Long Canada Poems
Long Canada Poems. Below are the most popular long Canada by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Canada poems by poem length and keyword.
Again she sees those vibrant sleeves of green
And hears those gentle whispers and soft sighs
Alone beneath a willow lost in dreams
An old woman reflects through misty eyes
To see her now so deeply scarred by time
A beauty once now buried in the folds
Upon that road of passion left behind
The bitter price she paid for growing old
The park where they first met is much the same
Where those two hearts she sees again entwined
Engraved upon the stone that bears his name
Upon her soul forever in her mind
A barren stone awaits her by his side
Beneath those gentle whispers and soft sighs
Author: Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
Author's note:
The title is from a quote of Shakespear which
inspired this sonnet.
Lake Superior
Strong- shouldered waves crested
the rocks below Split Rock Lighthouse
with frothering glee-
happy to be home among the orange-lychen,
basalt-boulders and Gulls-
high above the lake, mountainous columns
of clouds drifted in legions towards Canada,
against a sky so blue, no reasons were needed-
where the sun peaked through, sparkling
diamonds scattered across the lake……existence was enough
existence
was enough
08/16/10
© All Rights Reserved
. T ulips coated in dewy waxen gloss
U ndulating their warm fragrant breath
L eaving - that cold hearted Mr. Frost
I n a
P uddle of tears
S creaming - Spring is here!
~~~~~
Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
Written: April 11, 2011
For: Carol Brown's contest - Spring Flowers
Awarded: First Place
Who am I?
I'm an American who ordered my head to remain buried in the sand
but due to the lunatic holding office, it refused to obey my command.
Finding no reasonable sensibility in the mind of that mad creature,
I shake my risen head, watching the horror of this double feature.
Each day is shadowed in darkness by yet another ruthless crime,
of the catalyst, sans morals. The unacceptable excuse for a paradigm.
The narcissist president who should be a mime like a circus clown,
the wanna be king of the world who brought our country down.
The predator of women, and of countries he thinks he can own...
A blowhard mentality, a bully who would sit on every nation's throne.
He's made us the enemy of Canada, Mexico, and now for gosh sake,
Denmark's Greenland, lusting for whatever he thinks he can take.
He wanted the Nobel Prize for Peace, but his demand was spurned.
With grubby hands he took it from its owner... an honor not earned.
Claims he doesn't want China or Russia to be America's neighbor.
He doesn't know how to read a map! Verbal abuse he likes to belabor.
He put his name on The Kennedy Memorial Center for Performing Arts
but it would make a better target on a game board for playing darts.
Sick is what he's made many U.S. Citizens with his presidential farce,
hoping remorse is felt by followers who should ask him for a divorce.
Who am I?
I'm a poet who'd rather not be an ostrich, not hearing the blathering,
but spending time writing of other things, daydreaming, woolgathering,
but it's become impossible not to hear, read, and be able to ignore
the catastrophic problems caused by the one Duke Beaufort calls 'Igor.'
Spring of 1971, happy laughter
Multi-colored flowers and happy faces
we drive painted vans our parents can afford
We pile in, meeting new friends, some potential lovers
Peppermint breath greet us in half beat valentine waves
Idealists abounded, we flash peace signs in the cosmos
Woodstock knocks around in our dendrite highways
We are determined to drowned out the Viet Nam War
Grayscale news is nightly sharing things that rock our world
We wear rounded rose-colored, or tiny squared off blue granny glasses,
Love beads and two-fingered peace signs resound in our brains
Our hearts are determined to remain child-like magical.
We concentrate on the goodness of strangers
We create our own ambiance we children of the night
Star lit beaches catch our mirthful dancing
Our laughter is excruciatingly loud!
A magical time with an illusion that Viet Nam cannot touch us
Until she does, drafting one son at a time - mostly poor boys
Farm kids and poor kids from Chicago or St. Louis.
Gallantry has not let them escape to Canada.
