Long Backyards Poems
Long Backyards Poems. Below are the most popular long Backyards by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Backyards poems by poem length and keyword.
As soon as Odey arrived,
The villagers greeted in roar
Like the verdicts of Lions.
He was lifted high and
Gongs gave their salutations,
For Odey, the great salt
Discoverer has arrived.
Wrestlers pay allegiance
By displaying black skills,
He walked shoulder high
And his praises were lifted high.
Women swung their backyards,
Making the men's mouth water,
For the great hunter has arrived.
Jubilation is sure, all anger cured.
Gun powder entered the air to
Inform the sky of the black discoverer,
The seed of Yala*.
Children orchestrating black rhythm
And rhyme, happy to see the salts.
Welcome Odey, welcome black hero,
For thou art a true meaning of an African sunset....
===========================
Yala* is my mother's tribal dialect.
I collect old wooden boxes,
From anywhere that I can.
I collect them from garage sales and,
From the handyman.
From the local dump or old backyards,
Or clearance sales on a farm,
They’ve all lived a life of hard and tough,
And exude a certain charm.
Beautiful trademark names of
Soft drinks, cordials, or fuels.
I value these boxes, for show inside,
A lounge roomed sort of jewel.
I love finding old wooden boxes,
Finding them out of the blue.
I wonder, are you the sort of person,
That likes old wooden boxes too?
17th July 2016
Hi, this is for the old jewellery or anything old contest by Broken Wings.
Awarded 2nd place
Sundown creeps,
across adorned amber,
sky whose welkin,
shades volte face,
as evening edges,
into cosmic chakra,
of visual feasts,
orange, pink, purple,
prelude which emblazon,
point of day exodus,
atrophied moon winking,
mystic morph of,
dwindling halo,
to homeward bound,
throngs thirsting,
for redress within,
winter jasmine enclave,
cabal, clique, cluster,
in shrunken retreat,
from dreary toil,
nudge from nightfall,
whose cryptic code,
a dark art patois,
exemplified by,
eastern screech owl,
whose stocky medium,
and varied volume,
that twilight tremolo,
purring incognito,
among other creatures,
wet soil genus,
brisk firefly flash,
in town backyards,
wing rubbing katydid,
tree top rasp,
or amid green bush,
chirpy cricket,
midget burrow dweller,
allow oneself to wallow awhile,
in evening habitat,
in all its allure
How did the jungle get here?
Did it come on a train
like an old time circus
rolling in before dawn
while we splattered safety-nets
with doomsday drivel.
A rainforest has invaded;
has manifested out of alarm and
a far too high quotient
of native dumbness.
The clacking of parrots
mutes the lowing of milk cows,
only the cicada drone on
happy to click along.
This green thunder is oppressive.
The domestic canopies of backyards
are sprouting mythic Triffids.
Grass is getting spikey and carnivorous.
Tabby cats are abducted
by prowling panthers.
Giant sloths hang from the hedgerows.
Did we dream up this primal Eden?
Did we cancel
the regular unpredictable weather
of predictable Ohio?
Global Warming
could never have appeared to be real
if we had not made it so
by thinking it so,
and as so many here
think very little -
we had it coming.
Democracy is
The leadership of the youth and
the guidance by the elders
I wish it was so today
I see deceitful guidance all over places
Leaving the youth to wonder and suffer
Exploiting the genious in us
While the youth get confuse
Where hopes are high or low
Our elders are busy with lies
Democracy is
The leadership of the youth and
the guidance by the elders
Alot of youth on the streets
Where creativity is common
But with out sencse nor support
The youth of today got vission
Yet the mission looks impossible
Is like we are left alone
Is like we are just on our own
The elders sim close but
Yet so far to reach
For how long our rights are just a struggle
Democracy is
The leadership of the youth and
the guidance by the elders
Our elders no more give us the chance to lead
Is like our youthful energy is only for their greed
The elders look scard
The elders are scard of our creativity
They are scard of change
While they are meant to guide it
Our elders don't believe in us
The reality today shows it all
We use to get our elderly suports
Not now any more
So we are left on our own
As crimes never seize to depart from our youthful age life's
Democracy
Is the leadership of the youth and the guidance of the elders
Yet civilization turn it away
To a modern trend
Where control and power only belongs to polictician
Civilization civilise the fool in us
It makes us live but our presence don't exist
It turn the head to think just straight
With out vission nor moral observation
We no longer have enough elders whom are to guide us
So you see crazy youths all over the globe on the streets
Behind your backyards
In the corners of the road
Forming groups gangs
With a high spirits that never care to listen
All because we chose to be civilised
As we change democracy to
What reality says today!
Every now and then, I hear the happy sound of laughter
when children visit next door
It's a sound that should ring,
it should be audible much more
Where are all the children?
