"sixer" poems - Hello Poetry

no let up from the scorching bat the flogging is a bit too thick where the fielder gets laid out flat due to its fervent canning stick the flogging is a bit too thick we've been struck by the boiling heat due to its fervent canning stick every day this is on the beat we've been struck by the boiling heat downed in a sixer's knocking hit every day this is on the beat which drains our energetic pit downed in a sixer's knocking hit due to its fervent canning stick which drains our energetic pit the flogging is a bit too thick

0

Dec 31, 2016

Dec 31, 2016 at 4:20 AM UTC

ElizabethSquires

Bit Too Thick (Pantoum)

no let up from the scorching bat the flogging is a bit too thick where the fielder gets laid out flat due to its fervent canning stick the flogging is a bit too thick we've been struck by the boiling heat due to its fervent canning stick every day this is on the beat we've been struck by the boiling heat downed in a sixer's knocking hit every day this is on the beat which drains our energetic pit downed in a sixer's knocking hit due to its fervent canning stick which drains our energetic pit the flogging is a bit too thick

16

Friday, I am going to do something very difficult I do not want to be Charles Bukowski anymore There must be more to life than drinking It used to be fun but it has gotten out of hand I will still enjoy the words that he wrote I will still want to emulate him I know what he was talking about But I don't want to live there anymore Because if I live there, I will die there There is a bluebird in my heart But in order to set him free, there are things I need to do I am going to do those things And I am going to let him out I do not want to be Charles Bukowski anymore There is more to life that barstools and cigarette butts More than the fiery whisky churns In a gut that is bloated but always has room For another sixer or another bottle I know what he was talking about But I don't want to live there anymore Becausea if I liver there, I will die there Drunk and disorderlly, sad and lonely There is a bluebird in my heart But in order to set him free, there are things I need to do I am going to do those thins And I am going to let him out I do not want to be Charles Bukowski anymore

0

Mar 20, 2013

Mar 20, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC

matthew-p-beron

Wagon Bound

Friday, I am going to do something very difficult I do not want to be Charles Bukowski anymore There must be more to life than drinking It used to be fun but it has gotten out of hand I will still enjoy the words that he wrote I will still want to emulate him I know what he was talking about But I don't want to live there anymore Because if I live there, I will die there There is a bluebird in my heart But in order to set him free, there are things I need to do I am going to do those things And I am going to let him out I do not want to be Charles Bukowski anymore There is more to life that barstools and cigarette butts More than the fiery whisky churns In a gut that is bloated but always has room For another sixer or another bottle I know what he was talking about But I don't want to live there anymore Becausea if I liver there, I will die there Drunk and disorderlly, sad and lonely There is a bluebird in my heart But in order to set him free, there are things I need to do I am going to do those thins And I am going to let him out I do not want to be Charles Bukowski anymore

29

i tried to write you a letter once but was unsure of the address for the heavens where you shine not "Heaven" per say but the stars that gained your carbon as you selflessly gave it away turns out celestial bodies aren't listed in the yellowpages i tried sending you smoke signals twice but the message was so **** long and it read more like a song and you never much liked my lyrics anyway i moved on to morse code spent night after night lying on my back with a flashlight dripping ceasless patterns of dots and dashes into that murky blue puddle of midnight sky as if maybe you'd reply with a simple "hush" and a shyly sigh it finally dawned on me that you probably couldn't decode it that your parents probably never made you learn i cursed them for not teaching you how best to reach me now i'm getting older and colder and alot less wide-eyed and hopeful now i just hope you can hear me speak the click in the back of my throat that comes with trying not to cry the sincerity in my 'love you's and my 'miss you's and in my uncensored ungaurded love that i ash onto your headstone from the end of my pregnant joints now i just hope you can taste the beers i bring to share with you as i'm rambling along the rails of my de-railing train of thought and ripping through that sixer i brought you and your cheap taste in beer i hide the bottle caps in those little metal vases that your mom keeps filled with florist foam and different colored silk lillies they always look so nice now i just hope you can read me better than you ever could before i hope you've decoded the lines in my palms and the ***** of my feet and the cracks in my nicotine teeth as i'm smiling wildly at the earth that keeps your ashes safe close to her breaking heart i hope you can read the quotation atop your grave i'd have never imagined that the one permanent thing i could ever give you was the last line of the last text that i'd ever send your way i meant it back then but now it means so much more "sleep sweetly, philly, you will never be forgotten"

0

Aug 9, 2013

Aug 9, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC

Sparrowfreckles

i caught your laughter in the wind, today.

