Long Unscrew Poems
Long Unscrew Poems. Below are the most popular long Unscrew by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unscrew poems by poem length and keyword.
Food packaging was once simple.
Ketchup came in a glass bottle
with a small cap that you unscrew.
Now we have plastic package new.
Man’s cleverness comes to the fore
to give ketchup a novel pour.
What clever gadgets we are sold
but there are details we’re not told.
Just the right squeeze is critical
from plastic bottle flexible.
Now if it’s straight out of the fridge
you must squeeze hard to get a squidge.
Then it should be allowed to breathe,
inhaling just from underneath.
But if you overlook this part
the next squeeze with a splat will start
and all around receive a share
as bright red splatters everywhere.
So next time with plastic ketchup
give it breathing time to catch up.
She's been kicked to the ground in the dust of despair , kicked in the ribs by human hyenas...
When trying to stand up she was stepped on like a cigarette butt
...and Time threw at her the acid of aging in an unexpected attack.
She never complained to the outside of her Soul. Dirt could be hosed down and she never needed ribs anyway:
She was one with the rhythm of Nature in Spring
and knew how to blossom despise desert winds.
We rented a boat out of a Pacific harbor.
I sat next to her for one hour ride.
We whispered and giggled memories of childhood while two whales accompanied us echo-locating our Soul.
"It Was Time!"
The motor went mute as clouds dissipated like a curtain, the Sun - the only stage light - focusing on the monologue of a sad. lonely life.
I picked up the urn, a silver Deja Vu.
My wings started to tremble as I was struggling to open the container. How can you grab and unscrew the lid of your Life wearing feathers from Heaven instead of fingers?
I whispered the Captain to help...
It was time for me to throw myself into the beloved Pacific ocean. It only lasted for a few seconds until I made contact with the tears of the dead. I have never imagined how heavy my ashes were. . I felt nostalgic but, oh, so very light...
We both said: "Farewell" to the lonely captain with blue tears in his eyes ...
he accelerated disturbing the balance , he was mad with the world
but still willing to anchor on Life...
Iolanda Scripca
I - Barley Pettigrew
I'll tell you a story, outstandingly true,
of the young lad called Barley Pettigrew.
He was born with nine fingers on his hands.
For how high he could count, it met his demands.
You see, the townsfolk all say the doctor said
he was born without anything in his head.
It's not surprising that he dropped out of school.
The teachers who taught him said he was a fool.
I admit, the boy hadn't a lick of sense,
but he threw a good frisbee, in his defense.
He would always unscrew a jar for its lid.
He threw anything round. That's what he did.
II - Daisy Purvis
Not far away, grew a young lass named Daisy.
The townspeople said that she must be crazy.
She had eleven fingers, by cursory count,
The Lord thought for Daisy, 'twas a good amount.
She spoke to nobody, never came to town.
Her mysterious poetry was upside down.
Conversing, as she did, only with the breeze,
she would make exceptions for birds and bees.
III - The National Frisbee Championship
The frisbee championship in County Cork -
the suspense was palpable, edible with a fork.
There is a concept known as failure, it seems,
but Barley showed up, not knowing what it means.
He threw the platter in the air so high,
passing birds remarked, "oh, how that thing does fly".
The wind seemed to grab it. How it did float!
It drifted 'til it landed in a field, remote.
Then and only then, the townspeople knew,
no one can toss frisbee like Barley Pettigrew.
How they did it, nobody understands,
Barley and Daisy, in a field, holding hands.
If this tale ain't true, you could hear a squirrel sneeze.
a sound I once heard, floating on the breeze.
Germany, 1964
In barracks bare of beauty
I lay restlessly in bed. Around, a rife
of lifeless characters
from some Saturday charade
sullenly invite me to their ghastly parade.
I merely pull my blanket higher up
and blatantly yell out "Shaddup!"
A spot of flesh unknown to sun itches
so I scratch. Musty curtains run
in dusty ripples on their pulleys.
The room overflows with bullies
but I turn over in my bunk
and choose to spurn,
scratching a spot that doesn't itch.
I glance up. The light bulb top is dirty.
I reach up, unscrew the bulb,
lay silent in my patch of dark
and try, vainly, to extinguish
a more persistent spark.
The air around me reeks of smoke and beer,
is heavy with the weight of discontent.
I lie still darkly fomenting
an impotent dislike
for atmospheres like this one.
I writhe upon my squeaky cot and dun
and growl like some ancient,
burly, and barbaric Hun.
Vehemently, I vocalize my intense tension
with interjections "nice people" would never mention.
