Long Ambles Poems
Long Ambles Poems. Below are the most popular long Ambles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ambles poems by poem length and keyword.
There is a presence to a Sunday morning,
an ease. People waiting on line for their
coffee seem more animated, less agitated,
friendlier….almost chatty. The traffic seems
to get along better too. No schedules demand
cut throat tactics to beat the next red light.
School buses, along with their riders, are
tucked away for the weekend. The hum of
the tires on the pavement seems almost
musical, soothing, in a movingstillness
kind of way. Joggers seem more relaxed,
their dogs less pressured to “get it done”.
Ducks idly talk to their shadows. Church
bells chime more jubilantly echoing over
the breaking day. We sit. Two old men
sipping hot coffee. Reveling in the present,
reminiscing about the past, in no hurry
for the future. An elderly woman ambles
past, smiling at the blowing leaves,
shuffling her feet in mock childhood frolic.
Cyclists relax into a near traffic-less rhythm
of wheels, spokes, gears - grinning into the
chill breeze of November. The firehouse
doors are open, the firefighters resting
between rounds, trucks sitting idle in
the bays, hoses rolled and ready. Two
squirrels play tag in front of a blue house
disappearing into piles of leaves only
to re-emerge atop a fence post. A grey
and white cat lays motionless nearby.
There is no rush to the cadence of the
churchgoers. It appears they may have
already entered into the day’s prayer.
A gentle sense of unanticipated hope
pervades the subtleties of life.
There is a presence to a Sunday morning.
John g. Lawless
11/8/2015
My Hold of You I Love to HOLD YOU-
My hold of you, you inspire me tonight
Touch I love the way you the hold breath your breathe
Invading my mind day and through the night
Always dreaming about the big black death
Let me compare you to a calm stardust?
You are more gorgeous, intense and able
Pale heat toasts the dense frolics of August
and summertime has the ambles table
I shall touch you now allow me to love you
I love your tense essence, the touch and skin
Thinking of you grand touch fills me you do
My love for you is a powerful sin
Now I must away with a biting heart
Remember my keen words whilst we're apart
5/16/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
Eight long decades I’ve taken
To know this life’s touchstone like truth:
Man loves to live anywhere
But at life’s battle-hardened booth.
Yea, we scarce want to be
Where life for reason has brought us,
And wishing to migrate
There, there to fish for no cause.
Old age, as is inevitable,
As it brings me to brood,
And mind being unstable,
Ambles back to my childhood,
Which, without the least of doubt,
One of the pleasant most,
Though not always sugarcane sweet
That be chewed till void of its boast.
I recall still when I was there—
A child in flesh and blood and mood,
Not an apparition of thought,
My thoughts centred oft on adulthood.
Today I wonder, not just childhood,
Life’s every stage is such a swell time,
Which, when one gets older feels good,
But mind meanders, reason nor rhyme.
Not at life’s battle-hardened booth…
It’s taken me eight long decades
To know this life’s touchstone like truth:
Leaving all jewels, man chases jades.
__________________________
Musings | 06.05.2026 | age, birth/brood, childhood, old, quatrain
The train…..
pants into the station and…. sighs;
it slows breathless and agitated,
pressurised by persistent punctuality
but still appreciating its day’s outing.
An orchestra of noise is now played out
with a percussion of sounds:
a brass section of brakes,
a windwood selection of operating doors,
announcements announced in tenor form.
Passengers tip out onto the platform,
sprinting off to win whatever race they are in;
others fumbling with defiant luggage
or stumbling over rebellious children.
Swiftly, the train draws a deep breath,
readying and steadying itself for the off.
Clickety-clack and it ambles down the track,
dips under a lazing bridge before rushing away;
a row of oak trees racing along to keep up!
On board, new passengers chittering with chatter,
settling into the swing and sway of the carriages,
delighting in the positivity of moving forward,
engaged by flickering screens of windows.
Diverse countryside scenes dance passed,
passengers lost in the rhythm of the rails
clicking pictures in their mind's eye.
Images created for future times;
the laying down of tracks of nostalgia.
The train now shoulders its way forward,
elbowing towards a final destination;
the window screens are now night time viewing
as the dark slowly, steadily… drags itself in.
Ian Souter 2025
A tender discourse of artistic thoughts
Ambles my mind searching for prologue
Aiming to become a poetic dialogue,
Striving for words that elicit a response.
And you enter with an aiding portrayal
Letting my words live and breathe,
To evolve into lines of synchronic rhythm
And emanate sounds of lyrical music.
And you tell me words must be set free
To hear as I hear, and feel as I do:
Joy of romance or sorrow of heartbreak,
Elation of birth, or anguish of death.
Words set free weave a cohesive likeness
Choosing a dawn or night of darkness,
Painting a world full of cheer or fear
Upon shiny meadows or wispy pastures.
