Long Wrist watch Poems
Long Wrist watch Poems. Below are the most popular long Wrist watch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wrist watch poems by poem length and keyword.
Although I was retired and full of energy,
My heartbeat was irregular and slow.
They would beat slow, pause, and restart.
I never saw it coming, but I was slowly dying.
I passed out several times, but still was clueless.
I quickly awaken after each pass-out, but there
Was one occasion when I passed out in the kitchen.
I was all alone and asleep on the kitchen floor, and my
Son awakened me. Had I been home alone, I would have
Surely died. Sometime after that incident and after turning
65, I went in for a physical exam. My primary doctor, among
Other things, checked my heart and referred me to a cardiologist.
The heart specialist spoke plain language to me with great analogy.
The cardiologist informed me that our hearts come with a pacemaker,
But mine was like a 6-cylinder engine with 2 or 3 spark plugs malfunctioning.
Their solution was the insertion of a pacemaker that would greatly assist my
Heart. With an 8-year life span, the pacemaker would interact with the heart. It would set the pace for the rate and number of beats per minute normally
Required for me. I was reluctant to their remedy, but 6 months later, I was Provided a pacemaker. I tell you, she's the size of a wrist watch, and sitting
Just below my left shoulder is a warrior, a tropper, a pace-setter who has been Fighting for me and my heart for 7 years, keeping us alive. With one pill and
An aspirin a day, my pacemaker, expected to serve me for 8 years, is doing Just fine. God, the love of my life, is GOOD, and His Grace is sufficient.
051422PSCtest, How you live or have been healed from a difficult and challenging health condition, Angela Tune
Parents weren't around to raise me, all I had was words and lyrics from rappers
Excuse me, if I act like Hip-Hop is the only thing that matters
Nas, Rakim,Tupac and Eminem taught me more than any book
Hip-Hop Taught me more about life than any teacher ever could
I don't care for mumble rappers or the new slang
From a young age I've listened to Big Pun, Jay-Z and Wu-Tang
So I love a message in the bars and rhymes
I see Hip-Hop today and I hate how the art has declined
From a young age I've been in love with Hip-Hop
But I don't care about love and Hip-Hop
I care about rhymes, storytelling, lyricism, I'm not the one to judge your wrist watch
I like the rappers that try to Write something so hard, that when they lift their pad up, blood will drip off
Hip-Hop inspired me to be better, but the government will tell you it's to blame for Gun crime
Because they hear the word gun and don't listen to the full rhymes
If you don't listen to artists on a whole, you have no right to judge their artistry
No teacher taught me more about life than KRS-One, Common, Nas and Bone Thugs and Harmony
At the age of 8 I heard the Marshall Mathers LP for the first time
Obsessed and mesmerised by the different way rappers made words rhyme
Depression had a hold of me and stopped me from sleeping at night
But as soon as I threw some Hip-Hop on, it gave me a reason to fight
They told me it was inappropriate, but someone tell me what's worse
My family drinking and injecting heroin, or a rapper putting a few swear words in their musical work?
If it wasn't for Hip-Hop I wouldn't be alive right now because it saved me
Until the day I die I'll always be a Hip-Hop baby
Parents weren't around to raise me, all I had was words and lyrics from rappers
Excuse me, if I act like Hip-Hop is the only thing that matters
Nas, Rakim,Tupac and Eminem taught me more than any book
Hip-Hop Taught me more about life than any teacher ever could
Paternal Grandfather Aaron Harris...
Lovely bones long since disintegrated
into dustbin of genealogical history,
if still alive would rank as oldest person
clocking another one incremental increase
asper in chronological number
anniversary of his birth occurring within July
year unknown, but within
latter decades nineteenth century
obviously conceived nine months prior
perhaps after raucous Thanksgiving feast,
where biological exuberance
induced natural throbs activating
indomitable rutting boisterous merriment.
Nary handy dandy scant blues clue known
about biography of aforementioned
long departed grandpa
only smidgen smudged details recalled
vague nebulous memories, these predicated
upon his every now and again visits, oft
times after he relocated to Florida
sporting tanned leathery
toughened crocodile hide
predictably, invariably, delicately donning
name brand signature
wrist watch, (albeit analog)
affixed loosely dangling
from his well weathered
lobster like bony south claw,
this singularly enigmatic
eye catching jewelry
captivating, fascinating, intriguing
glittering name brand trademark timepiece
affecting myself and siblings, especially youngest
asserting, contesting, vouchsafing...,
who would occupy coveted seat
closest to simple mechanical contraption.
After supper, he would regale
us three Harris grandchildren
(offspring begat in part courtesy
his favorite native son named Boyce
thee father to yours truly)
illustrating multifarious adept skill
folding sheets of outdated newspapers
creating cut out dolls strung together,
and/or the knack whereby
with few brisk
(i.e. Jewish version of origami),
he quickly styled boats, chairs, hats
none of which survived our rambunctious
severe tests of durability,
nor could any of us kids
reproduce with any remote success,
those deceptively
seemingly easy to craft
paper dolls linkedin with joined hands.
