Long Thumbs Poems
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I also feel blasé today February 19th, 2024
Linkedin to being lax,
and shirking house cleaning tasks,
which negligence cost us
(yours truly and the missus)
a golden opportunity
to relocate to Hillcrest Village
in Boyertown, Pennsylvania
another HUD subsidized property
under the aegis of Grosse and Quade,
one of the larger residential
property management firms
in the Delaware Valley.
Physical unwellness
(insync with racing heart) arose
because Kathleen Bergen
the new property manager
here at 2 Highland Manor
voiced absolute zero positive feedback,
upon taking lock, stock, and barrel
of appalling living conditions,
her blistering vocalization
(from wuthering heights)
translated as a foregone conclusion
against our hopes
pinned on moving into
two bedroom apartment
referenced above topmost lines.
Said plummeted disappointment
(courtesy blunt admission
out the mouth of
(humpty dumpty sat on a wall)
frumpty recent hire
identified in a previous poem
as new warden)
verbosely predicated upon
gross appearance of living space
immediately dashed cautious optimism
citing unkempt state
within no crater than
moonwalking unit b44,
whereby we wished to skadaddle
far away from obligation
to be mindful of rules and regulations
codified within a binding lease.
Unlikely home ownership
will ever come to pass,
nor the lesser prospect
to rent more spacious domicile
larger than a one bedroom apartment,
no bigger than a bread box
den me and the missus,
(a hen pecking spouse)
might befriend Bugs Bunny,
who might guarantee
adequate sized rabbit hole
constituting large enough wonderland
receiving stamp of approval
courtesy Alice in Chains
subsidized lodging money back
plus additional warren tee
granted by Mister Michael Fox,
who took me back to the future,
when the pace of life
plodded along at leisurely rhythm.
Only within outer limits
realm of twilight zone,
where dark shadows
inch along edge of night
(while two thumbs and index finger
belonging to separate good sports
grab hold the furcula
(or wishbone) structure
formed by the ventral fusion
of the right and left clavicles
and the median interclavicle
silently mouth invocation)
holds at bay, the inexplicable phenomena
moored, harbored, and docked
awaiting lucky recipient,
whose merrythought bestowed
upon he/she, they/them.
Everyone, from children to grownups,
carry the world in their hands, they see the past
and the future simply by the move of their thumbs and fingers;
from their very spot they fly in the air hanging onto the mixture of
illusion and reality.
The little glass plate they are staring at is,
though, a two dimensional world, they go
beyond the fourth dimension and reach the world of infinity,
the time of conception to death, while creating a totally anew concept
of time that is a mixture of kairos and chronos.
Because you see everything at the same time
in this little glass plate, layer after layer of thickened image
starts to fall to cause the chaos, the distorted image crumbles.
When a child finds Hydra in the little flat glass plate he held,
he challenges Hydra, and after a long difficult fight, though
he cuts a head off from this great serpent, a drop of blood
numbs the child, with venom spitting out from the mouths
of the remaining heads it deadens the child. Then, after all,
the Hydra’s blood and venom overtake the child’s shrunken brain,
the child becomes a fierce monster himself.
For a grownup,
while watching Laokoon and his two children locked in the coils of
hissing snakes, agonizing. He undergoes unbearable torment himself,
as if Laokoon was tortured by the snakes, stretching his arms in the air
to grab something that may lessen the intensity of horror.
From the touch of smooth
but cold skin of the snake,
he shudders, he frightens, he feels death.
The child, comes and goes from here to yonder world in no time,
led by the move of his fingertip, he came and sat with the devil
face to face, tries to trade junk the devil offers with his soul, though
immature, he is therefore reckless, but innocent.
The grownup who haunted by anguish,
walks on the path of life and death, because
he is unable to shake off the bad-omen he carries;
is now sitting in front of a poker table and through
the little flat glass plate in his palm, gazing at the numbers
on the playing cards; he irons his ragged soul with steaming-hot-iron
for external appearance, the soul that even the devil won’t take in
pledge for filthy lucre.
