Long Anyway Poems
Long Anyway Poems. Below are the most popular long Anyway by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Anyway poems by poem length and keyword.
The sandy beach, castles in the sand, high and low tides. Sea gules and seal-sightings as we dinned on top of the cliff.
Non threating sounds of strong winds and those sleepy fog horns. Pathway to the sea by way of The Golden Gate Park. What's not to like?
I have never been in or on any of the 5 oceans; or is it 7? In my limited search, I kept seeing difference numbers.
They spoke of 7 seas and conflicting numbers of oceans. There were certain periods of history that effected the count.
It's easy to understand the complexities involving so much water. Anyway, the closest I have been to oceans and seas was a view of the
Atlantic from a distance during a very brief trip to New York. Secondly, Our family lived within five blocks from the Pacific Ocean in San Francisco.
Countless were the joyful times with our kids at the Pacific that greeted us one day with a mighty splash while high upon the rocks
and in our Sunday best. We were happily wet. Thirdly,
we took a San Francisco Bay Cruise to The Golden
Gate Bridge, never venturing the Pacific.
Oceans separate great continents from each other.
Never worlds apart, our ocean experiences were joyful times, helping to hold us together.
092221PSCtest, "O" Contest, New Poems. Constance La France. 4P
Shall I compare thee unto a crate of beer,
or, if not that, then unto washing powder?
Today I shun all things that are austere;
soft tones must yield to songs that are far louder.
May's shandy was for working men too sweet.
Newcastle Brown for them is much more dandy.
Reese-Mogg appealed but to the high elite.
It's Boris now who's dealing out the candy.
His soap suds as detergents wash much whiter
and his packaging's so appealing to the eye.
My desire 's for something that's much brighter
than the dowdy hues of Mr. Corbyn's dye.
Boris we hail victor, for'tis he who's won the day.
To his product though a question. Who art thou anyway?
i’m running a little late
six months ago i read
the average life expectancy was 79.5 years
i thought i had time to
finish a couple of home projects,
find and restore that 65 vw bug
i’ve always wanted,
i could get my affairs in order,
make amends where i should,
maybe look up a few folks
i haven’t seen in a while
do a little traveling, go places
i have never been
and get in a few more rounds of golf
it was a good plan
now i read, due to covid
the life expectancy
is down to 74.75 years
i lost 4.5 years getting
my stuff together
now i have to cut my
list down, re-prioritize
the home projects were
aesthetic, curb appeal
the place looks ok now
i had a bug once and rolled it
don’t need any unnecessary
medical expenses,
once i’m gone, i’m won’t care
if my affairs are in alphabetical
or chronological order
let the “heirs apparent” figure them out,
if i hurt or pissed someone off
my going away (read dying) will
surely appease them
as for looking people up i
haven’t seen in awhile,
if they aged like me, i wouldn’t
recognize them anyway
since i don’t fly, traveling means
what i can see by car
and that would take
a lot of precious time
which leaves only golf
with all that other stuff
out of the way
i can double or more
my playing time
Every day I awake in a place where the sky
is a mist mourning sleep. I stumble on a tower—
leaning, broken, alone. Its stones call my name
like someone trying to rouse me, like someone
who’s rung before.
Roots coil up its cracked sides,
ivy’s thin fingers drag me forward,
pulling at my steps like they know where I should go.
I can feel it—something’s waiting at the top,
something shifting in the shadows and growing
restless. As I climb, the stones are cold and quiet,
the kind of silence that wraps around you—
heavy as the grief of an unheld hand.
Near the top, the fog lifts just enough—
reveals a room I don’t know, but the smell
of damp earth makes it feel like a memory.
The walls curve inward, as if they’re listening.
In the corner, a chair rocks—
slowly, creaking, though there is no wind.
I step closer and hear a whisper.
Sit, it says. You’ve been here before.
The air is thick with mildew, it feels like breathing
through cloth, too dense for this closeness.
I don’t want to comply, but my feet move anyway,
toward the rocking chair, toward this place
where the strange weight of morning mist
is still rolling in.
The whisper turns soft, almost gentle:
You’ve been lost here for so long.
The words settle in my chest, next to the truth—
I am the whisper, the stone, the mist.
That’s the gist—I am the one who called myself here.
The one who long ago left, but never let go.
I want to scream, but my voice is a ghost.
I close my eyes, and I fall—
back into the fog,
back to the beginning
where the tower leans in the distance.
Vera Selena (Osburn) Hinshaw (June 4, 1935 - July 19, 2018)
We bought our house on Judson Street in nineteen sixty-seven.
Though we endured many vicissitudes, you made it pure heaven!
You loved everyone and everyone loved you, that's for sure!
Your sweet smile and gracious southern charm added to your allure.
You were a stay-at-home Mom who in our girls took great pride.
You mentored them to be the ladies they became and was their steady guide.
You made sure we went to church and the girls attended Sunday School,
To adhere to God's Commandments and abide by the Golden Rule.
With wonderful wit and great insight you kept us on an even keel,
And with tender and loving kindness, all our hurts you could heal.
So many cherished memories you created during the various holidays,
That became family lore and traditions earning our eternal praise!
You were a creative cook who took pride in serving delicious food.
The aroma of supper simmering on the stove always lightened our mood!
Eating black-eyed peas for good luck on every New Years Day,
Seemed peculiar to this Yankee dude but we still observed it anyway!
