Long Adventures Poems
Long Adventures Poems. Below are the most popular long Adventures by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Adventures poems by poem length and keyword.
My earliest recollection was being placed in a Coca Cola cooler in a Barbershop in Virginiatown Ontario. I heard the sound of the Nickle being placed in the coin slot. Then an eager little boy opened the top and peered in with twinkling blue eyes. I wondered which one of us he would choose? His tiny little hand reached towards me and guided me through a metal maze and yanked me out. He popped my top with the opener on the side of the Red machine. I wonder if that is how I got the name "Soda Pop". He held me close to his chest brought me over to his chair and placed me beside a stack of comics. I watched as he jumped up gleefully onto his chair.
He grabbed me with his two little hands and put me up to his mouth. My orange fizziness passed over his lips, onto his tongue and then down his throat. A big toothy smile and an orange coated tongue. I felt his little tummy bursting until a big burp and a giggle gave him relief. Even after my orange had been consumed he seemed to enjoy the texture of my glass as he rotated me in his hands. I remember him turning me upside down and peering at the room through my base. He liked the way I played with the light. When he was done he placed me in a paper bag with his comics to take me home.
To be continued...
I first dreamed I could fly when I was very young.
Ascending past the tallest trees plunged me among
the clouds—and past, but sun’s bright rays refused to burn
my tender flesh. I felt quite free on each sojourn.
Did love of make-believe engender dreams of flight?
Was it vice versa? I just know I still delight
in memories of dreamt adventures in the night.
Perhaps you’ll laugh and think I’m nuts, but I confess,
from time to time--though I am in my seventies--
I dream that, only briefly, I have taken flight
and drifted back to bed upon a pleasant breeze.
Psychiatrists might say my life is incomplete--
that dreams of flying symbolize that thing I lack!
I won’t believe this unless in my dreams of flight
I leave the earth and dream of never coming back!
WoodStock - Fifty Years Ago August 15-19, 2019
I knew nary a whit about
rock n roll history
soon to unfold August fifteen –
eighteen ninety sixty nine
mollycoddled, nestled,
obliviously preoccupied
bajillion miles away
attending Baker Park Day Camp
within Phoenixville, Pennsylvania
innocently naive shy lad
hidebound, yours truly
to prefer tried and true familiar turf
quite limited radius
circumscribed physical world,
yes quite sheltered proximity, where
birth family resided
324 Level Road Collegeville
outward bound sphere
comprised safe circumference
nsync within unhealthy insecurity
arising, whereabouts arbitrarily
drawn circle defined mine safe haven
hence, ignorance prevailed
encompassing world at large,
hence bajillion miles distant
Max Yasgur's 601 acre (2.4 km²)
dairy farm in the town
of Bethel, New York,
asper outside realm consciousness
pertaining to yours truly
absolute zero awareness,
where stripling, (and stripped bare) youths,
some approximately twice my age
immersed themselves into
unforgettable experiences of lifetime,
which Woodstock Music, and Art
rock music festival teases
fanciful overactive imagination
speculating buzzfeeding aural
oral, nasal, tactile, visual... senses
ruing, lamenting, bemoaning...
owning cowardly risk averse
demeanor shielding self
against bazaar panoply
augmenting exposure inviting
bizarre phenomena,
versus being tethered
predictably within familiar bubblicious
range umbilical cord (albeit figurative)
linkedin (courtesy known environment)
allowing, enabling, and providing regret
(benefit of 20/20 hindsight)
to tweezer what if...scenario
transcending comfort zone,
which looming fear of unknown
hogtied opportunity to sample novel
adventures (as opposed to reading
such tales of daring do sequestered
as avid bookworm) expending hours
as quiet natured kid (rarely heard or seen),
and reading still predominant passion
providing passive access, now
finding me remonstrating the detriment
against exhibiting proactive modus operandi.
No history's books with golder trim
ever recorded her sweet name...
softer than a warm rainfall,
she only listened to her call.
Away, swifter than lightning, into the sunless forest
she rode the whitest horse in her dazzling wool dress;
and by her undeniable amazon looks, one surely knew
Rain had the strength and audacity of riding through.
In mediaval times, men seeking many adventures
could become mercenary soldiers
to fight a Holy War in the Crusades...
and Rain protected those wild and pristine lands.
Brave and willing women were excluded from every battle,
by being harshly told to hush...suppressing their pain,
but courageous Rain changed all that with a refrain,
" I'll defy anyone pillaging the grasslands and not tremble!"
I gave him an azure colored flashlight
One of those mag lights that men carry
Always aware, expectant of the need
That arises when we least imagine it will
I didn’t know it then, but it would be years
Over a decade, before I’d see him up close
Again and touch his hand and hold him with
My kisses, wrapping him with genuine love
I had been on so many adventures through
The time that I’d been away from his embrace
And he’d had his own travels and escapades
Time waits on no one, but he had kept this
After we began to share our lives together
I was looking for something and I came across
This, the azure colored flashlight, wrapped
In a gesture of love, it sat, taken care of
He had kept her as a reminiscence to the time
We’d spent together, sharing our hearts and lives
Venturing to know each other in ways that only
True lovers can know one another… uniting passions
I didn’t hint at knowing he had kept such a possession
Protected it as he would some great, ancient treasure
With hope that we would once again discover the secret
Of love that knows no conditions or reasons or failings
Love that lifts the spirits and cures all the pains
Whispers joy into the heart with it’s sense of faith
Purifies the smile that comes from the deepest parts
Of the soul who knows that love like this is a fortune
COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE(3) any theme any form Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
September 3, 2020
Naivete' gets in the way of what can go wrong.
