Long Borough Poems
Long Borough Poems. Below are the most popular long Borough by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Borough poems by poem length and keyword.
I've visited many towns and cities as I've traversed this old orb,
Their culture, their food, their beauty and architecture to absorb.
Istanbul, Tokyo, Athens, Casablanca and London I fondly recall;
Well-known names, but the names of English villages beats them all!
It would be interesting to know who established the town of Throop,
And the name of the prankster who settled the village of Droop!
The borough of Great Snoring must be a sleepy village (so to speak).
I suspect Piddlehinton is rife with bushes to hide behind to sneak a leak!
I suppose citizens of Blubberhouse are proud to call it their abode.
Picklechurch and Picklescott are villages with exotic names bestowed.
Then there are the towns of Affpuddle, Puddletown and Briants Puddle.
What crackpots concocted those names to amuse and thus befuddle?
Barton In The Beans and Bitchfield grace the verdant country-side,
And in the bergs of Didling and Papplewick, denizens happily abide.
I must admit that here in the colonies there are oddly named towns too,
Like Bean Blossom, Tillamook and Intercourse, just to name a few!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Written: October 11, 2023
As I Watch The Waves Crash Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As I wait with anxiousness on the edge, I gaze.
As the capacious waves roll onto the shore to graze.
A fanciful caterwaul that is truly a show to behold
The wave of anticipation, the rising to withhold
Akin to a monitor of art, I scrutinize with reflection.
As billows rise, so do wavelets in diffraction.
Fluctuation of the sea, an imperious dance,
Panache and languid undulation—an idyllic prance
With each rippling perm and undulation,
Swell slyly spawns a spellbinding sensation
A seiche of emotions, a dance so divine,
As the curling waves rise and intertwine.
Lackadaisical they seem, in their languid flow,
Yet, their rippling aura is obvious—zeal on show,
With each rise and fall, their chimera is felt.
A clout of nature, a symphony to be dealt
Waves glisten and shine under sunlight beams.
Their corpulent dance is a kaleidoscope of gleams.
The desultory scene is painted in ultraviolet shades.
As they race toward the sky—in egregious glade,
Their sheer life flows and surges with every beat.
Their knack for clearing the way left me discrete.
The wave dance is both aesthetic and daring.
A narrative is hidden, deflective, and bearing.
As the seas beat up against the jagged rocks.
It fluctuates with a chorus of cursive flocks.
A pulse occurs that ripples through the air.
A sleek waltz lures me in and leaves me there.
As I spot waves spinning—I feel idyllic at peace.
A concise reprieve—an aura of release
Froths flex and frame in a fellifluous flow.
Borough bears betwixt breakers beat and blow.
as we commemorate the 10th anniversary of a day we'll always remember
over three thousand lives taken on the eleventh day of September
but for the grace of God it might have been me
to have been one of those lives taken away in the midst of that tragedy
life is a series of sequences and events that take place
and I know that as a child of Christ I'm living under His grace
at the time I had a job that was located in tower seven
but on that day I was in Brooklyn or I might have died and gone to heaven
safe in the borough of Kings working at the primary election polls
far away from the events that on New York took such a toll
the nation and the world were shook to their foundations
that anyone would dare to strike at the very heart of our nation
two airliners purposely driven into the World Trade Center Twin Towers
an attack on American soil in the early morning hours
and as I sit in church today on our annual Homecoming day
I reflect on the fact that many will never come home again
mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, co-workers, family and friends
and while I sit in this anointed pew
the awesomeness of the glory of God in me has been renewed
a day to remember as we share the communion of our Lord Christ
a day to also remember a day that forever changed our lives
The jungle drums have throbbed in Neasden
The message has swiftly spread about
So if you’re travelling around the area
Its suggested you carefully watch out
For the call has been answered
The length and breadth of our fair land
Certain heroes not been found reticent
Back here at the nation’s command
It started with just our Lawrence
But his example aroused so many more
Now in the back streets of Neasden
Camps our own elite camel corps
The camel’s throaty braying
Out sounds morning cocks
And the borough has no need now
For any morning alarm clocks
They are dedicated veterans
Fierce warriors to a man
All there craving for action
Since this campaign began
It’s a sight of heart stopping beauty
A hundred and thirty camels smart and neat
All drawn up in parade order
Down the whole length of our street
The nation owes it all to Lawrence
Who without any idle flaunting
Knew just where his duty lay
And was not found wanting
The jungle drums have throbbed in Neasden
The message has swiftly spread about
So if you’re travelling around the area
Its suggested you carefully watch out
A flannel-washed-out school.
