Long Tacky Poems
Long Tacky Poems. Below are the most popular long Tacky by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tacky poems by poem length and keyword.
you remember that one time when ava fell off the swings and cut her knee?
how everyone laughed at her for her childish hubris in thinking she could jump and land,
unscathed, from that high a distance?
how the laughter roared as they watched a 9-year-old cry
and clutch her knee with both hands,
creating a burrow for blood under her nails?
how, without a moment of hesitation,
you ran to her, helped her up, and walked her to the nurse’s office?
yeah. didn’t think you’d remember it, if i’m being totally honest.
well, that moment, watching you put her arm around your shoulder for balance,
so she could hop her way down a flight and half of stairs for a single band-aid,
i think I fell in love with you.
maybe love is an exaggeration,
but looking at these old photos of us,
with your hair flying in the wind and my hair tucked in your helmet
as i clutched your waist for dear life,
the two of us,
flying down the freeway on your motorcycle,
i can’t think of a better word to describe my feelings for you.
these pictures,
now covered in layers of dust,
remind me of everything that could have been.
of everything that will never be.
i lost you so many addictions ago,
i guess i should’ve known when your words turned to lies,
and your lies turned to routine,
but i didn’t want to believe that the girl
with the bright pink hair and tacky leather jackets,
the girl that i had fallen so hard for,
was now gone.
that she had been replaced with someone who simply
went through the motions every day,
no longer able to feel anything for anyone,
someone who looked in the mirror,
wishing that the reflection would be blank.
the doctors say that your liver gave out,
but i think that the real cause was that you gave up.
i saw how hard you fought,
how you ran away from who you’d become,
leaving us behind in a race to find yourself.
you were gone long before the red line representing your heart’s last efforts flattened.
you’ve been gone so long that i’ve had to rely on these pictures
to make sure that you were ever real.
you’ve become nothing but a memory,
a hope, a wish for better,
a tragic story that i wish i never was a part of.
i miss you,
more than you could ever know,
more than i can ever process.
i miss you because no matter what happened,
no matter where you went,
no matter how long you’ve been gone,
i still loved you.
Your laughter’s echoes are like a broken record in my hysterical brain
I misplaced my journey-like notebook, written in pen and pencil prudently and sincerely
Solace sunrays are embedded in your blue-green eyes and it’s driving me insane
Change is a challenging chore, but as someone once told me, “No one ever stops progressing, but it’s your job to improve frankly!”
Confined to this Depression wars, I feel like I’m frozen forever in his ribcage
Don’t accuse me for committing atrocious felonies – my intentions don’t lean on greed
I love God’s Wonderful deeds indeed! I loathe this fast-paced world, especially in this day of age, sponging up avarice and rage
Be careful what you watch, say, touch, hear, and taste – nourish your family seed
Visions of unforeseen, unforced miracles is a memory I hold dear honestly
I recall years spent on pondering about the tragedy in this fast-paced world and its many crimes
You scan my verses as if it’s a short story, catching your sheer curiosity
You have read me several times like a children’s book with silly Mother Goose Rhymes
I resemble shrouds of misfortune for cat’s sake...Now, am I worthy to be compared to a children’s tale? Am I the cause of the world’s calamity?
The dusk has dawned upon me…unearth the mysteries in the hollow, tacky atmosphere
Man’s plans were destined to be a fail from the beginning of time – why’s my heart thumping with pride and vanity?
Why should I rely on Man when I have God by my side? He’s the one and only that makes me have tears of hope, not frantic fear!
I’ve seen his wonders, so imperishable! I’m a witness to God’s phenomenal, faultless Work!
Why don’t you look at yourself in the mirror? Let’s face it – we’re all playing roles in this world’s tragedy!
Why are you throwing the blame on me? You resemble an irrational jerk!
I can’t bear being that individual who speaks his mind deliberately – I’m not acting immature! Straighten up your mind; stop acting so silly!
~!@#$%^&*())(*&^%$#@!~
Inspired by Jake Ponce’s poem: Ephemeral and the verse (entitled: The Key To My Heart) written by Jan Allison! Check both poems out and you’ll be amazed and it feels as if you’re placed in their shoes. It’s remarkable. Do look them up and read their works. You won’t regret it.
