Long Urban Poems
Long Urban Poems. Below are the most popular long Urban by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Urban poems by poem length and keyword.
I never know my body has rotten
until it appears through the wall mirror
these remains are heaped upon an autan
next spire takes a hearer turn for queerer
now urban commercial cores of gulag
I am a particular schlockier
for signs which are cheap to erect as clague
extensions can be found from that nearer
some convergent, others conflicting stun
I suspect having to do with my craag
this penetrates deeply into a gun
into the family into dague
extreme lengths to which I loosely spun
remain a shadow in place to slither
They are destroying your creations,
the geen fields are burning
and blazes rise high;
the blackened town
has turned into ashes...
a devastated gost town
where once life
thrived with foot-steps
and engines running!
They are destroying your creations,
barren vallies, mountains and lands
where birds found their home so thrilling,
but forced to flee within minutes;
the scary arsonists also fled,
not to get cought or get burned
while scurring and panting!
Weeping hearts and saddened faces
are overwhelmed by devastation...
who can understand their frustration?
They are destroying your creations
with torches and evil minds;
beauty is something they detest,
the smell of burnt makes them powerful;
how can they destroy the wilderness
that gives them life without chargiing a dime?
How can they stand back
and watch this happening
while others are suffering?
If they are the devils' accomplices
in this horrendous spectacle,
they will surely pay fully for their harm!
He was a wild ride
An urban stride
dark alley back room kinda guy
His essence was spark and flint
district red lights stalked him
seethe-y and arcane
black birds followed him
mice squeaked as he passed
dank darkness clung to his foot falls
levitated his feet
he was half angel and half man
(but his better half was deeply depressed to be with him)
They say
one day
he ducked into the black soot shadows beside the bar dumpster
and disappeared
leaving behind
only red ash and a single sterling silver coin
that no one....dares to touch
4.9.2017 (for contest Urban Legand)
A mountain of some measure aligned slopes,
Silversword's statuesque uncommonness,
bikers and skiers, youth urban slang, 'dopes,'
pics of height's flowering tower upness.
Centuries of swordplay, The Word, acclaimed,
plowshares and the sorts treats its new version.
Purplish flowers are structurally framed,
like a cross handle, silver hairs orphan.
Majestic still today, handle to point,
Jehovah's watchtower, grand edifice
leans to age and weather. Volcano joint
Maui's 'House of the Sun' sole home exists.
Another species bides the intellects,
nature goes on living with the ... neglects.
Onyx veined moon
peeps behind a frilled
crystal cut cloud adrift
black ink stoic sky
has its pallette
pleading for a
bristled brush
in the hands
of visionary
captivated by
a mystic miracle
that glowing orb
it neatly nestles
whilst weaving
wispy strands
of scattered
lunar beams
oe’r pliant
dark tree top
foliage swaying
to sharp breeze
scenic stimulus
an earnest art
grove gallery by
adjoining stream
in flow and trickle
stint akin to cue
for lambent
loiterer glum
so perplexed
yet inward
inkling as orbit
of the artisan
pen or paint
closet dabbler
whose inertia
frozen frigid
hidebound
hankers for
silken swoon
from that
celestial
of bodies
to spark
a latent fiery
gumption
bubbling
blandly
within each
arch after
hour budding
Rembrandt
Hey you! You’re a mum
‘Bout time you talked to your son
Where was he last night?
Came home, what a sight
Lingering smoke
‘Bout time you sat down and spoke.
He ain’t got a job
Well dressed, not a slob
Cut hands, torn clothes
Bruised cheek, bloody nose
How come he ain’t broke
‘Bout time you sat down and spoke.
No sense in avoidin’
What went on in Croydon
In Hackney and Ealing
You must have a feeling
The destruction and riot
This ain’t the time to keep quiet.
Full of excuses
Substances abuses
Lack of respect
Which you’ve come to expect
Why d’you let it go on
Where did it go wrong?
Hey you! You should listen
This discord and friction
It won’t go away
This ain’t no way to behave
You need to ask questions
What are his intentions?
Hey you! You’re a mum
'Bout time you talked to your son?
Form:
Surveying
northern autumn afternoon
Pitcherelli, ex-marine, body-builder,
Lussier, long-haired father of three dark-skinned children
and myself, sharp-edged loner, ex-lover of a fair share of women
are belly-laughing in the dying sun. Clouds.
The crew, in timber.
Laughing
over recent visits to marvelous cities where
we could not keep ourselves from touching the terminal buds
of numerous exotic trees
and attracting ridicule of stylish girls and tame boyfriends.
Pitcherelli before the Albany bus station
shaking hands with a red pine planted thirty years ago.
Lussier, one hand in a child's hand and the other
feeling scabrous bark of urban woody plants.
Myself among partially shaved heads and leathery aromatic jackets
getting close to the hairy bud of an unidentified poplar or sycamore.
People
laughed, but we laughed best
back on our mountain
under the blackening weather.
What’s on your mind today: Do Tell? #2
Binders full of women; where? what is the price?
Governor that is so nice
Was it the pioneer women? "No
It's the women from Massachusetts
Not the pioneer women
who feed the hogs?
Attend to the children
And fed the chickens
But the modern women who attend
Harvard, Princeton, Yale and Cornell
Prestige Colleges and Universities
A binder full of educated women
Mr.R you would have been better off saying
I am going to give a voice to all women
Whose experiences might otherwise have been overlooked?
My Administration new passed word from now on is going
to be"Ladies First"
Pulled up your bumper babies
Vote for me.
Form:
While out upon my daily walk
I had to stop and simply gawk
At something that looked out of place
In such a busy urban space.
A building that I always pass,
A huge one, made of brick and glass,
Has, in the driveway, lovely plants
And spouting fountain, to enhance.
Occasionally, pigeons land
And in the water, they do stand
To drink or take a little bath
Before they hop back on their path.
Today, though, they had company,
A sight the neighbors rarely see,
For strutting there, with lots of pluck,
Next to the pigeons was a duck.
I can’t imagine whence it came;
The pigeons might have thought the same,
But in New York this rule applies –
Let nothing take you by surprise.
Little pebbles of broken glass, litter the streets, but the children run barefoot anyway.
Stubbing toes, contracting disease, playing with cigarette butts and discarded syringes.
The teens hide by the dumpsters, and quickly pump a vein.
A homeless man, jealous of the teen; instead, clenches his timeless drug of choice, a good ole' fashioned beer.
The sun still shines on the dust covered signs.
The streets crumble under the weight of America's ever increasing obese population.
Nothing has really changed, besides new acceptance of tried and true vices.
There’s always little kids causing trouble, teens using drugs, depressed old men drinking away their shame.
America is still the same great country,
Far superior than all the rest!
Despite their reduction in crime, lowered drug addiction rates, drop in homelessness, and constant upkeep of their buildings and streets.
Well besides all that... America is still Superior in Every way….