foulest curse.
It's not your intention to harm 'cause you're just a phenomenal mishap,
but for those you visited, you're the great destroyer
A mischievous, dangerous thief that left nothing even their foyer.
THE AFTERMATH
Scattered bricks, fallen debris, lifeless bodies on the sidewalk
Mournful view, so sickening to the eyes
You've taken out their lives, now all that is left are frozen as ice.
The beautiful city turns to abandoned graveyard
At night seems haunted, deadly ravage
at daylight you hear the silent echoing in the rampage.
Deaths are still unnumbered, missing still increasing
They who outlive cries for shelter, food for their needing.
Never deter, frustrated mind, weary hearts.
>> the typhoon Haiyan (local name:YOLANDA) hits Tacloban City, Philippines in the 8th of November 2013
You may be living in a castle
But you’ll always be a thief
Pickpocketing off the pockets you’ve filled
Swiping the gold chalice off the shelf
It was bought for you, but engraved for someone else
A royal table set before you, and you stuff the appetizers in your socks
In this world there’s loneliness so great, you can see it in the slow movement of a clock
You project ill intentions on the household staff
Can’t seem to console the gap between what you have and what you deserve
Wary on all accounts
You walk around wearing second hand crowns
Thinking second hand thoughts
Battles second hand fought
Studying monuments built on foundational rot
Fashioned of silver, anointed in oils
You step on fine work, and rest where they toiled
You sleep on rocks draped in silk sheets
Staring at a low hanging chandelier that always appears to be falling
Lower and lower you go
Closer and closer it gets
Is it an optic trick, a sanity test?
Emptying the pockets at last
In a canopy bed
You feast on today’s spoils
When you’re young, blood boils
Now it runs dry
You spend a few hours, attempting to cry
At last, a single tear stains the silk sheets
When you’re in the ground,
Your soul’s the only thing you’ll get to keep
"Vibrationary Roadkill High Beam "
You look at a screen,
it’s like you’re driving
you know, full speed,
there you are planted
firmly
behind the wheel,
the windscreen wipers
are swiping bugs and crap
off the page and there
for once in your life,
you focus
full beam on
driving down a dark road
praying the ghouls, like deer,
will wander out into the
middle of it all;
you just know,
without hesitation,
instead of hitting the breaks
you’ll bust the story
slick,
like a
hardened ice puckey
slides to hell,
deliverance slides
into slippery gear...
written into the scene
the f-team flounder
clustering into full view
like a dream,
you move
your best hand in
an upward motion
shifting towards 5th gear
you press
the exalerator
like some Revelator
foot to the floor
lights on
all the way up
up high beam
messages of the driven
what’s written
and it’s
so very
cool
in the shade,
you ride the bumps,
like hiccups
you eventually stop,
you alight, get out
and close
the door.
you stand
for what you’re worth,
you walk the walk
forward
talking the talk
to yourself,
you don’t
look back
you think,
you feel,
and then you say
to what’s gone before,
9. 9. 9.
9 to reversing
9 to rehearsing
9 to bugs on a screen
vibrationary roadkill high beam
you're all
4
je t’adore.
Revelations.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
A bandit who thieves with the moon
Finds daylight arrives far too soon
His looting is brash
Despoiling the trash
A boon, what a raccoon leaves strewn ...
Another hides in cynoglossum
Awaiting the scraps 'coonies toss him
Not there to impress
But to clean up the mess
That's why the 'possum's so awesome ...
Should previous-mentioned so lapse
Forsaking debris when night wraps
As morning sun grows
Those early-day crows
Are happy to clean up the scraps!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Any Animal Or Creature Limerick" Poetry Contest, Charles Messina, Judge & Sponsor.
The Keeper of Secrets
I sit in a congenial café pulling the morning around me;
sipping a single shot of silked smoothed cappuccino,
two shots would browbeat me!
Different people drift in and out.. differently.
I analyse them…. then wait
for the next biscuit in the packet to arrive.
I’ve learnt that people have secrets
which they think are secret
but they leave clues behind;
in my line of work, it helps if you can read them!
The door swings open; a man prowls in.
A big man, no bigger than a runaway fire engine,
red-faced, straining with pitbull tendencies.
He snarls at me through sharpened shoulders
while his teeth turn sideways and growl.
The arms of my chair tighten around me
while my fortitude hides between my toes
and refuses to come out and play.
He moves towards me in a menacing manner;
experience nestles me, offering a weather warning.
I feel the room shift and shiver
then shrink in size… or perhaps that is me?
I can't speak, I can't even squeak!
My voice appears hospitalized,
recovering from a ……tracheotomy?
But as the man thrusts towards me
a crumbled crumb of an idea cruises by.
I have knowledge of a secret
this man is not enamoured about.
However, no need to be such a concerned citizen
after all, I’m known as The Keeper of Secret,
well I would be if I let anyone know!!
Pitbull mistakes me for a cobweb,
swiping me clean out of my chair
while barking at me in a subterranean rumble,
“Now listen carefully to what I say, mate,
then stir it, understand it and drink it down.”
I was definitely listening, both ears stretched out.
He now offered me a dislocated smile
while continuing in his persuasive manner
“E’er, sometimes the quietest, nicest day,
holds the darkest, sharkest secret
never to be shared, never to be told
unless you want to take it to the… grave?”
I thought he’d bounce me on my head,
spin me round the roundabout
and walk out without even asking me for a dance!
Instead he stomped off brazenly, bristles bristling
in search of another problem to fire fight.
Now, at this point, I could sense
my fortitude was rebel rousing
as I vowed that next time we met
I’d frighten him with a funny look
perhaps even a kick up the pants
…when he wasn’t looking!
But that’s another secret
and yet another poem.
Ian Souter