Long Acre Poems
Long Acre Poems. Below are the most popular long Acre by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Acre poems by poem length and keyword.
Ty Ty Walden, what are we to do with you?
Your farm has steadily decreased in value.
People think you are a fool and not a bit funny.
You are not growing crops that would make you money.
Ty Ty, what about this foolish endeavor?
It is that buried gold you are digging to discover.
Your grandfather’s fortune is what you are hoping to see.
There are more unsightly holes all over your property.
Gold fever it seems has enveloped you still.
You even imprisoned an albino against his will.
The town is too dependent on the operation of the mill.
The closing has the population up in arms.
Son-in-law Will is enticed by Griselda’s charms.
Your troubles are compounding into a plethora.
How can you survive in those backwoods of Georgia?
Based on the novel "God's Little Acre" by the late Erskine Caldwell
They flow out of a pocket of sky,
a door in the air no one saw
until dark wings shower
over our heads.
Their plumage has a metallic sheen,
as if they were made in parts,
in some elvish workshop, their wings
hammered on last.
Wings that talk to other wings,
for no starling is a starling alone;
it is ten thousand starling clones
welded into flocks of feathers.
They descend where they please.
a road, a lawn, a parking lot,
they descend, and where they land
that is their land, their acre of lordship.
See them strut like dinosaurs,
eyes as black as an eclipse.
See them stab the light, push it away
until all that litters the ground
is prey.
Owl, eagle and hawk fear to
draw near, for the flock is here,
and it will leave when it wants to.
We avoid the pecking mob,
hurry by, look away,
as another swarm of avian androids
stakes its claim upon the earth.
Autumn 2001
Dooralong Valley, NSW Australia
A 40 acre property to retire to - kept us
far more busy than our ‘working life’.
The swimming pool - that bright blue jewel
that bane of our existence, occupied us
incessantly, especially
when Autumn leaves covered the lawn.
Preemptively I would rake them, and rake them
and rake them before the wind could take them
to spread them on the pool
If I missed raking them, then with a net
I’d be scooping them, and scooping them
heavy, soaking and wet.
I was almost glad when our one ton stud bull
escaped into the home yard,
plunged into the pool, and put his hoof
through the lining,
No more raking that year but Summer was
the longest and hottest yet.
Fall Flavors Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
This feathered comedian
sits perched on a suburban fence
scanning for what crawls the ground
or pokes a careless head up to break
the surface of a backyard pond,
stropps its beak to clean off
the leftovers from its last kill,
lifts its head and laughs.
But there is no frivolity trumpeting
from its throat, only a triumphant
boast, a warning to all held
in the cross hairs of its sight
that it owns this acre.
A rush of blood lifts a sudden
flare of wings and powers
a plunging terror towards
the unwary.
Then, bloated,
it squats on a high branch
with its blunt head motionless,
eyes locked in a meditative stare.
It cares little for the honour it has
in the hierarchy of native species,
or that its laugh is almost elevated
to the status of the National prayer.
Note.
The Kookaburra is a bird belonging
to the Kingfisher family and is endemic
to Australia, particularly the east coast.
It is celebrated for its distinctive
laughing call. In a way the Kookaburra
symbolises the irreverent side to
the National character.
Childhood crept through
those long summer days
when the smell of pine
hung in the hot air.
Deep in the shadows
of that besieged acre,
heaven and hell played
out a lethal game
in what crawled, wriggled
or took wing. Death there
was silent and cries
froze in gaping mouths.
Dragonflies patrolled
the boundary
like miniature demons
and in hollows,
mandibles gnawed
on nerves
until the last thread
snapped and let panic loose.
Gowned in finery,
other terrors waited
to welcome fleeing souls
with a fatal sting
or to paralyze the will
and render living flesh
food for offspring.
At night, screams
broke out
and blew across
battlegrounds
to tangle in the thickened
skeins of dreams.
Years on, all have
sunken deeper
and slurried
into a faceless fear.