^Written by David William Breidenthal^
***Date this was written: Thursday, May 29, 2014***
this is for all the DECENT ladies out there...
i dont know about you, but im sick of being second choice to skeezy women
i dont know about you, but when i have a boyfriend i just get sick of livin
i dont know about you, but i know about me
and this girl here,shes sick of the pleas
sick of the ********, sick of the crap
sick of all the "friends" who talk behind my back
sick of it all, sick of everything
and with this feeling, positive im supposed to bring?
im sick of being told "its my outlook on life"
youre so negative, you make your own strife
i dont know about you, but its not MY atatood
it all the ugliness in this sick twisted world
and i dont know about you, but im fed up
i dont about you but i give up
i dont know about you, but im done feeling the way i do
and i dont know about you, but then again i think i do
you pick yourself apart, about all your flaws
and when they cheat and lie, it just instills that further,its a law
i dont know about you, but i think i do
you're the girl, much like myself
with a good heart and a bad sense of health
build us up, tear us down
i dont know about you, but i really think i am going crazy
i dont know about you, but i think theyre all lazy
too lazy to try, too lazy to care
too lazy to give a ****, but the energy shows up when in satans lair
no more loyalty, to get kicked in the teeth
no more "friends" who just make you weep
no more crap, and no more forgiving
no more forgetting and NO MORE RE LIVING.
im not settling, i have enough of "so-so" to last my whole life
and i dont know about you girls, but it ends tonight.
we stop picking ourselves apart, we stop blaming ourselves
we stop thinking our little "flaws" ar why they did this
when its about someone else
its about them, the people they choose to be around
and quite frankly, before id be around THEM id be buried in the ground.
alive.
yes i hate them that much
and i dont know about you, but i have had enough
i wont blame myself, when skeezy outdoes classy
i wont blame myself for the hilariously tacky
things i see, on a daily basis
and i dont know about you
but i too, can fake it.
see its harder for me,to be mean like you all are
im not built that way, and being mean hurts my heart
so no i cant do the revenge thing
but what i can do is protect myself again
i dont know about you, but its long overdue
i DO know about you...because i AM you.
you are not alone.
A Visit to Graceland
By Elton Camp
Although Memphis is nearby
To visit Graceland I didn’t try.
Elvis wasn’t much older than me.
So his home I really should go see.
I followed the young tour guide.
“Stay together as we move inside.”
Critics call the house tacky as can be,
But it seemed quite luxurious to me.
No rightful criticism could I make.
In Elvis’ décor I saw no mistake.
I had no decorating advice to give.
It looks better than where I live.
“Now up these stairs is his private space.
The tour to go there would be a disgrace.”
The guide pointed on down the hall.
“On Jungle room, please make a call.”
I stared at the steps with eyes so wide.
“Up there’s where he lived and died.”
I stood alone at the foot of the stair.
Without any guard in charge to care.
Seeing a chance open to few,
I decided just what I would do.
While nobody was around,
Up the stairs with a bound.
In a large bedroom on the right,
Something gave me quite a fright.
“How do you dare to come up here?”
He asked in a voice shaky but clear.
He had a shock of dyed black hair,
But in places it was growing spare.
Then his great size next me astounds.
He must weigh three hundred pounds.
“Just who do you think you are?
Nobody’s allowed to come this far.”
I felt like I was about to faint.
Surely, Elvis the King that ain’t.
“Everybody thinks I died years ago
They must continue to think it’s so.
I can never be fat and old.
So that big lie I have told.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I cry.
“Before I would tell it, I’d sooner die.”
He looked at me with a trace of a grin.
“No way can you betray this has been.”
“Nobody would believe a story like that.
A claim you saw Elvis alive, old and fat.”
I realized it was all too true.
If I told it, the day I would rue.
Liar would become my name
For harming Elvis’ great fame.
“We know Elvis long ago died.
What type drugs have you tried?”
And right then I began to shake
Until it brought me wide awake.
My own bedroom I did then see.
In Memphis town I couldn’t be.
No matter how real it did seem,
It had been nothing but a dream.
But I didn’t really so much care
That it had only been a nightmare.
For if Graceland I ever visit for real
And find Elvis alive, I’ll never squeal.
Trim and handsome all want him to be.
No unfavorable image should they see.
The steam slowly raises from inside my mug, wrapping itself around my pencil, eventually
evaporating into the musty atmosphere.
As I open my sketchbook I imagine all the possibilities of a world inside my head, but today
I’ll stick to what I do best.
I place pencil to paper and within seconds her eyes blaze like wildfire, a look of pure
mystery and a feeling of seductiveness.
Her nose is sly and round with a slight creek to the left in a cute and attractive way, I pick up
my cup and take a sip before moving on.