Youth have a way of dancing to every love song.
In early years I had no fears, daughter then a wife
but rarely does everything go as we planned in life.
'Life's a Dance' and experiences teach us as we go
from trusting souls to questioning adults as we grow.
Sometimes we follow and there are times when we lead.
Sometimes love ends in heartache. That's when we bleed.
In those early years there wasn't much that I feared
and dread was never a word that I revered.
When my singing stopped and music ended in sorrow
I didn't give up on hope, for there's always tomorrow.
******************
So, I continued to 'Dream On' with hopes I still had,
trying to remember the good times and forget the bad.
I had to put the past behind because it was gone.
How quickly it went by like time between dusk and dawn.
Isn't that the way life collects the dues its owed.
When kissed, each Prince Charming turned out to be a toad.
I grew weary pretending to be someone I was not.
So, I left and didn't look back like the wife of Lot.
I wrote of my life's adventures on many parchment pages~
my legacy or a comedy of errors acted upon life's stages.
Not yet, has the final curtain been drawn on my career
for in these autumnal years another song plays in my ear.
********************
I got tired of waiting for life to be the happy place
where I once smiled, before frowns covered my face
so, at last I found the courage to set myself free
and started singing about the things I liked about me.
I stopped wailing the blues in these glorious days
and making up all kinds of alibis and trivial ways
to worry about things, so I'm living in the present.
My attitude is carefree, and each day is pleasant.
'Living in the Moment' leaves no room for expectations.
I enjoy relationships and sometimes give in to temptations.
The life I thought would be mine, at last I am living
and I discovered there really is much more joy in giving.
If you had a 3 song Playlist about your life, what would they be and why?
1. 'Life's a Dance' by John Michael Montgomery.
2. 'Dream On' by Aerosmith.
3.'Living in the Moment' by Jason Mraz
Whale Wayfarers
By Mark Stucky
Are you obsessed like Captain Ahab,
horizon-bound to harpoon that whale?
Could that addiction shipwreck you
and drown loved ones surrounding you?
Is your Pequod-like quest
worth the possible price?
Or are you oblivious like Jonah,
blithely sleeping through the maelstrom
while willfully avoiding the call
and ignoring those who need you?
Will surging storm swells swallow you,
and only a whale of a tale can save you?
(First published in Agape Review, 9 Dec. 2022. See also my poem “Reluctant Rogue Redo?” for more ponderings on Jonah’s adventures.)
(Photo by Ray Shrewsberry on Pixabay.com.)
Some forests never fear the fury of March bending a tree,
their Redwoods and Giant Sequoias provide good shelter
from winds and storms that occasionally begin at sea;
in this woodland, the wood thrush and the blue warbler
have made their home and they're happy to see a wanderer...
when night descends all sounds are muffled by the loud cooing
of owls with fluorescent eyes that scare the black and gray crows;
they keep on watching the faint shadows similar to fog rising.
In the depths of the densest forest stands a brown limestone hut,
where the white-bearded keeper carries his Michigan ax to cut
wood for the evening fire to keep hungry bears and wolves away;
he searches for sweet blueberries and raspberries walking slowly,
he finds some ripe papaws he'll roast with a tender yellow perch
he caught in a small pound by the shade of a reddish-brown birch.
I met pale-faced Tom two summers ago, we bumped into each other
on a winding trail that led to an open meadow wilder and greener
than the ones turned arid from intense sunlight with a straight line;
he complained about his loneliness and the longing for sunshine.
" Stop by anytime, I can share my adventures gladly, you can write them
as the hunting images take me back to the days when I steered the helm
of a ship with agile hands into the turbulent oceans testing my strength:
I was called captain brave, not born in an age of such fragility and dearth. "
And Tom went on with his long and exciting narrative, I listened...
somehow embodying his intrepid spirit, " Look at your surroundings,
Nature is so generous, it offers us wonderful gifts and teaches us grit;
if we obey its laws, it won't turn against us, and under these shady trees
that protect me as they always do: I expect no frigid days, only mild days. "
Tom glanced at the cloudless sky of noon; it made him happy, not sad. "
Midst happenings’ adventures
Beyond happiness-overtures
My soul, wrapped with joyousness*
Exalts God’s redemption’s preciousness.
Against sin-guilt tortures
Surpassing sorrow’s despair gestures
My spirit, gripped by Christ’s forgiveness
Worships Him with grateful blissfulness.
Toward refreshing green pastures
Guarded from unbelief junctures
My faith, resting in the Lord’s trustworthiness
Increases to minister through His graciousness.
*Psalm 43:4 Then will I go unto the altar of God, unto God my exceeding joy: yea, upon the harp will I praise thee, O God my God.
August 6, 2019
What did you expect
on your way to shared sanctuary today?
Did you expect to return unchanged?
The same as that earlier person
on your way?
What would be your purpose
for participating in this faithful revolution
with such slight anticipation?
What did you mean
when you said, about tomorrow,
It already is only the other side of this cameo-staged day?
The other side of yesterday
Each day as unique as fingerprints
worn down and raised up
pressed out to regrow in
harmed and healed
ridged and faded
miraculous unchanging change
between yesterday
and tomorrow's seamless identity.
On your way up and out this morning,
did you truly expect to go to sleep tonight
the same person,
a day older
but probably not sufficiently wiser?
On your way to sleep tonight,
rooted in yesterday's warm and cold experience,
why wouldn't you expect to arise tomorrow
in the second half of this conscious time,
changed by dreams of risky adventures
in unchanging opportunistic sanctuary?
Anonymous personal expectation
for intimate political anticipation
Withdrawn from constant shadow
drawn toward changing light.