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Long December Poems | Long December Poetry

Long December Poems. Below are the most popular long December by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long December poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Suzette Richards | Details |

SUMMER, WINTER SOLSTICE - 2010

It was a visit long overdue by most people’s standards. I had last seen my daughter two years prior to that during a whirlwind trip which she and her fiancé had made to Cape Town. I had an unexpected financial windfall and the money was burning a hole in my pocket. On the spur of the moment, I called my daughter and asked her to source accommodation for me in London over the Christmas season. A few days later, she called me back with the news that all the hotels had been booked up, save for the Ritz. I chuckled at the idea of having to spend my entire holiday budget on just one night at the Ritz. Then reason asserted itself and we put our heads together to come up with an alternative solution. I could hear her flatmate in the background, chipping in with her penny’s worth of advice. My daughter hung up and I was feeling down in the mouth about the plans for the trip being derailed in such a fashion. Later that evening, my daughter called back with the offer that if I did not object to sleeping on the settee in the lounge, I would be most welcome to stay with them at their London flat. I gladly accepted. She is a chef at a top restaurant and I was looking forward to gourmet meals prepared by her - including the Christmas turkey.

screeching seagulls dive at sushi scraps on a plate - the urchin watches
The evening of the booked flight to London, arrived. It was an uncomfortable hot day and I showered and dressed with only minutes to spare before my friend took me to the airport to book in the statuary two hours before international flight departures. At the airport everything was in chaos. We were given the unwelcome news that our flight had been cancelled. This was the third direct flight to London which had been cancelled that week due to London experiencing the worst weather and snow since records began in 1890! We were offered alternative flights and had to stand in queues for hours in order to procure a new airline ticket. Some people became very verbose and insisted on being granted passage on other airline carriers (at the cost of our local airline carrier). I do not know whether it was due to the weather or the disappointment I was feeling, but when my turn came at last to book a new flight, I readily agreed to fly on Christmas Eve ( three days hence) to London. If I had been given time to reflect on this date, I would not have accepted it. Arriving in London on Christmas Day would have been disastrous: The tubes and other public transport would have been curtailed on Christmas Day and shops and other amenities would have been closed for the day. This I knew from previous trips to the UK over the festive season. To add insult to injury, taxis would have charged triple for cab fare and no amount of quibbling would have swayed them. I phoned my friend to collect me and when we got home, I poured a large glass of Merlot and retired on the sun lounger in the garden. It was *full moon that evening and it was almost worth missing the trip to witness its beauty. I left my bags in the hallway and retired early – after phoning my daughter and giving her an update on the status quo.
moths dart between moon flowers - lunar eclipse
Six am the following morning, I was woken up by the phone ringing. Sleepily I took the call. It was the airline inquiring whether I could get to the airport by seven am. My friend was dancing up and down in agitation and already had the car out by the time I had brushed my teeth. I offered to pay any speeding fines which she might incur during our mad dash to get to the airport on time. The flight was an additional service which was laid on to get the backlog of passengers to their desired destinations. Heathrow had given our pilots permission to proceed, hence the call to me that morning. We were a total of thirty six passengers on the Boeing 747 – it translated to two passengers per crew member. We were treated to five in flight movies which were current and could eat and drink as much as we wished to. By the time we landed in London at seven pm that evening, there was a festive spirit among us. A radio taxi (which my daughter had organised) was waiting to collect me at Heathrow airport. It was a chilly four degrees Celsius below zero and I was grateful for my leather coat and wool accessories.
steep steps to flat shut out the bitter world - a heart pounds
**************************************************************** *The December 2010 lunar eclipse occurred from 5:27 to 11:06 UTC on December 21, coinciding with the date of the December solstice. It was visible in its entirety as a total lunar eclipse in North and South America, Iceland, Ireland, Britain and northern Scandinavia. "bitter" means piercingly cold..... A term commonly used by Britishers... "flat" means apartment. The Londoners I know, refer to it as just "flat" with no adj or possessive noun or article. Please see the About section for explanations regarding the 1ST AND LAST haiku. Haibun(literally, haikai writings) is a prosi-metric literary form originating in Japan, combining prose and haiku. The range of haibun is broad and includes the autobiography, diary, essay, prose poem, short story and travel journal. ~ Wikipedia