i tried to write you a letter once but was unsure of the address for the heavens where you shine not "Heaven" per say but the stars that gained your carbon as you selflessly gave it away turns out celestial bodies aren't listed in the yellowpages i tried sending you smoke signals twice but the message was so **** long and it read more like a song and you never much liked my lyrics anyway i moved on to morse code spent night after night lying on my back with a flashlight dripping ceasless patterns of dots and dashes into that murky blue puddle of midnight sky as if maybe you'd reply with a simple "hush" and a shyly sigh it finally dawned on me that you probably couldn't decode it that your parents probably never made you learn i cursed them for not teaching you how best to reach me now i'm getting older and colder and alot less wide-eyed and hopeful now i just hope you can hear me speak the click in the back of my throat that comes with trying not to cry the sincerity in my 'love you's and my 'miss you's and in my uncensored ungaurded love that i ash onto your headstone from the end of my pregnant joints now i just hope you can taste the beers i bring to share with you as i'm rambling along the rails of my de-railing train of thought and ripping through that sixer i brought you and your cheap taste in beer i hide the bottle caps in those little metal vases that your mom keeps filled with florist foam and different colored silk lillies they always look so nice now i just hope you can read me better than you ever could before i hope you've decoded the lines in my palms and the ***** of my feet and the cracks in my nicotine teeth as i'm smiling wildly at the earth that keeps your ashes safe close to her breaking heart i hope you can read the quotation atop your grave i'd have never imagined that the one permanent thing i could ever give you was the last line of the last text that i'd ever send your way i meant it back then but now it means so much more "sleep sweetly, philly, you will never be forgotten"

56

The coca-cola truck was outside today. I had some free time so I stole it. I rolled through the streets of my ****** island, causing some well deserved destruction. I may have killed a ****** but it was probably for the best. Who wants to live with one leg anyway? I had swerved into a hydrant, freezing water pounded a ferel cat into a storm drain. But I had too! Otherwise my neighbor Russ would have become a pancake. When I finally learned how to control the truck I stopped at the local liquor store. I grabbed a sixer of Rolling Rock and payed with 28 quarters. I told big Pat to please keep the change, I Knew she saw the damage I had done on the way. But she's an old timer, These things don't phase her. She just smiled and asked if- I wanted a brown paper bag or plastic?

0

May 21, 2010

May 21, 2010 at 9:54 AM UTC

melideth-1

hey pat, how have you been?

The coca-cola truck was outside today. I had some free time so I stole it. I rolled through the streets of my ****** island, causing some well deserved destruction. I may have killed a ****** but it was probably for the best. Who wants to live with one leg anyway? I had swerved into a hydrant, freezing water pounded a ferel cat into a storm drain. But I had too! Otherwise my neighbor Russ would have become a pancake. When I finally learned how to control the truck I stopped at the local liquor store. I grabbed a sixer of Rolling Rock and payed with 28 quarters. I told big Pat to please keep the change, I Knew she saw the damage I had done on the way. But she's an old timer, These things don't phase her. She just smiled and asked if- I wanted a brown paper bag or plastic?

21

Shadows are taller run-ups are smaller throws don't go any far morale is lower bat moves slower no more can hit a sixer. Muscles aren't sturdy movement is tardy lethargic feet hardly run only lean patches missed easy catches nobody says well done. Can't see it clear from daze of fear fumbles my unsteady bat the opponents dance they don't miss a chance the field shouts how's that! I have a feeling this body ain't willing to run on the green anymore yet the ****** mind still hopes to find one last three figure score.

0

Oct 26, 2017

Oct 26, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

Cricket & Life

Shadows are taller run-ups are smaller throws don't go any far morale is lower bat moves slower no more can hit a sixer. Muscles aren't sturdy movement is tardy lethargic feet hardly run only lean patches missed easy catches nobody says well done. Can't see it clear from daze of fear fumbles my unsteady bat the opponents dance they don't miss a chance the field shouts how's that! I have a feeling this body ain't willing to run on the green anymore yet the ****** mind still hopes to find one last three figure score.

24

Today I was running to win the race, and everybody were looking at my face! Somehow I was trying to overtake all, but everybody were at a speed of sixer ball! Due to lack of fitness I lost the game, and my heart was feeling a great shame! Then I decided not to quit, in future I will do everything to keep me fit. I assure you, I will win the race next time, till then let's have a juice of pine!

0

Mar 23, 2015

Mar 23, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC

shyam-sundar-prasad-ram

sports day...!

Today I was running to win the race, and everybody were looking at my face! Somehow I was trying to overtake all, but everybody were at a speed of sixer ball! Due to lack of fitness I lost the game, and my heart was feeling a great shame! Then I decided not to quit, in future I will do everything to keep me fit. I assure you, I will win the race next time, till then let's have a juice of pine!

10

Here where pits line the roads, loss, we are so inured to in life: wild-haired hero, when did you go from warrior to zen master? Breathing into the night, the tricolour high: we rose as one with you; at the crest, now a vacuum too hard to fill; Now no artist the same, that toils by sultry nights in our backyard; Who are you to us? Lifting our spirits soaring helicopter goes the sixer - bouncing our sorrows off the park, winning from death, the joy! You are a memory of the silvery night of hope the miracle of faith the tidal wave of belief that engulfs adversity. Go but you will never be gone and a hundred such be born in this your name, that in the stands will yet never ring the same;

0

Aug 15, 2020

Aug 15, 2020 at 1:59 PM UTC

prabhu-iyer

Gone, like a Helicopter

Here where pits line the roads, loss, we are so inured to in life: wild-haired hero, when did you go from warrior to zen master? Breathing into the night, the tricolour high: we rose as one with you; at the crest, now a vacuum too hard to fill; Now no artist the same, that toils by sultry nights in our backyard; Who are you to us? Lifting our spirits soaring helicopter goes the sixer - bouncing our sorrows off the park, winning from death, the joy! You are a memory of the silvery night of hope the miracle of faith the tidal wave of belief that engulfs adversity. Go but you will never be gone and a hundred such be born in this your name, that in the stands will yet never ring the same;

26