Long Budged Poems
Long Budged Poems. Below are the most popular long Budged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Budged poems by poem length and keyword.
Fierce fighting raged, but surprise was gone,
the Americans rallied and pushed hard,
the Indians fell back, out of the ravine,
the patriots driving them that far.
Hand-to-hand combat broke out brutally,
with knives, clubs, and rifle-stocks,
Iroquois would wait until patriots fired,
then while they reloaded, charge with tomahawk.
Herkimer saw his people being killed,
so he ordered them all to pair off,
one man would fire, the other would load,
now It was the Indians who felt sharp loss.
The killing continued, on through to morn,
until a thunder storm broke over the field,
the fighting quieted but neither side budged,
neither side put down powder or steel.
But as the storm passed, back at Stanwix,
the garrison heard of Herkimer’s plight,
they charged out into the near empty camps,
putting the few British still there to flight.
They plundered and pillage all that they could,
ransacking and stealing their supplies,
when word reached the battle, the Indians turned,
now it was their turn to be surprised.
The broke from the field, ran for the camps,
but when they arrived they saw it was too late,
the garrison had retreated back to the fort,
with their spoils behind a barred gate.
At Oriskany, Herkimer held the field,
so by the standards of the day he had won,
but neither side had gained that much from it,
despite all the bloody work that was done.
The patriots were too savaged to continue on,
to damaged to hope to lift the siege,
they retreat back east, to Fort Dayton,
to see to their wounds and their needs.
St. Leger found himself in a terrible spot,
supplies dwindling, his camp ransacked,
to make matters worse, mad Indian allies
started slinking off, not to come back.
Not long after another relief column,
led by a general who’s name won’t be said,
marched for Stanwix, convincing the Brits
they had little chance of not being bested.
St. Leger ordered his forces to retreat,
back to Canada his troops did go,
and the British plan to split the colonies
suffered from its first heavy blow.
Herkimer didn’t live to see that day,
his wound quickly became infected,
when the time came to amputate his leg,
it was botched up, and quite freely bled.
At least the brave man got to die in his home,
and his name is recalled in glory,
he remains a hero in upstate New York,
for his courage at Oriskany.
Mimi McFudge was her name, and she wanted a tree
that would really make her Christmas glow
so, she cut one herself and decked it from head to toe
but when it started prancing with bells and whistles too
it began to talk like a chatterbox, it knew just what to do!
When bedtime rolled around it yawned, " Please shut the lights"
Articulate and bright it hummed all day and slept all night
Every day at noon he gave Mimi a little nudge
feed me feed me I'm hungry, then he'd shake and jiggle
but he never budged ...
It went on for quite some time first the fruit then the nuts
he even dared to ask for pouding and cold cuts.
What she didn't realize was that a squirrel was living there
and that the food wasn't just disappearing in thin air.
It was being chomped, buffed & eaten by a bushy tailed spry one
who loved to eat and photoshoot, he couldn't be undone
so when Santa came sliding down the chimney
he quickly took a snapshot then whispered, " Santa, its me "
In some circles, I’m like that comedian
Rodney Dangerfield, whose catchphrase
was, “I don’t get no respect.”
I can’t say scorn doesn’t faze me.
I’ve always been terribly misunderstood
and misjudged.
Some just made up their stubborn minds
and haven’t budged!
For being persistent and hardy
I’ve been described as a pest.
For not being as pretty as the rest
of my family, I’m called an eyesore.
Sometimes I think I can’t take much more!
Then I think of how I’ve been blessed.
Over time, I’ve been put to the test.
I am prolific, and my roots go deep,
but my youth is brief.
For all of us, time is a thief.
When my yellow “hair” turns white and wispy,
it scatters wildly far and wide,
flying in the wind, who is my friend.
To some I’m a symbol of positive feelings,
of hope and healing.
They acknowledge my practicality
and strenuously disagree with my enemies
who call me a—I can’t bear to say it.
The misnomer they utter is “WEED”!
There’s another name I much prefer.
I think my cousin Daisy would concur
that I am a FLOWER.