Imagine they find your bones
in a boggy field -
it happens all the time,
speaking of which,
time is your pocket handkerchief,
your wristwatch,
and your best evening pants
all reduced to insect dust.
Only a fragment
(a rust-addled skimpy second hand)
remains to be picked up
by the pale flesh
of a much more efficient brain
than you or your many cousins
ever had.
The rest of you is much scattered,
much distributed among the small
bog dwelling children of lesser gods.
Ten or a hundred years later they may find
a distant tooth with its crown intact,
later still, a being reports your broken jaw
unearthed by the sludging rain.
Will they then have enough of your head
to commence a plaster likeness of your
drunken grin after a cocktail party,
or will they find the rest of your skull
in a deeper layer of dirt
with an old crack across its dome.
Perhaps they will assume you died
at the hands of an axe wielding foe,
never guessing
you fell heavily off your girlfriends Honda
practicing one last incautious wheelie
on a minor road in darkest Derbyshire?
Will the few decimated parts of that Honda
be thought to be a primitive metallic skeleton
of an ancient sacrificial temple?
When the elements finally reveal
more fractured bits of you
will an artificial intelligence
reassemble your last moments
while misinterpreting
the age and time of your mediocre your life?
Will they solidify your that life
the way we reconstruct diorama’s
of mastodon herds grazing in tall grass,
while illustrating for dramatic effect,
menacingly concealed packs
of saber tooth tigers lying in wait.
Be very sure to care of your wrist watch,
for they who excavate your posterity
will probably misplace your existence
by at least ten thousand years,
not that you, like the mastodons, will care,
but they might.
Rise before the rooster that is caged in neighbor’s yard.
Hitting my knees before I open my eyes I offer up a dream prayer
of thanksgiving.
Bump my knee hard against desk as I go into bathroom
and just smile.
Teeth exposed I begin brushing them with white mint paste.
Fully wash sleep from eyes and begin collecting thoughts.
Put on running shoes and wrist watch and out the door I go.
Return in hour and watch a new sunrise breathe light onto a new Earth.
Reach for matchsticks and cigarettes.
After match is lit I smile and let cigarette fall from lips while I watch the short life
of the new energy just born, bloom, and fade away.
Shower and dress and nothing extra.
Until I reach breakfast table with food for thought and food for body.
Given thanks I proceed out the door off to work.
Greeting everyone with a smile for I know they may have stubbed a
toe or bumped a knee, too.
And I work hard as I can until it is time for lunch break.
Having had breakfast but not wanting to break my fast I go to the upper room and
only have food for the soul, food which lasts.
Return to work and work with joy in my heart and a smile on my face.
Check date and time and dash off to school.
Watch as Sun begins his peek-a-boo game.
After class walk to library to continue studies.
Return home with head lights on and a thankful mind and thankful face on.
After a delicious dinner with maybe some dessert or better yet a good
book I relax for an hour.
Then I undress and shower.
Hit my knees before jumping into bed.
Begin remembering all things I did and said.
And a smile opens on my lips as my eyes begin to close and I am
taken up rapturously in pure perfect ecstasy.
Form:
She wakes from a dream, dripping with tears of sweat pouring down her face. Her long blonde hair is pasted to her forehead as she sits up in her bed. The clock reads 3:03am. Her heart is pounding rhythmically to the ticking of her wrist watch. Her long legs that are wrapped in her white down comforter are extremely cold, and she realizes that a harsh draft is seeping through the window sill beside her bed. As she pulls back the curtains to check the window for cracks in the ledge, her eyes grow wide with amazement. The street lights reveal swirls of frosted confetti which overwhelm the pitch blackness of the night. It has not snowed this hard since she was a little girl and suddenly the terror of her dream dissipates. She jumps out of bed, slips on her purple fuzzy slippers, along with her matching robe and runs down the stairs.
The stars glisten
Illuminating shadows-
Icicles hang still
Her front door swings open from the harsh embrace of the wind and she manages to drift on to her porch. Her foot prints smear the freshly painted deck but they are quickly filled up again by the urgency of heavens winter release. Her eyes begin to spill like water falls and her rosy face along with the rest of her body goes numb. However, the arctic chill was worth it to her. The last time she had seen her father was on a night like this. He loved the snow and every part of its splendor reminded her of him. The howling in the air, the cold that cut through her pajama pants like a knife, the snowflakes the size of marshmallows and the cars that look like giant igloos. Even the smell of the wood burning across the street in her neighbor’s fireplace all made her feel like her father was near. It was like heaven had stopped by to visit her this night.