Long poem by Kelly Crenshaw | Details |

I hope

I'm 51 today.
51 tomorrow, yay
Was 51 yesterday.
52 is months away,
And yes I'm thankful.
Although it's not my real birthday,
It kinda is in a certain way.
I'm still alive another day.
I had the notion to celebrate.
And be thankful.
Though it's not a holiday. 
Thanksgiving has come and gone away,
I'm just alive today.
For that I'm thankful.
Honestly, I am not just trying to make these lines rhyme,
Or reflect upon the deep sublime.
I'm just grateful today to be alive.
I mean really thankful.
I'm not trying to wow you with philosophy,
Or impress you with theology.
It matters not at all to me.
I just feel thankful.
So tonight I take a walk outside,
I look up into the endless sky and then I breathe.
I breathe in deep,
And I say thank you.
And maybe not just to Who you think, 
Man let's throw in the kitchen sink,
And include all who've touched my life, to whom I'm thankful.
Some of you I'm glad you're gone,
Frankly you stayed a bit too long
And some you the grave stole far too soon,
And yet I'm still thankful.
Today the living and the dead
You've both been right up inside my head, 
And synergized this verbal thread.
For that I'm thankful.
I close my eyes and think of Tim, named David right there toward the end. 
I always smile when I think of him,
And now I listen
I heard a siren going by,
I wonder who and wonder why,
Was it a wreck, did someone die?
Yet still I listen.
Neighbors dogs are going wild.
Was that the laughter of a child.
Seems like I can hear for miles.
Still I listen.
I hear the hi-way roar of cars.
Tho I have never heard the stars
Is there really life on Mars?
Shhh brain please shut up and listen!
The soft night whispers in my ears.
Pressing through my random fears,
I stand amazed at what I hear.
And now I wonder.
I open up my eyes and see as I feel this winter breeze
The silhouette of leafless trees.
I stand in wonder
Then I wonder about the first man to ever be,
Or the first time he looked up to see
The Milky Way the galaxies.
Did he wonder?
I wonder what he did
How he loved how he lived.
If he ever lost a friend?
Man oh man I wonder.
Was he the first to dig a grave?
How it sounded if he prayed?
How he fought?
How he played?
If that man could see us all today,
What would he say I wonder?
In ways was he a lot like me?
Did he sometimes fear what he could not see?
Did he create unseen walls 
Of unbelief?
I stand and wonder.
Did he ever hurt the ones he loved?
Did life convince him not to trust?
I wonder.
My great grandfather lived
My DNA is shared with him.
I wonder how we are the same,
And I don't even know his name.
Still I wonder.
Will my great grand kids know my name?
Will it even matter who's to say?
Will they look up in wonder?
Will they listen?
Will they be thankful?
Not much I can leave to them
That would matter too much in the end.
I suppose the primal hope in man
Is the hope I hope lives on in them
I hope they wonder. About the universe.
I hope they listen. To life's unspoken verse.
I hope they're thankful. Even in midst of deepest hurts. 
I hope they're thankful.
I hope they listen.
I hope they wonder.
And no matter what life hands them,
I hope they hope.


Long poem by Anne Lise Andresen | Details |

- A Most Irish Fairy Tale -

- A Most Irish Fairy Tale – Merry Christmas to All

It’s not just Santa Claus who we meet in the very cold of December; 
There is “Carolina,” and she’s the beauty of a winter picture perfect 
With luscious long, coal black curly hair far down on her back, and 
As a true fairy princess, Carolina is quite beautiful with such bright
Blue eyes and that certain incandescent glow for all to see and 
Dressed in a sparkling white robe made of angelic content with
A glossy coat so radiant and sprinkled with pearls and diamonds.