Unsullied nuns in a sullen line.
Again hearing the quacking of ducks
as new brown leathers shoes
stepped and skipped,
though skipping was a serious offense
behind the school fence.
London, eons ago,
a blighted borough
lost in the scant gravy
of rationed times.
Was I six, was I even aware
of my eyes? What they took in
or let out?
How to recall
what I was, or who all others were.
Ad hoc groupings of tabula rasa
jostling to be known
unto themselves.
We were collated, tagged, and fed,
led to cold block toilets
guarded by black and white sentinels
as we scrubbed ink off fingers
with bricks of green carbolic.
Rosery beads clicked impatiently
outside as a bride of Christ listened in.
Then were returned to the inky wells
to spill once more.
Blank slates were our minds.
I do not think anyone wrote on mine
or I on other slates.
When we stepped out of line
we were chastised by
a thin whip-lashing cane,
it was the way of our Lord
we were told.
Whimpers and snotty noses
from ill-nourished late developers.
We were an almost,
happy to be
that unquestioning flannel grey,
all quacking in a row
and waiting for the light.
We all must know,
winter days owe
us quick outgo,
for spring's inflow.
So done with snow!
With joy, we crow!
Warm breezes blow,
and spring's aglow!
Flowers will grow
lined row by row,
and tree buds show.
We love spring so!
With sweet gusto,
the birds below
find twigs, borrow
for nests to stow.
Soon eggs borough;
new chicks bestow.
The grass is low,
seed, feed, now sow.
Soon we must mow;
big chore, although.
Must wear chapeau,
from sun, shadow.
Thru the meadow
streams fully flow.
Rocks, kids will throw
and watch them go,
fly fast, not slow...
big splash sideshow!
New springtime...whoa!!
dead end street …
mostly elderly when we came
always quiet …
empty nests side-by-side
aching for spring
but winter came instead
(the winter of life)
friends … good people -
town folk who raised this little
borough with pride
came to this blind alley to wait for God
and He obliged …
one-by-one, this road of
retirement rolled over …
the reap saw these quiet abodes
flipping fast and furious
and the once-aged occupants were
replaced with families -
young professionals and upstarts
fresh-woven nests filled with
chicks and younglings -
little voices and wings to test
upon the breeze
training wheels and swing sets
where lounge chairs once grazed lazily
backboards and rollerblades
and a valid reason for the ice cream
truck to loiter, it’s silly music box
jingling the afternoons with cold, tasty
wonder-in-a-cone …
time - passing like a subway car -
just a flash in the dark …
grain-by-grain the
hourglass steadily sifted
and a once-peaceful lane became
a circus of activity -
giggles and screeches replacing the
silence with the music of life
the rarely-a-car avenue, vibrant and joyous
picnics and lawn parties
birthdays and showers and fireworks
playballs left unattended
bicycles laid at the curbs in a rush
pets being walked
and the commonplace, everyday things
started being … every day …
oh, no mistake -
I loved the quiet when we came
and tho’ I dread the winter months now -
the post-Christmas cold, dead and
long-dark days, grinding on me
like a ragged old dirge -
that quietude and peaceful contemplation
is STILL one of life’s greatest
“little pleasures” to me …
yet … it’s the NOISE that I’ve come to
miss the most this time of year -
those little voices of
youth and vibrancy that sing me
through the warm months,
reminding me what being here is
all about, and making me
yearn more than ever
the sweet, joyous, callow kiss …
of Spring.