I sketch a swiftness of lines as a base to what will later become a sea of hair, my hand slides
down to her neck, she is beautiful.
I rub my eyes, it’s late now and my candle is starting to burn out, her shoulders are broad,
not to wide but slightly long.
I run the tip of my lead around her soft breast, they sag slightly at the bottom but I don’t
care, as I draw in her hips.
You could place your hands on hips like this and hold them for a lifetime, I move my pencil
up to her waist, I prefer the fuller figure.
I realise my tea has turned stone cold as I take her soft hand into mine, we dance around
the page between the flowers and tree’s.
I look into her eye’s of blazing fire and draw in the final outline of her hair, I think it would
look good light blue with green streaks.
I draw in her thighs as my pencil runs down her long smooth legs…. No, I take my eraser
and rub out her legs as I change my mind.
Instead I think I’ll have her legs disappear into a mist, her dress of gold and black sparkling
in the cold midnight air.
I draw in the tears as she cry’s, for no more life has she ever known, we walk through night,
as I hold her hand she rests her head upon my shoulder.
We take a seat on a newly sketched bench next to a fountain over flowing with water of the
darkest blue, and she sighs.
I get from out of my chair and fill the kettle, as the water boils I contemplate her fate, I pour
my drink and sit down at my desk, I get to work.
Her arms out spread and a smile on her newly formed gentle lips, I draw a sparkle into her
tears, then as I place the finishing touches I rip out the page.
The frame is cheap but not tacky, I placed her on the wall above my desk,
Where next to a crystal fountain of water blue and dark,
She can dance forever.
I OPEN HER OLD DUSTY BOXES
FILLED WITH HER MEMORIES
PICTURES OF FAMILY, FRIENDS AND LOVED ONES
MANY OF THE SAME PEOPLE AND SOME NEW ONES, ONLY CHANGING CLOTHS. HAIRSTYLES AND POSITIONS
OVER THE YEARS IN VARIOUS HOUSES, ROOMS AND LANDSCAPES
AND THEIR PLACES IN THE STACK OF PHOTOGRAPHS
THEY POSE, THEY PLAY, THEY PARTY
FROM BIRTH TO BIRTH
THE WEDDING, BABY AND SCHOOL CLASSROOM PHOTOGRAPHS
WERE ALL KEPT NEATLY IN CARDBOARD FOLDERS WITH CUTOUT FRAMES EXPOSING THEM TO HER
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PILE BETWEEN THE BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPHS
AND THE COLORED ONES
NEXT TO THE MARRIAGE, BIRTH, AND GRADUATION CERTIFICATES
ARE DEATH CERTIFICATES AND MASS CARDS
GIVING US THEIR NAMES
ALONG SIDE PICTURES OF SAINTS
MANY OF THE EARLY BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPH OF HER PARENTS, BROTHERS AND SISTERS USED TO BE KEPT TOGETHER IN TATTERED MANILLA ENVELOPES TOWARD THE BOTTOM OF THE PILE
AT THE TOP OF HER MEMORIES
A FEW OF THOSE MEMORIES
VERY SPECIAL TO HER
USED TO BE KEPT IN SIMPLE VICTORIAN FRAMES
ON HER BEDROOM BUREAU
ALONG WITH EARLY PICTURES OF ME, MY BROTHERS AND OUR DAD
THE LATER FAMILY PICTURES OF BLACK AND WHITE AND COLOR WERE KEPT IN TACKY ALBUMS
THAT AGED WITH US OVER TIME
AS THE PEOPLE PASSED ON
NEW ONES TOOK THEIR PLACE
ALONG WITH THE NEW MASS CARDS
GIVING US THEIR NAMES
ALONG SIDE PICTURES OF SAINTS
THE NEW WEDDING, BABY AND SCHOOL CLASSROOM PHOTOGRAPHS
WERE ALL KEPT NEATLY IN CARDBOARD FOLDERS WITH CUTOUT FRAMES EXPOSING THEM TO US
I DO NOT RECOGNIZE MANY OF THOSE IN HER EARLY PHOTOGRAPHS
BUT THERE IS NO ONE LEFT TO ASK AS TO WHO THEY WERE
THE DIARIES, SCHOOL AUTOGRAPH ALBUMS AND PERSONAL PHONE BOOKS IN HER WRITING
THAT I HAVE FOUND IN THE BOXES
WILL GIVE LITTLE CLUE AS TO THE REAL PAST
THEY, LIKE THE POSED PHOTOGRAPHS
WILL GIVE TO THOSE WHO WERE NOT THERE
ONLY THE VAGUENESS INDICATION OF SPECIFIC SNAPSHOTS IN THEIR TIME
WITHOUT ANY OF THE CONNECTING TISSUES.