Out of the woods she walks so quietly in the night’s fresh snow 
With a glimpse of two deer and a fox on hunt walking carefully, 
Carolina hopes the deer will walk around with an angelic guard; 
The secret is that beautiful Carolina speaks the animals’ languages
And this is an enchanted reality known only to the forest animals; 
The birds play in all their splendor so fine without sorrow and they 
Fly while Carolina—the “Fairy Maiden of this Enchanted Forest,”
Keeps watch carefully on the evening horizon while the snow falls
Now apace in the hope and wish for such a marvelous and majestic
Christmas—while in the distance the ground is now frozen frosted 
Hard and like shining and sprinkling silver in the mist until the very
“Rays of Enraptured Sunlight” break in the morning mist—this most
Wondrous image is at once so divine and fabulous to behold and 
Cherish as the annual “Spirit of Christmas” now comes alive again. 

The Reindeer come alive and begin dancing joyfully together and 
Create such a melodic sound almost like bells ringing aloud— 
And then all of the Reindeer are here in their resplendent glory:
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen,
And Rudolph, with his “Red Nose” so beautiful, and oh so bright—                
And the sounds the Reindeer make stay in the minds of the little
Children—just like sweet-sounding little voices wonderful so in 
Dreams singing such celestial tunes while a bright light appears 
So magically on the horizon while planes from all over the world
Begin landing with such precious cargo like loads of neatly written
Letters from good little children—and with this joyous occurrence
Santa Claus begins calling his elfin troops into quick action while 
The “Leprechauns” do the heavy work as they are much tougher
But all the while the “Old Fighting Irish” in them reflects a softer
Side while the Leprechauns drink a drop or two or three of some 
Fine old fiery Irish dew to keep them both warm and smiling like 
The very wee Little Devil in them—so mischievous and all—but 
So content and happy to be part of such a delightful moment of                                      both memories and joy for “The Little Children of the World.”
The Leprechauns do all the heavy work 




 
                     Merry Christmas to All!!



Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem, 

Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 9, 2014) (Free Verse)


Long poem by Shivanee Tinkerbelle | Details |

I NEVER GOT A CHANCE TO SAY IT

Where are you Tink,When are you coming home?
K missed me more than I  knew,
But I was so caught up in work ,with my new life.
It was almost Christmas and I wanted to go home but the stress of work and 
adjusting to this new place was tough.

I called K sometimes to make sure she was okay but then I realized had not for awhile.
She was always on my mind,she lived a nightmare taken for granted by her spouse ,
Whom to him  she was a burden,
Yet in her fragile state,she had hope,she had love.
A cruel mother who wronged her,without seeing the true colours of the culprit. 
It shattered me to watch her suffer from this blood thirsty annihilation called  Leukaemia everyday. I wasn't there,I was helpless so far away.

She was strong,stronger than any person I knew ,
Her faith made her the most gentle soul,
She lived for her daughter with every ouch of strength left in her,
Sometimes I called  and she was drained to the core
Locked away and kept like a slave.

Holidays came as quick as the breeze but I was so busy I couldn't fly to and see her.
I knew she needed me and missed me ..
I called her on Christmas day and told her I loved her for a moment.

Old Years Morning I woke up a new dawn was near,
I heard the door bell rang, It was my boyfriend all energized,
So early babe to see me ,are you alright?
He took my hand and walked me the table 
Sat me down and said to me "I have something to tell you"
Confusion filled my head ,Was he going to propose ?
I knew he wanted to for awhile ,but like this I thought it wasn't romantic.

Out came the words that pierced through my body like a knife,K's dead babe she 
died this morning,
I said "Is this some kind of joke because it's not funny ?Then he held me then left me to be alone"
I ran upstairs and sat in the study searched for her picture and cried my life out,
I didn't get to see her or tell her I loved her"
She must hate me because she wanted to see me .

At her funeral on my Birthday as I watched her lifeless body,
So pale and sad,
I would not be able to laugh with her , go fishing,walk on the beach like the old days,
She wasn't here any more I had to face that fact,
What ripped me apart everyday was not telling her on her last days 
,How much she meant to me although I am sure she knew, But still
When I wake up sometimes and call her phone I forget she's no longer here and I 
cry myself to sleep.
I try to be strong everyday to live for her and not forget,
Never take anyone for granted or you will live in regret.


