Long Bayles Poems
Long Bayles Poems. Below are the most popular long Bayles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bayles poems by poem length and keyword.
She notes how the days
have grown shorter.
A cacophony of grackles
near a cornfield fills the air.
A farmer across the road
walks along his field
checking his corn before harvest.
Leaves rustling
in the wind sing.
The construction crew
has passed her driveway.
She asks the flagger to
help her daughter across.
The school bus arrives
late afternoon. Lights flash
She rushes onto the porch
and hugs her daughter
who wears a backpack.
The mother notices
the sky is gold
as she looks out the window
and cooks supper on the stove.
Her daughter sits in a chair
hands folded on her lap.
So good to see her daughter
she thinks after letting go
in the morning and waiting
for a late afternoon embrace.
A pink playhouse stood in the yard
but there were no children
as I looked out the upstairs window.
The woman about fifty walked around
and talked on her cell phone.
Her yard was well-kept and one afternoon
a man was mowing it. He did not live there.
She stood in back of her garage one morning
and did not wave as I walked to my car.
A housemate said she was mean.
I couldn’t say.
All I knew was that she kept a fence.
A story longed to fill in the gaps
of what I didn’t know. It begged
to be told.
I had moved into my loft a year ago
after suffering losses to write a new chapter
in my life. Every morning, I looked out
with new eyes to look at the sun
as it peeked over a crown of trees.
I talked with a neighbor across the alley
on Thursday mornings when we took out the garbage
or on the days he hand-washed his vintage cars.
A labor of love, he said.
Every quiet morning the block held dear
our private lives.
People lined the block to watch
fire take the structure at night.
Firemen poured water onto flames
but only to contain.
I stood with my parents and watched.
My mind’s eye saw books burning
the ways of life disappearing—
no longer would a boy stare during arithmetic
and stare at the braids of the girl
who sat ahead of him each day.
No longer would the bell ring
to start the day No longer
would it ring for recess.
The next day burnt debris
would clutter a patch of asphalt
the playground behind the building.
We could only watch as the water
poured onto the fire turned to steam
and disappeared into dark skies.
nothing said could bring the building back to life
They bore the winds of time
as they rose from arid lands.
They sun poked past one peak
while my work crew waited
to move to another place on the highway,
and we knew the day would fade.
We knew
highways must always be mended
and the same with our lives.
We spoke in hushed voices
among these hills
made when the earth shifted.
Somewhere beyond rested
a blanket of stars.
We let traffic pass
and two of us held stop/slow signs
and they would stand at the ends
of the work zone.
Along the highway was a casino
and a bar. If we listened closely
we could hear a breeze tell a story
of the old west. Some patrons
gambled their fortunes every day
and they lived in shadows
of pioneers who gave their lives
for this land.
Every time something was lost
it would be time to start again.
One man I stopped said
that it rarely rained but when it did
it stormed.
To this day I envision him
when his house would shake to the sound of thunder
nestled under a deep cover of darkness.
It was a way of life to him.
The dead-end street in front of the house
is still, and I notice leaves have fallen.
The roommate said last night no one
came here for trick or treating
and now a cold wind blows.
I just moved in here yesterday.
I’m starting my life again.
A cold wind blows and I go out.
Last night a stranger and I
drank together. She said
no one knows you like your mother.
The lady set down her drink and asked
where has the year gone.
Where has the year gone?
My mom’s gone.
My dad’s gone,
I think tonight
I’ll call my cousin.
The street in front is quiet.
rolled up newspapers are stacked
on the front porch
of the house next door.
A ravine lies on the east side
where the road ends.
Music plays downstairs
and a singer’s voice drones
to the rhythm of a drum machine
then falls silent.
A door slams shut.
The most recent poem I write
is a lost conversation.
All my past loves and all who died—
their shadows dance on the wall
as the sun looks through my window.
I’ll grab a bite for breakfast
after stepping out the door.
I haven’t met the neighbors,
not yet.
It’s true that we are looking
for someone, it’s true.
