Long Taylor Poems
Long Taylor Poems. Below are the most popular long Taylor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Taylor poems by poem length and keyword.
Who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way"?Was it a snitch that the police trusted? We must,and it is a "Duty" of "Justice" to leave no stone unturned!Who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way"? The Police on that day caused real "Harm",and that is a real true fact,and that is true and perfectly exact!That was a terrible act! We really want to know who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way"of "The Police"? Who would do that? We who care must leave no stone unturned!"Justice is not always exact,but "Justice does ,and can see the real facts! Who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way"of "The Police"?Who would put their mother,father,sister,brother,grand daddy,grand mother,girl friend,boy friend in "Harms Way"? We who care must not leave any stone unturned.The Lord God Almighty sits on the Throne,and never leaves any stone unturned for any as we all will face him on the day of judgement for the good and the evil that we have done in this life. God leaves no stone unturned! We really want to know who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way" of "The Police"on that terrible day for "Democracy"and The U.S.A.and for Liberty and Justice for us all? "The Police"came and they did cause ""Unjustifiable Harm"!"Justice must act to "Justify" itself or "Justice makes itself unjust"!Once all the stones have been turned then "Justice can be served to all of those who unjustly acted,and to those who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way"!Do they still give "The Electric Chair" in "The Great State of Kentucky"for "Unjustifiable Homocide"?Justice is always tendered with mercy in order for Justice to be Just"Motion To Indite by "The Grand Jury of "The Police and "The Boyfriend".Police=Self Defense with unjustifiable Homocide "Boyfriend=The first shot from a gun fired out of "fear". When the boyfriend fired the first shot he enabled "reckless endangerment and unjustifiable homocide .Rectless indangerment is "Being put in "Harms Way"!!!! Who really fired the first shot? Jistice can be served by finding out who fired the first shot to cause "Harms Way" to come into existance!!!Unjustifiable Homocide requires "Justice" to "ACT" ,no matter who fired the first shot so that "Justice Itself" can "Crush,Plow Over,and "Pulverize "Evil Flesh,Evil Spirits,Evil Minds,Evil Bodies,and Evil Souls.Will "The Grand Jury" "Act" to see all of "The Facts"? The "Motion is in Place"!!!!
"love pyres"
after the war
romance became
compulsory
not desultory
twin flames
lit each other
up
love pyres
ashes
falling
Psyche rising
immaculate
immolate
in the aftermath
falling,
silence
sings
lit within
kissed by Eros
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“Like Snow on the Beach”/ Taylor Swift, Lana Del Rey
https://youtu.be/069MS0nKpbg
"Mastermind" / Taylor Swift
https://youtu.be/EJCMU_RxQBI
"Labyrinth"/ Taylor Swift
https://youtu.be/wGbGEUC6F4s
"Ours is essentially a tragic age,
so we refuse to take it tragically.
The cataclysm has happened,
we are among the ruins,
we start to build up
new little habitats,
to have new little hopes.
It is rather hard work:
there is now no smooth road into the future:
but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles.
We’ve got to live,
no matter how many skies have fallen."
("Lady Chatterley's Lover", D.H. Lawrence)
rapture.
LYRICS/ "Mastermind", Taylor Swift
https://genius.com/Taylor-swift-mastermind-lyrics
When our children were growing up…
when life was simpler and our routines a little more stable…
we met for breakfast, lunch and dinner around our family table.
Our table saw our children’s laugher
felt their tears…and heard their screams.
It helped them with their homework…it was privy to their dreams.
That table is still a family table…
over the years it hasn’t lost it’s touch…
But…with our children grown and moved away…it isn’t used as much.
We recently had dinners with different portions of our family…
to show how life’s a little less stable…
different family members…in different cities…
at different restaurants…around different tables.
Our latest family dinner…was a 30 minute jaunt..
to meet Ali, Damien. Trista and Taylor at an Indian restaurant.
And I got to thinking as our family’s grown
how we get together wherever we can…with whomever’s able…
and how any table we’re sitting at…becomes our family table.
Around that table we reconnect as a family
we see the laughter, feel the tears and hear the screams…
and though there’s no more homework anymore…
we still listen to each other’s dreams.
Nowadays as I sit and listen to whatever portion of our family is there…
in whatever seat I may have landed…
I’m always smiling thinking how…
over the years
our family table has expanded.
Of all the minin' camps in old Colorady, the town of Tin Cup was truly,
With all its gamblin' halls, brothels and sleazy saloons the most unruly!
'Tis said that Jim Taylor dipped his tin cup in the 'crick' to take a sip,
And found gold in the bottom of his cup even before liftin' it to his lip!
The rush was on and in 1880 the rowdy town of Virginia City sprung up!
In 1882, assorted drunks and ne'er-do-wells insisted on namin' it Tin Cup!
Stakes were claimed, shovels flew and ore was packed out to railheads.
Men who worked in 'ore houses' were the butt of jokes by facetious heads!
