Long Annual Poems
Long Annual Poems. Below are the most popular long Annual by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Annual poems by poem length and keyword.
Far off the beaten track and trail
on quest for music’s Holy Grail
led pilgrims on biblical scale
more than can be counted.
With midsummer sun on our cheek
in tents to shelter we did seek
and pitched them at its highest peak
on a hilltop mounted
As we climbed the lean of the hill
my beer I would try not to spill
and sat with the great unwashed till
olé and adios.
It was I, El Skeet, amigo,
in my poncho and sombrero
half-cut like a loco gringo
who waved “vaya con dios!”
We lit yet another hash bong
all up in smoke like Cheech & Chong
and passed it to each one along
under the cop radars.
Till late as wasted brain cells flag
with every mind trip headfu-ck drag
I tucked in to my sleeping bag
on the hill ‘neath the stars
As music and mayhem did rage
back in next summer’s youthful age
we camped closer to the big stage
by a shallow hollow.
I’d sit and watch the crowds go by
in the hot sun and dust and dry
under a big Waikato sky
from our camp on tent row
And as I ripped in with the guys
to our grog trailer of supplies
we made a hanging chain of ties
with every pull tab rent.
Waiting for Cold Chisel that night
with a superdoob glowing bright
I was fuc-kin’ high as a kite
and lurched back to my tent
The next day I woke in a daze
and walked off my drunken malaise
when I heard singing songs of praise
in some weird sh-it I saw.
Tambourine hippies, punks and geeks
and chanting Hari Krishna freaks
burnt incense in clay painted cheeks
so I got high some more
Yet in a hot wet and wild hour
stoned in the unisex shower
I gazed many a sweet flower
in their naked splendour.
We bathed too in waters that flowed
down where the lazy river bowed
lest my head spontaneous explode
on my three day bender
That night by the stars we were led
as above a smoky sky bled
when out The Enz rocked “I See Red”
and fired a burning flare.
In the spirit of Sweetwaters
we lived among at close quarters
sons of Bacchus and his daughters
and I so revelled there
Written: November 2009
Sweetwaters was an annual three
day music festival back in 1980s.
April 6 Wagontire, Oregon
1973
In 1973, I went on a road trip
With my father
We left Berkeley to go to Yakima
Where my father had a summer cabin
He was a college professor
And had July and August off
And we spent the summers
Every summer from 1968 to 1978
Our whole dysfunctional family
Our annual road trip to hell and back
As we did not get along at all
We decided to drive through Eastern Oregon
Just my father and me
Just for the hell of it
The rest of the family was already there
My father and I shared a travel lust
One of the few things we shared
This was one of our best trips
We got along
Which was unusual
Normally our relationship
Was fraught
As we were so different
We left Klamath Falls
A real nothing burg in those days
And headed east along highway 395
As we entered the desert of eastern Oregon
We entered a different world
High mountain dessert
Almost no one on the road
Then we saw the sign
Wagontire Oregon
100 miles ahead
99 miles ahead
98 miles ahead
We counted down the signs
Miles after miles
As we drove into the gathering dusk
We speculated that Wagontire
Must be a giant truck stop
In the middle of no where
We pulled into the town
Nothing there but a gas station
Motel and café
We decided to stop
Last gas for 100 miles
According to the highway signs
In the morning
We chatted with the owner
He was the sheriff, the fire chief
The owner of the motel, gas station
The only business in town
And the only place open
For one hundred miles
I noticed a highway sign outside
Welcome to Wagontire, Oregon
Population 2 ½ humans 10 dogs, 50.000 sheep
I asked the Sherriff
Say who is the ½ human?
My idiot son!
And we left.
