Long Trophies Poems
Long Trophies Poems. Below are the most popular long Trophies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trophies poems by poem length and keyword.
YOU'LL NEVER WEAR THE CROWN
NO BETS YOU'LL WIN THE RACE
NO MEDALS ON YOUR CHEST
NO TROPHIES FOR YOUR FACE
NO ONE COULD EVER LOVE YOU
YOU'LL NEVER MEASURE UP
DON'T EVEN BOTHER TRYING
YOU'LL NEVER BE ENOUGH
THESE THOUGHTS SWIRL IN MY HEAD
I'M DROWNING IN SELF DOUBT
THE FEAR TRIES TO CONSUME ME
MAKES ME FEEL LIKE I DON'T COUNT
I HAVE TO BREAK THESE CHAINS
SEE THE BEAUTY INSIDE ME
NEED TO CHANGE MY OWN PERCEPTION
I'M MY OWN WORST ENEMY
I WAS JUST A A LITTLE KID
WHEN THESE FEELINGS GOT THEIR START
THE OLDER ONE WAS PRETTY
THE YOUNGER ONE WAS SMART
I WAS NOTHING SPECIAL
WAS JUST THE IN BETWEEN
A SHY CLUMSY TODDLER
THEN AN AWKARD NERVOUS TEEN
MET WITH LOTS OF BULLIES
AT THE SCHOOLYARD ALONG THE WAY
THEY SENSED MY INSECURITIES
THAT I WAS EASY PREY
EVEN THOUGH IT'S LONG AGO
BAD MEMORIES FROM THE PAST
IT'S FUNNY HOW HURT FEELINGS
ALWAYS SEEM TO LAST
I'M SO TIRED OF FEELING USELESS
LONELY IN SUCH PAIN
SCREW THIS INSECURITY
JUST TOSS IT DOWN THE DRAIN
I'M PROUD TO STAND IN MY SHOES
I'M PERFECT IN MY WAY
AND I KNOW THAT ONE DAY SOON
I'LL BE STRONG ENOUGH TO SAY
I HAVE NO MORE FEARS
I'VE RELEASED ALL MY SELF DOUBTS
I'VE CHASED OFF MY DEMONS
REALIZED THAT I COUNT
HAD ENOUGH OF FEELING WORTHLESS
LONELY AND AFRAID
NO MORE GOING BACKWARDS
IT'S A PROMISE THAT I MADE
IF I COULD SPEND A DAY WITH YOU...
If I could spend a day with you, I'd be happy,
we'd never get enough of each other's company.
Our poems and write-ups will embrace unity.
Our inks will make love in the nights enmity
as we stain the sheet with creativity.
We'd hold hands strolling with a coffee,
grip each other in timeless euphoria like a trophy;
But you're worthier than all the biggest trophies.
Kissing is your art, I'd paint you with kisses,
And bask in the glory of heavenly drizzles,
Write you a poem that'll rain beautiful tears
Off your hazy eyes that'll wash off your fears.
I'd wipe away your tears when you feel blue,
every day, I'd tell how much I cherish you
I'd stare into your eyes, & without a single word,
We'd flipped feelings over the board.
If I could spend a day with you,
there is no height we wouldn't scale through,
I'll be your chandelier & make your night colorful,
leave an impression, I'd make you gleeful,
the holy grail is to make you esctatically happy.
I'd cuddle your brain & crack you up in a jiffy,
telling riddles & tales about motherland, Africa.
And when my day is spent & our bond bigger,
I'd made you more happier and freakier,
a memento of our memories rises at every flicker.
Reminisce our memiors now and forever.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhymes
Copyright ©? March 2023.