A fallen leaf dances across the yard
and my back aches.
A story stirring inside me
lives beyond its time.
Morning comes with light and shadows
when I slip out of bed. All I remember
of the dream last night is that it’s an ocean.
I close my eyes and envision restless waters
pounding the shore. What can this mean?
Inside my heartbeat a poem stirs
although my heart bears the weight of grief.
The first line says live. Live again.
Words as they appear shape the page.
The cluttered living room tells a story
of long-lived life. The television drones
about stories of politics and wars—
a housemate is fixed on the couch.
I gaze out the window and there is
something more, always something more.
Neighbors across the street in their yard
lose themselves in conversation, opening
scene, the day a three-act play.
The eternal sun peering over a grove
invites me to step outside the back door
and take in the world spread before me.
The chapter I'm writing
starts with this setting
a side street that goes
for a block and ends
at a ravine.
Boxes are stacked
in the hallway.
The crimson trees outside
are still, but I know
something stirs.
The laptop screen glows
as I write.
I'll close the cover soon
but the story never ends.
A veil of clouds hides the sky.
I'll grab a quick bite
and do my laundry
for something clean to wear.
A birthday card I meant to send
lies on the floor. The friend wrote
that he moved from his house
to assisted living, his life shrinking
from seven rooms to two.
I cried when it rained last night
for a woman I once loved.
It is November
and the weather is changing.
I moved here three weeks ago
and occupied the second floor
to find my time and place.
The morning breeze
whispers through window.
and a song plays in my head
again and again and again
while a new poem yet unmeasured stirs.
I ponder the many ways
to say love and affection.
My mind’s eye sees
glistening lakes and fields
the highways that take me away
and me back
here where I find my time and place.
The clothes dryer in the backroom hums
as I glance out the window.
Last night I saw a photo of my friend
of when she was a bride
and now she is divorced.
I ask myself
how I can make
someone as beautiful as she
happy again.
She returned to work
and I was drawn to her
the time when she asked
if I was working the next day
as the night slipped away.
She was my happy birthday wish
growing more beautiful every day
and I was her valentine
the afternoon when
as she squeezed between
the time clock and me.
Someone else
who’d seen us together
said we were best friends
I showed my friend a story
and told her it was going
to be published in a magazine.
She said she was proud of me.
I showed her poems
and she read between the lines.
Now I realize
moments spent together
in the cosmetic aisle
and conversations in soft voices
were more than they seemed.
This morning as I awaken
my life comes back to me
as a bird outside my window sings.
The first Wednesday of the month
we sit around the table and share
poems written with care and revised.
We take in their shapes and forms
and read between the lines.
We gasp with wonder about creations
and search for other words
to make each verse stronger.
Each of us has written volumes by now
the lives we shared month-by-month.
A retired lawyer has returned
from his vacation in Spain
and I’m back from four years
of traveling through the Midwest for work.
The sights shape nuances of our pieces.
Each of us takes the time allowed to read
and get feedback but time slips from our fingers.
At eight PM, the library closes.
Our conversations continue in the hallways
and as we move toward the stairs.
I take in the sight of paintings and stop
when I see the shadow of the group’s founder
on the wall. She nods at me.
I passed spreads of field
the places where farmers
made livings from soil.
The view enticed
but I couldn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop
but I couldn’t forget
times spent on uncle farms
before I went to college.
The morning sun shone
but memories in college
in Ames shone brighter.
There I learned
the language of love
the concepts of life
that I held in my hand.
Each book of psychology
opened worlds that lived
inside me.
I learned to see
they were always a part of me
as were aspirations and dreams.
A Grant Wood mural on a staircase
in the university library
said life began with tillage,
and from that stemmed
our crafts and arts we embraced.
Years later
when on break from work
I walked the steps
to see how the mural
survived the hands of time.
It survived as I
but I never outlived memory.
One less-travelled highway
had lost its name
but I recalled the roads
taken with college friends
as we learned to live our lives.