Long Afternoons Poems

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


Our Park Bench of Love

Many times have we been in the square
            splendid mornings, afternoons and nights
           memories that are now whips
            the longing that comes and hunts us...

            Here as a visitor from the past
            a shadow looking for your shadow
            in that time already so broken
            this love that no longer dazzles us...

             square bench that reminds me
             that time the Bench itself agrees
            enchanted times of love and glory

              it's still in my  today poetry             
              remember is to live the sad joy
             that makes me write this story... !
Form: Sonnet


Premium Member Rose

I am a rose and beauty is in me
Shapely and colourful in nature's scene
My colour of blue mirrors the sky
Whilst birds on the wing dip their wings flying by

I awake in the morn dew adorned
Refreshing my petals, stem and thorns
Awaiting the sun to be absorbed by me
In our bed of roses my buds and thee

This afternoons breeze catches as we gleefully sway
Insects skillfully hover and join in the rays
Humming and buzzing talking to each other
Whilst ladybirds tickle under my petals of cover

The evening draws as the sun downs
In my bed of roses our petals become gowns
We head into the night all quiet and serene
For tomorrow's a new day even roses can dream
Form: Quatrain

Friendships that ends

Friendships That End

Friends are the people
who find you in the middle of a storm,
with hurricanes raging all around you,
and even when all they have
is a single umbrella,
they hold it over you.

They become your shelter.
The place you can return to
when the world feels unbearably heavy.
The ones who make you hot chocolate
on your grayest days,
who sit beside you for hours
just to listen,
even while carrying
their own storms in silence.

They love you
for who you are,
not for what you can give them.

And I miss my friends.

I miss belonging
to a little world of my own.
A place where I could be myself
without thinking twice,
where they could be themselves
without ever feeling like
they were too much.

I miss the freedom
of walking out the door
and knowing someone would be there,
ready to come with me.

Even if all I had to offer
was my sadness.

Because somehow,
they always knew what to do with it.

They would sit beside me
through the grayest afternoons,
turning sorrow into laughter
without ever asking it to leave.

And maybe that’s what I miss most:

having people
I never had to ask to stay,
because somehow,
they simply did.

People who made me feel
that being alone
was a choice,
not a sentence.
© Mar Desal  Create an image from this poem.

Premium Member Oceana

Oceana

Oceana flings her sequined petticoats
Upon the sands as if to toss the seaweed 
From the swirling edges
While she dances with the wind
With each turn she swings her skirts
In thunder
As she passes – faster, faster -
Until her laughter foams upon the waves
And in the early midnight dawns
She turns to cover up 
Her turquoise evening gown
With capes of fog so thick
The soaring gulls seem to carry
This her summer train
To quickly change into a dress of silver satin,
Bound with trims of frothy sprays,
Rising and swelling,
When morning reaches for windy afternoons,
She teases sudden lightning outbursts
Leaving behind upon the outstretched strands
A foaming lace of pearls
That decorate her new rippling dress
Of brilliant sapphire blue
Drawing it around the world in flowing currents
To follow, ever follow, the lilting music
Of her lover moon,
Softly singing enchanted melodies,
Ever beckoning his earthbound bride unto himself
To watch her gaily waltz upon the rolling seas
Circling to his rune. 

8-22-25
3rd - Rob Carmack Premiere VIII

6-29-22 - N/A
Contest: Marathon Mile Five
Sponsor: Mark Toney

8-13-22 -
5th - Poetry Marathon Mile 12
Sponsor: Mark Toney

6/20/19
On Top 100 All Time Poems list
1st - Trophy Win - Juliet Lingon
1st - Julia Ward 11/29/20
1st - Brian Strand 1/14/20
Featured Poem 5/2/21
Included in Poetry Soup Anthology #2 - It's Still Poetry
Included in CWC Anthology - First Prize Winner Independent Publishers Award
                                                         Indie Press Awards

Premium Member Sophisticated Chef

Though I ain't a cordon bleu chef as the title might imply,
I can still whip up gourmet fare in the blink of an eye!
And to an oven or a fryin' pan I need not be a slave,
As long I can open cans and boxes and use my microwave!

No need for me to spend hours cookin' on languid afternoons,
Makin' a mess with spatulas, blenders and tablespoons.
I can simply open a box and fix Kraft's macaroni and cheese,
Or thaw Marie Callender's lasagna from a carton in a breeze!

Ah, the variety of Campbell's soups I can extract from a tin,
All prepared to perfection, not too thick and not too thin.
Doesn't take me long to create a scrumptious mulligan stew - 
Just open a can of Dinty Moore and heat it up is all I do!

I never bother makin' vanilla waffles anymore from scratch,
When I can thaw Eggo things from a box and enjoy a tasty batch!
Thanks to my handy microwave I can fix Sara Lee frozen pies -
I didn't bake 'em but my gullible guests think otherwise!