Our oath is our soul keeping
our joys are from smoking and drinking,
from the cannabis we cultivate a seeing
a laughter from the suffering
a tear for the living memory
from the raw uncut winery
We feel the flesh more keenly,
our trophies include skull cap revelry
imbibing the blessings of the enemy
from the roof of their mind's sanctuary
a treasure merrily grisly,
the scalps of our competitors a salary
making for cloak and horse bridle history,
from the trauma we make victory,
From the trauma we make victory
we showed the world how to whip and ride
how to love liberty,
paper and stone do not decide
the way in which we remedy
iniquity, only in Truth do we confide,
as our kin conquered steadily
from Kushan to Hispania's Atlantic tide,
Rome relinquishing the keys to Destiny
from Atilla to Theodoric's tribe,
the nomadic warriors and traders remained free,
Visigoths vanished as their independence atrophied
the Ostrogoths succumbed to sedentary treachery,
our songs remain sung strongly,
Our songs remain sung strongly,
as Christ was cruxified
for crucibles carried by the Family
we gave sanctuary to many a preacher stigmatized,
Toaists tasted the terror of our primal domain
Buddhists bathed in butterflys' blood
as the Jews jumped on the caravan coin,
Hindus knew Indra lived in the Aryan Hood
while the Nestorians never questioned our sin
and the shamans ate the shame of life,
Mohammad's ginger genetics made him kin
and his Jihad made us grin at the strife
his armies hired us and paid better than the Byzantine,
sometimes faith lives on the edge of a knife,
J.A.B. 2020
The ground rumbles, ominously, I'm on the steep side of a Mississippi River Bluff, mid-August, gathering bursting crimson red trophies of Staghorn Sumac for my favorite sumac-ade, a spright, invigorating tonic I enjoy this time of year. The smell in the air, forest-sage beginning to dry and ripen, the bitter tang of scattered paper-birch bark chimneys...must keep alert for the origins of the earthly rumble.
The unsettled earth, sweet and bitter smells...mix with my age and I sit down as if in a trance and drift asleep...harkening back to my training as a young man in a Manhattan Bagel Deli, assembling prep-stations for the customer onslaught about to descend. Proofed bagel dough, seeded and rotating in the elevator slate-shelved oven after a frothy malt-bath in the bubbling giant kettle, delectable aromas of fairly vibrating paper-sliced spiced meats and piquant aged cheeses, briny sheets of smoked lox, pots of sweetly acidic capers and luminous heirloom tomatoes...
But I'm much older now, my mind remembers, but my body can't function like it once did, I can't perform the once-easy configurations effortlessly like before.
The rumbling, just my imagination...
I awaken, gather my bunch of fluorescent sumac, which I am still able to concoct, mindful of God's Grace in my spiritual and physical evolution...He
Has Blessed me with.
8-13-20
6:03 am
my time of childhood, I could roam free
without any worries, without any care in the world
from breakfast to dinner mum would never see me
an innocent child with happy laughter and smiling glee
life seemed simpler, time never twisted or twirled
my time of childhood, I could roam free
whether on my own or with a friend i was let be
my passion to roam afar became my world
from breakfast to dinner mum would never see me
cuts and bruises never bothered me
they were trophies of life in my golden dreamworld
my time of childhood, I could roam free
my young angelic eyes saw no danger around me
an innocent child whose simplicity was unfurled
from breakfast to dinner mum would never see me
i unlocked the no fuss door with my key
my imagination soared high, spun and whirled
my time of childhood, I could roam free
from breakfast to dinner mum would never see me
How does He know when I am
hurting inside?
And He sends a fellow human
to me, that holds my soul in
their hands with a loving tide.
His forgiveness is endless!
His love, overwhelming divine.
Yet the sea of His creation turns
their hardened backs on Him.
His words neither followed, let
alone ever read.
And humanity, oh humanity!
So shocked when the streets
run crimson with bloodshed!
Seven hundred of His creations
will be slaughtered each day.
You, yes. you, with contest wins,
trophies and your beautiful quill.
Remember, reflect and be still!
For you were once one of the
unborn, too!
Choose all you do wisely then,
according to His will.
