Long Trash heap Poems
Long Trash heap Poems. Below are the most popular long Trash heap by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trash heap poems by poem length and keyword.
She left out of the store with several new garments in hand
Walking out the front door and now she's feeling pretty grand
And so down the street she walked smiling at each passersby
Rarely would one's eyes meet but some people did actually try
And about four blocks away nearly half way to her own place
She seen something that day something so hard to even face
But there the woman still laid on a box there at seventh street
In so guessing the reason she stayed there for the warm vent
She paused for a moment but then she started to just go past
With all the stink from the vent she started walking really fast
Finally she had made it by but maybe she needed a new way
A disgust she wouldn't admit but some of the things she'd say
That night as the girl slept she began to have this vivid dream
As all those fears had now crept or so for now it would seem
Laying there alone on that vent never again to feel any love
Except a few coins that were sent tossed down from above
Feeling such hunger and thirst and the chill upon her bones
Never had she felt worst in the losing of all that she owns
As there this girl had only slept but the pain was so deep
For she had even wept laying there upon that trash heap
When she suddenly awoke right in the middle of the night
Like her conscious had spoke putting everything into sight
The next day, still there, she took yesterdays bag of clothes
That someone still does care is what that old woman now knows
Behold the mighty ego on two feet,
Whose brain is missing, though the suit is neat.
They walk around like kings of empty space,
With pride and panic painted on their face.
They talk for hours and say nothing new,
A one-person trash heap leaking out on cue.
Their grand ideas are small, absurd, and old,
Like yesterday’s stale soup left in the cold.
They open up their mouth to spin a tale,
Of how they fought a shark and rode a whale.
A walking billboard for a cheap brand name,
Where every minor errand wins them fame.
They brag of wealth they simply do not own,
And broadcast status from a cracked cell phone.
The room falls flat, the yawns begin to spread,
While they crown themselves inside their head.
They climb a molehill, screaming it’s Everest,
Convincing no one that they are the best.
A golden trophy made of painted tin,
All empty echo from their throat within.
Lost in the alleys of despair my heart an open parasol
Protection of gray clouds and rain over the darkest hole
I curse every weeping tear from my forsaken eyes
Empty promises discarded into a trash-heap
Doors locked from the inside to an invisible keyhole
Limbs spread to sweet pain
moans echo to warm door
Averting leaping into what was left over lost sleep
Darkness,
Silence,
Loneliness,
Anxious whispers of failures is all I can hear
Broken and vulnerable living deep in gray soul
Stop the rain from falling shining the way
To awake to a close parasol and sunshine
1/24/2017
Note: All lines in this heap are from failed sonnets that I tried to stack without having any two consecutive lines come from the same poem. I had to break the rule twice. It was nice to find a use for this trash, though. I'm sure a few can relate:
Often I think of how the canyon laughs,
what jokes, I muse, would free stuffy stockades?
And if the sheep had herded men with staffs,
would darkness come out, not into the caves?
What lambs or sheep use cripples just for skin,
to drape within the light from early day,
From their helium balloon canyon’s den,
How would they know if tides were high to stay?
Of milk lavender tulips, though, I flow,
as satin lace in leather stirrups through,
The march I may in august do in snow,
for hell has frozen over, don’t you know?
Yesterday, even, on my t.v. screen,
I saw a child wearing a shirt that said:
“Help save the volta, doubles have been seen,
Terrible truths of one that two are dead!”
So sink and seize this season's silliness,
who does her hair while wielding a sword,
unspoken are the kisses between us.
when prayers pray for want of loving lords;
Yet, my own veins feel lighter they do,
she cuts at skin but doesn’t say good bye,
I’ll tell you this, that it doesn’t do you,
hand me the Kleenex, someone spit in thine eye!
I was in love and now I’m still in love,
but she, or you, you spin me crazy love!
But then, I breathe, as canyons laugh at me,
What? Laugh at these! I hope you stay thirsty!
Barreling down the mountain of forgetfulness,
I raced to Wal-Mart for that last minute gift.
We’ve not seen his children since Christmas.
Despite their quicksand of un-thankfulness,
I want him to have something for this Father’s Day.
His son has been in a swamp of discontinuance
lost in that great, lonely desert called New York City.
His daughter has sprouted sharp thorns of bias
since their mother’s death and dad’s remarriage to me.
Arriving at the store early Sunday afternoon,
I did not expect such a thunderstorm of confusion.
On the trash heap of heartlessness,
clerks were already marking down common items
like ties and shirts, aftershave and desk supplies.
I moved past this obvious marsh of misery
to a safer spot and found myself in a fog.
I spotted an older woman I recognized.
In a sea of hopelessness, the two of us, ended up
sharing doughnuts and expensive coffee in Starbucks
(cave of debauchery) in the front of the store.
We indulged over footholds of remembrance,
the gifts our kids had given us when they were in school –
piles of hand prints, bookmarks, flower pictures and
homemade cards, simple, treasured, special gifts.
Abandoning my valley of sorrow caused by events
beyond my control, I quickly sped to the grocery aisle.
Racing back home I enjoyed fixing my best friend,
a Father’s Day Supper that he would remember,
complete with his favorite foods and dessert -
a gift totally given to pleasure, both his and mine.
