Long Unhooked Poems
Long Unhooked Poems. Below are the most popular long Unhooked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unhooked poems by poem length and keyword.
I wake to a monochrome world and I yawn
The reds, greens and yellows awaiting the dawn
Out on the water, my luminous float
Rides unseen ripples in fear of no boat
This morning my roof is my fishing umbrella
A night with my thoughts means I’ve something to tell her
I guess what I mean is I’ve something to ask
I practice the words as I reach for my flask
My thermos sits tempting with vegetable soup
It’s contents have settled to vegetable gloop
Was that a laugh in the form of a squark
As I eat my soup with a very long fork
With no other human for miles around
No unsought opinions that seek to confound
No ear-ache from experts intent to be heard
How welcome the chirps of the earliest bird
The scrabbles and scurries of night’s muted audio
Bow to the quacks of a new day’s first rodeo
The moon doffs its cap to a newly ris sun
My float dips a little… I’m ready for fun
I strike as my float disappears underwater
I think of my girl and I wish I had brought her
Forsaking her bed was too much of a wrench
But she’d have been thrilled at the sight of a tench
My rod tip bends into its repeated thumps
I steer it away from those lily pad clumps
Nuclear war now… a minor mishap
I now live in fear of a single sound, SNAP!
But I turn its head and I draw the fish near
Oh how I wish that my baby was here
She’d call it God’s prettiest creation yet
As the red eyed, green beauty slides into my net
Shame it was not on my new rod as hoped
I’d broken that rod but my old one had coped
Admiring the beauty, my subconscious said
Admire the beauty at home in your bed
I unhooked that Tench and released it at once
I’m thrilled with the one but one more would be bunce
An early morn chill and this fisherman muddles
Should I not be home having kisses and cuddles
I so love to fish and the girl of my dreams
Never complains, there’s no rants and no screams
So now I've decided, I’ve made up my mind
A more understanding girl I’ll never find
I fumbled my phone so I took off a glove
This question to ask of the woman I love
My fishing rod that was a gift from your mother
I broke it, I said, could she buy me another?
Had to download some daylight,
the screen is in dark mode,
is the plasma alive?
Alive in the way the brain is;
not awake or aware
but just a memory nexus
shuffling between
fake pictures of reality.
The sun is up, a fuzzy picture,
one a camera once captured,
an image
blurred by a few lost rays
of time.
Coffee mug is still untouched,
it too is in dark screen mode,
adjustments will have to be made,
a lot of downloaded vids
of cute kittens perhaps?
I recall when
there were no delete buttons,
just buttons,
coats unhooked from anything,
yet even back then
hooks were hung by unseen hands.
There were no reboot options
in that world.
It's getting lighter,
I can see that from a lens
held in a hand
I will never know.
The dark is diminishing,
but that light,
what a strange light
that has no day or night
within it,
and it wavers, it shimmers,
comes and goes,
and it does not shine-out,
just leaks out
of a plasma picture.
Friends gathered to play 'Murder Mystery' online
Each person playing a role by game assigned.
One was a doctor, one was a teacher, one worker in nightclub,
With other roles assigned for fictitious group who met in a pub.
It was natural that each player used their own experiences
To provide color and meaning to the roles they played.
But the sense of déjà vu grew to eerie seances
As ghosts and reminiscences entwined, in play displayed.
The plot thickened and brewed like soup in a pot
Ingredient threads gathered together, refined when cooked.
Each player's own hateful intentions added spicy twists to the plot
That bypassed the script and set new outcome, with old ending unhooked.
Each player was suddenly aware they were scheming to kill in real life
The one person they all hated, and for past grave offences to avenge.
Strangely, that person was the nominated 'killer' who stabbed with knife
The play's victim in the script, who had threatened revenge.
The group had planned the perfect murder for the play's 'killer'
Who had innocently joined in the group's plot to murder him.
The game ended, and each player correctly identified the 'murderer'
A unanimous vote to knife the 'murderer', an 'Et tu, Brute' plot, gruesome and grim.
Delusion comfort and the somn of the routine
Draws sharpness of awareness of yours
Depending on the context of your situation
The habit of the mechanism is tin
That's weird type of force
The conservation
In fact you really don't conserve the monkeys
Maybe you preserve
Linguistics say
Of terminologies the bias of buzzword
The physical the meaning of the word
The real physical the meaning
Hey, look the wordies of the medias of yours
What meaning do conserve you in your writing
In your course
Of the direction
Where is the transformative the point that
Doesn't conserve the suffering and victim
So you may enjoy
Dilemma that of theirs, human's
Of glorifying depths of trauma and the sin
Konserva is in russian language Tin
It's type of package actually the hook
That cannot be unhooked in fact that easy
The real processing is really really hard
But the stupidity and moron fashions of the world
Is easy
We're ceasing bias, lies, desiformation
Specific points, opinions, lifestyles
In these the metrics these are kilometers
In these these measured distance as the miles
As a child we watched George Jetson face-timing Mr. Spacely.
We knew this would never come to fruition.
Our stereo players took an entire end table.
Videotaping was not even a future dream.
Tape recorders were enormously heavy and bulky.
We might be able to borrow Daddy’s to tape our voices.
If it was a special occasion and we promised not to hurt it.
As electronic as we got, but we did not use the word electronic.