(Photo of Maplewood Drive by yours truly)
I come from the borough of Queens, New York
My classmates call me a Klutz and a dork
Those names pervaded my soul, taking a toll
Being at the bottom of the totem pole.
Then Dad took me to the town of Tortilla Flat
I walked into a store, bought a ten-gallon hat
I started talking like John Wayne, also bought some boots
It’s funny how a costume can make a mind slip its roots
The ranchers nodded with respect; I looked like them
Cowgirls smiled in my direction, one shone like a gem
She said there’s a rodeo at half past three
Come join us there, my friends and me.
I said sure, I’ll mosey down there
I’ll bring some popcorn that we all can share
When the time came, I walked into the ring
But through the wrong door, that was the thing.
Two guys lifted me onto a horse, and opened the gate
I shouted, “I’m not a performer!” but it was too late
The horse bolted out, then tried a somersault
I held on for dear life, couldn’t them girls call a halt?
They told me later, t’was the worst horse in the west
I flew over its mane, but it was a personal best
The crowd went wild, but I threw the hat on the mud
Dropped all the popcorn, wiped off the blood
The cowgirl looked adoring, said “that was so cool”
I looked at her, but my mood was cruel
Said “I’m a nerd from Queens, don’t want to pretend
Keep that dang hat, this all got to end."
Dad took me home, the worse for wear
He got me a baseball hat so nobody would stare.
I put it on backwards, I don’t really care
Buy the wrong hat, and it’s dangerous out there.
If You Love
If you love him, dear airy blonde lady, the one love is yours
Only one, the only yours, you created him; the soul is yours
This poor boy could have been yours. But you dropped him
From your heart. Dumped guy. Yeah. From your sexy walk
The train floor crackled under your gazelle steps. He knelt down
In front of you. Oh, the hoped, wished love. His dream love
Could you remember him? The bible guy. He read and waited
Every afternoon, from Monday to Friday. At 16:18, the train departed
But the love didn’t arrive. Hmm. But the love…, enjoyed suffering
Why? Because this situation was a psychological experiment
Poor warehouse worker from Europe. He became a victim of psychology
Psychology. English. Thank you, my life and the experiments
I visited Coulsdon in the London Borough of Croydon.
I needed to visit an old building for photography. Project. Hobby.
The Cane Hill Hospital.
I just saw it on the internet. I thought it still existed.
I was going there.
The hospital has already been demolished.
(This was many years ago.)
I went. How can I take photos?
I was walking there. I walked there.
I felt. Past. Sufferings. Cries for help.
Walk on the hill. Walk, walk, just walk.
I heard crying, shouting, and screaming.
They are dead. Killed by English Psychology.
English Psychology wants to be the ruler of everyone. Everywhere.
My life is a victim of English Psychology.
Cane Hill Hospital is
English Psychology
Cane Hill Hospital... Hmmm
Six thousand people
Six thousand died there
So many. But how?
I am a victim of
English Psychology
Cane Hill Hospital
Still lives
—----------------------------------
If you love
Just
We have love
Loves
Goodbye?
Hmm
Bye good
Take care
Still
Love
You
If
You
Love
You
Her two biggest hits were "Lay Down" and "Brand New Key"
Most fans knew her only by her first name, "Melanie".
She was the pride and joy of the Queens borough of New York City.
Later, Melanie lived in the town of Red Bank, New Jersey.
In France, a song achieved number one with "Bobo's Party"
Later, in the Netherlands, "Beautiful People" attained popularity.
Relatively few were aware Melanie's last name was "Safka".
"Brand New Key" reached number one in the U.S. and Canada.
As a singer/songwriter, this lady proved to be prolific.
Melanie still performs today, and is considered terrific.
I thank wikipedia.org for valuable information I obtained to write this poem.