Long Bridges Poems
Long Bridges Poems. Below are the most popular long Bridges by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bridges poems by poem length and keyword.
I am a teacher
Eager beaver
Full of beans
I build bridges
And burn the candle at both ends
I am a teacher
Cap in hand
Full of the milk of human kindness
I fight tooth and nail
To make my pupils see reason
I am a teacher
As hard as nails
Face like thunder
I resent cheap shots
And the breaking of every rule in the book
I am a teacher
With a carrot and a stick
I bring my pupils to heel
I reward who reach for the moon
I clip pupils’ wings
If they go far and off the rails
I am a teacher
Not a mouse potato
And not behind the times either
I am all ears
I bare my soul to my pupils
I make them explore all avenues
And go the extra mile
I am a teacher
I have my heart set on giving
It is a long row to hoe
I will make headway
Pull out all the stops
And hang in there
That’s what I have on the brain.
December 17th, 2015
I may not spend much time in the trenches,
Or at the coal face,
But that is OK.
I have chosen a different path to follow,
One with few signposts,
Lots of swing bridges to cross,
With upsetting people a real possibility,
And career opportunities spiked,
Should the whistle I carry in my pocket,
Be noticed by the boss,
But that is OK.
I get the pleasure of,
Relieving those in the trenches or at the coal face,
Even just for a few hours,
To recharge their batteries,
Spend some time in the sun,
See the flowers in full bloom,
Watch their children in their first stage performance,
Celebrate an anniversary or visit a friend,
Even just read a book or watch a movie.
And that is OK.
If I can make suggestions,
Speak to the right people,
Or make submissions that will improve conditions
In the trenches or at the coal face,
So much the better.
Seeing the gratefulness in some eyes,
Or hearing words that inflate my ego,
Is an extra bonus,
And that is OK.
I can also choose to avoid trenches that have been dug in haste,
And any coalface that could be a danger to my health.
I also get to learn new ways of doing things,
Toss new ideas into the trenches,
And bring new techniques to make working at the coalface easier.
All of which is OK with me.
Yes it is, OK,
For me to be often out of the trenches or absent from the coalface,
If I am no good at running marathons,
And better at running the gauntlet,
Or making guest appearances,
To support the star players.
Especially when I get the chance for an extra lie in, of a morning.
LIFE ON SUNDAY
A JOURNEY
Into Mother Nature's, realm - this day - did I take a walk
Alone the river's edge - the edge of thoughts - with no one to talk.
Listen did I to the melodious music of Mother Nature's sound
permeating the air, reverberating in my brain, it was all around.
There, in the air, her sweet breath I had found
filling my nasal passages with delight as I walked upon her ground.
Her sweet breath filling my ofactory senses to the brim -
for some moments, my life's cup seemed filled to the rim -
giving life to the silent music of Mother Nature's, dance,
bringing thoughts of two - instead of one - onto the path of romance.
Life's Sunday journey into Mother Nature, was by chance
as a detour was taken on the way to Maple Ridge.
Before these eyes was the BUILDING of a bridge,
not one but two and my thoughts where of bridges BURNING.
The loss of what my heart had long been yearning.
All my thoughts Moneca, where of you
as I journeyed - nothing else could I do
but think of the good, then the BURNING of bridges, not BUILDING them.
During my photographing and hiking this day, thoughts of you did stem,
thoughts of, the BURNING of bridges bringing to the for
a realization, that standing among the ashes, you have closed the door.
This is what I believe and believe it is for ever more.
B.J."A"
2 MAY 19th 2009
What to look for?
Where do errors lie?
Are they in the eye of the beholder
or do they lie?
I believe I’m a poet,
a prophet of paraphrase,
a swindler of alliteration,
the rhyme above all reason.
I think I know!
Am I who I think I am?
A big fat ham.
My eyes wander -
cross-eyed thinkers,
blinking s.o.s.
How Do I Overcome Success
I
Mean
Mistakes
As big as a lobster-steak!
Have a stake in me.
Teach me your tricks.
Throw the stick —
I’ll chase it,
Bring it back and wag my tail,
With openness to learn.
Burn my bridges
— not!
Great Scott,
reel me in with a fishing rod —
take the hook from my mouth.
Throw me back in.
O Genie,
make me like Aladdin —
rich in words, like a Princ(ess).
Reveal that I am a fake,
so I humbly shake
the magic from my frame,
and become who I really am.
8/28/2019
Overcoming Mistakes Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
It’s raining….
Clouds is all WE see.
Darkness looming at every corner.
It’s raining….
Hail is coming down.
From all angles.
Darkness looming at every corner.
It’s raining….
Thunder echoes our ears deaf.
Clinging at the rear.
Of our broken bridges, we fear.
Darkness looming at every corner.
It’s raining….
Mist cowers our eyes.
Wiping, we feel them burn.
Burn in anticipation as we stretch to see.
To see and save our own lives.
But darkness looms at every corner.
It’s raining….
Our feet move fibly.
With only blind courage we walk.
They hurt in response.
We have to move we know.
The bridge is only what we have to cross
But again darkness looms at every corner.
It’s raining….
It’s raining our hearts heavy.
It’s hailing our efforts vainly.
Thunder overpowers our voices quietly.
Mist forces our eyes not to see clearly.
Our feet hurt to make us walk steadily.
Darkness looms to discourage us slowly
It’s raining….
We fight on in the rain.
We shout “justice” despite the thunder.
We brave on against the hail.
We struggle on to see above the mist.
We move, we run with our feet.
For justice is what we want.
Justice is what we crave.
Even when the darkness looms over.