It’s outrageous but,
all generations alive today, seem to be confined
in the little flat glass plate, they live as the slave of the fingertip.
for no fault of mine, congenital blindness has been my lot
i never fail to wonder how i look
mum said i'm blond and beautiful
till date what blonde means still beats me
i can only imagine the meaning of beauty
i've learnt to endure the ridicule of people
who only add pain to an already wounded soul
it also hurts when i'm pitied
with my sister-in-law a constant culprit
the clergyman said my handicap is a blessing
that it's good i can’t see a world so sinful
but he failed to reply when i harmlessly asked
if he had ever prayed to lose his vision
my family even consider me a burden
complains and excuses trail my request for whom to guide me
to put an end to my inconsiderate disruption of their movies
they did me the favour of buying a guide dog
the sighted make much fuss over trivialities
can you imagine crying over a missed movie
or threatening suicide if not allowed access to the television
sometimes i itch to know the big deal about television
but television is strictly for those that are blessed with vision
so is tourism, movies and countless others
i long to be a medical doctor
and also to get married and have my own children
but understandably, men refuse to look my way
i'm now used to the bitter truth
dreams and wishes are not for the sightless
my thumbs are always sore ‘cos i love to read
and it hurts too when my siblings yell excitedly
'bout the scenic sights they behold
oh, how i wish for a day of sight
to behold the rainbow, flowers and mother
to see myself and my dear Stevie Wonder
music is therapeutic to my soul
oh, its the best gift to mankind
though the deaf will definitely disagree
have you ever wondered how life will be without hope
but i live without a hope of regaining my sight
while people sleep, i wish for death
but of course wishes are not for the blind
and unlike those cowards i'll never kill myself
i laugh when the sighted complain of penury
or when they make much fuss over needing a wheelchair
i'll gladly exchange conditions with them if given a choice
'cos the sun never rises in the world of the blind
the need for air differentiates the blind from a corpse
however i've got a few consolations
i'll never get to see an ugly sight or a dead man
i'll never see my husband cheat on me
sadly though, that's if i ever get one
A mobile phone is a strange old thing,
For the joy, love, and pain it can bring.
People can spend, hours a day,
Scrolling through apps, and games they can play.
But life is worth, so much more,
Than making thumbs and fingers sore.
By tapping on screens, to play on a game,
The way it’s developed, it’s such a shame.
It’s a shame that now, people look down,
In suits and boots, and dressing gown.
Instead of looking, straight ahead,
They stay on their phones, whilst lay in bed.
The fields of green, Horizons of red,
Waiting to be drawn, by pencil lead.
With colour so vibrant, in need of paint,
As pencil is drawn, ever so faint.
But this doesn’t happen, like the good old day,
As people have found, a quicker way.
To see this image, you can see from home,
Just type it in, to your shiny new phone.
Where did passion, and wonder all go?
What about the places, we did not know?
To go and see, and explore the world,
Has vanished forever, thumbs are now curled.
Curled above phones, as they scroll to see,
The places where I’d love to be.
What about talking, and having a chat?
It’s now online, I do know that.
Communities are gone, voices grow quiet,
As phones grow supreme, and more people diet.
Dieting as they sit, day to day,
On a phone with apps, and games to play.
Put down the phone, and open your eye,
See the world, on planes you will fly.
Appreciate the time, that’s limited to you,
Open your eyes, and see the blue.
Not of a screen, but a wondrous sky,
With clouds that drift, way up high.
Appreciate the smiles, you get on a street,
They’re rare to catch, from people you meet.
You never see, a smile at a phone,
As people walk on, to their journey home.
People who smile, put their phones away,
In order to appreciate, a glorious day.
They see the beauty, of the world that we live,
And see the potential, the earth could give.
They see the moon, the stars at night,
They see the mornings, soft touching light.
I ask for you, to put down the phone,
And look around, as you sit at home.
Appreciate life, in your new found way,
Travel far, please don’t delay.
Take your photos, and send your text,
But put it away, think where to go next.