By 1881 there were 6000 denizens and over twenty saloons in the town.
Gamblers met at Frenchy's Place and they controlled ever'thing aroun'!
Marshals were told, "see, hear and do nothin' or yer first arrest will be yer last!"
One quit, two were fired, three were shot, one went insane leavin' the town aghast!
For those who died gloriously or otherwise from flamin' guns and billowin' smoke,
Boot Hill Cemetery was established south of town to plant many a hapless bloke!
Raucous prospectors spent their 'dust' on booze and 'soiled doves' in their cribs.
Others got uproariously drunk and awoke with busted heads and shattered ribs!
In its heyday, Tin Cup produced millions of dollars in choice Rocky Mountain gold.
The last mine, the Gold Cup, closed in 1917 spellin' disaster and the town did fold.
Alas, today 'tis a ghost town with curious tourists and sagebrush driftin' about.
The ripplin' streams teem, not with gold nuggets, but with fightin' rainbow trout!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
That dormant feeling of insecurity arose,
when travel journal got thrust adjacent
to my tattered (holey tattooed) clothes
while I knew with crossed eyes
aroused anger from peaceful doze
my younger sister felt about her
globe trotting exploits, an over expose
jour ever since voyaging out on her own
after graduating top of her class
where mine hatred glows
indirectly snidely sneering
at ma dough less brother hoboes
(a 1979 Methacton High School alumni),
unanimously chosen valedictorian
dressed in Calvin Klein
Harris tweed, couture
and silk panty hose
like me prolonging, promoting
on par with quasi staff sergeant, who knows
artful disciplinarian gingerly launching rules,
asper formerly commanding G.I. Joes
and pronouncing, predilection
exhaling natural highs no lows
traveling solo, with surviving Wilburys,
or just mows
zing nonchalantly
(though a foreigner) with swarthy skin color
easily camouflaging as civilian
all points on the compass,
where minute needle doth nose
upon returning home (being honorably feted
at once glorious estate of Glen Elm,
where she did propose
to the Lord Taylor (swiftly), which location
situated at 324 Level Road, Collegeville,
Pennsylvania 19426),
thence a great huzzah a rose
an immediate nauseousness welled
within from me head tummy smelly toes
I did not want to here, or see any details,
which would accentuate personal woes
popping, snapping, and smarting,
and slapping skin raw tib bits,
ache'n to yanked strings
of mama's heirloom yo-yos!
Poet Script:
trials and tribulations,
visited upon head of young
concocted ("FAKE") gusty and gutsy
kid sister enterprising ingenue,
christened easy on the tongue
Sharodd (not her real name),
to top off talents sung
like a professional opera singer, which rung
a shiver along small hairs of spine did tingle
heard all the way to Lake Woebegone
where bachelor farmers did mingle
every Christmas, a decreasing
number donned Kris Kringle
hit with blitzkrieg of yawping brats
hoof pranced to bell weather jingle!
We commemorate the death of our love ones
We don't celebrate the death of our love ones
Today is not a great day
Today is a very sad day
We don't care about wealth, avarice, money and cupidity
We abhor hate, greed, hatred, racism, and police brutality
Today, we don't care about the economy
Today, we want to eradicate greed, bigotry
Racism, division, lies, deceit and hypocrisy
We care tremendously about our health
Not about wealth. We care about over 100,000 deaths
We commemorate the death of George Floyd, Tamir Rice, Jamar Clark
Jeremy McDole, Breonna Taylor, Sean Bell, David MacAtee, Stephon Clark
Adam Atraore, William Josma, Steve Biko, Kalief Browder, William Chapman
Sean Reed, Sean Monterrosa, Antwon Rose Alton Sterling, Michael Ferguson
Philando Castile, Amadou Diallo, De'von Bailey, Samuel DuBose, Redel Jones
Mike Brown, Eric Garner, Michelle Shirley, Tony McDade, Deb Danner, Ken Watkins
Laquan McDonald, Ahmaud Arbery, Terence Crutcher, Manuel Ellis, Korryn Gaines
Many Native Americans and many other brothers and sisters. We are out of breath
We have been suffering, hurting, in pain and crying too much. Enough is enough
We can't breathe. Get off our necks. Black lives matter. No justice, no peace
We celebrate life and love. Black lives matter. We want to live a long life
We commemorate death. We can't breathe. No justice, no peace.