April 13, 2022
entered in Angela Tune's Lighten the Load Poetry Contest
We argued until the cows came home and lived in a city
Hardly ever even agreed to disagree and never budged an inch
There was always an If and or definite But and resolute No
Your hair is too long and untidy
In frazzled jeans you look like a hobo
When you are my age you’ll know I am right
Grow up I don’t not like your attitude
So many points to state and so few dots in a full circle of
Arguments discussion battles and irreconcilable opinions
I do not approve of the fact that you are a General
Soldiers are potential murderers in uniform
Put a peace dove onto your epaulettes then
We’ll find common ground olive branches
But our common terrain was trenches and warfare
No white flags around as if to prove belligerent cries
Bayonets of reason and treason to each other’s cause
Hypocrite and irredeemable bigot that is who you are
Renegade idealism does not grant bread on our plates
As long as you put your young feet under my table …
Age is not an achievement and youth is no crime
Strangely enough there was ingrained disrespectful respect and
Some sort of approval and commendation and strange kind of love
We could see but not admit how the opponent got their acclaim
While I sought to put bouquets of flowers into heavy gun’s barrels
You were proud of my resilience and spoke highly of me to your friends
The truth that we fought our relentless struggles showed higher regard
As the inscription on your marble head stone grows tireless moss
While I slowly approach an urn of quiet reprieve to hold my own ashes
And the world still explodes and bursts at seams and with violent themes
I bring some poppies and daisies to your grave with no hidden agenda
And wish for the many apologies when Sorry is more than a phrase
Maybe a kiss on your skull and bones deep down and below
Comes never too late and for once we share intimate concern
I scribe a memorial and know we will sign our treaty at last
07th December 2019
our wedding day portrait
two made one
misted by years
masked by smoke-filled skies
bobby, gina—two of our three
days seared with sun and a child’s scuffed knee
through spelling tests piano recitals saturday games
kneeling together strokes of unquestioned belief
caps and gowns, crystal and dented brass
degrees in business and medicine
marriages grandchildren colors filling the sassafras
then job losses metastasis scares hospital gowns
loneliness
values smudged
quibbles spatter pigment
no one budged
boredom drowned in tanqueray the glass smelled of pine
blue smoke, screens, two strangers behind painted glass
lost in a bell jar of belladonna
two martini glasses, an untouched olive
the letter’s paper like granite, vows sun-washed away
body mind and spirit—desaturated
a torn canvas split along jagged lines
no reconciliation
reimagining life with unfamiliar faces
a torn canvas becomes two paintings
no masking tape or super glue
can ever repair a canvas torn in two
=======
My job isn't to convert but rather only to tell
In that one might avert all the pains of hell
I needn't persist nor stick around too long
But I would insist you know about His Song
I'm not here to change you even if I could
Just stating the obviously true, the good
It is of your will on which you'll be judged
For as you got your fill you haven't budged
No, you have Another in mind of the Power
One I hope you find before your final hour
But as a passerby or even a friend of yours
I can't understand why such doubt pours
I'm not the answer but a step on His Road
You might not concur but the truth is owed
You take care and I wish you only His Best
I'm not here to compare, this is your test
The day drags its feet, despite my efforts to speed up its pace. I got up late, so that I could sleep away the morning hours, aiming for a shorter day. Yet it’s only half past ten and I’ve already eaten breakfast and put my dishes in the sink. Glaring at the clock for the umpteenth time, doesn’t help, it just keeps on ticking away; yet I swear that it hasn’t budged since the last time I looked. I already tidied up my room, and picked up last years toys. And I’ve even put some milk and cookies out, hung my stocking up over the fireplace and wrote a note to Santa; yet it’s only noon, now what? What am I going to do for the next eight hours? Why does it always take forever for sleep to come, when Christmas day is the next day?
Cloudy skies explode into puffs of snowy flakes,
Harbingers of excitement and sweet sugar cakes.
Ringing bells peal and chime, blessing this joyous day,
Invitations to celebrate Jesus's birthday.
Santa's reindeer are all set for their flight tonight
To deliver presents; to every child's delight.
Mommies and daddies are all smiles and hugs of love,
As youngsters eagerly search the skies above.
Slumber fuels dreams of elves and a flying sleigh,
Dozing off to sleep, while awaiting Christmas day.