Long poem by Hakeem Sotayo Aro | Details |

Night, Twenty First December

The dry breeze moves gently
Infecting the Hamlet with its cool temper
Even the birds shake and generate calmly
A young lady sat at the front of a mansion
Her oily body shines with the aid of the moon. Anon
She look up to the sky and she remember
Her head comes down like a withered rose, sadly.
Her maids calls her in, she refuses she is forlorn.

I was fourteen when our neighbor came to take me
My parents, happy that their daughter goes to the city
Gave her presents. My parents hugged and gave me a pea
She hold my hand roughly as we walk along the street some people pity
Me. She left me with some men. We didn't eat till night only a nut
We were twenty. We were packed in a juggernaut
We slept in the container till morn. We had all cried like a dying kitty
My good neighbor is nowhere and they stood on us like Mcafee
Fifteen of us where above fifteen. Each of them was to be a harlot.

Two years for me to join them I spent as a house worker
With a man a wife and four kids. No I worked more than break pads
It was a house of six rooms of which I am the washer
I wash clothes from pants to suits to wears mostly laces and jacquards.
The box room was where I slept like a rodent
Though delicious I ate twice daily, the dogs six times with content
I never went to school; to the kids I was a rival and always a loser
After my second year I flee to the streets where I prayed to meet some lads
All alone I was lost not knowing were to go I slept under a bridge tent.

Then I turn to the markets to carry loads for lords
Before then I had been raped twice
The token I got I used to maintain despite all odds
By then I had known the city. Going to my parents was my one vice
They received me with high expectations
But they saw and got nothing. They asked me questions.
I promised not to tell the truth I told them good words
They wished to hear. To come back home three years after was very nice
I cried, I had to endure the shame, villagers taught I should be rich I got no 
ovations.

She now leaves in a villa 
As the governess. Her maids call her in once more
With their dry lips. With her face now unwithered
She rise up to retire at the door
She looks back at the sky and her smiles awaken.
Twenty first December she was taken
Twenty first December the day she was raped at the street corner
Twenty first December today. Her name? Bimpe Oladapo
Twenty first December the day she will die. That day is waiting.


Long poem by Loch David Crane | Details |

Santas Responsibility Rap

Santa’s Responsibility Rap
Loch David Crane 
July 2, 2006

Santa's jolly all year long
	he’s such a happy soul;
but if ya ever cross him
	he’ll put you in a hole.

Santa’s very red and white
	he knows who's good and bad.
His character assessment
	shows us what a life you’ve had.

So obey your Mums and Daddies
	and the helpful officers too
then we can jail the bad guys
	and help each other through.

We write laws to protect us all,
	both powerful and least;
 treat others as you treat yourself,
	respecting all, is best.

But if you sass your Daddy,
	or the officer ignore,
expect a swat upon your rump
	or SWAT outside your door.

Ol' Santa reads the crime reports
	on a computer he refused
to deliver to a bad boy
	whose trust had been abused.

He's read your blog on Facebook
	and he knows what's in your heart:
so "you better be good for goodness’ sake"
	or your gifts will all depart.

Santa doesn't like bad boys
	or messes on the floor.
He doesn't have to forgive you
	and he doesn't have to bring more.

For Santa reflects what you give to others
	and whom you choose to be;
because only a pleasant person 	
	gets dreams beneath his tree.

A loud, or stubborn, or spoiled child
	sees an empty cactus tree;
a helpful, cheerful, giving kid
	is a joy that Santa sees.

You must think as much of others
	as you do just for yourself
if you want to see those goodies
	coming towards you off the shelf.

 'Cause Santa isn't Jesus,
	that's why he keeps a list
of happy little readers
	and those in whom he's disappointed.	

Santa doesn't love you all
	or listen when you pray--
just good behavior is the key
	for toys on Xmas day.

"What's the X in Xmas?"
	trembling little voices cry.
X is an unknown value
	until you steal or lie.