August 15, 2019
"Sewn"
Super hero
come walk fire with me
all super heroes are freaks
fuelled by their hidden vulnerability
and their dark cherished secrets
poets some consider romantic freaks
some hide quietly mining
whittling their time away,
some are hell-bent, heaven-sent
breaking glass ceilings
strange bitter sweet creatures
writing in regiments
riding astride their own gallant ponies
something missing,
something incomplete
yet all possess war medals
skewered through their hearts
decorated with garlands
of dripping scarlet and sapphire poésies
some are just fresh and green jaded trophies
way out there
in foreign territory
see them basking like
well fed leopards changing spots
off planet, far removed from the fringe
breaking glass ceilings
yet stories in solid books
stitched up and minds firmly planted
long and short sentences sown together
with strong spines
never to be broken again
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
abstract.
dripping scarlet poésies/bleeding hearts
sapphire poésies/blue poetry (take that whichever way you wish)
of course, blue and red could refer to the colours of flags
or the quandary between taking pills, blue or red...
green jaded trophies (best left to one's imagination...)
A twenty-four year difference
In the ages at the match
Means the older of the players
Has some wisdom to dispatch.
After all, she is a champion,
With many trophies won,
Her opponent at a point
Where her career has just begun.
Yet a twenty year old body
Still has spring that hasn’t sprung
And an arm or two that hasn’t
At a million forehands swung.
So at Wimbledon today, Serena,
Though she tried her best,
Got the crowds to cheer her on
But ultimately, failed the test.
They say age is just a number,
Which sounds nice, but truth be told,
It’s too hard to be competing
With somebody half as old.
I am from low cars
From classic old cars and car shows
To race cars and race events
From street racing and on the track
To sunset and sunrise joyrides
From cheers, victories, and even trophies
To boos and losses
But everyday is great when you’re from low cars
I am from lifted trucks
From Chevys and diesels
To offroad Jeeps and lifted Blazers
From black smoke and burnouts
To speeding tickets and even citations
From big, wide, tires and mud flaps
To the beautiful sound of the roaring engine
But everyday is great when you’re from lifted trucks
I am from a shop
From once clean clothes to work clothes
To a dirty cement floor
From mud everywhere and oil spills covering the ground
To working hard and getting your hands dirty
From cars and trucks that enter broken
To repairing and restoring, where they leave fixed
But everyday is great when you’re from a shop
No matter where I am, I am always
from low cars, lifted trucks, and a shop
Above a cloudy jar of brine
That floated greenish hard boiled eggs,
Beside a Schlitz beer waterfall
That told bar time (ten minutes fast),
A taxidermied Jack-A-Lope
With rabbit ears and tiny rack
Stared marble eyed into the dark.
“We don’t have many Jack-A-Lopes
Back home in any city bars,”
I told a man who served us drinks.
“At prices there, that’s no surprise.”
The barman said without a smile
And told us of the Jack-A-Lope:
Time was you looked, you’d find his kind,
But rarely in these mountain slopes.
They only bred in wintertime
And only in electric storms.
It’s rumored round that milk that came
From mother Jack-A-Lopes could cure
Whatever walks on twos or fours
So rare it was most called it myth
As much as Sasquatch ever was.
Until one day a dowser came
Divining where to dig a well.
And gripping his good witching stick
Could swear he saw the front branch twitch.
He scrunched his eyes and looked again.
“No, something’s in that undergrowth.”
Up popped the branchy antlers of
This fearsome critter, Jack-A-Lope.
Now as it was this dowser had
A more than common whiskey thirst.
And had to live his life downwind
From ordinary decent folk.
Like pictures of Napoleon,
He stuck his hand inside his coat,
Produced a flask of sour mash,
And threw it at this portmanteau.
Some say it hopped away afraid,
But those that know have winked and said,
“That animal attacked the flask;
Without their bourbon Jack-A-Lopes
Will fade away until they’re gone.”
Outsiders paid some license fees
For hunting season, dates of which
Cannot be found on calendars.
The most were poached as trophies for
Hotels, saloons and brothels where
The mounted heads amazed their guests.
No hunter had had an interest in
An animal that can’t be killed
Because it never ever was.
But now so heavy was the hunt
The Jack-A-Lope was soon extinct,
So every one of them was killed
To prove one time they did exist.
The bar grew quiet just as if
Some meaning might be understood.
I pointed at my empty glass
And asked the barman pouring drinks,
“What’s on that plaque below the head?”
“Some Latin words, a kind of crest.
A family motto more or less.”