Self imprisoned in their rooms?
Where are all the children?
Self imprisoned in their homes?
Where are all the children?
Self imprisoned with a myriad of screens?
it's Saturday afternoon and the town is eerily quiet
not a single human sound is coming to the fore
Not from the parks. the playgrounds, backyards or from the streets,
a total contrast, to the days of yore
Today a ghostly silence
as I visualise these scenes
In my heart I feel some sense of pain
as a message loudly screams
Where were all the children
in the days of yesteryear
you could hear them in the parks, backyards,
playgrounds and often on the street
There was cricket. hopscotch, billy carts and bikes,
soccer, basketball, these activities, now all seem obsolete
And as I put my thoughts on paper
and exercise my pen
Can we resurrect community,
will it rise again ?
Observe the bending of tree & flower.
To rages; a gale… in tempestuous hours.!
Rain deep in curtain, makes interplay;
Fresh night skies, await the sun in power.
Morn air stirs, Lady’s chinking; breakfast crocks.
Day-streams 'cross backyards, endless blocks..
Splashes as sound; tables, are scrubbed..
Cars all hues; white thru red, too! radios rock!!
Sprinklers now silent; birdsong calls,
Gardener’s clipping the creeper on walls
Children’s cries are echoes around
Fountains splash in foyers & malls!!
Gundog flushes the dove; white ahead!
Tools are re-sharpened in timber shed,
Lilac buds blossom! Midst threaded verde,
In abundant gardens, Man & Woman wed.."
© Joe Maverick.co.uk
To know more about this poem (well you know)
My friends come home draped in flags
I pause at the edge of the airplane door
Facing a tunnel leading me to a muffled joy
Strangers tell me I am related to them...
I deny a woman with three kids... her kiss
My friends are slipping in trucks with flags
They are loaded and back doors explode shut...
..............................................................
I wake up in a trench of blood and clean pillows
The same woman from the airport next to me
Peacefully breathing...and I thought she was dead...
I think I am finally home, fans are not propellers
Camouflage doesn't bear swing sets in backyards
My friends' helmets, guns and boots line up in my head
Patrolling with weapons made of aluminum foil
-------------------------------------------------
There is too much silence for a dead soldier walking...
I think I FEEL the kiss of the woman with three kids ...
It's in the suburbs
it has crawled out of the concrete towers
the 'it' men, the skinny rat-men
killers mostly but good boys.
They want a Glock
a black time-bomb ticking clock,
they want to be loved so badly
they will rape heaven to find it.
I call this wave 'it'
for it is a human crime to be them,
and an 'it' fits into the cracks
in the roads we roll over.
Now its out of town
now its in our leafy lanes
our backyards
our bedrooms.......
we wake up from a troubled sleep
and there an 'it' looms
and you know,
you damn well know
that you let your guard down
and 'it' has your gun
in your mouth and his.
Not long ago when the summers seemed warmer and the winters were whiter. When the trees grew crown of leaves bright, a transparent green. Then tossed them to the ground for a little while. In piles of amber, crimson and umber. Before the earth was asleep in the frosty blanket of white. The trees all barren. Brittle with ice. While above the fire place sat the greetings of a wonderful season.
As embers popped and sizzled you sat and stared at the flickering flames. You would talk of pictures that play in the dying flames. The demons you saw or other worlds you claim. Danced in the weaving flames. The tongues would lick and sway. Snap and brake. The spires of candle flames would show you kingdom's of the soul. The shadows would move in a seismic rhythmic trance. In wakening dreams you would see people walking past a bright sun dappled days, by a pond you would sit watch and sway. Not make a whisper. You would sing to yourself, long lost melodies. Staring at the bright dabbled ray of sun pooling in your hands.
Seeing something not of this plain. You would say you saw the oblivions back yard. Endless Horizons afar! Then nod into sleep. Your head would tilt. All time turns. The world swam in the hearth. You would only watch. Your hands never idle even for a little While. Those hard cracked hands. Time runs like sand through pur broken fingers. When the storms would come and gently rumble the house. You would tilt your head and look skyward, you would hear the silent drops of distant rain. Water falling on the eaves of the house.
You would nod your head in it's absent rhythm and watch it streak the window pain. While you clenched your brittle hands. Flexed there pale fingers tentatively. But that was years ago. Now you ride and play in the distance fields in the backyards of long ago. Your eyes are vacant. Your hand are hard, your arms are crossed. No more nights of watching the fire or listing to dabbling rain.
No more catching pools of sun rays. You are now grown past this world, lost to this wide universe. You are in a man's final season, his great Winter on earth. At last your hands are healed, still, resting at peace. The idle hands of Jacob. The ruined hands of humanity.