Back in my day there were no computers – not home or office.
I was out of high school before I ever heard the word computer.
The few that existed took up a full room in a university.
We had not met VCR tapes yet, our music was on records.
In 1984 my husband and I bought a word processor.
The salesman told us it was the first one sold west of the Mississippi.
It was an Osbourne, followed by an Olivetti 248.
I learned terms I had never heard before in my life.
Storage, disc, data, it was like learning a new language.
VCR tapes and players were being sold now.
we purchased six hundred of those tapes.
never dreaming they would not always be the most current thing.
not realizing there would ever be home computers
or personal computers or cell phones unhooked to walls
We would have laughed our guts out at the idea of Facetime
Never dreaming that years later we would be face-timing Mr. Spacely
A lone flower
stuck in the muck, tested
by strong winds and hard rain,
yet its tentacles
remain unhooked
from the soil.
It's been through the wringer,
yet look at it thrive!
Look at it do the limbo!
Look at it dance...
and twirl all about!
and look, just look...
at that golden glow!
It still smiles under the sun!
COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE(14) any theme any form contest (Winner: Honorable Mention)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date written: 10/13/2019
Tranquil thoughts
breathing
of slow kissed sights
comforted
in expelling this light
languorous trembled gaze
A mask promising nothing
yet yearning to taste
now pushed aside
Risking this pull
stakes everything
Claims made
forever washing
though tears of ecstasy
now rolling free of
ducted bliss
trailed warmth of
cored beings
exquisite dripping
yets
Serenades of wanting
traveling through blood
as feather breathes
brushed lightness
thieves strength
floating in
washes of joyed right
Unaltered and bare
lured to charm
unhooked to potent need
she is lost
Silkily softness crushed in satin
drawn to slither tight
set free to embrace
crystal screams
shattered
in feathers graced might
Masked
to be nothing
revealed
in breathlessness
I turned around...should not have looked;
they all were there and set to go.
The time was set, the day was booked;
today would be the final show.
A tear came flowing down my cheek...
I turned around...should not have looked.
My heart was pounding, legs were weak,
and yet somehow, my mind was hooked.
That arm with claws was soon unhooked
to swivel, reach up high and crash.
I turned around...should not have looked
to watch it make that painful gash.
With digs and pulls...they tore it down.
My childhood home they came and took
to build a bridge from town to town.
I turned around...should not have looked.
Sandra M. Haight
~6th Place~
Contest: I Should Not Have Looked
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
Judged: 06/14/2017
New York State claimed my childhood home
via eminent domain in 1960 and demolished it
to build the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge.
What was so different about that day?
We had met many times before.
Perhaps a spark had ignited
That we were unaware of
Until the fire swept us away,
Or the still waters of personal passion
Caught us in their hidden depths.
With the sun shining and you dressed in cream
It all seemed so bright and right
When our unprompted lips eagerly touched
And melted together with magnetic force.
Electricity was in the air that day
As nature stood gloriously still and silent
Blessing our sublime sacrament with awe.
Crossing the bridge into our own Garden of Eden
We tasted of the first fruit of knowledge.
Your unhooked bra let your milky white breasts
Tumble free,your crimson papillae pert and proud,
While you arched your back to receive me into your innermost sanctum.
Complete harmony ruled the celestial spheres
As we fused in holy and ecstatic union.
That mystical moment hallowed our bonding
For which we should really thank Providence
In providing sacred moments of pleasure
That we will forever treasure.
Oh goodness the house is on fire,
And so is the one across the street,
And the one next door, I’m scared,
And frantic and overpowered with smoke!
I hear the fire crackling
And voices and feel intense heat,
I have to run, and save some
Of my treasures, they are irreplaceable,
Someone is shouting,
Get out of this house, I hear running feet,
Put a wet towel over my head
And head to the lounge which is Smokey,
Collect my first treasure an oil painting
Of my late parents, got to beat
This fire but there’s still more I need
To save, my religious icons from the
Spare bedroom and whilst I am there,
My favourite pink sneakers, repeat
After me I say to myself, ‘You’ll
Be fine’, must hurry - grab my laptop
With irreplaceable information and
My poetry soup poems, I hear someone greet
Me, a fireman, he tells me to leave,
But I still must find great Greek Grandma’s
Vase, whoops grabbed it, nearly dropped it
I blush and try to be discreet,
As I ripped off my pyjama pants,
They were scorched and hot, rush Jennifer
Rush, can’t take much more of this fire and heat,
Unhooked my degrees, as I turn, meet
The chief fireman who grabs my arm,
My word girl, this a command, leave
This house at once! Please there’s just one
More thing I must find, I say yes, but cheat
And turn back towards where half of the
House has burnt down, I have one-minute left!
Go back to my bedroom through fearsome flames,
Still have the wet towel on my head,
Save my gold trinket bracelet from my 21st,
And with newfound strength, run to the street,
I only have my pajama top and panties on
But covered with minor burns, bruises and soot,
From head to foot!
Happy as I lark, I couldn’t care for the rest,
And I saved what I wanted,
Risking my life and trying my best!
THANK GOODNESS MY FAMILY WERE NOT IN THE HOUSE!
ENTERING POETRY CONTEST – SEVEN THINGS YOU WOULD SAVE IF YOUR HOUSE WAS ON FIRE.
14/2/2019