For Santa isn't Jesus,
	he's an atheist you see –
he dispenses voluntary gifts
	underneath his pagan tree.

He doesn't owe you anything,
	 his gifts are from the heart..
He judges your behavior
	and each year is a new start.

As you behave, so shall you be	
	rewarded by St. Nick;
but if you're bad the year before
	then coal will be his trick.

What goes around comes back around
	and what was old is new;
When you give respect to others
 	it returns increased to you.


Long poem by melanie jennings | Details |

Christmas wish

Sitting in rags all tattered and torn 
He gazed through the window and loved what he saw 
A raging coal fire, and some children to play 
Just what he wished for on a cold winters day 

The frost bit his finger and nibbled at his nose 
and his shoes, thin as paper, could not warm his toes 
But the warmth and the love that the family there told 
Reached into his heart and blessed his wee soul 

The dear little beggar boy was welcomed inside 
To share christmas gifts and a log of yuletide 
A meal that he'd dreamed of was served in a dish 
And the sweet little child got his christmas wish 

Sat near the roadside, a cup in his hand 
sat a merchant, a peasant, a pitiful man 
Selling flowers to towns folk, from graves freshly plucked 
He watched as the villagers tucked into roast duck 

Nose pressed to the entrance, inhaling the feast 
He licked his dry mouth as they carved the cooked beast 
A little old lady arose from her pew 
and gladly she told him "There's plenty for you" 

All grubby and dusty with an ache in her back 
A frail, crinkled lady read palms from a shack 
Not making much money, spending winter alone 
She watched families rejoicing, and wished for her own 

Trying to remember, a life led before 
With her sister and daughters, before she was poor 
A kind gent passed by her and decided to spend 
his christmas or longer, for she needed a friend 

Sat at the butchers and begging for meat 
Dusty the mongrel was just under their feet 
Just a scavenger, all dirty, they shoo'd him away 
and he got used to the harshness of being homeless each day 

Tucked beneath hedges, to escape winters bite 
He flopped down his head, and he slept for the night 
Dreaming of children who'd bring him a bone 
Rescued by a schoolgirl who gave him a home 

What do you dream of, when you're sat all alone 
Money and chocolate, a new mobile phone 
Or the simplest things that are taken for granted 
Like a home and a family, to be loved and be wanted 

Do you think of others or not have a care 
when enjoying your holidays, do you have time to spare 
See the dear little beggar boy at your windowsil 
Let him in, spare a second, 'tis the season of goodwill


Long poem by Caroline Knudsen | Details |

What Exactly is Christmas

What Exactly is Christmas?
By: Caroline Knudsen

Christmas isn’t just about the presents you receive and the food.
It’s not based on all the cute decorations.
It’s more than that.
Christmas is about the birth of Christ.
The joy and love that spreads throughout the communities everywhere.
The giving; the wishes granted. The happiness people encounter.

Some people may wonder why people are so cordial and magnanimous around this time of year.
I will tell you this.
One person begins to go spreading good cheer.
And the best way to do that is singing loud for all to hear.
And soon those people begin spreading and spreading and spreading.
Once people get in the spirit people give people love, people celebrate. 
So during Christmas time, we go around spreading good cheer, 
so people can begin to give, to love, and to celebrate.

We all know that there are many people who are less fortunate.
People who cannot afford gifts or a tree.
 Not even a home. 
But during Christmas time, people realize it’s time to reach out.
 To grab a hand, to grant a wish.
There are many organizations like Operation Christmas Child, Toys for Tots, Sugarplum Trees.
All of those corporations help do that. 
Help grant a wish. 
So during Christmas time, we decide to give, to care for someone who needs it.

In a little town called Bethlehem, a young Virgin named Mary came to give birth to her child.
 But her child was not just any new creation. 
She was going to give birth to Jesus the Messiah. 
Not one room was empty on that night, but just a small barn. 
And soon that night, she gave birth to our Savior in a manger. Something cattle ate from, our Savior was laid upon. So on Christmas day we celebrate Jesus’s birth.