Enjoy that food, and taste that wine,
Appreciate life, so precious and divine.
'Everything Aches'
Oh my arms do ache as I write down this prose
Most days it feels like the pain goes all the way to my toes
Bring me back lazy days lying in the sun
Or the age when being flexible meant so much more fun
Living with aches and strains and all things stretchy
Remembering a day without pain seems so sketchy
From my head, to my ankles, hips and back in between
They say it would help if I could be more 'lean'
But extra movement above the essentials feels unfair
It even kills me each morning just to blow dry my hair
So please understand how hard it can be every day
When all I want to do is stay in my bed and lay
I know you may find it hard to understand
That even the slightest pain in the knuckles, the hand
Can be overbearing, and so unforgiving
But still have to work, still make a living
If only you knew how hard most days it becomes
Just to text and email, how much it strains ones thumbs
Childbirth may have been so much faster and slicker
But ageing of the pelvis and hips comes much quicker
My pelvic floor and backside have certainly seen better days
My moaning and groaning you must hope is a faze
Shoulders forever, feeling so strained
My legs constantly looking blue veined
Cramps in my arches, IBS in my tummy
Hereditary illness, blame my flexible mummy
Bunions will scream, Bulging discs take my power
It even pains me just to stand in the shower
Tired and sleepy I need to relax
Even those days that I rest to the max
So just bring me your patience, comfort, understanding
Even when you hear my joints creak more than the landing
You know it's me, 'crackling' just walking downstairs
The lack of sleep again bringing nightmares
Thank you for listening, for just being here
Not having you close to comfort is my biggest fear
I know I go on, my frustration and tears
Must be hard work for so many years
But knowing you're here to carry the weight of my head
Even on the days it feels heavier than lead
Gives me the strength to be strong, keep me moving
Your love and support it just keeps on proving
Thank you again for holding my hand and week wrist
Even though my pain must never seem to cease to persist
'Everything Aches' by Victoria Payne
Nutty grandpa president
is talking crazy uncle Donald again
His little Chucky thumbs
is tapping epithet tweet nonsense
Batty grandpa’s been
grumpily sucking
on the hate hot sauce bottle
stashed in his KKK closet
Now he’s sporting a Commander-in-Chief cap,
dressed in a wrinkled birthday suit
Churlish grandpa wanna blow the nuclear candles out
in his Oval padded room
He’s trying to smear his coconut-frosted
pejorative German chocolate cake
on every African looking face
Calling Doctor Strangelove and nurse Annie Wilkes Misery,
bad Grandpa is verbally pooping all over the place
His anti-social, mood swing meds
is scattered everywhere on the bed
Nutty grandpa prez
is a stable genius he says
But his schizophrenia behavior
is open and shut caged rage ... Jekyll and Hyde
Hannibal Lecter ... American Gothic suicide
Old Grandpa says
young women love him like Frankenstein’s bride
His paranoid soul
got a misogynist itch
in it’s nether parts
Curmudgeon grandpa claims he’s really rich,
and has an Ebenezer Scrooge heart
Nutty grandpa prez don’t like no immigrants
who came from where he ain’t
Straight jacket truth wraps him wrong,
he loves to swear that he’s no saint
Crazy grandpa just wanna roam the West Wing halls at night,
cursing at everybody left and right
His angry autocrat ticker just wanna be dictator loved
with family suck-up sniveling loyalty
Cuckoo grandpa flew his nest egg eyes over someone in the staff,
whose nurse Ratched mirror image greedy
Nutty grandpa president just got another person fired
for improper cleansing backside kissing
And the raucous din,
rising from the voter base-ment,
means it’s electoral shock therapy time again
So lock the border doors —
keep it dissent quiet, dum-dum
Czar grandpa prez don’t like all that democratic noise
Silence of the lambs,
that soothing lullaby hum
Is the sweet sound
that calms his Joker tweeting thumbs
Rest your rage, nutty grandpa prez:
Uneasily snore deeply,
wearing your Mad Hatter MAGA brim
(keep having more troubled, neo-Nazi policy dreams
of Making America Great Again)
As the White House hospice staff is issuing
M.A.S.H unpatriotic greetings
to Parallel reality refugees
seeking insane asylum ...