Copyright © June 2020, Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Spoken Word Poetry: A Groove Through Time
Man, you’re just a real gone cat/breaking the habit and diggin’ something new/
Your world spins fast with the beat/ your music collection—a limited edition on the Acid Side of the Jazzy beat/
a gold standard Acid jazz kaleidoscope of sound/
Acid Jazz LPs dance like shadows in the street/ so you are hip to Acid Jazz, a genre born in the night, Funk, soul, and hop intertwined/
a rhythm that pulses and ignites, elements of funk, soul, and hip-hop, as well as disco, started in London’s clubs/
it began to unwind with drugs sex, and the deep beat of percussion that flows from the spin tables and the DJ mix into subcultures, including rave, acid house, and jungle that flooded the superclubs like the river’s current,
Man, it was a nu British sound that had its own records shops, and music producers/
live performance, an electric embrace, a tapestry woven with the threads of the past, an anthem for a nu sound/
ain’t it cool, man, to swing and sway? Acid cool, with words that play, each note a story, every beat a fight, against the social and political realities of the day/
from the UK to the States in the ‘90s/
broken beats, deep funk, a hip new sound, born in clubs/ a deep history resurrected/
Hip hop producers diving deep in the trunk of
old town bump de bump funk/
Electric Rhodes, guitars that gleam, Jazz-funk—triple threat, the dream, steppin’ out to that new Acid Jazz sound, Brand New Heavies, where vibes abound. James Taylor Quartet, Jazz Hole, Jamiroquai, spinning out of control all deep into the show/
Eddie Piller, the architect, of Acid Jazz Records—music to reflect/
Disc jockeys, producers, crafting the groove, adding percussion, making the old move, sampling the past with a sleazy intent, Old Skool mentality, a love that won’t relent/
Lofi vibes ride the waves of the scene, A boost of spoken word slam jazz, a dream within a dream/
So dig on brother and let the music wrap you, let it break your square mold/
In this young history of Acid Jazz, let the stories be told/ step into the rhythm, and let your dancin’ feet fly/
In this world of sound, we’ll never say goodbye, for there is always someone to meet on this Acid Jazz ride/
No Names mentioned-
recognizing your
self in a
poem--
highly unlikely that
we
poets
know what you've
done.
Just a posturing
poem
posted
Saying wonderful
things -
If
this poem describes
you...
and you can tell...
If
a poem speaks highly
of
integrity,
has
ability to inspire,
sincerity
originality
If
it provokes
invokes-
makes you think
take stock
don't be shocked
Put on the poem
it's yours
It's probably
written
with
"the cloth you --
were cut from"
own....
it ..
Where it Well.
If
you are remembered
for your kind
deeds an actions
Do not be shy -
Get satisfaction.
If
the poem fits...
Taylor-Made
pray-tell!
Shine your eyes
own it..
and
wear it well.
Three Score and Fifteen Years Ago
By Franklin Price
11/14/2020
Three score and fifteen years ago
I was born upon this earth
Joined a family of eight,
Was the ninth, for what it's worth
Four sisters and two brothers
A mother, father there for me
I was to be the last of them
That nevermore would be
Was brought home to my siblings
Who were shown I was a boy
They were told it was not Christmas
That I was not a little toy
Spread of ages, ten long years
Stuart Taylor to begin
Then, Nancy Ruth and Shirley Lou
Stopping then, would be a sin
Earl Joseph, Laura Gertrude
Were the next ones in the game
Judith Carol just before me
Franklin Arthur is my name
Brought home to Merritt Island
Yes, the one of lunar lore
Was then a growing citrus place
Barely had a country store
We had no city water
No AC then, you know
No TV there for watching
Listened to the radio
Milk brought by the milkman
Port Canaveral had no cruise
Truman was the president
The local paper brought the news
Many years have gone by
Helped shoot man to the moon
My father and my mother gone
Some siblings, way to soon
Nancy Ruth and Laura Gertrude
And myself are still around
They're now octogenarians
Five more years and I'll be crowned
My life has been exceptional
The best wife for fifty years
In seven days it's fifty-one
Can still remember that from here
Left High School in sixty four
Sixty- eight in Vietnam
Sixty-nine sent man off to the moon
It's great to be the who I am
Married, November, sixty-nine
To my wife and daughter too
They were the rocks within my life
For the things that I would do
Involved with start up ventures
Traveled all around the globe
Collected hotel ashtrays
Lots of shampoo and a robe
Had my own small business
A little longer than a score
Rode on Harley cycles
Three hundred thousand miles and more
Rode all the lower forty-eight
Three provinces above
A thousand miles in Africa
All of these with my true love
So you see it's been a great life
And I'm only seven- five
I got up this fine morning
It's still great to be alive
Friends and family, who read this
And know of these things I say
Know you helped to make it great
As I traveled on the way
Here's a toast to all of us
And the passed days since our birth
I'm sending love to all of you
For all that may be worth
"I wouldn't be a songwriter if it wasn't for books that I loved as a kid.
I think that when you can escape into a book it trains your imagination to think big and to think that more can exist than what you see." – Taylor Swift
When the world falls still.
When day is done, left behind.
When pages instill
magical words in her mind,
new worlds she begins to find.
Stories spring to fore
as fairies spread stars' delight.
Something strikes her core
and flickers throughout the night
in reflective candlelight.
Before dawn arrives.
Before candle loses flame.
She lives divers lives,
travels worlds both wild and tame.
Reading's her gateway to fame.