We dance harder, flinging ourselves into each other’s eyes
Falling in love with every one of the future slain, not seeing fodder.
Helping the disappointed drafted enjoy their last ten days
Giving them brilliant memories for when they are miserable
wetted down in swamps, expecting to die
Reminding them of normalcy before their trip to this unkind place.
Mama Cass and Karen Carpenter are joyfully singing their folk songs
None of us realizing how illusive happily-ever-after is.
It is easy to forget that in the main we die only seven times more slowly than our dogs.
Jim Harrison (1937 - 2016) - The Road Home
First Bobo, a cocker spaniel,
I remember only from pictures.
He ran way before we moved
to Canada when I was four.
Second Kizzie, a cockapoo, Mom got
when the family moved to Texas.
I only saw her on holidays and such
as I stayed in Canada. She lived
long and was with the folks when they
retired to British Columbia and was
into her teens before they put her down.
Third Sadie, 3/4 Newfie - 1/4 Bernese,
a big black dog, with a big appetite
for apples from a special tree and
the socks our daughter, a toddler
cast off around the house.
I still chuckle remembering
the scattered remnants lining
the farm lane that spring.
She was over ten, and in pain
when we put her down.
Her ashes remain in an urn in the garage.
Fourth Rizzo, a fencejump cross of
Gordon Setter and Belgian Shepherd,
my wife and daughter got him from
a friend, while I was off on a canoe trip.
A headstrong dog who would take off after
a scent or car to return when he pleased.
On leash, he'd almost pull you off your feet.
With age, he grew territorial and
after the third biting incident, I took
him to the vet to be put down.
But she gave him to an older lady
with a fenced yard who put thirty
pounds on him and he lived to
fourteen or fifteen.
Fifth Hailey, who was five when
we got her from the shelter.
A Border Collie - Shepherd cross
and definitely our daughter's dog.
She'd bounce foxlike through the fields
and on evening beach walks, loved
to fetch sticks we'd toss into the waves.
She was over fifteen and failing when
we put her down, days before
our daughter's wedding.
No urn this time.
Sixth Xena, a Shepherd-Collie cross
and beyond doubt a princess
but more sweetheart than warrior.
She has the canine equivalent
of ADD and a bark first policy
when something new appears
and will retrieve sticks or balls
until your arm falls off .
At over eight, she's running strong.
Seventh, Sam, a mostly Shepherd mix,
she's our most 'rescue' rescue dog,
smart, loyal and obedient
a wantobe lap dog with a feral streak.
She responds in kind to aggressive
dogs and we muzzle her on walks.
Now five she'll be with us for a
good while to continue the tally.
With complete confidence, I the writer, knowing my wit and charm had always gotten me what I wanted in the past, entered the room.
There she sat on the top of my desk, this cool black beauty, ignoring me completely.
My mission, to get the scoop.
They called her, ‘The Iron lady’; not my type, but that didn’t scare me in the least.
The easy touch. Yes! It always worked. All I needed was a few nights alone with her.
The first night, I began by gently pushing her buttons, over and over again, caressing every part of her from A to Z, bringing her to the edge and back again.
In the morning, completely spent, having learned very little about her, I kicked the crumpled sheets lying on the floor, aside, and left the room vowing never to return.
The next night, I discovered she liked a firm touch. After that, there was no stopping us. She kept me up night after night into the wee small hours.
How many sleepless nights can a guy endure? Well! Patience is a virtue.
I returned to the Iron Lady night after night, after night, until the truth was told.
In the end the story she spilled for me, became a National best seller.
She was my type after all.
Author: Elaine Cecelia George of Canada
Our president says, “Bring the factories back,
Rebuild the mills, get us on track.”
He looks at the rust belt, sees sorrow and tears,
Whole towns undone by decline through the years.
I have a bike made by Trek
They can't make it here, said an exec
He explained that nobody here makes any part
A whole bike ecosystem needed to restart.
So Trump raised tariffs, a hammering blow,
But allies responded with a resounding "no."
