Long Afterwards Poems
Long Afterwards Poems. Below are the most popular long Afterwards by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Afterwards poems by poem length and keyword.
I’d Stay Again With Sunscreen Eyes
We’re waiting and waiting, and I can’t see because I have sunblock in my eye. It hurts to see, but it hurts more to blink. I can’t tell if it was worth coming out here; I’m baking in the sun like a lizard, and my eczema-scaly hands give that proposition proof.”Oh, a snag,” My Pepere would say and hope would fill the area until it too got away. That was all the action we’d get; we caught more plants than fish. With water so grimy, it’s weird it's a reservoir. I’ve seen many people fish here and at the other reservoir closer to home. There are no don’t-fish signs here, but there were at home, and I’d see people fishing right next to them as if they were above the law despite being below the sign. I would see them and wonder why with judging eyes. What's worth it? Each time I want to move my legs, the boat rocks because it’s only meant for two people and we squeezed on three. I’m wondering why we’re here despite the fact I asked to go. No bites, and I can barely see, and maybe we shouldn't be here for this long. We lingered in the one spot that had shade, but with no breeze, there was nothing to keep us there. We were talking about getting lunch afterwards, and even with reptile hands, red eyes, and sticky skin, I refused to leave. We stayed for hours, and I felt like maybe no one felt the way I did. Like how those kids felt fishing together in the illegal reservoir. Maybe I’m not supposed to be here, or supposed to stay, but I will remain for longer than I should. Because of the belief that there might not be a next time before we’re eye level with the sign, and realize we were naive for taking those times for granted. Or maybe because there’s a chance next time we can fit in the boat, because there’s one less person. Forgetting when to release my bail, because who taught and reminds me is now gone.
The picket line’s a lonely place
With just two of you there
Fighting for a membership
That doesn’t seem to care.
Two members turned back;
Just two, no more.
Most of them slipped quietly in
Through the hidden back door,
And quietly slipped out again
And we saw them driving by
Funny how none of them seemed
Able to look us in the eye.
We stood there with our picket boards,
Were snapped by the local press,
But we lost that action ,
The carnage not made any less
For the lack of any backbone
Must have made the management laugh
And very shortly afterwards they started
The decimation of the staff.
I had to swallow my pride,
For ironically at the end
I helped negotiate leaving terms
For most of my blackleg friends.
And in case any wonder
Just to let you know
I was one of the first
The company decided to let go.
Less than two years later,
Lacking any Union voice,
The rump that was left was
Given the stark choice:
Self employed status
Or clear your desks and go.
Not being vidicrtive I resisted
The urge to say I told you so
The picket line’s a lonely place
With only two of you there
Fighting for a membership
That just doesn’t seem to care
"Somewhere in time,"
(not the movie)
poetry
became a narrative
for recording
memories.
It must have been this evening
at my son’s first band concert,
the winter one.
(It was full of songs:
the ones I don't remember,
except for
'Spicy, Chicken Sandwich.'
It was the one
with lots of drums,
and his trumpet).
I told him so,
afterwards.
He was
somewhat less
than interested.
On our way home,
he made me laugh.
My line was:
“I filmed every song, honey.”
His line was:
“Yeah, well
I played every song,
so…”
The “lost in translation”
translation:
"I am a sixth grader.
Everything
you say and do,
mom,
is embarrassing,"
I am the proud:
“Village Idiot."
My mom used to say that
about herself,
when I was his age.
-Collaboration with Justin Connor-
I should be joyous and glad
I should be drinking and celebrating,
But the images of the battle still play in my head
There is a part of me that is proud,
And another part of me that is sardonically laughing
I fought for the good of the world
Not for the pride that comes afterwards
Europe has been liberated from an oppressor
The most evil man I have ever known is now dead
But because of him, millions of lives have been ruined
Brainwashed to creators of chaos and bereavement
Families traumatized, bodies in the streets
Children, innocent children, stuck in the images
Of raging men and sobbing victims
The disturbing images now forever stuck in my brain
The remnants of war leave a mark
Far more agonizing than any bullet wound
But something good does come out of all of this
There is no need to fight
Nobody has to be scared anymore
Because we fought,
People can begin their lives again
The remnants will be cleared and families will be closer
Tears will be wiped, shoulders will be wept
But I will not celebrate with my friends tonight
I will return to my family
And allow them to embrace the remnants of a broken soldier
This war brought death and suffering
And I don’t know how people deal with both
Six years of tyranny have ended
And many years of pondering have begun
Evil was in this world
But good was here to fight
And good has triumphed over evil
To keep the world safe
Don't be afraid of a lil' weight.
Go grab some, tussle a bit, and please, don't wait.
Pull some, push some.
While you work, do a little hum.
Get up early with the rising sun.
And if not early, certainly before the day is done.