200 miles later
We finally left Eastern Oregon
2016
In 2016 my wife and I drove through Eastern Oregon
As part of our epic cross country trip
10,000 miles
31 states in three months
On the way from Medford to Yellowstone
We drove along highway 395
The signs for Wagontire was gone
And we drove through the town
The motel was abandoned
Nothing there at all
And that sign was gone too
I said I suppose the idiot son
Never took over the business
And we speculated about Wagontire
And all other nothing burgs
We drove through that summer
Heart of Trump’s America
True fly over country
The interrogation threatens to shudder like an earthquake
A long index of accusations spread out among the atmosphere like a blazing forest fire
Satisfaction, the officer and venomous umbrage, the criminal
Self-appreciation, the quiescent defense attorney with no right to be there
Misery, the boisterous dauntless prosecutor
The months of the annual calendar, the jury
Pain, the almighty judge
It’s a court case already divested from the defendant
Why should it not
Bother, why bother
Its past the millionth time in 216 divided by the jury
Satisfaction has seen countless rewards of capturing umbrage
Satisfaction has felt the boundless benevolence of glory
And foaming at the mouth, glowering with muffled respected fury
Sits umbrage, staring out blurred vision
Victimized in his own apperception
What’s the cost, the damage total; what has befell, befell reality
The anathema of fate or rather the favored affliction of fortune’s fool
Within a realm of possibility it may perceive to be both
A pebble laced with a thread thrown into grass only miles away
To be reeled right back in like a helpless fish on a line
The audacity, the audacity; oh just hush
Silence is golden and this silence is benevolent
Joy was once prevalent in the company of such disgrace umbrage reigned
Together they were serenity, a mixed graceful period of harmony
Such a song sung by dual owls in the presence of the lightened darkness of night
(sigh) …I can’t do this anymore
Make a world, create a story peacefully
Creating a plot circulating, tip-toeing around the issues placing bait in front of my eyes for me to take
What is wrong with me, my life
One word, a sharp enough blade to stab in the ankle to slaughter Achilles
In this case, me
The poet’s banishment, scourge creating a series of nine lashes
Still runs deep, refuses cessation
Proceeds to feed on every ounce of merriment to permeate through the cracks
Melancholy has produced to invade back in
What’s the cause this time for it to attack
A few simple words, reflection, swift defiance
the bruises upon the right appendage whispering, begging for more scars
FOR WHAT? ! ? ! ? ! ? !
Forget it….it’s nothing
Satisfaction has pardoned me, set me free
Umbrage, my twin has taken over me
To another bridge, we sit and sulk over a failed attempt at flight
Cause we willingly defy the right to say goodnight
White Christmas is not what many people think it is
As we know Christmas is a lively annual festival
Celebrated seven days before the end of the year
Of the Nativity of Jesus. Christmas is a joyful, colorful
And wonderful feast, where stars glow and glisten.
People who live not too far from the cold North Pole
Always dream of a snowy or white Christmas
Where Mother Nature is frosted and crystallized
And the streets are paved with black or clear ice.
Christmas is celebrated by billions across the universe
It is a major festival of hope, happiness and lights
Northerners often dream of a very cold or snowy Christmas
Which brings powerful nostalgic feelings of yesteryear
When children used to listen.
Nowadays, Christmas is multicultural and highly colorful
Bing Crosby wrote of a ‘White Christmas’ for everybody
Living in the world, where imagination brings Hope, Noël,
Yule and Joy, regardless of the religion, creed, gender or race.
Copyright © December, 2023, Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Blanca Navidad No Lo Es
Blanca Navidad no es lo que mucha gente piensa que es
Como sabemos, la Navidad es una animada fiesta anual
Que muchos festejan siete días antes de fin del año
La Natividad de Jesús. La Navidad es una fiesta
Que es alegre, colorida y maravillosa, donde las estrellas brillan.
Personas que viven no muy lejos del frío Polo Norte
Sueñan siempre de una Blanca o Nevada Navidad
Donde la madre naturaleza está congelada y cristalizada
Y las calles pavimentadas con hielo transparente o ngro.
Millones de personas en todo el universo celebran la Navidad
Que es una gran fiesta de esperanza, de felicidad y de luces
Los norteños suelen soñar con una Navidad muy fría
Lo que trae poderosos sentimientos nostálgicos de antaño
Cuando los niños solían escuchar.