By: Sabina Nicole
Contest: winter
this will be good and slippery
in a whistling fall from grace
feel free to edit in a picture of your choice
the more grotesque the more accurate
while glancing at your wrist watch
over and over when you knew
your 30 seconds was up centuries ago
we agree to be controlled
he said speaking in archetypes
here then is my plan for world conquest
say Bob that was some intro
right you are Nick
and just what the tired evacuated
non combatants at home needed
you know Bob our audience should be issued guns
right you are Bill the results would be immediate
h-h-h-howdy there f-f-fans
g-g-glad to see you all p-p-packin
ha ha ha ha ha good one Bill
who does your thinking for you by the way
OK you've been briefed
if I wrote as few words as possible
the page would be blank
and useless as a postmodern hit man
speculating on the utility of spectacles
driven by a fear of the ordinary
in an ideological trance
at this point it could go either way
even reality is an approximation of reality
but there is no question of stopping
onward he plunged sarcastically
into a semiotic twilight of the gods
everything red shifted in a bar stool curse
too many crevasses on this ice berg
blinded by white phosphorous
receptors wide open overt and undeniable
incorrect labeling why is it a necessity
would you know your number
if your number was up
he stood before his firing squad
snickering and giggling and rolling his eyes
got a last cigarette
I have to smoke I'm a witch
the squad broke up with laughter
pissed their pants
and shot the lieutenant
if I'm in this much trouble now
God help me tomorrow
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
He step off the plane, his own plane, twin-engine Learjet,
The rain runs off his flat-brim as he glances up at the sky, the clouds
And with a glance at his wrist watch he follows his escort, ignoring the camera and lightning flashes,
since he can hardly tell the difference anymore
His representative shoos the 'razzi away,
And he wipes the rain from his sunglasses
realising he really doesn't need them but would die for fashion
He hates how his wet jeans stick to his shins as he scuffs his Piloti shoes on the airport's carpets,
someone tries to get an autograph but can't make eye-contact with him
He casts and apologetic glance backward to his fan, and she will never forget the glance he forgets a second later
He clinks with the chains on his neck and at his belt and at his wrists colliding,
Securtiy watches him curiously,
some knowing who he is, some vaguely aware,
and he smiles, knowing that once he's done they'll know his face,
the one pinned up on walls everywhere, on newspapers, magazines,
The face with the chocolate skin, vanilla teeth and sensual eyes,
He absently adjusts his A-Town hat as he gets into his Murcielago,
His bull Lamborghini humming lovingly under his touch,
Paparazzi left behind, security saying the crowd needs to disperse, fans enthusiastically shouting "I love you!"
He wonders how his kids back home are faring,
daddy's always gone,
and mama always misses him so much,
He finds his phone and calls home
one hand on six-hundred thousand dollars worth of car
another on the ohone with the priceless sound of his children back home.
The guy she hired to do me in,
unbeknownst to her,
was one of the blokes on Friday nights
with whom I played poker.
All this time she thought I lied
and was having a sordid affair,
because I didn’t tell her with whom I played
or even let her know where.
My secret was, they were all convicts
from an earlier part of my life;
back when I was a different sort
than the one now known by my wife.
He said he ‘bout laughed when first he learned
the identity of the guy she wanted to kill;
“Imagine”, he said, “She thought a turd like you,
could even find another dumb girl!”
“Well, if she wants me dead
who am I, to stop her from getting her wish?
Just tell her that you did me in
and now I sleep with the fish.”
I gave him my wallet and my wrist watch
to give to her as proof;
Then I laid low and stayed out of sight
not telling anyone the truth.
The police case closed; the insurance settled –
a service was held for me;
The would be killer collected his fee
and we split it fifty-fifty.
Then late one night I snuck in her room
to even up the score;
a noise woke her up; she caught a glimpse of me
and fainted to the floor.
The suicide note was full of pain
and sorrow for her husband who died;
I swear I wrote it so passionately
it nearly made me cry.
You can’t be murdered by a man who is dead
so no one suspected my crime;
and now I live in the Florida Keys
having a wonderful time.
by Joe Flach, written and posted on 10/6/11 for the "Getting Away With Murder" contest.
I invented a new season for life because I got tired of the winter spring summer fall pattern
My paisley doesn't like to conform to the depression of polka dots only on the pocket square and not the entire outfit
Where's the art in the plain white t?
I see the aesthetic, but I want the screaming art to argue with my calm voice
It's the beauty in the pain that you can't see until the scars have enough time to grow wings
I used to feel most at peace listening to music on my bed as a haunting sleep would close my eyes
I used to feel most at peace under the dim lights of cinema pumping hope into my veins where I had blood run free
I used to feel most at peace on the solidarity of solo ventures between the court and I
It would hum deathly echoes like lullaby's to my heart
This trinity became my medical addiction as pride got in the way of God
Then over the years my coffee finally became cold, and I missed the warmth of summer
I could smell my own toxicity deeply rooted and swallowing my faith
So, I questioned myself through the tears, I marked the points of pain with my pen, and dug up the weeds I planted and reaped
This time I will sow truth within the uncomfortable moments
Because in this season until forever I'm most at peace on the grounds of the earthquake
Knowing that I can't move forward unless I shake things up
Staying in a comfortable pattern only leads to a broken record repeating the line you hate to hear
You are meant to break records
p.s. peace is born in the growth of pain...