Long Air(a) Poems
Long Air(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Air(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Air(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
Just a short, yet vivid memory. The ending, a bit choppy, but it wanted to share it just the same.
Theatrically vivid
Fresh on my mind
Feeling quite timid
Unforgettable time
My feet pedaled fast
Then slowed to a halt
Daddy already passed
But I had an un nerving thought
I kicked up the stand
Hung my helmet on the handle
Working tear glands
Heart heavy and full
I began to fear
The inevitable time
With my daddy not here
To guide my line
I sat on the gravel
Awaiting his return
My fears, he would unravel
There was something to learn
As anticipated
My daddy returned
He somehow evaded
While making sure to discern
His voice, like an angel
He couldn't stay mad
A gravitational pull
Couldn't bear to see me sad
An incredible man
Laid my path out before me
With a gentle hand
That could never quite scorn me
With time, I changed
I became a parent
Our relationship, estranged
Nothing could spare it
All of the blame
Resides on my shoulders
My love remains
But the air a bit colder
This chair has chipped paint.
Its shadow gangly
in the light spilling through
the window. A deep
buttercup bisque steeps.
Through this stream, ember
motility of curdled
cream seeps into pores.
The seat embraces. Blood
colors sugar soft.
Fragments of dust waver
around the chair. Like
the suspended stars, or
the pixel points on
an LCD screen. Crumbs.
Feathers stick to the cheeks,
to be brushed off,
puff into the heavens.
Egg -white tinctured coat
wilts within the humid
air. Like the jaundiced
skin you wished to shed
when you first sundered
the sheets this morning.
This chair rocked my great
grandmother and her
children, and mother. Creaks
like an anchored boat.
Exposed grey brown wood
perishes, stabs the skin.
Like the chilled sea tinted
eyes: an ingress tears
the hushed air- a summons:
her son. Long ago
an apollyon. Starless.
The chair will be kindle
in September, sand-
peach colors imbued,
flushed like the candied
burn of Fall. Her flames.
Relive the fire
in the sky; salt waters
plum green, oily.
tauten red orange arms.
War in the distance-
better. The rose portrait,
diabolus shades stain
a cimmeran- tinted
loss, wound. Chalk inhaled.
And the blaze of two black
holes colliding. Wraiths.
The winter of her life,
within which a lurid
spirit-thin webbed cross
bleeds ash. Freezes; clots.
Bipolar
A yellowish day frolics with life, pleasantries errants the air, smiles
growing everywhere as man and beast are one with the leash,
complacency occupies both time and space, the tenants,
of calmness and serenity moves in. That as being first
analyzed as a minor depression is formulating and
will soon be realized. In the distance, a tad just
beyond far, a patch of sky blues, as neath it
an action is afoot, sufficient for all eyes to
unfavor. Murmuring are furthering while
prudence gives way to swiftness of
a widening of darkening as a hue
from black delegates its face.
Opened window's yields to
shutters as doors closed
behind them, a church
bell then rings in the
swing of things, be
all the fun sinks
to glum. Frail
breeze to
windy,
a road
empties
just like a
playground,
air a bit chilly,
while lovers tryst
is bittersweet. A full
storm now cruising, with
punishing bruising, all victims
for its choosing, going out diffusing,
its right to being abusing, being chaotic
and confusing, with all the blowing and the
throwing, pelting rains pummeling, winds swirling
and twirling all going hither, then a calming brooding
cessations abound, resulting, temporary distracting, until
it wither, then all events that were, returns with great failure,
as everything goes thither, in this questionable type of weather,
that creeps about seething then erupting one way suddenly break,
then abruptly explodes the other way, as if, on human terms, bipolar.
2020 February 28
*3rd Place*
Your fave poem 2020 not written for a contest
~~John Hamilton
Number One, out of Three
Sadly, badly is the way I handled it.
Things were falling apart, nothing fit.
Leaving it all behind, I hit the road.