August 16, 2019
he could not remember when he last put it to purpose
but nostalgia stared at him straight at face values’ frown
the typewriter ribbon hung onto the spool for dear life
a once proud carriage corroded and set on no return
like in a silent movie the roller release was speechless
a tray full of paper lay moth ridden in lost anticipation
a story in itself abandoned on the trash heap of sorrow
then an air raid warning siren disturbed his thoughts
incendiary bombs were drawn to the attic of his mind
fighter planes cradled the sky and dropped heavy loads
they called it retribution but it was massive slaughter
of epic proportions as memories flushed out retrograde pain
the laptop gave one final moan and the electric circuit
tripped and trapped him powerless in regressive void
his fingers burned on the keyboard and he was careful
to ration the oil for the machine in view of explosions
and the fine screwdriver trembled in his weary hands
somewhat disconnected but he refused to give way
to arrest as he fiddled with the Olympia Travel Deluxe
out of touch but in tune with overwhelming detonations
the trigger of flash backs emerged from his conscience
a candle of life flickered and breathed a sigh of relief
wax smirched his hands as he tried to steady the flame
accused him of falsification if he failed to recall reality
and recollect the dangers of power politics and assault
his only weapon remained the antiquated portable tool
and his only chance of survival was to narrate the truth
they retrieved his body and thought a finger was missing
but found it firmly attached to the shattered front scale
like a ghost writer some part of his memories told the tale
31st May 2021
Possibilities, like children, navigate the classable realms,
settling upon the measurable.
Amorous piglets, their peachy snouts delve,
rooting through the trash heap of desire.
"In a time beyond now," wheatenly speaks the tale-spinner,
plucking a clover, pale and crowned with stardust,
among the untamed grains sown in the depth of breath.
She informs a story of the jewel hung in ghastly night,
makes dark fright beauteous and her old face new.
I crave an eye bathed in Bengal's blaze,
eternity riding a celestial pyre,
Cetus dancing on an ocean canvas,
whose seas flow no fresher than the confessions' wicked drippings.
These realms are places of wonder,
where pigments of reality and fantasy blend,
and I am compelled to dwell within my cresset,
explorer of the shining glimmers.
Sipping the subtle freshness,
a learner from the lessons of Experience,
I gaze through colored glass,
where each tint reveals and re-veils truth like a story.
I wait to touch of hem of a thunderbird,
whose wings span the horizon,
whose voice shakes the earth and sky,
whose feathers spark the fire of inspiration.
And I believe I will, someday, when I soar beyond the dawn.
young whippersnapper brain
pours out her last idea
flicking adjectives into dirty dumpster
nouns prance off, disgusted
without elaboration or fancy descriptions
verbs take the lead,
kicking their adverbs to the curb
your nuances no longer welcome,
a mob mentality
seeking satisfaction in a brick alley
prepositions begin to arrive at the front
under the discarded boxes
searching through the rubble of the day
one climbs up the filthy trash heap
jumping into a pile of overused words
word play being what it is,
startling, laughing, loving gerunds arrive
carrying participles on their backs.
They cannot stop hitting, hurting and killing each other
Stop! Title yells. I want some kind of legacy.
I have no words to add, being mute and respectful of my elders
I am a mere homophone,
too consternated to know these two warring factions
well enough to take sides.
I once spent a week in the drunk tank
couldn't handle the spirits that I drank
the cuisine wasn't half bad
we even had a few laughs
but I had to guard my butt with a shank
……………………………………………………………………….
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
trying to keep sinking relations afloat
is like patching a old boat with stones
for certain It'll go under
sharks will move in to plunder
then crap out your miserable bones
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
"Its a girl" are the deadliest three words
in the history of the world.
They were impoverished,
and the birth of a girl did not bring smiles
as boys were always more cherished,
what it did bring were many options
all of them heart crushing and desperate-
To lay her on a trash heap outside of town
seemed cold and harsh they reasoned
and wild beasts might painfully finished her off..
and to toss her into the froth of the Yangtze,
she might get battered about to much.
How about lovingly putting a hand over her little mouth
but neither one had the heart to do such a thing,
"besides it may take much longer than we think
could we handle the stirrings and quiet screams"...
We could gently place her in the chamber pot
they thought and seal off the top
at least it would be dark and quiet,
but the pot would surely
be a constant reminder...
They finally decided, like million before,
to place her in a basket
perched high in the arms of a tree
at least (they reasoned)
her last day or two would
be spent amidst birdsong
moving along the leaves..
and the breeze might comfort her soul
as it makes its way toward the heavens-
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Children of possibilities navigate the classable realms,
settling upon the measurable.
Amorous piglets, their peachy snouts delve,
rooting through the trash heap of desire.
"In a time beyond now," wheatenly speaks the tale-spinner,
plucking a clover, pale and crowned with stardust,
among the untamed grains sown in the depth of breath.
I crave an eye bathed in Bengal's blaze,
eternity riding a celestial pyre,
Cetus dancing on an ocean canvas,
whose seas flow no fresher than the confessions' wicked drippings.
These realms are places of suspicion,
where pigments of reality and fantasy fasten,
and I am compelled to dwell within my cresset,
guardian of the trimming glimmers.
Snipping the subtle freshness,
a novice to the gallows of Experience,
I gaze through colored glass,
where each tint tells a story of refracted truths.