In Germany, most consumers are taking action
In France, "Boycott USA" has gotten traction.
Down under, Aussies can now buy U.S. beef
But buyers won't buy them, the hopes were brief.
Japs and Filipinos see Trump as a bully
It's our exporters that feel the pain fully.
In Denmark, Euro products are marked with a star
It helps consumers know which products to bar.
Chinese, Irish, British, you name it
Refuse to buy our stuff, cannot tame it.
Canada has an app called "Maple Scan"
It identifies our brands, for the voluntary ban.
The leftist party that governs would have lost the vote
But Trump really got the average Canadian's goat.
Tariffs also drive countries to trade with China more
India is one example, They are feeling really sore
Japan and South Korea pursue a new China pact
Wasn't it predictable how they'd all react?
It didn't help that Trump floated the idea of Canada annexation
Doesn't he understand their pride in their nation?
Tariffs alone couldn't cover the cost,
Of trust broken, of friendship lost.
In most cases, I think tariffs were a mistake
We have to look why things in the U.S are costly to make.
Let's work on that, not create enemies from friends
Not all means reach desired ends.
And yes, many countries protect factories and food production
Subsidies, tariffs, they feel the same seduction.
But we're not blameless either, and we can sink our boat
by retreating into a fort, surrounded by a tariff moat.
Gawd! I awoke this morning wondering what I'm doing in this miserable place!
I thought the oath I took was to defend America's shores, not a foreign race!
The French made a mess and ran, now, America has to straighten things out.
It's a civil war and personally I don't give a damn what the politicians tout!
The president and his minions are making millions off my miserable back,
While I wade through these gawd-forsaken paddies dodging shells and flak!
Maybe I should've gone to Canada but I would have let my father down,
Who fought in another war and returned with honor to his hometown.
Colonels and generals sit on their butts in Saigon adding medals to their collection,
Enjoying air conditioning, steak, ice cream and the finest whiskey selection.
I dine on C-rations, get a shower once a month and a warm beer now and then.
I hear the screams of wounded buddies and weep at the agony of dying men.
I hear back home that peaceniks call us baby killers and spit on returning heroes!
If I ever get back home and that happens to me, I'll punch the SOBs in the nose!
Nams don't appreciate what we're doing and its a shame our people have to die,
While a lot of their young guys avoid the gore of war hoping it'll pass them by.
As I sit here in this filthy foxhole with water up to my knees, I fervently pray,
I can make it through my tour without a scratch and get home to a better day.
Will America ever learn from history and stay out of other people's wars,
And learn from the futility of war while the loss of our blood and treasure soars?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF
© All Rights Reserved
Honorable Mention in Miranda Lambert's "World of War: Vietnam" Contest
Apr 2011
The leaves were turning red and gold;
And frost was in the air.
When they rounded up the Acadians,
From Miquelon and Saint Pierre.
It was a time for groaning;
A cry from Cajun lips.
When they rounded up those Frenchmen;
And loaded them on ships.
So they came to "Louisiane;"
A strange and far-off land.
But thrived mid pines and cypress.
A hardy, cheerful band.
They learned to build the pirogue,
And find odd sorts of meat.
For in the swamps of "Louisiane";
The Cajun had to eat.
They learned to cook the Gumbo;
Which is a special dish;
But key to their survival;
Was a little Red Craw-fish.
The "Mud-bug" some folks call it.
But it's cooked with lots of love.
It's found in shallow water;
Which the South has plenty of.
It is a time for dancing;
It is a time for fun.
When the Cajuns get together;
And the the Red Craw-fish are done.
You boil them in some water;
And throw in lots of spice.
Some corn and some potatoes;
And some ice tea would be nice.
The Cajuns love their Craw-fish
Though it's been 200 hundred years.
Since they left their home in Canada,
And cried those bitter tears.
But the Cajun is resourceful;
Making use of what he can.
He thrived to spite the English;
To prove he was the better man.