Long Bustle Poems
Long Bustle Poems. Below are the most popular long Bustle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bustle poems by poem length and keyword.
I wot of maifaire said the man where people sell
Upon the green where are leafy boughed trees seen
There stand thegen; reeve; and fat geese lay, there
People do sport and horses neigh
Just follow down the earthen track
you will see it where
the colored buntings flap.'
Wow so this is Mayfair the tourist said, place of
Bustle place of style, of well paved streets place
Of happening and moment , Its great to see the glitz and glitter the glazed iced Cakes and Impersonal titter; the endless roar of fervid hordes
Here is everything man adores.' Its so fullfillng
Its really grand to think I stand on such august
a spot just an Iowa man.'
I'm already feeling the culture seep in, I'll return
Home more like Milton I can feel it in my skin.'
In the service yord of a Mayfair hotel people huddle
Homless almost hopeless craving warmth they lay
Under slate or skies of blue its all the same
The pavement is hard whatever the weather they find
Five years you must live near; around or a place
Will not be yours 'never mind' it was David Cameron
Who gifted them so, and it was not expensive I have
Been informed tis a most baneful woe'
I was on a plantain branch
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
She put her bangles on a rock
Glimpse of gold, shined my eyes
I took it and flew back home.
A cry of fury trembling hut,
I wonder why she made that fuss.
With a bit of twinge I shout,
“One I took, three with you!”
Still her rage in frenzy mood,
Crowd is fanning flames to grow,
In my nest it shine and rest,
Golden bangle shining lust.
Then I went back looking around,
To watch the jokers in a run,
But my eyes in surprise hunt,
The bustle of hut in deep slumber.
Oh! Again this gold will turn,
me a golden king of crows.
Another bangle on the rock,
I took it and flew back home.
What a foolish bird I’m,
Fallen on their tricky trap.
They found my nest and climbed up tree,
My two bangles went with them.
Second Place in I am a Bird - Personification Poetry Contest sponsored by Tania Kitchin
“Now overlap the sundials
with your shadows”
- Rainer Maria Rilke
Morning
There are no answers.
The river is too busy reflecting
trees on the far bank and healing
its mirror after being gashed
by a passing boat.
The whole morning with its clear,
crisp air and sunlit space is simply
getting on with what it has to do -
letting the day's story unfold
in time.
And so it is with me,
unfolding into my own space,
trying to heal the things
that do not reflect
what is truly real.
Evening
Like a gnomon on a sundial,
the Newport power station's
tall chimney casts its long shadow
across the river. It seems
to herald a sense of hurry
as evening approaches.
Soon, starlings will begin to loudly
bustle for roosting positions
in the nearby plane trees
and fruit bats will take flight
lifting a dark ominous cloud
into the night sky before
splintering into countless wings.
They are like messengers
from another world.
But who will hear them?
I walk home, my thoughts
seeking shelter in the familiar,
deep in my own denial
Errant hounds capriciously bustle in an exceptional position near some forsaken backwatered millpond during some quietude noontime dismal conclusion concerning the game,
Per some dense overgrowth forward furnishes an exquisite refuge over the stalked moreover the superfluous breathing of one well-earned evanescent freedom comprise paid via the pursuers prevailing pattern during this auspicious consequence,
Preeminent preyed scampers incessantly before optimism regarding its autonomy of a choice pursuit that endures stirringly as an affirmed conclusion achieves its goal amidst a unique resonance due upon by a fatal singular blast.
In the end, the right to life and the right to survive is the name of the game.
Date: 08/27/2019
Refreshing soft breezes blow – unfrozen little streams flow.
Carols sung open air; temperature’s not very hard to bear.
Midnight: the church bell rings, oh! The Christmas Mass begins.
Happy family visiting at noon – dressed anew: in blue, gold, red or maroon.
Christmas cakes baking in the oven – little birds echo carols in the garden.
Getting ready since Advent – with pretty decorations, heaven sent.
Busy streets with endless bustle – bags filled with Christmas shopping that rustle.
Love, joy and peace cultivated: as anger, fear and grudges vanish, irritated.
For more than a month, talking one topic – this is what’s Christmas, in the tropics.
The Rooster
He strutted ‘cross the barnyard tall and proud,
away from all the bustle of the crowd;
the other roosters in the yard felt cowed,
to him they meekly stepped aside and bowed.