So I hope by now you have learned that Christmas isn’t just about the presents you receive or the food.
It’s not based on all the cute decorations.
It’s more than that.
Christmas is about the birth of Christ.
The joy and love that spreads throughout the communities everywhere.
The giving, the wishes granted. The happiness people encounter.



Long poem by JeanMarie Marchese | Details |

The Fading of Salvador Dali When Wednesday Rose Too Late.

I regarded us on Tuesday, after finding Monet in the closet, and thought our lives
resembled institutions, I thought I'd tack that painting right above the fireplace, I
imagined we'd laugh...


He took ten minutes to figure it out, he took fifteen to tell me, he took three minutes
more to kiss my lips and I told him he was seven minutes late, so he glanced to the clock
that raced tomorrow above my head and told me that late was better than never as he
grabbed tomorrow right out of my hair...

This tangled me, you see, and I gasped for air as my thighs fell apart, it seemed to be
distinctly him as he swirled into me, and I lost the definition of myself shortly after
Wednesday rose, and we smeared Van Gogh all over the walls as my screams became edible and
he licked his lips as I sighed his name, he removed the fabric that kept me warm, he wrote
forever with his tongue and I thought, better forever than gone, right before I dissolved
into nowhere....


I think my hand prints were distorted and I searched his chest for some resemblance of
sanity, but I only found myself in the swirls of moonlight that ventured in through the
window we tried to block...

he had told me of blankets years ago and I wished they would cover me when December came,
but I haven't seen December yet though I've watched snow fall and settle on his eyelashes,
I've studied the melting of time when he blinks...

“You have the most beautiful eyes in the world,” I informed him, minutes after the night
solidified herself and I realized we were tired.

“No, I don't,” he replied, in a tone that sunk beneath Tuesday, and offered me the calm of
Monet...

“You do,” he whispered, and I could hear that smile and the echoes of his eyes closing, I
could hear myself enter his dreams as I watched my hair flow abstractly through the weeks
he remembered, and sometime before I fell asleep, thinking about St. Petersburg when the
visions that dance underneath my eyelids resemble the imagination of Salvador Dali, he
told me he loved me...

right on time.


Long poem by Angela Johnston | Details |

Old Letter

Old letter
Old letter in the bottom of my drawer,
Old thoughts laid on the paper many-many moons
ago;
Old ideas hidden in a tattered envelope,
Old feelings gathered on a sheet of paper,
Now yellow and tatty like the envelope.
Who is the sender?
Who is the receiver?
I cannot see..... I cannot tell....
The ink is old, almost invisible;
A few letters, maybe a syllable....hard to guess...
Hard to read......
Old letter in the bottom of my drawer,
What is your secret?
What are you hiding?
Are you a love letter?
Or maybe just a friendly reply to another
letter lost in time?
Or tear soaked sad thoughts of a broken heart?
Or are you a happy letter, a happy sphere of
thoughts
Shared with someone close,
maybe a friend, a relative,
Or shared with a brother or a sister, a parent
or an aunt perhaps?
Or maybe an official letter starting with
“Dear Sir....or Madam...”  .
Little and torn and ragged and
fold in quarters, tatty, old letter
What is your secret?
I am begging you.......reveal!
I am standing  here, in the room,
with the letter in my hand;
Quiet, hardly breathing even,
Maybe a miracle will happen....
Maybe the tatty letter like a portal key
Will open up and will beam me back in time
And just as I am stepping out of mist
the sender will
Be brought to light sitting on the porch,
or in the shade of a tree;
Scribbling his thoughts on a silky,
snow white sheet of paper.....
lifting his head now and then to gather his
thoughts and scribble away again....
I am almost afraid he might see me,
So cautiously I step back;
but nothing happens,
and I am still in my room
standing by the window
with this timeworn letter in my hand,
still wondering When? Where? Why? and Who?
And smiling I am thinking at this antique letter
With its long forgotten thoughts,
Maybe it’s not my place to know your secret,
So little letter torn at corners, yellowed in time
Your secret will be safe with me
Well hidden deep
In the belly of my drawer.....
(02.01.2011)


Long Poems