All the months of waiting will soon be at an end,
Yuletide spirits filling hearts as fun and faith blend.
(Haibun/Acrostic/Rhyming Couplet)
You can walk right into this image.
Stand there near the typewriter if you like.
Edward Hopper has allowed plenty of room.
Although he has filled the space very well,
As it is a small office, and her desk is also there.
It suits the feeling of closeness without being cramped.
A secretary, back in the day was a sort after position.
She aimed to please her boss and be dutiful.
In a professional manner we presume, don’t we?
She has a wonderful figure.
That dress shows it off so well.
Look, he is pretending he hasn’t noticed,
Obviously she knew they would be working back tonight.
Her hair is formed so perfectly,
The removal of one comb, it will fall freely over her shoulders.
Tumbling around her opulent breasts.
Her lipstick obviously refreshed since morning,
Is she waiting to pick up that paper on the floor?
Waiting for him to point his attention her way?
Do we feel she is being provocative, is he about to make a move?
His silence seems deafening.
Her slight tapping on the filing cabinet hasn’t budged his gaze,
The open window is allowing night noises to fade her attempts.
As you stand there near the typewriter,
Do you wonder what’s next?
I think Edward Hopper meant you to wonder.
Even maybe depict a scenario in your imagination.
The silence between the two, is deemed a trademark of the artist.
But one can almost hear the two 'thinking.'
I guess I have said my piece about this painting,
Because as Edward once said:
“If you could say it, there would be no reason for him to paint it.“
10/7/16
I've done
Seen them fold and flop
Will it ever get old or stop?
Regardless of if it's cold or hot
Many talked and told a lot
And the sight of their own goals were lost
When push comes to shove
Blood runs
Thicker than anything below and above
Gavels being swung
By a judge
Not all cases had to do with murder or drugs
Near and far away from the sticks and shrubs
As well as any mud
Underneath the moon and sun
Battles have been lost and won
Regardless of if it was serious or for fun
New series and movies being recorded, no re-runs
Or reason to waste time and play dumb
Never was it the same for anyone
At times the weather and people's outlooks were glum
No matter what they had been through or where they were from
Information out one ear and the other, or soaked up like a sponge
Had to be humble, respectful, learn and overcome
The same may not be said for some
The boulder on the shoulder had been heavier than a ton
But I never gave up or budged
Always continued on and trudged
Throughout and beyond the sludge
No good in fiddling your thumbs
And moving at the rate of a slug
The same could be said for always sweeping things under the rug
Far too many took a plunge
And made no attempt to lunge
Not to mention some still held a grudge
Had to sit back, disconnect and unplug
When I needed to think instead of being bugged
Poured from the jug
And sipped out of a mug
In various areas I dug
Similar and different items being lugged
By: Dalton Ogletree
You don't think you owe me
Well I contend you do
On my desk, I expect a bouquet of roses
I worked thru most my childhood
Paying my playground dues
‘Cause the factory called America never closes
Insufferable agony
Is an overrated trend
I don’t trust anything that relies on poses
It’s come too close to my family
It’s stricken my very last friend
While the factory called America never closes
It disarmed us into sympathy
Made us watch a little too near
Pulled the landscape right from under our noses
And stole four out of five senses --
The whistle I still hear
Of the factory called America that never closes
We share a hospital room,
Divided by two sheer curtains
What God would have concealed, the Market exposes
No, I don’t pray to no doctor
Not with all these nurses
To work a factory called America that never closes
I see my father over there
Succumbed to a Swedish catalog chair,
Nearly choking from his fitful dozes
If aging is the National Work Zone,
It’s wonder we come anywhere
Near a factory called America that never closes
Some punch the card
Some punch their spouse
Some punch below the belt
But that’s expected
There’s just two paths
In this woeful house
To the left it says, “Approved”
To the right, “Rejected”
Everyone choose a weapon
The selection’s pretty hot
We got everything from geriatric purses
to firemen's hoses
Made by way of China
Shipped straight to the parking lot
Of the factory called America which never closes
Oh no, still in the Garden
We've hardly budged an inch
We're barely past the part about Sinai and Moses
In time, the clay will harden
And Judgment, a sure cinch
Till then, the factory called America never closes
No, the factory called America
never closes.