CHOP SHOP
The Villages at Carver ate
Four tires and a steering wheel
Their hunger pangs would not abate
So they acquired plans to steal
A screwdriver
And a wrench too
A steel hammer
Golf carts unscrew
The Villages at Carver hide
Its many parts in a chop shop
As golfers exercise their stride
Wiping balled sweat until they drop
On dapper lawn
For evil’s spawned
From dusk to dawn
Behind closed doors
The Villages at Carver search
For splintered wood and tools of trade
Amidst the oak and pine and birch
The hidden door reveals a blade
Village gone mad
Carvers past sad
Pitchforks take stand
Revenge at last
The Villages at Carver mass
Drawing a crowd to view a home
Overlooking manicured grass
A course with four golf wheels and chrome
6/27/2017
I often post my poems “A I” - (AS IS)
Spelchek uses “R”s and I don’t
We us “H’s” instead
(we paahk R caahs in Haavaad yaad)
We’ve been known
To pitch a B itch
Mostly about those F-N Yankees
We “gawk at visitors from New Yawk”
We eat “bay gulls” for breakfast
Sprinkle “jimmies” on our ice cream
Buy our booze at the “packie”
Return all one fingered salutes
Drink from the bottle…cuz we know the bartenders
Believe that crosswalks are for sissy’s
That “cursive” is a language
Our politicians are as crooked as our roads
We will BOO the home team when they “piss us off”
Then call them WICKED PISSA when they do well
(we even have it on cups and T-shirts)
AI would unscrew itself if it had to listen to our conversations
We are who we are
DEAL WITH IT…
Someone from New York will tell ya where to go
Someone from Boston will tell you how to get there
I’m on a nasty drug
Disguised as kindly beauty
You’ll never find my dealer;
I’m the one who sells it to me
Yes, I’m the dealer of my love
Spilled those pills straight down my heart
I never feel I’ve had enough
Yet you’ve broke me since the start
How I long to stop taking you
But love’s an opioid for crying
Each day I’m begging, drooling
Though inside I know the drug's lying
It's as if I have forgotten
All the pain you’ve put me through
My mind goes numb, my eyes turn dumb
Bam!
My hands connect with you
And within your cusp I pry your vial
I know it's full of dust…
But it gleams like gold within the moment
My eyes see through its rust
I unscrew your rusty bottle
And my heart of longing sinks
My loving stole the best of me
Your perfume abruptly stinks
Every time you blew my candles out
To windy winter blues
But I can not stop my heart from beating
It's something I must do
So much love locked in my heart-shaped vault
No one to share it with but you
Freedom from you means no love
How can I make it through?
Parachuted squirrels glide onto leaf piles and laugh at my heroic efforts
to keep them from taking apart my bird feeders.
With xylophonic fingers they lift the lids and unscrew until the feeders
give up and fall with a plunk to the ground, giving them fair claim to bounty.
I kite over to the oak tree, irritated that they have once again thwarted
my efforts to discourage and dissuade them from their goal.
Blemished anxiety rears her ugly head, and I begin to wail upon discovering
my two brand new feeders are broken beyond repair.
Do I abandon my quest or do I Don Quixote myself into reviving and refreshing
my efforts? I do hope to feed the birds some of this feed, right?
Neon light bulbs flash in my head as I sleep, dreaming of the various ways I can
conquer the marauders, without hurting them, but retaining feeder integrity.
The interlopers are hiding in foxtailed clumps of grass as I meander outside.
I attempt to appear casual. I wish I could whistle, but I never could.
The fabric on my jeans is chafing me, which adds to my irritation, however I do
my best to not grimace, act perturbed or otherwise warn the squirrels of my intentions.
A glimmer of turquoise forces me to look down for a second. It is a tiny charm of
a dog that has been missing for over three years. I gratefully pocket her.
Snowflakes begin to gently glide down past my nose as I hang the second bird feeder
back onto the hook. A wonderful sign that I finished with perfect timing.
Naturally, those crafty squirrels again outsmarted me, and had both feeders on the ground
before noon. Their little paws can unscrew faster than any I have ever seen.
I have to laugh, remembering all the times my father used to try to outsmart squirrels.
He finally gave up and put corn on his deck for them. They used to come up and knock
when they were out, which amused him greatly as he was on the other side of the glass
slider, grinning like a cat.
I am drawn to you as an alcoholic to a glass of whiskey,
I lift you to my lips taking a simple sip,
I pour you from the bottle I’ve enclosed you within,
Without fail,
Another day,
Another drink,
Why can’t I stop pouring,
Pouring and drinking from your glass?,
I put you in the bottle,
I expected you to stay there,
My selfish ways inscribe within,
Tip the bottle,
Unscrew the flask,
Giving hopelessly into your misery,
You comfort me while you take my life,
You steal me from my body,
You disconnect me from my conscious mind,
Who might I call upon to save me from the nothingness?,
No, I am not an alcoholic,
But as I tip the glass further,
Your solace becoming my pain,
Raise a glass to despair!,
Raise a glass to easeful torture!,
No, I am not an alcoholic,
But I am addicted to the ideals you present,
Please,
I beg,
Save me from myself,
Save me from inside,
Please,
I beg,
I do not want to be okay if this is what it means,
I do not want to be okay if okay belongs in your arms,
I do not want to be okay,
I want to survive,
Let me survive.
Our black is beautiful
It's not just a color
It's us as a whole supporting each other
You don't know the magic
The whispers of our name
Just like storms
We have overcame
People used us
Abused us
Back fifty years ago
They thought they ruled us
Then when we had a team
Who had a dream
Should I remind you his name
Dr. Martin Luther King
He was the one with the dream
The one with education
He helped with the movement
To put an end to segregation
He said in one of his speeches
That we should not be judged by our skin
But the content of our character
That was the truth
We have the power
Let's put it to use
I love everybody
There are so many tears of happiness I am so proud
That we are winning
I can say it out loud
You are beautiful
You are amazing
You are the best
And that's not shading
We have different shades different views
We have the tools
To unscrew and solve the problem
No longer have to run no ducking and dodging
We can walk
Rip the runway
With our head up everyday
People said we couldn't do it
We couldn't follow our dreams
Look at us now we just had five winning queens
Miss USA , Miss Universe,Miss Teen ,Miss World , and Miss America
Titles amazingly beautifully made they let us see dreams come true
Just be authentic most of all be you
Make up is nice it adds a touch
Embrace yourself love you as much
This time I just want to embrace this moment we are in
Love deeper than your skin
This was just a poem to tell you
That you can do whatever you put your mind to
Written by: Concetta Hardnett
12/13/2019