Shedding limitations of form and syllables,
Guided only by poetic aspirations
You awaken me with a wondrous theme,
You think so big, poem of my dream!
October 27, 2017
Placed first in standard contest #138 by Brian Strand
"The velvet veins running through my deep-coloured wings sing blues, remembering the non-existent maple memories, lighting up my heart's frosty rays."
~ Deepali Singhvi
The soft folds of velvet enclose
her slim body as she ambles
across the woods in tearful throes;
Wrapped in velvet, on she rambles
in whispers of ache that perturb
her feelings that are in shambles;
Her saunter's like a healing herb
that relieves her from her sorrow,
Here, there's no one else to disturb;
She follows a path that's narrow,
sits beside a well-worn headstone,
cries as if there is no morrow;
Slowly, she sighs sitting alone,
Unlocks a velvet box and takes
a black velvet rose to bemoan;
Places it there, her body shakes
with deep anguish for whom she lost,
"I'll love you always", her voice breaks;
Walking back, she's like velvet frost,
Wishing their love were not star-crossed.
Muddled, eyes slowly drift off to slumber.
Through labyrinth blackness, perception ambles.
Blurring thoughts, a carousel of blunders,
spell I'm under, waning motion rambles.
Unearthed from the nadir, dragged from hiding,
wedged in a dream embraced by the cold dark.
Awaken by my screams not heard; finding
it was a dream, leaving a chilling mark.
Surrendering streams of tears mar my face,
a victim of deep fears and silent screams.
Cradled in his affectionate embrace,
warding off baneful effects of my dreams.
Dreams of love, dream that take you into hell,
where unresolved unconscious problems dwell.
6/19/2017
Like a pack of howling wolves in need of prey,
A wounded urban psyche strains its gnarled voice,
Motherless, fatherless, ice cold pavement waif,
Wee small hours plight
The rocks of his facade dispatched in ghost trains
for those ghoulish oil float gutters to imbibe,
Back street burden stray, schooled in fringe art fables,
Phantom kite chaser
Eerie street lights peer into an aimless soul,
Clouds of pea soup fog engulf his raw foot slink,
Firefly knotted angst or bilious grumble,
Trash can tummy fare
But still he ambles on, inner plagues in charge
as loafers from the underworld gawk and gape,
Pithy, a phased out coin for snow cap straggler,
dead of night orphan.
Date Poem Submitted : 19 th Of July 2020
Title : A Dark Underbelly
Sponsor : Edward Ibeh
In streets of solitude...
A societal ghost ambles through
A bustling concrete jungle unnoticed.
A lost soul with sartorial handicap,
Carrying life inside his overstuffed backpack.
His face is weather-beaten;
Reflecting wasted years,
Loneliness and pain.
His hungry, pleading eyes
Dart from one passerby to the next.
No one cares enough to approach,
To find out his name. It's Jack.
A few stop by to toss pennies
Into his Styrofoam cup.
No one sticks around to talk to him.
His stomach often grumbles
With hunger;
The world blind to his plight.
He wants more than a friendly wave
At those waiting out a stop light
Half of those don't even look in Jack's direction
Because of pride, he doesn't
Knock at car windows and ask...
"Can you kindly spare a dollar?"
A forgotten citizen left to fend for himself.
He might as well be locked away
In prison; out of sight, out of mind.
Who searches, cries, and prays for this lost soul?
America unwilling
To bring this outsider in from the cold.
She looks past him like cellophane.
Campaigning politicians release
A laundry list of plans that don't include
Helping him to rise above his dismal circumstances.
None of their promises include
Sheltering this poor folk roaming about
Like a stray dog, living under a bridge
And sleeping in a makeshift tent.
Sadly, it will always be this way
In streets of solitude.
E nchanted by the elements, Goddess Earth excitedly
A rises, anticipating all her awe-inspiring artistry;
R eveling in the rapture of the rivers’ ripples or roses’ rare redolence;
T antalizing us with her talent for turning out utter transformations.
H er heart holds hues of happiness!
R obust and rosy-cheeked, she rambles,
A dorning arms of trees with amethysts in spring and apples in autumn.
D ancing from dawn to dusk and back to dawn,
I nstinctively and impulsively, she illuminates with imagery - in
A nd out and all about, she ambles ardently.
N ever endingly, this nimble nymph
C apriciously creates - combing sky with clouds and coaxing colors onto canyons,
E xuberantly and effortlessly embracing all of earth’s expanse effulgently.
R iding rainbows or rapids; rending rocks when riled, she regulates and replenishes.
I nherently and impressively imaginative, she is invaluable in
D auntlessly and dulcetly delighting with dazzling display.
E arth, who exhales exquisite breath, may your radiance ride be everlasting!
An Anagram poem!