Hoy en día, la Navidad es multicultural y llena de color
Bing Crosby escribió de una "Blanca Navidad" para todos
Que viven en un mundo donde la imaginación trae esperanza
Festividad y alegría, sin importar la religión, credo, género o raza.
PD Traducción de ‘White Christmas Is Not’ por Hébert Logerie
Copyright © diciembre de 2023, Hébert Logerie, todos los derechos reservados.
Hébert Logerie es autor de varias colecciones de poemas.
.
*
He
says
" No! "
But I say
" Let's go! "
It's my favorite
time of year again!
Let's put on our boots
fleeced lined jackets, gloves,
and head to the mountains for our
annual search for the "perfect" tree!
Every year, this one event, a family tradition...
has almost landed us in divorce court! Why, we were
almost featured in the local newspaper with a headline:
"Local Father, Wielding Hatchet, Ends A Family’s Tradition”
It's not that my husband doesn't enjoy the spirit of the season...
Perhaps it's just the memory of the times we got stuck in the
mud, while he's trudged back two miles to find the nearest phone.
Maybe he remembers another time when it slipped out of it's ropes
wiggled from the top of our car, (no place to pull over)… in a storm,….
(he had to squint through branches fanned on the windshield to see the
road..all the while, muttering language not quite jolly, no holiday spirit!)
While backseat drivers, sung "Jingle Bells", while enjoying hot chocolate…
and raving over the beauty of the season!
This year....he declares that we are getting an artificial tree!!
Ain't
Gonna
Happen!
For Paula's Contest: Traditions
Note: (Actually, if truth be known, he is a very good sport, and we usually go into Lassen National Forest, and get a permit to cut our own tree. A wonderful outing, and a fun day!)
*Note: A 60-year annual tradition that involved a mysterious visitor leaving three
roses at the grave of writer Edgar Allan Poe on the anniversary of his birthday
ended in January 2010. Curators of the Poe House and Museum are at a loss to
explain who left these gifts and why they stopped. On many occasions people kept
vigils near Poe’s grave during this period that began in 1949, but no one ever saw
someone leaving the roses. In the morning, however, they were always on his
grave. Poe is considered the father of the American short story and
his poem The Raven is one of his best known works.
Once upon a midnight dreary, Poe heard a tapping at his window
While grieving the loss of his young bride, a maiden “angels named Lenore,”
A radiant teen whose long, black hair in gentle breezes would billow,
Tapping at the window ceased, but suddenly it was heard at his door
Upon opening it, a Raven flew in repeating, “Nevermore”
At first he welcomed this odd visitor until Poe whispered, “Lenore”
When he heard his word echo, the strange Raven he began to abhor
He asked if he’d see his bride again and the bird replied, “Nevermore”
Though Poe died in eighteen forty-nine, a mystery evolved much later
A century after his death, his grave had an annual visitor
Roses were left on his birthday by someone whose love appeared greater
Who had left these floral gifts forever stumped the Poe House curator
Perhaps the answer can only be explained by reincarnation
Did the Raven embody the spirit of Poe’s beloved Lenore
If so, perhaps the Raven returned again in a life rotation
In human form she visited to lay roses on the earthen floor
And upon her death in two-thousand nine, she took to the skies once more
A Raven who now joins the flock circling above her late husband’s grave \/
Could it be her spirit remains with Poe, as it did in life before \/ \/ \/
Bringing him in the afterlife all the roses a poet could crave \/ \/ \/ \/
For those who consider this possibility totally absurd
Just consider the fantasies Poe created with the written word
By Carolyn Devonshire
Contest Title: “Among the Dead,” sponsored by Constance LaFrance ~ A Rambling
Poet ~
“Of all flowers, methinks a rose is best.” – William Shakespeare, The Two Noble Kinsmen
Sweet Rose, for ages you have blessed the human race
with your beauty, elegance and grace.
You show yourself to us in so many ways . . .
as miniature, teacup, floribunda, rambler,,climber, and
as so many other species of loveliness - a true wonder of God's creations!