Welcome, to the Oval Sanatorium
You think you're Godzilla
but you're just a Gorilla,
that's what happens when you've got gonorrhea,
my skin colours vanilla
my skills are killa and real
you're run of the mill, a fail
can't you tell you didn't do well,
that Kartel manure smell
of Kountry music don't sell,
a wannabe that wants to be on X Factor
in a field riding a wrecked tractor,
tracks that no mind will capture,
you're no rapper, a can't act actor and no rhyme writer
with poor rhyming from your core
the fact is you naturally bore,
getting done by amateurs
that means s**t for sure and below my stature,
take a step back and see the big picture,
there's no record label coming for your signature,
you should turn around and head for the door
and not turn this battle rap into a war,
snore, pass out snore music,
20 years and there's still no use for it,
your rhymes are insignificant
your average skill's no different
stop thinking you're magnificent
and realise you're just a hunt.
Yet you think you're good,
umm missing a nail or screw
let's face facts your music is poo,
can you not make a beat with flow?
Your music makes me sit in a seat depressed and low
through ignorance your skill's seen no grow,
so excuse my rant but your music is pants,
professional status, you've got no clucking chance.
You're so unlikely to upstage my quickly written
lickety split thermonuclear lit quick wit
with whatever you pick
to pull out your bag of tricks
because I'll make it unstick
quicker than thumbs can click through your music,
making videos in which you go on the phone,
cliche prone, stereotype replica
look at ya forever inferior,
making out you've golden interior,
but Postman Pat out delivers letters
and is better with more under the hat
you've empty space where your brain sat,
writing rubbish, getting fat,
one year in I'm getting published
you skank like a grandad with one wish
you long to be served a contract,
take note of the situation
you've been rhyming for a generation,
and you'll never be a sensation,
just a symbol of humiliation,
........ cus Rosko thinks he's the dogs bollocks,
while the rest of us just think he's bollocks.
That's all bossco, that's all I have to country cartel you.
Over and out, they call me Sue.
he was looking for a new enemy
for it was the man he hated before
which defined his very being &
in that respect, there was no other
who could possibly take his place---
he searched far and wide, after the last
fight had come to a close---two
young men with all the anger in the world
comparing themselves to two old men
who in giving up on everything had only
each other to hate.
with clenched fists he walked in his
black wool trench coat during the frigid
december early afternoons,
keeping his eyes peeled for a target in which
he might shed some of the pent up aggression,
however,
to no avail, his search ended as quickly as it
began & home he went,
frustrated & without the meaning that an
exchange of mutual despise could
bring (as it had so many times before).
twiddling his thumbs inside his cavern of
confusion, he wondered just what he would do
if he never did find another adversary?
inevitably, after drinking himself into a stupor,
he meandered to the bathroom to relieve
himself, taking a moment to stare into the
mirrored reflection before exiting the room.
the young man gaining wrinkles by the day
saw the old man happy still in his ability to
nitpick at such lesser priorities in life,
especially when his friends were dropping like
flies, their bodies filled with all those
wonderful cancers & diseases that come to
you once you’ve carved your little niche out in the
world.
he wasn’t envious, but he was jealous of the
meaning that came with disease---he wondered if
he had developed the problems that came with
the lives of others he’d known, if he would
treat himself as the sickness then---for, he
would disappear into the vast mass of
individuals whose lives had been cut short,
whose personalities were now time clocks
all set to a differently specified ending---
one which was already know,
and therefore, much less interesting.
on the contrary,
if he was to make the very absence of
sickness his enemy, then he felt he’d catch
himself in a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-
don’t sort of context,
where meaning might arise in whatever
conclusion did come from that mindset---
still, tracing the wrinkles in his face with his
index, he imagined that not even he
could take such a cliché seriously enough to
act on it.