PART OF THE MEMORIES FOUND IN THE SMALL BOXES WERE THE PERFUMES, JEWELRY AND PILLS THAT SHE WORE
THAT GOT HER FROM ONE EVENT TO THE NEXT.
THE MEMORIES THAT WERE IN THESE BOXES
ARE ALL GONE
OUT INTO THE WORLD
AND ALL THAT REMAINS
ARE THE PAPERS AND THINGS THAT ONCE WERE
LAYING IN THE BOXES IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER COLLECTING DUST
AND WAITING FOR SOMEONE
SOMEDAY
TO PICK THEM UP
AND WONDER WHAT AND WHO THEY WERE.
“Is you a girl or is you a boy”, she said to him one day.
“Come over here an' stay wit' me,” he said, “You'll find out when we play!”
“No I will not play wit' you, I do not play wit' boys.
I do not like 'deir dirty face, I do not like 'deir toys!”
“I have no toys as you kin' see, my face is fresh and clean.
Come over here an' play wit' me, try not to be so mean.”
“I am not mean I'm cautious of you looking for your kicks.
I know you boys wit' out no toys make gurls do naughty tricks!”
“But wait, I do have toys,” he yelled as she turned to walk away.
“My toys are in my pocket, come here so we kin' play.”
“Your pockets are all empty, as I kin' plainly see.
So keep your fat mout' shut and 'dem big eyes offa' me!”
“Wait, wait, wait please play wit' me, we'll have a lot a fun.
I got a bat an ball wit' me, why do you have to run!”
“'Dat bat ain't made to hit 'dat ball, you can't play no game with 'dose.
Besides I'm not suppose ta' have no fun, I'll ruin my new clothes.”
“I wanna' be your friend ya' know, let's just sit an' talk.
Here put 'dis flower in your hair an maybe we kin' walk.”
“I'll take dat' walk if we just talk an' you look straight ahead,
An' if you try to play wit' me I'll bust you in yer' head.”
“Here have another flower, maybe 'dat will make you grin,
walkin' in da' moonlight, it ain't no kinda' sin.”
“I is afraid of moonlight, could ya' please hold my tremblin' hand.
Just be sure to keep in mind I ain't yer' promise land.”
“Your hand feels soft an' warm to me, it feels so heavenly.
I wish 'dat we could sit and talk, beneath 'dat chestnut tree.”
“'Dat tree is full of spiny nuts, the ground is covered wit' dew.
If we sit 'dare I'll pinch my buns and ruin my tutu.”
“'Dat tutu is such a little thing, here put it in my sack,
I got a big ole' blanket in 'dare, let's spread it out and yak.”
“Okay, but please remember I'm just a innocent tease,
I do not know about 'dose birds, I never seen no bees.”
“Thank you for remindin' me, I knew 'dat from the start.
I only wanted you to see my tacky wacky heart.”
“I'm really likin' you boyfriend, I'll stay wit' you a while,
Mom an' dad won't ever know, so now jus' make me smile.”
written April 29, 2016
At one time my neighborhood was new mass-produced little boxes made of ticky-tacky – all looking just the same*
Beautiful affordable, true suburban models, in mid-twentieth century they were truly quite the rage.
But now the then-proud new homeowners have mostly moved to better places
While new ones gladly renovate these aging homes with new rooms and outer faces
When I walk down the street it’s easy to see many of these homes looked exactly like mine
at one time,
before they were distressed and foreclosed
It was a model community that boasted of its clean uniformity, sterility, and safety from those unqualified outside, distressed and forebode
Now it’s a bit grittier yet in my mind much prettier than a planned little row of little boxes where the kids all turn out the same.
It’s a mix of even and odd ones, making for a mix where none is truly plain.
Now the trees have grown so high, and despite the leaves and branches dropped I’m thankful for the breezes
I imagine there are dozens of Spots, Fluffies, and Socks in haphazard plots beneath them
Where beloved pets rest embraced by roots that still grow along with branches
that are strong and large, and now holding swings for another generation of kids and grandkids.
The yards are no longer so clean and shining green, but I focus on a long-gone vine
That left an imprint as it at one time crept up the wall outside my door,
and so artful its design
I want to keep it there forevermore.