Whether on the ground, in the wild, in gardens, or on bushes,
you bring me such pleasure to see your many shapes and sizes.
Unlike pansies and other annual flowers,
which glimmer for a time, then die – never to regrow,
you come and you go, sweet Rose, continuously
from spring, through summer, and until the chill of fall.
Oh, sweet Rose, with your names so charming,
I love you all.
With female names like “Princess Diana,” “Lolita” or “Bathsheba,”
you intrigue me.
With names that reflect the splendor of your many hues
such as “Toffee,” the pale yellow “Sahara,” the bold “Gold Medal,”
“Beyond Blue,” and “Black Magic,”
you enchant me.
With cute precious names like “Adorable,” “or “Angel Face,”
you delight me!
My muse reawakens each spring as your glorious scent
perfumes the air, and you offer yourself to the worshiping bees.
In those rare moments when I see a hummingbird
partaking of your nectar, I nearly gasp with excitement.
Oh, sweet Rose,
whether posing steadfastly in the summer sun,
dancing with breezes, or dreaming beneath the moon,
there is no flower so popular as you.
And no other flower bears so many different meanings
as those found in the paleness or in the vibrancy of your many colors.
Innocence is your white; your friendship, yellow; your modesty, peach;
In burgundy and dark pink, you show forth admiration;
in coral, good fortune; and in light pink, the cheerfulness of youth.
In the tint of amaranth is your passion; in rare green, your freshness;
in purple, your whimsy; however, your ruby red
transcends them all with the purity of love.
The deeper your hue, the deeper is your meaning.
You are the symbol for so many things of which the poet dreams!
Oh, sweet Rose, I adore you. How you inspire me
with each bloom of your dewy petals that I chance to view.
Never do you cease to amaze me, sweet Rose.
May you blossom ever sweetly into eternity!
Once again the annual holidays came, a time of great cheer
We, the batch mates of 1976 planned a mega get together
We wanted to make it an occasion to be memorized for ever
Tracking old friends was indeed a laborious endeavor
A lot of discussion and phone calls had to be made
And finally the expected date and venue were conveyed
We decided to meet at a holiday resort/restaurant
In Kovalm, on the shores of the blue water crescent
Beside the sea strand with restless waves heaving-
A respite from the tumultuous striving for a living
The gathering started off as a trickle, some came in time, some, late
Many faces were beyond recognition and found hard to relate
With nostalgic memories crowding in our hearts
And emotions of joy and longing choking our throats
We entered the conference hall in small streams
Its walls resounding with expletives of shouts, howls and screams
We were all set to partake in a communion beyond words and thought
And turn the pages of the past with memories fraught
Once everyone was seated inside, the formal session began
Followed by a self introduction, each trying to be as elaborate as one can
Travelling down the memory lane and helping the group reach back
The memory files, long forgotten and buried in the unused stack
In that salubrious ambiance we were all inclined to renew old ties
And rekindle friendship’s flagging flame before it dies
Felt we were still young with balding heads and graying hair
Expanding waistlines and bodies that needed constant repair
We remembered those who were deleted forever from life’s scroll
And thanked God for having got a chance to meet within that hall
The whole day, we sat and talked, sharing memories of our younger years
Gloating on and on about our literature class and our beloved teachers
We didn’t know that time was speeding past like a sprinting hound
With a sumptuous dinner, our session was finally wound round
And with a tearful goodbye, we bade adieu to all our batch mates
With a resolve to meet again whenever such a chance awaits
Though have traveled far and wide with family during vacations
This get together after decades stays happier beyond all proportions
Jan. 27.2022
My Favorite Vacation Poetry Contest
Sponsor- L. Milton Hankins
ONE SHOULD NOT MAKE PLANS FOR TOMORROW, LIFE IS UNPREDICTABLE, THE UNEXPECTED CAN HAPPEN IN A SPLIT SECOND. “QUOTE BY POET”
I woke up to a brilliant sunny spring day,
The flowers blooming, the birds were chirping,
The tree leaves dancing to a gentle wind blowing,
Rustling their young leaves, our chime tinkling.