Get in there and wrestle with it a bit.
Let the sweat drop, get uncomfortable, but don't quit.
Feel the pressure, feel the tension.
And make sure to move each weight with good intention.
For 30 or 45 minutes, ignite the sympathetic.
But afterwards, make sure to feed the parasympathetic.
Neither depression nor indolence resides in this salubrious state.
So move, go move a lil' weight.
Sometimes we like to do something for the story
we’ll tell afterwards. Buy a ’58 Pontiac, climb
a mountain in the dark. Lamar tells dirty jokes
with class, knows how to wait awhile, bend
a syllable and savor the laughter.
Absurd work, building a fence miles long
waste of steel and strong straight lodgepole pine
but even I don’t pine over it anymore. We’re
the government's children, fence is play and
livelihood also, but something cheerful as sunshine
for all the death it costs. There is so much life
a little death doesn’t matter. We stretch our muscles
the men feel like men, the women feel good too.
We stand around, watch a young rabbit one morning.
And we sat under
A gazebo that sat
Under palm trees,
Standing and smiling
At our seashore,
Emptying kegs of
Palmwine in our
Calabash and...
And then emptying
The calabash in our
Stomachs...
An exquisite experience,
I daresay!
The periwinkle-gatherer
Alighted from her
Canoe that arrived from
Upper sea, bending in her
Walk, no gratitude to her
Culture. Beside her followed
Her shadow, ever faithfully.
Their movement our common
Entertainment as we emptied
More fills of our calabash in us...
Entered the Crier, crying, like
A crying Cricket,
"The Archbishop of Canterbury,
And the Pope have now
Legalized a Skirt and another
Skirt together, and a Trouser
And its kind together!"
We unveiled the Holy Book,
In our flabbergastedness,
Afterwards, and replayed
The Crier's cry in our heads.
"A pity, for this shall soon be
Written in you by the Unknown
In Time to come and be said to
Be of the good God."
Were our only audibility.
We looked up and behold the gyre
For the legalization inundated
Our Vicinity! For the Crier's cries
Had spread its legs like a rumor.
Sadly, my partner patted her hairs
And we returned to our kegs,
Contemplating...
My left hand
Stroke the back of her neck
With the other
I finger and play
A writhing figure eight
I nuzzle in the curve of her thigh
My whispered nothing becomes a song
The rhythm of her body
. .... begins to vibrate and
..... resonate..
My breath begins our song
...... Our bodies entwined as one..
Her body light starts to hum
Fingers strumming..... plucking...
Finding the G cleft
..... sliding up her frets....
Open my eyes for the applause
Afterwards I take her home
Oh how I love to watch her burn
Oh I love my lady Washburn
Looking through my bedroom window
Sentenced to guitar innuendo
Now I believe in
When the electronic machine said “I win”
Resorting in a town called city of sin
Coins dropped from below
Real American money you know
Proper start to my romantic night
Prime Rib, Lobster, and waistline ever so tight
This is something I believe in
Shaking my tonic and gin
Waiting for my next of kin
Suddenly she appears
Having a sneer
“Did you make the reservations for dinner?”
“You being such a winner”
“No,” I replied
After hearing what she cried
Shaking the Casino plastic container
That quieted my wedding bliss complainer
“We eat for free
You and me”
I reported
To the one I once courted
“That is what I see
Now maybe they will waive the entertainment fee”
Leaving my drink leaning on the machine slot
No longer needing another shot
I welcomed her with a hug
Since she was my love bug
“So how much is there?”
She gave me a stare
“Enough for two rib eyes
No lie
Shall we go
And afterwards take in a show.”
She then whispered in my ear
Starting with “Oh dear”
“Now I believe in
What you were past due in
Had a certain purpose
No strings or curses.”
Walking hand in hand
They passed a man
Who just smiled
Knowing tonight the deuce was wild
Paid off in style
With a pair
Cashing in on a lifetime affair
THE WAX CRIES WITH HAPPINESS
Mom’s up early with the plucked bird, stuffing it.
The bare rinsed butterball, portions for six.
All day our mouths water, stomachs pitching a fit,
as we wait for the skin to crisp...delicious drumsticks.
Potatoes peeled and pressured, mashed, stirred
with butter, milk, salt and pepper...licking lips.
Jolly Green Giant beans heated, (sixties were absurd)
Likewise the floop from a tin can...cranberry flips.
Father and son, thankful for the football game. I
just hear static. Mother’s in her apron, sweating.
I just remember sights, smells, sounds...I sigh.
The basics of love — the cornucopia begetting.
Afterwards our bellies ballooning, but there’s pies,
piled with apple, rhubarb or cherry and Cool Whip.
The table adorned with long candles - the wax cries
with happiness. The unsetting done with thankful lips.
11/11/2019
Thanksgiving Memory Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina Riddle