My side kick Chef Boy-r-Dee and I make a fine spaghetti,
And also unrivaled ravioli, tortelline and capelleti!
I'm always happy to share with others the secret of my success,
And the proper presentation of fine cuisine with panache and finesse!

Entry for Lewis Raynes' "I Love Food" Contest)
Form: Rhyme


Song of the Dying

You don’t feel upon lying
So you sing the song of the dying
Sunday afternoons 
Pastors choose reign in a spiritual doom 
The sun plasters we coons 
Stand out and fade faster with the moon
I bid you the same old static and blues
The one always in favor of tempered news
The trail of adventures and rules 
We don’t heal upon crying 
So we sing the song of the dying
The highways haunts you
Night sky’s taunt the blue 
All life wants from you
Is the truth
The secrets they’re telling you
One just knows not what to do 
Feel like you want to cry
Coincidentally you realize 
It would be better to die 
We don’t feel upon lying 
So we sing the song of the dying 
I’ve given away myself in every song
Driven the bars last liquor home
No sympathy for an aging man
For I cannot feel your tears 
Upon my rough hands 
My scared palms 
My irrelevance 
bared in chapters of Psalms 
Until my ending is calmed
Form: Ballad

Premium Member Losing the glow

I wander where the afternoons
were so warm and golden
and wonder why 
pleasant woods and beautiful lakes desert me
leaving just trees and water

I wander where the orange sunset 
painted the purple sky
and wonder why
The awe at the light show leaves my heart
I become colorblind to nature's art.

I go inside to where the parlor
was full of happy crowds
and wonder why
The chill of loneliness comes over me
in this silent room I can't wait to flee.

I wander where I held your hand
We thought the future was so grand
and I wonder why
So little went as we had planned
the road went to a savage land.

I wander where values
were accepted, and known
and wonder why 
Stone became water, and water stone
If they see a good man, they can't leave him alone

I sat all afternoon  
by an exuberant stream of rushing flow  
And I wondered why  
I lost the fun; I lost the glow—  
like laughter fading after the show.
Maybe you need to feel the loss to grow.
Form: Lyric

Premium Member The Lawn

I grew up in a house that had a huge green lawn in the backyard.
It ended at the edge of a steep hill. When I stood on it, I felt suspended
as if I was floating just above the small town below.

I remember basking in the sun on this soft, pampered suburban lawn--
hot summer afternoons made it too hot to move, no breeze, and
lizards scurrying by to break the silence, interrupt daydreams.

As I think back to being eye-level in that green blade jungle; 
I think of all the feet that have crossed there. 
Bare feet and boots, high-heels and the delicate hooves of deer--
All the memories that have walked away.

Premium Member Her Love Longs To Hear Her

You who dwell in the gardens
with friends in attendance,
let me hear your voice!

Song of Songs 8:13 NIV

Young love, young love.
Her love longs to hear her -
her chirping in the garden,
the peak of harp-pluck
and see the flight
of purest shamrock eyes.

Her love’s jealous for
a whispering of cherubic lips.
*A find, this dove, this only daughter,
the favorite of the one who bore her.*
Her young prince, in ivory tower,  thinks of her
from sunrise to sunset and forever
in his dreams.

She keeps a company of friends,
who delight in her white teeth,
her minty breath, her measured words.
They’re acquainted with
her grace, the smooth taste
of time and space…for him, oblivion.

Her love misses out, on chipper words,
so lovely-shaped, in rainbow-afternoons.
He longs for her all the time
but though she is his,
not all her time
is his. 

5/13/2022

*Song of Songs scripture

Premium Member Ramble Around the Foundry

It’s been a day, brother, it’s been a day.
I’m ridiculous for lack of content,
All my plot holes are on display.
Am I doing OK? Am I having a day?
I can’t get a call back. I sat on a thumb tack.
It woke up my skinny white ass.
I’m mad in the morning. I’m angry afternoons.
I’m ornery as hell. I’m bloody pissed, as well,
And sick of the puddler’s stupid drama:
“We’re down by the bow and headed for the bottom.
There’s gonna be a ruckus, boys, so smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”
Good lord, it’s just clinker and slag.
All the king’s horses are slovenly nags. 
Nothing but losers and misfits
Posing as rakes and roues.
Like red beans in chili con carne
Causing gas bending over the blarney.
I re-organize the hectic and recognize the stone.
And yet, because my truss work was contrived 
Of wrought iron, rather than steel,
It resisted corrosion while exposed to the storm.
Though I’ve been ghosted and gas-lit,
Led around like a halfwit,
I still miss Jenny Wren’s chrysanthemum smile,
And I'll always have a thing for Amber Rose.
So, I’m mailing my love to Azerbaijan.
Baka, Baku, it isn’t Shikoku, 
But it sometimes makes me smile.
And I thank my clerestory windows,
They let in the light and vent out the heat,
Affording me the grace to do my job.
Form: Burlesque

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