There are times,
even now,
when you can hear
the sobs of those still
wandering the wastelands
of restless nights
whilst good people sleep.
the celebrated sailing frog
from Montgomery County
went a court'n, or so the tale iz toad
to a grand ole mansion built around 1910,
and e'en 'pon
being razed ~2012 ah no dummy
sea worthiness still plainly showed,
twas February 28th, 1968,
when my father
bought the house at 324 Level Road
majority deuce score plus nineteen years,
rush back with unfettered exuberant zeal
this aging elf spent psalm tranquil
May days sung sotto voce
atop memorialized, prized,
shingled out, ship-shape valued,
venerated, vip voted faux vulgar demesne
"Glen Elm" named private
100+ acre wooded common weal
many a pitch perfect spring day
found yours truly
frankly basking atop spacious roof
oft times begging the cosmic force
irrationally lyft ting this Earthlinked bing,
this uber dreamer
willingly taken with "poof"
(magic amazing dragons)
presuming my absence,
would not be missed and whereabouts
no cause for alarm,
but usual antics of contemplative goof
ball, and aware
a minor for hair (Sunkist) gold
Helios innocently beckoned,
this then sole Sol tanned
within the solar raised fold
surrendering while atop
the multi acred roof where any cold
melted away, whence became bathed
like a bronze statue of auld.
zip pose zing the weather forecast
donned wafted air
fragrant with flowered flora
visibility for miles
if ether crystal clear,
this high da way countless yards
off the ground presented flare
approximating pristine floral display
with powerfully poignant immunity
against cackling, jeering, scowling,
Grandma worked for the Salvation Army, sorting clothes.
She was part of a class called the working-class poor.
On occasion she'd take us shopping downtown.
This was long before downtown went way down.
She would buy my brother and me a toy-maybe a treat.
Today it isn't safe for anybody, not even the chief of police.
Hyper-crazy is spreading on the outbound... unfortunately.
I have a dream of getting an acre or two of pristine.
Immerse myself in wildflowers and Evergreens.
Grandma arose into the forever greens years ago
Brother soon followed.
Alone is spreading like wildfire
Buffalo, New York, was never Green.
After our not so delicious meal, we started home
He turned onto our usual well-worn road
Headed west where we bumped across raised railroad tracks
There at the octagon shaped stop sign turned northwest
Feeling sated and situated on the road home
Home where the old weak heart resides
Home where comfy cotton clothes are worn
Home where feet are adorned with thong sandals
It is at least forty-five minute drive
Through rural Georgia with flourishing farmland
Verdant pastures next to many neat old homeplaces
Ones we see at least three times a month
Today something different caught our old tired eyes
A golden-yellow field but also a deep, pine green
Both of these old people wondered aloud
What is that growing over there?
With each passing second, we drew closer
Our old eyes began to grasp the beauty
The grace, symmetry of this four acre field
It was sunflowers, glorious sunflowers
I told my husband to turn onto the closer county road
Go onto a road less traveled by us and many
On that country road not well-traveled
Stood sunflowers, somewhat drooped on a cloudy day
However, that is not all of the story
I don't know if I have free versed enough
Should I go on?
Maybe save the rest for another day?
Felling like I'm trapped in the corner
Always looking over my shoulder
There had to be an informer
There was no icebreaker
Thanks to that skip tracer
The shadows are getting darker
And the nights are getting longer
A gorgeous reporter and her damn recorder
Now I'm racing for the border in this horror
I have to sleep just pray I'm not a snorer
Or I might not wake to see the undertaker
Either way I will end up with my maker
A risk taker in GODS acre
Staying clear of Hells half acre
All this cause they thought I was the money taker
Now I'm the Quaker trapped in the corner
3/20/2017
I walked on Cedar lane where estates used to be
Until taxes on each acre made their residents flee
The views of the Hudson are still grand
But it makes financial sense to subdivide the land.
Young couples skip the wedding vows though they feel love within,
Benefits reward the single life; the married seldom win.
There are homes with narrow fronts, the reason, if you ask
Was that the width of the home was criteria to tax.
In my county middle earners were the rule
But taxes rose, for pensions and for school
So they moved many miles to reduce their tax rate
or made the jump to go completely out of state.
It’s easy to condemn a crook who breaks the law for cash,
But did you pay your contractor “off the books” to save a stash?
And who are those guys he hired, English they speak not
He'll claim he didn't pick them up at a big box parking lot.
Taxes distort all sorts of behavior
But I have an idea that can be our savior.
Eliminate all taxation
Print money instead, save the nation!
I know this proposal could cause consternation
But think, no accountants, no weeks of preparation.
No IRS, less smuggling, less incentives to cheat:
More business formation and a better balance sheet.
If you keep cash under your mattress, its a dumb caper
In a few years it might be usable as wallpaper.
What we do doesn't work, look at the national debt.
Investing in the USA is not a long term bet.
Feds printing money might also lead to inflation
But the new April 15 could be a cause of celebration
Farmers could hand down the family farm
Without handing death taxes to the Fed's long arm.
"Death and taxes” may endure no matter what we do:
For governments find backdoor fees when old revenues fall through.
Still, I can dream, can I not?
Of an opportune rainbow, and an economy that's hot.