The jacaranda trees which looked so dashing
Giving us a glorious show, their flowers tumbling
To the ground beneath, resembling purple carpeting.
Our annual optician’s appointment was today,
So off to mall we go, reluctant to leave our patio.
We were right on time, and the optician saw me first,
All good he said after my consultation, go have fun
And choose your specs.
Whilst choosing my funky frames, a petrifying noise
Surrounded the mall, the six of us froze.
So scary ,surreal, horrendous and mind boggling,
Loud shots, automatic gun fire, people shouting,
Shots fired from where no one knew, people screaming,
We huddled under the counter, shots still ringing,
The brave receptionist ran to shut the glass door and locked it
Then ran back to join us under the counter.
Normality returned all too soon, as an elderly man who
Seemed shell shocked and disorientated, stumbled in as the
Receptionist cautiously re-opened the door. He told us the
Robbers were professionals, and were in and out in 5 minutes,
Well-rehearsed he added, and the almighty thunderous
Bangs we heard, were from hearsay, that the robbers
Shot and broke the glass display cabinets, taking
All and every piece of jewellery with them. A getaway car, revving,
In the open parking on the third floor all ready and waiting.
The jewellery shop was just above us. The ear shattering
Sounds were thus inevitable.
My thoughts however went to those terrified people shopping,
In the corridors of the mall,
Who had no shelter at all.
What happened to that wonderful sunny spring morning that I woke up to, flowers blooming, tree leaves gently swaying in the breeze and majestic jacaranda trees carpeting the ground with their purple flowers.
We are mere mortals who live on a very turbulent and troubled planet, a planet called earth.
Miraculously, no one was injured, to my knowledge.
THIS IS A TRUE STORY - IT HAPPENED TO US ON THE 30TH SEPTEMBER
My first poetry reading on April 15, 2011 at Café Jolesch in Zittau
This evening I read the first five of my poems before an audience in the beautiful Art
Nouveau atmosphere of Café Jolesch under the direction of Karin Kayser and Rolf Monitor in
the context of the "Open Stage" for the 3rd Lusatian Culture Night. I waited for my first
appearance with a good Czech Svijani fresh draft beer. On the small stage were already
loudspeakers, microphones and musical instruments installed. From 8 pm on the room filled
with visitors. A live band playing rock music and blues and a young woman performed a
belly dance. All the tables were now occupied, and I cleared my place for some students,
listening to the sounds from the bar and watched the dance. There was much applause and
some young people shot photos with their cell phones. Then I was announced by Rolf
Monitor, stepped to the stage and read my five poems for the first time in public. It was
quiet in the room and all listened to me and when I had finished, came rapturous applause.
Rolf Monitor asked me if I could not read more of my poems, but I was only prepared to
read five. I promised to repeat my reading with more poems next time.
Note: The Lusatian Culture Night is a yearly event in April from 7 pm till midnight with
different performances, exhibits and other events. Café Jolesch is a pub in the so called
Hiller Villa.
The villa was built at end of the 19th Century. It was for decades the home of the Jewish
Hiller family. Gustav Hiller, an inventor from Großschönau, using the proceeds from his
first patent, a machine for manufacturing curtain strings, founded Zittau's Phänomenwerke.
They were known in GDR times as VEB Robur Works Zittau, in which bicycles of the brand
Phänomen, the Phänomobile and later the Robur truck were produced. During the Nazi rule,
Mrs. Hiller, could be bought off for an annual payment of 300,000 Reichsmark from
deportation. After the war the family moved into the West Zone. Today the Villa Hiller is
home for the Multicultural Center (MUK), a nonprofit organization. In 1993, the
granddaughters of Gustav Hiller, Mrs Anne Frommann and Mrs Claudia Siede-Hiller, now
living in Israel, donated the villa to the MUK. The ground floor houses the Café Jolesch.