We relished the times just reminiscing by the fire sipping mugs of joe,
Or watching glorious Colorado sunsets with our family on the patio.
Thank you dear for your love and care - for this we were very blessed.
You truly made our 'house a home' (to paraphrase the poet Edgar Guest)!
Written in collaboration with my daughters Leanna and Leslie
My sacred silence
A hole is all that we leave when we go.
When I lie at the end in my bed of sorrow,
I will have nothing to show, except for my words;
The worthless garbage written from hurt.
The madness reigned on every page,
And at the end there is nothing left.
All that remains after all these days,
Are the thoughts which I have emptied from inside my head.
As years fly by and people die,
The list is forever getting smaller.
Who will be with me when I finally die?
Will there be anybody left who loves me when my time is shorter?
Or a single person who even cares.
I cannot see it for I am aware,
That in the end my wish to remain silent,
Will leave me alone with only sounds of sirens,
And people pushing down hard onto my heart;
Which will beat no more. The love gone afar.
A long time since past,
Lost to the fact,
That I never wanted to just talk anyway.
I ask you, please; what more is there to say?
(C)2019 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Wait, What Happened?
This Happens With Every Molecule
Instantly, All The Time
A Decision Is Made
Usually A Common Decision
With A Dash Of Maybe
Let's Try This!
Unprepared.
Now.
Molecule? I Don't Mean Cells...
That's Too Far To Stretch Anyway
So What's The Point?
Queen Quanta Moves A Serpentine Head.
Look out.
No. MOLECULE... then down to
Elements, then subparticle to
Subparticle That...
It's ALL Alive, I Mean...
Where Does It Dis-associate?
Were You Looking?
Well, Then It Changed.
Now! NOW. NOW!
In Perfect Balance
A Puzzle Unfolds
Perfection Again
Never The Same
Still Perfect
Take That.
So.
What's Not To Appreciate?
Hmm?
-Gray Squirrel
05-28-2025
Mac was the Trip-O-Matic Magic Man
Who introduced the Trip-O-Matic to our neighborhood.
We were selected for the pilot program.
If we liked it, we could recommend it,
And other neighborhoods would receive
An opportunity to enjoy a Trip-O-Matic
Trip back in time.
Mac’s main tool was his giant spaceship with all kinds of bells and whistles.
You could select a year – 1943 for example, press the 1943 button and
Watch your grandmother’s birth. But who would want to?
The crux is, the machine only has the capability to go back to 1940.
So the buttons are from 1940 to 2018.
The 2019 button will be added in February of 2020.
I have no idea how this works, but it does.
I pressed 1957 because that was the year I started kindergarten
With Miss Anderson.
I wanted to see her again and some of the girls in my class.
It was so much fun!
Laughing and playing and being friends with everyone.
I had not remembered this,
but the boys and the girls were all kind to each other.
We were like a big giant family.
I had a glorious day being five again!
At the end of the trip, we were supposed to press the 2018 button
And return to year 2018 so we could grade the Trip-O-Matic.
None of us kindergarteners remembered or wanted to do this.
We were busy playing with play dough.
So no one else got
To experience the Trip-O-Matic Trip.
Too bad for the pilot program.
I was relieved. I never like grading things anyway.
My scores are always to high.
Entry to John Lawless
Dead End Street
Poetry Contest
7th November 2023
At the bottom of this here
Dead End Street
Appropriately named
Limbo Purgatory No Mans Land
Resides a cemetery
In whom one side live and exist in perfect harmony
Whereas on the other side the true problem lies
With curtains and weapons permanently drawn
Is the boundary defining lines between
A turf war being fought day and night
Between the two opposing gangs and forces
Of the those who have and have not
Those who don't have nothing to loose
No electricity , running water food or money
Where boarded up windows replace broken glass
The dogs and cats look ferrel and emaciated
Even the rats left in search of greener pastures
The children play without shoes on their feet
It's become so lawless the police themselves
Regards it a no go area and are stay well clear
Not a single hope for their family or future
No one cares or gives a damn about them
No one wants to believe or accept
They even exist so long as they don't have to
Co - Exit or are expected to engage with them
As on ever side of this dead end street
In the middle no man can claim as common ground
Birth alone decides on which side of the street
You are born into and thereafter will live
Until the day we all eventually one day die
And we all end up taking and moving into
Numero Zero Dead End Street
Cemetery
Only difference then is there is no longer anyway
Of being able to distinguish between us then
Apart from that once upon a time we were alive
Because all journeys lead up to and terminate
Eventually at the same old very street called
Dead End
Roast beef on Rye. Pastrami on toast, a Rubin -
I only have thinly sliced bologna. Not hungry anyway.
Beyond a window, a dog is on my lawn, my mind shouts,
surprisingly the dog seems to hear me.
I have powers.
A record player drops into my mind
the vinyl is spinning, the needle is tracing,
silence roars on. I sing along.
I find an old British sixpenny-bit in Ohio
amazing how we all take teleportation for granted now.
A door knob rattles,
my ears get hairy,
am I being paranoid or is this nervous state
the result of living alone in my head for too long?
This afternoon I will still be here
watching my show.
You star you. I always did like your eyes
they shine like flying saucers.
Note. Make the bed before I sleep
I wrecked it last night.
If I remember, I will consider forgetting all of this.