Neglecting responsibility and the load.
A hundred thousand miles upon wings,
Soaring all alone, a Thunderbird sings.
Slicing the air, a sphere hangs, a beautiful smile
looking at me, all the while leaving mile after mile
behind, ever distancing the shattered, broken heart.
No plan, this man raced towards the future, a new start.
All the while, with heaver heart, not seeing what is ahead,
((not looking back at the heartache I caused )) instead,
just kept on flying, speeding across this vast land
with nothing but moments, so many memories in hand.
Number One, out of Three, cares, in spite, is there for me.
Hind sight, what a nemesis to carry, then, a time to see
all the fragments, the wreckage of a life you left behind.
Among the debris rose a flower so rear, so hard to find.
How does one reconcile ?, face that which goes around,
comes around as he traverses the last mile, above ground.
How does one find answers, find a melodic, cohesive sound
that brings Two out of Three, in line with The One, who found
forgiveness was the door through which, would guide her above
all the pain, uncertainty, anger and open up her heart to love.
B. J. “ A ” 2
January 12th, 2018
there is no sunshine right now
you are in your world room looking at blankness with the tv blasting
there is no laughter right now
i am in another state of parking lot depression munching on greasy pizza slices while killing time
you are probably thinking about life without me and hating me so much in your quiet moments
i am chugging down a strawberry daiquiri sobe wishing you were just speaking to me period
when the dark is exposed to light, it better be something pretty in view
when the stale smell of 'woman-fed-up' is in the air, a plan b is like a nice butt and a great pair of legs
oftentimes forgotten are the roots of what won a heart and a mind's thought
comfort is overdosed and the brain cells are tainted by altered states of choices
eventually, there is that taste of asphalt or dog poop sometimes feared by a considerable percentage
laughter and sunshine are the least of worries....the work overloads all circuits
however at times, the alarm is cut off too late and the snooze button becomes the mistress of regret
A year has passed but not July’s shiver,
the bed is warm and in the air a chill
yet it’s not the cold that makes me quiver
but the eros of our winter idyll.
All is bright, and I between God and you,
the kookaburra is in the willow,
and honeyeaters in the honeydew
flitter as I lay your breast and pillow.
She is up and rising at the cockcrow,
her slumber over, her allure begun -
she comes to me parting her wet furrow
and I am inside the gates of heaven!
All else forsaking at dawn’s early light
I lay smitten from our midwinter night.
Kid, you mean and are everything to me
and I do love the stars in Cotton Tree.
You are my morning and evening star,
sweet temptress to the unexplored heart -
girl, all I need is to be where you are
and never know what woe it is to part.
That matrix of life and morning glories -
that corona from sunup to sundown
and brightest of all celestial bodies,
my lips desiring its luminous crown.
All else forsaking at dawn’s early light
I lay smitten from our midwinter night.
Kid, you mean and are everything to me
and I do love the stars in Cotton Tree.
So we are in our beguiling sublimed
by a divine ordinance or blessing,
but visceral love, like a woman’s mind,
keep mortal men eternal guessing.
Written: July 1998
There is a place called beautiful nestled deep in my mind's eye
Gingham curtains crisply pressed frame periwinkle summer sky
Brass kettle on the old gas stove reflects cast iron pans
And always at the kitchen sink, I see busy, wrinkled hands.
There is a place called beautiful, I'm transported with a whiff
Of coffee brewing, dark and strong, I long to take a sip.
And in the air a trace of Tollhouse cookies baked this morn
And some perfume that only in this special spot is worn.
There is a place called beautiful I hear in perfect dreams
As Frankie croons and Louis wails all whilst the kettle steams
And as she works, she never tires as she hums and sings along
But the harmony of her lilting laugh is by far my favorite song.
There is a place called beautiful, it tastes like sweetest creams
Made in a bucket with a crank til her arms wore out, it seems
And topped with juicy berries that would burst upon each bite
And juices stained my mouth and clothes most every summer night.