Rhode Island Red to others he was known;
the yard’s top bird, to all he wanted shown.
One day a pullet walking on her own
approached red rooster standing all alone.
“Dear sir you’re quite the standout in this room
all smartly clad and dressed in bright red plume
and standing by yourself may I assume
you’re unattached and lonely, I presume.”
Replied the rooster, “Dear cannot you see,
that others always step aside for me,
and I’m the one, I think you would agree
that any hen I wanted, it would be.”
“Oh, really,” she replied with snarky grin,
“then why I ask your party seems quite thin,
and I’m the only caller who’s within;
perhaps it’s time that you and I begin.”
“My dear young hen you’re simply not my type;
you’re far too ordinary is my gripe,
and I prefer a hen who’s much more ripe
for I must always live up to my hype.”
“I see you standing proudly in your frock,
and I can see you’ve been around the block;
you’re nothing but an old conceited cock,
and you deserve a nagging hen to rock.”
June 27, 2019
The gurgling water laughs out loud,
trickling over rocks in a brook.
Away from the bustle and crowd,
the gurgling water laughs out loud.
And flows along fields freshly plowed,
maintaining a countryside look.
The gurgling waters laugh out loud,
trickling over rocks in a brook.
Maintaining a countryside look
adds serenity to the scene,
near a boardwalk, that time forsook;
maintaining a countryside look.
And sunbeams find each dappled nook,
under a canopy of green.
Maintaining a countryside look,
adds serenity to the scene.
Under a canopy of green,
shifting shadows subdue sunlight.
And everything seems so serene,
under a canopy of green.
Dreams go where fantasies have been,
as imagination takes flight.
Under a canopy of green,
shifting shadows subdue sunlight.
A hectic stare across the cliff,
grabs my prying mindfulness.
but yet I hanker after urban fare,
such ruptured loyalty alas,
has a solid grip as I inhale,
the rampant toxic seaweed odor,
for which release a bland choice,
as bulging dark gray torrents,
remind us of some threat,
a fancy name as birthmark,
blemish, or craven riddle,
consequential strain I fear,
might alter this delay,
how city haven slant,
bustle, blast, benign graft,
has fallout clearly vetted,
sink block, suction pump,
remedial quick brush off,
two rocky worlds aside,
where common ground,
that less distinct blight,
consuming blind thought,
downpour on the crevice,
outskirt mere sideshow,
flight a gut reaction say,
let valor plot or plod,
whatever barren sabotage,
malaise, daft wanton dash,
each muddled exit’s close loop,
one must master by right,
ominous veil now pending,
scatter brained inkling wrought,
lure, allure, attachment beckons,
departure problematic when pressed,
bursts of rain, bursts of sound,
seeking shelter but clueless,
would things be otherwise,
in large built up areas,
I ponder this dilemma,
while dreaming of fair vales,
or mystic laneways of yore
One’s idea of Heaven
Is another’s view of Hell.
That explains why many lives
Stay strictly parallel.
Rural folks may shudder
At the city’s crowds and noise,
While urbanites rank bustle
As among their daily joys.
Some plan for vacations
Which, to them, suggests a cruise;
Others needing culture
Might find such a trip a snooze.
Many go to dinner
And enjoy a juicy steak.
Vegetarians prefer
Their “meat’ when it is fake.
Sometimes choices intersect
And differences converge,
Providing just a little taste
Of someone else’s splurge.
It’s good to be receptive
To another’s choice or style,
Though in terms of what you like,
It might be off by, like, a mile.
A new day dawns,
I’m welcomed into its embrace,
I journey its length and breadth,
I search its depth.
Time is in motion,
It reaches the end of its journey,
Its continuum collapses.
I board a train,
Twilight is its last station,
Midnight is its final stop,
There are no delays,
There are no obstacles,
In the multitude of my thoughts,
In the flow of my desires,
I find myself at the final stop.
I stand before a portrait,
The onus is mine to add my colours,
With each brush stroke,
With every hue,
Time wanders,
It tunnels through the elements,
A new day dawns,
Its portrait lies before me.
My tardiness is not a delay,
My swiftness is not speed.
It’s a strange entity,
A mysterious phenomenon,
An enigmatic existence,
Time brings us to the end of our journey,
And takes us into the beyond.
January 28, 2024.