Long Teenage Poems
Long Teenage Poems. Below are the most popular long Teenage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Teenage poems by poem length and keyword.
I Remember You
Yes, I remember you,
the dark-skinned girl,
dressed in tight corduroy,
unzipped on the floor there.
You were my lover that night in 1970;
We were wrestling
so smoothly, so passionately,
in the old brick house on Hoover street.
Remember honey? Just you and me
alone in the darkness,
kissing like kids crazy about each other,
listening to Hendrix on the oak console,
Electric Merman on axe in 1983,
Playing like a god from beneath
the fiery pinnacles of the Styx.
Remember? We were 18 and
wild with wordless desire.
I kissed you often that night
in the grey bluesy shadows,
embracing intensely
your perfumed, unbuttoned body,
on beige thick shag
by the open screen door,
with that benign breeze blowing in
softly and silently,
like the breath of whispering ghosts,
watching there, as we groped and licked,
two kneading felines, quivering,
insecure in the darkness,
our lips, slickered and lathered
in strawberry paste and love spit,
and our reaching tongues,
seared and slithering like caught tunas,
found electric connections
in the heaving nets
of aching fleshly onslaughts,
of mad touching embraces,
with esoteric teenage sweatings
at silent midnight, in June,
when the jacarandas are in bloom.
Yes, I remember you,
The girl with the brown perfumed skin,
and those kissing smacking sucking lips
that spoke so loudly,
without ever saying a word.
My nights are worn in coats of filth and dreary
sometimes...the sound of thunder rumbles
far in the distance
where I use to live
kicked out of my home at fourteen
for reasons I can't wrap my head around
teenage defiance I guess
I live now on the corner of nowhere
at the intersection of ugly and dirty
where the hot city winds blow the scum of society
across fractured streets like crumbled candy paper
I'm numb to the cold emptiness
that haunts the pit of my stomach
no one cares
no one knows who I am or where I am
each night is a long journey through hell
I pull my collar up and await its storm
I've been bought and sold many times
and have become a soul-less street commodity
I live in the moment
tomorrow is foreign... it's only a dream
that stays on the outskirts of my nightmares
so I wander...trying to survive
the pimps, the robbers, the drugs, the utter loneliness
that color the gray world of my existence
I would cry...but, who would hear?
in the distance, I hear thunder rumbling
and the sound of my footsteps moving away from it
each step growing fainter
I've quit wondering if anyone was home
6/14/18 Abandon Poetry contest
sponsor...Brenda Chiri
This summer, as ever, there's much to do.
But only one or two things I want to do.
I told Alan that, like him, I'm never bored.
But today, like a teenager, I'm both tired and bored.
The long expanse of summer stretches forward. Alan plans
the next 2 years in advance, always moving forward. I can't plan
the next 2 hours, sitting on my ****, undecided whether
to clean the house, make a list of prospective donors, or check the 5-day
weather
forecast. Fires out west, hurricanes south, drought here
in the east where the garden phlox withers and the corn's stunted. We
hear
prophecies of armageddon, doom, but humans may go on another
thousand, million or billion years
undaunted. What is that to you. A day alone in your room and a year
are inexplicable. Now and then a vacation, baseball game, night of love.
A divorce, a death, a drouth. To survive and prosper we must love
all of it, insect infestations and world wars, cloud curlicues and square
dances, work
and weekends off. Knowing the unknowable = never knowing how the
world works.
She stands at the edge of the precipice,
looking down towards her future.
The last tears that she will ever cry,
falling from her eyes,
then falling into oblivion.
She watches them drop
as they disappear forever.
Yet, she laughs in the face of death.
Would it really matter if she took the leap?
She has been forgotten by tomorrow.
The wind blowing at her back,
pushes her to the edge.
Almost agreeing with her final decision,
and encouraging her to jump.
A thousand thoughts and memories
racing through her mind.
Her first day of school.
Her tenth birthday party.
The lonely, awkward days of her teenage years.
The day she discovered poetry.
The moment she first saw him.
The day she thought that she was worth something.
The day when all of that became a lie.
Every memory
that never made the pages of a history book.
She has been forgotten by tomorrow.
She exists to no one but herself.
In the blink of an eye, she decides her fate.
Her feet leave the ground,
and yet, she did not fall.
Out of nowhere he appeared,
and carefully grabbed her hand.
Pulling her back to reality,
saving her from the brink of disaster.
He held her, as her tears stained his jacket.
Old tears of sadness,
mixed with new tears of happiness.
She was remembered by yesterday.
Before she was forgotten by tomorrow.
He is rich, but willing to share
Sending two billion dollars
Yes that is billions, right there
To non-profits with no collars
Yes, no strings attached.
No formal vetting or restrictions
Jeff Bezos, the head of Amazon
Sent money their way with happy convictions
His theory was that since they worked with the homeless
They would help them with things they really did need
So his crew got together, did research, and asked a few questions
Then he sent a hundred million to two dozen for working day seed
He started out born to a teenage mom in 1964
His parents did not get along, and his dad left when he was four
Jeff was a brilliant guy, went to Princeton and worked on Wall Street
But at the age of thirty he started an on-line company so sweet
He is one of the richest men in the world today, has to be….