There is a place called beautiful, I long to feel again
The naive sense that everywhere was as safe and free of sin
Where love and peace were daily served with a kiss upon the cheek
And grandma's kitchen always felt like you just found what you seek.
4/9/2019 / Poetry Marathon Final Placement / Sponsor: Mark Toney
We sat at the only empty table.
I'd never seen her before,
that elegant, thirty-something lady,
when I visited that shore.
I was twenty-two years old, with big ideas,
a little scruffy, a little thin.
I may once have been more fascinated,
but I can't remember when.
In the air, a sense of revolution,
an unseen, electric buzz -
hours of uninterrupted conversation
on that magic day that was.
"I am separated from my husband",
she mysteriously explained.
"Why?" I asked, my question drifting away,
of it, nothing remained.
I did not know the nature of their problem,
only that he was a doctor.
Her personal life was, it seemed, taboo, though
I wish I had unlocked her.
In the late afternoon, she bid me adieu,
departing to the West.
Suddenly, I knew that I was in love.
My purpose, I now possessed.
I hoped to find her on those foreign streets
before I had to move on.
Finally, I spied her, amongst the busy crowd,
but she was no longer blonde.
Before I could catch her, she entered a store.
So, I decided to wait.
How was it that she never came out again?
I left, when they closed so late.
Just then, a thug from some political faction
clubbed me, slammed me in a cell,
where I disappeared into a timeless fog,
emerging with a strange tale to tell.
They released me, who knows how much later.
I walked among the crowd,
trying to regain my wobbly footing,
my mind, beneath a cloud.
A man approached me, purposefully,
and I was shocked to see -
in every detail, he was a replica
of no one but me.
He told me that I would be joining him.
I pushed him and tried to run,
but he possessed superhuman strength
and continued where he'd begun.
He asked what I did for a career,
and it was a shocker
to hear my own voice say so loud and clear,
"I am a doctor".
"What a nice surprise that is", said he,
"so useful, I suggest.
We have someone we want you to meet.
She will be impressed".
Written: June 20, 2023
______________________________________________________________
As the blaze of August fades into the Fall,
Horizons newly-arisen burned and turned to ash,
And textures of alteration of seasons clash,
As the plague of frost becomes a rose’s pall.
The sun retreats; its warmth begins to wane.
Leaving behind a chill in autumn's air,
The vibrant hues of summer are now slain.
Yet beauty lingers in this time of wear.
As leaves transform and a tapestry unfolds,
A masterpiece of colors, rich and bold,
From fiery red to golden yellow,
Nature's paintbrush creates a vibrant show.
The crispness in the air, a gentle breeze,
whispers the secrets of the trees and the leaves,
They dance and twirl in a graceful ballet.
A farewell to summer, a welcoming of fall's display.
The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer,
A symphony of shadows, a haunting song,
The moon's soft glow, a beacon of hope,
Guiding us through this season's scope.
With each passing day, the world transforms.
A kaleidoscope of sights and forms
The scent of earth and bonfires in the air
This a reminder that adorn is everywhere
As the blaze of August fades away,
The Fall arrives, with its own array,
Of colors, textures, and a brand-new day,
And the Fall takes hold, in hues of red and gray.
A time of transition, a time to embrace
Beauty that comes with this alteration of pace.
The Heat
I have a new girlfriend her name is Mary-Jane.
I think she's from the south where the plants grow green and bright.
Mary Jane and I just spent the hot afternoon together ?
Watching the passage of time through a lens that she brought along just for this occasion.
The heat makes the air a sticky, warm bath
Mosquitos suck at the scabs on my legs
My scrotum is constantly itching
And my T-shirt is sucking the last remaining moisture from my pores.
Mary-Jane giggles at me, as if to say:
'Why focus on discomforts when the real heat is behind the scenes?'
My dreams keep interrupting me
So that I can clear my own throat and attempt to speak clearly again..