Somewhere on this pretty planet,
There is a heart made of granite,
Indignation its pulse would take,
The soul’s machine fear'd trust too fake.
On righteous wings glory’s noose,
Hangs the head of war’s best muse,
Her eyes befit the worst of times,
The look, the stare defies all rhymes.
Reaching into forgotten tales,
History chose armored males,
Dusty tomes on hidden shelves,
Books in tongues for tiny elves.
Here’s to He who broke the bread,
A promise too many came instead,
Land so fertile flowers swooned,
Food to heal the people’s wound.
Abundance wreaks what dreams deny,
Riches breach thy neighbors cry,
Winds begin like soft whispers pass,
Fear the tempest that might amass.
No one heard the approaching storm,
The blind saw not the eyeless worm,
Man’s great cities it came to breed,
A pathos so hungry it began to feed.
The poor of mind hailed this time,
Its witless soldiers stuck in crime,
But this was no Christian phase,
Powerful waves, everyone pays.
Morning took hold, the sky was dark,
The bow was bent and knew its mark,
A book of facts, a thousand lies,
Verse so deep frozen beauty cries.
With thunder’s yoke rains wash took hold,
On tides ebbed out went all once old,
Upon spring flowers hope took turn,
Lime and ashes make death’s love yearn.
Once the deluge heavy airs broke,
Weeds and vermin went with a stroke,
Poison and bile, cancers two friends,
Fell to the grounds hungry amends.
Trees laughed loud and grew their hair,
Opulent green color’d the air,
The crowds were gone, the coast was clear,
Butterfly songs for all to hear.
Know you man’s hopeless devices,
Always waiting for a crisis,
To stick a sword in another’s heart,
Man’s most pathetic lost dead art.
Wolves and tigers follow no rules,
Never betting on prudish tools,
Blaming not the world as given,
Their jaws obey love’s laws arisen.
Eons ago a vow was made,
Years before words lost to trade,
The path before you poets know,
Only your heart can make life glow.
Pointed fingers hide three blind mice,
Beware of crowds and mob’s advice,
J’accuse writ large holds guilt away,
Thumbs up to She who holds her sway.
Perhaps in a row they sit on their chair.
At their small object they all like to stare.
In an upside down world, the room’s silence grows.
They sit on their chair, perhaps in a row.
With both thumbs moving, such dexterity!
Faster than cheetahs their thumbs seem to be.
Some with small headphones also are grooving.
Such dexterity with both thumbs moving.
You utter a word; I doubt they will hear.
On screens, words are better than in one’s ear.
Conversing sans screen they might find absurd.
I doubt they will hear you utter a word.
I see them in class not looking at books
in spite of their teachers’ dirtiest looks.
Tell them to stop; they just give you their sass,
not looking at books! I see them in class.
Their phones are in use all hours of the day.
Do not even try to take them away!
You might be accused of phone/child abuse.
All hours of the day their phones are in use.
I see moms alone with a child that’s hurt,
Not even giving their child some comfort.
Nothing else matters but their precious phone.
With a child that’s hurt I see moms alone.
The cell phone’s their all - their almighty God.
Anything else for them must be a fraud.
Some only text you; they won’t take your call!
Their almighty God - the cell phone’s their all.
When did this begin? Bringing phones in school?
Kids who don’t have them are thought not too cool.
To take students’ phones is likened to sin.
Bringing phones in school. . .When did this begin?
A time and a place there is for all things.
I hate at the movies when a phone rings!
Cell phones at dinner? An utter disgrace!
There is for all things a time and a place.
Sadly, much worse, there’s texting while driving.
If you’re not trying to be surviving,
do it! Your next ride might be in a hearse.
There’s texting while driving, sadly much worse.
Nothing else matters to addicts, I know.
*Every cloud has a silver lining though -
Less actual talking with those mad as hatters!
To addicts I know, nothing else matters.
inspiration from the Metallica Song: Nothing Else Matters
Written April 28, 2016 a
using Swap Quatrain style, a form created by Lorraine M. Kanter and described at Shadowpoetry.com.