We will fight on for progress.
after watching a clip from Michael Brown's mother, Eric Garner's widow. I was touched on the amount of killing going on in America, we hear it in the news, social media, everywhere. Whether its just or unjust circumstances our prayers are always alive.
© Herzel Poshiwa
Feeling again
Ice water floated stagnant misery in caustic veins coffin nails and razor blades
waited for the vultures of frosted lavish lava-daggers staring at the mirror with
no reflection other than the murderous screams numbed by images of tangled
ropes teasing from sunken rafts and twisted rafters train tracks guiding void
demise frozen blazing ashes suffocating feelings that cannot feel any longer when
moribund candles flickered reaped what had been lost submerged forgotten in eternity
This cess pit of smudged smeared convulsed spider web on death row of mindless
mind does not resemble what the Buddha meant when he or she insinuated
mindful nothingness Nirvana half starved but happy under the fig tree’s shadow
One step at a time barefoot when spirituality meant ‘Jonny Walker’ all waters
turned into whining wine homeless wandering under bridges of destruction
appeared to be at least some being tempted dissolution dancing rugged demise
at the cliff face of life living hell aneasthetised vanished meaning arrested river
flowing backwards to the Source a sprinkling spring temptation clothed in rags
and feathered tarnished nakedness tarred with just one brush the stroke of black
Lost figs composted marbles undergrowth of metamorphous germination alighted
when grapes turned into peaches mingling scented wakes of wakening blossoms
once icicles melted merged into tingling titillating finger-skin and fingertips searched
to join minds with souls and souls with minds and bodies touching senses feelings
intellectual pheromones oozing from the fruits of scented fragrance life togetherness
they formed a delta confluence new openings direction thrusts and trust and nurture
Many nights have passed since peaches’ revelation revolution formed scooping spoons
from moons and moons from spoons delicious rhythmic rhyming twines of poet trees
in living motion poetry and miracles suspended and conjoined at hips and minds
09th July 2016
Just because television is a bore
writing a poem is less a chore
I can live in a scribble where words soar
Minds that ripple the universe forevermore
Because I am envious of your style
Yours is limitless like silver smile
You are cool like a sculptured rock
Turquoise jewel of classic hip hop
Because I think too much all the time
And want your attention is that a crime
I have no privacy in my purple pages
For ink bleeds are my sacrificial sages
Because you are dark and I am light
Within our red hearts we unite
You build bridges despite dilemma and frown
You lift others up when they are down
Because you've been hungry you feed others
Because not for religion but for the brothers
You march to the beat of your own drum
Because you do others are inspired to come
You think outside the box
You were born from classic rock
Because there is music in your walk
We all lose it when you talk
Because your words can bring peace
Like black bird with a song to sing
Your ancestors were kings queens unique
I love your swag and black destiny
A circle of vultures, in orbits fly
Through this patch of highway sky.
I see no corpse, no bloody-bleed
Of deer or deer or bear, on which to feed.
I see only the road and cars,
Highway signs with steely bars,
Bridges built in the nineteen sixties,
Some appear in need of fixing.
So why appear, birds of the dead?
And circle slow about our heads?
Why make the scene grim and stern?
Like something out of an old western…
Perhaps they have some premonition,
Of death to come, or near perdition.
Perhaps somehow they’re sensing fate,
And decided not to sit and wait.
Why they gather, I do not know,
But I’d rather not be in traffic, slow;
Beneath the carrion-eating mass
I wish these folks would work the gas.
Tired of this shameful being,
Thoughts of joy now turned to bleeding,
Thoughts were once so pure and free,
Now they work to imprison me.
Mental prison's are much the worst,
Feelings pressured, soon to burst.
Bridges burned, friends reduced,
Visions blurred, pain deduced.
Problems absolved, plans created,
Leave this place, shadows faded.
Time will keep on going on,
With or without, soon I'm gone,
Gone to live with nature's being,
Alone in peace , I'll die believing,
This had to be done, cant stand the state,
Of all this world, mine will be great,
No matter what I have to do,
Soon Mrs. Earth , I'll be with you.
If I should exchange my soul, would you be with me before I grow old? If I should exchange my soul would you accompany me to Mount Fuji to see the ecstatic talked about scenery?
If I should exchange my soul would you fly with me around the world? If I should exchange my soul would you help me to complete the next chapter of the book and watch over me while I cook?
Everywhere I go, I see you in my world, everywhere I go I can feel you in my soul, a radiant light is shining in me and the universe is embracing me and the moon and the sun with a mission on the run will determine my destiny.
The night skies are gleaming with clouds of assorted colors and a miracle sitting on the hill waving toward the heavens and the old man in the clouds appears.
It is not the color in the plate or the last tumultuous date, it is the pyramid that spills those colors that radiate from the four corners of the sky and the earth in compliance with mankind breath held its gravity along the stretch and the beaver on the ground reached out and touch my soul.
If you should exchange your soul, would you exchange it for pure gold? If you should exchange your soul, would you set a price on it or would you jump from the cliff.
The carving on the wood, the painting on the wall and the ladder beside the gate explain it all, the fountain of hope has picked up steam and the heavens has revealed my benevolent dreams and across the street the silent bridges stood still with water trickling from the stream and the garden of hope slowly sinks in the dirt and I hear the birds playing the evening symphony and the earth shakes.
The moment passes swiftly and my imagination took me across the world and the heaven sucks the energy from below.
I see them staring at the skies making a pledge before they die, thousands of them bound in chain with guns pointed in their backs and universe walking on top and bright lights kept flickering from above and guns shots bellowing in the distance.
If I should exchange my soul, would you be with me before I grow old? The story is not yet told; let me a cup of tea to warm my soul; my hands and feet are getting cold.