I pass added studios for boarders, made from added rooms from added carports,
Basketball hoops at the street side, foot bridges over ditches for bikes, and newly added porches.
With new rooms, rooves, paint, and landscape
Nothing here a mere misuse of ticky-tacky tape.
Even those homes that still look the same outside for their original floor plan
If you go inside each you’ll see windows and walls removed and added
While the footprints are still here, new shoes have stepped in place
All from boots to bare feet to these homes have found their way.
So as I walk down the street,
At least I have a little hope right now
For despite how bleak the times may be,
At last I can believe everyone is allowed in Levittown – for now.
*Apologies to Malvina Reynolds, Little Boxes (1962)
I lay my head down to sleep to the calm and peaceful sound of music flowing through the thick trees cruising from the subdivision below my dwelling.The rhythmic sounds of crickets and frogs composed a beautiful sympony and spawned a strange unfamiliar song that lay motionless on my ear, forcing me to absorb the quiet scent of the night and fall asleep without fear.In the dead heat of the night something thrust me from my bed and I found myself in the tumult of everyday life wrestling with the bearded probe again .I discovered my truck in a parking lot with bright white paint applied to the side. A sheet of paper lays flat in the windscreen bearing a name and number "Why should someone paint my truck in white", I muttered silently to myself.This strange happening propelled me to anxiously called the number.A high pitched voice woman answered the phone and gave me directions to find her. I drove endlessly humming a tune until I ended up on the other side of town. As tacky as it seemed and as gloomy as it appeared I entered the place without fear. I parked outside an unpaved parking lot and entered a tall gigantic apartment building and walked up the stairs. Suddenly two young women met me half way and told me that they would take me to the person who painted my truck .All three of us ventured down the stairs and pounced upon a confused crowd of people walking aimlessly up and down the streets while motor vehicles sprawled out everywhere.We hurriedly walked passed a depot and saw hard working men dressed in military suits standing next to barbed wire fences loading people urgently into trucks.They were recruiting barbers and people with skills to join them while screaming and shouting as if they were on the auction block. Many people boarded the truck but we shoved our way through the crowd until we reached a crowded market. The two young woman suddenly disappeared and left me alone standing there.I searched for my truck but I could not find it.Dawn brought the night's fury to an end and I was relieved to be back to reality again.
©2014 Christine Phillips
The last three weeks have been a seemingly endless series of welcome parties, get-togethers, receptions, meet-and-greets and cocktail parties - every kind of cheesy or ostentatious soirée my Grandmère can throw together, she’s dragged me to. It’s hard to match her energy.
“You have to meet people,” she insists, “and they have to meet YOU.”
“And why?” I asked, eloquently, but there’s no use resisting - she’s tireless.
The Prime Minister of France - met him. The mayor of Paris, met him, the CEOs of Paribas, L’Oréal, TotalEnergies, AXA, met them, the ministers of the economy, interior and foreign affairs - met ‘em. The US ambassador to France, met him.
In the play “My Fair Lady,” Eliza, meeting people frantically at the races, repeats “How do you do,” over and over and over to great comedic effect. That’s how I feel at these parties, “Enchanté, enchanté, enchanté, enchanté, enchanté.” I say, turning in circles. I’ve met Emmanuel Macron before, but I’m sure I’ll be seeing him again soon. I haven’t met his wife though - I’d love to ask her about that slap.. hhmm.
Is it shocking that I’ve now met anyone who’s anyone at Université Paris Cité? No, because that’s how crazy-lady operates. “You meet everyone, eye-to-eye,” she lectures, “you have to get out of your bubble, and experience the world as interesting,”
That’s her favorite saying these days. “I don’t HAVE a bubble,” I replied, defensively, but she’s left the room - she’s never still. She seems to know we’re on the clock, that once med-school starts, (in September) I’m going to be all about that.
It’s Monday morning. I’ve been at the Shangri-La hotel pool, where we have full privileges, and I’m coated, like a potato, head to foot, with SPF 50 sunscreen - when who shows up?
Peter (my bf). “You’re early!” I say, not at all displeased, but I’m SO conscious of my tacky skin and chemical smell that I face-palm him as he comes in for a snog.
EEuuww. I can’t make-out with a guy when I’m all greased up.
“5 minutes,” I assured him, heading for the shower.
“I’ll join you,” he offered.
“Well, ok,” I chuckle.
.
.
Songs for this:
Better Days by NEIKED, Mae Muller & Polo G
This Girl by Kungs & Cookin' On 3 Burners
Cake By The Ocean by DNCE [E]