But does that mean he’s heartless? Absolutely not, as you can see.
He gives this money freely with no restrictions or big oversight.
I am sure he sleeps soundly when he turns out the light.
You ask me;
Where was I in the Seventies?
This was my decade, my formative years.
I was a long-haired rebel without a cause,
Football was my religion, rapture and tears.
Discovering Progressive Rock Music,
A Drifter in Satin suit and flares.
No need of drugs, I was high on life,
Free spirited, no worries, no cares.
Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and Leeds United,
A soundtrack to my youth filled days.
I worked hard, no burdens or commitments,
Records and Football took my pay.
Never strayed away from Yorkshire,
Faithful to my Northern roots.
Forever Twenty-One in the Seventies,
In my flares and Satin suits.
Written 7/3/18
For Line's Contest of the same name
Magazines and jewelry
Nothing shows your age faster
I see a broach and think “That is from the 40’s or 50’s.”
Mink stoles were from the 30’s to sixty’s depending on the style.
Mushroom canister sets excite my 1970’s self.
Teenage movie magazines from the 50’s and 60’s
are easy to recognize.
The disco stuff with the faux fur vests and
tight striped pants for men. 80’s.
I look at old magazines from the 60’s and
I know most of the players.
Maybe all of them.
I recognize Dr. Martin Luther King, Jacque O and Marilyn for sure.
Lucy and Desi, Tab Hunter and Natalie Woods.
Pink cars? From the 50’s and 60’s probably.
Turquoise cars? Not as easy.
Turquoise cars made a comeback in the 90’s.
But the style might help.
It used to be I could name the year of any car
built from 1955 through 1980.
I doubt I could do that anymore.
Having moved on to other interests.
The Checker and the Mercury Marquis do not count.
They never wavered much from their own status quo.
I visit antique stores and smile.
Recognizing things from my childhood.
Everything from my childhood is in an antique store including me.
I feel totally fine about it. It is the natural order of life.
"Hey, isn't that what's his name?" Uh-oh.
“Grief is like the ocean. The waves ebb and flow. Sometimes the water is calm. Other times it's turbulent. In order to survive, I had to learn to swim. In moments when I struggled with massive waves of grief, I rode it out.”
Dana Arcuri
When the pearl moon is sinking
and the sea dreams in silence,
when the skies reflect
the sunrise within sighs,
I close my eyes and unlock
my grieving heart.
There, your sincere smile glows
like a string of golden pearls,
and your song, an echoing melody,
while jasmine rain croons
into the mourning mists.
And I whisper to the stars:
show me what it's like in heaven,
where angels and fairies
sway to your vanilla laughter,
for I am still healing from
the shadows of your demise.
I remember,
I was a teenage tempest
dressed in crusts of raven,
but you saw
unicorns and butterflies
soaring above
whirling waves of angst.
and wove my darkness
with acrylic glitter.
You were the antidote
to my bleeding ink.
you were the sakura spring
among my tattered twigs,
you watched me laugh
into the gothic duskiness.
Somehow seeking fireflies
within my summer maze,
did illuminate your weathered time,
like rainbow roses,
engrossed in emerald empathy.
You always knew the
right phrase to rhyme,
subtle syllables to
write every wrong.
You were my comfort
on lonely days.
The uncle, I cherish,
so young and charismatic…
Orchids in your
orchard still sprout~
flaunting their colors
in your mauve memory,
and your seraphic aura lingers
as the magnetic essence
of eternal warmth.
Now I am draped in
mementos and euphonious wind-chimes,
emanating the fragrance
of evergreen grass and soulful sunflowers.
Someday, I will find my way
to your empyrean home,
where you reside in poetry and affection…
There’s none more racist than your Working Man.
Conservative. “Let’s keep it as it is:
just give me Tic-Tac-Toe and Criss-Cross Quiz.”
No greater sexist since the world began –
that foxes have their prices, he’ll accept,
and swallows whole the tabloid rag he reads
(the breasts of teenage girls are all he heeds).
Compassion for his Comrades? Jesus wept!
He’s happy with his Fangios and Faldos,
admires Samantha Foxes, Katy Prices.
His only Cristianos are Ronaldos,
and God alone knows if he’s heard of Isis.
Keep feeding him his Oprahs and Geraldos,
but pray you don’t encounter him in crisis.
Come on! He urged Cameron. I’m your friend, aren’t I?
Cameron’s fear was showing. He did not want to die.
It’s my dad’s favorite thing, much more valuable than me.
But it was Ferris Beuller and he had intimidation velocity.
So they took the red Ferrari off the pedestal of his Dad.
And they drove it a few miles through Chicago big and bad.
They stopped at school to pick up Sloane, Ferris’s fine queen.
They had a day in the windy city such as Cameron had never seen.
His fear held him hostage, finally sent him into paralyzed mode.
This did not stop his best friend Ferris whose ideas were pure gold.
He and Slone had some near misses, but kept Principal Rooney away.
Actually Rooney ended up being chased by a sister and dog that fine day.
John Hughes, the wonder writer of the eighties, created this movie.
He wrote and directed, and walked on for a small part, not as a juvie.
It brought in seventy million in ’86, not bad for a teen film that day.
Ferris Beuller’s Day off will at the top of my favorite list always stay.