Long Carry off Poems
Long Carry off Poems. Below are the most popular long Carry off by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Carry off poems by poem length and keyword.
The day i started know meaning of love,
Is the day i begun to recognised that am not completed.
That day i could able discover that am duty.
Even though am always stay duty,
Although i never seen it before,
But that day made me realised.
From that day i begun to keep myself clean.
That is the day made me realised that am not accomplish.
Even though i did not knew before that am not carry off,
But that day things befall.
I even discovered that am living without heart.
Seen that someone had stolen it.
From that day i started to hunt that person.
The day i found it ,
Is the day i felt that i fulfilled.
I also felt like i could and kiss the moon.
Is the day i even saw my tears of joy for the first time in my life.
I also lost my mind because of joy.
Now i accomplished.
Poem by ndidzulafhi patric munyai
There are many bones in the lake.
King Fishers and Great Blues
carry the small ones away
to weave them into platforms
high in the wind whisked sky.
They are always looking for more,
so also is the fisherman with his scouring net
trawling these waters.
The cops are out hunting
for the unlicensed and strays,
there are plenty in these lawless times.
The bone-taking fisherman
snags the bones
that the birds cannot carry off.
Back in his shack,
in the low tangled woods,
he is constructing hollow forms
none of them yet complete.
“Loneliness is a terrible burden,”
he tells the half-made
skeletal constructions.
The bones are impatient
to be works of art,
and no longer want to found
murdered or drowned.
Arggh me hearties! We're takin' a long-awaited vacation!
Th' enchantin' isles uv th' Caribbean is ar final destination!
Hoist th' Jolly Roger an' them billowin' sails an' let's git 'er underway!
Th' Spanish Main is ripe fer pillagin' so let's git thar without delay!
Ye signed on fer this here little cruise knowin' I runs a very tight ship.
Ye do yer jobs, don't complain an' don't ye dare give me any lip!
Ye'll git three squars a day an' yer daily tot uv rum as well.
An' I 'spect ye ta stick wit' me tho' we may ketch almighty hell!
Now if'n we happen ta meet a sloop er two upon th' boundin' main,
Ah'll 'spect ye ta wield yer swords an' cause th' scoundrels pain!
Jes' keep in mind that ye'll share in th' booty that we acquire,
An' I promise ye a proper burial at sea if'n ye should expire!
Arggh me maties! Ah'm anxious ta run me fingers thro' them pieces uv eight!
An' git me paws on them thar island beauties! Aye! I kin hardly wait!
Ye! Up thar in th' crow's nest! Keep a sharp lookout fer any ships at sea!
An' ye fellers on th' deck aim them cannons true when ye hear "far!" frum me!
Ah don't reckon that we'll be received as welcome guests in any port,
An' them wily natives will 'ave thar guns aimed at us frum ever' fort!
But if'n ye keep yer swords honed an' yer blunder busses' powder dry,
We'll carry off thar wimmin an' swag as we wave ta them goodbye!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 9 in Paula Swanson's "A Tale o' Pillagin'" Contest - July 2010
To hell with them! I never think of them
I forget they exist, until I spot them
Then I get mad!
Oh yes, I loathe them so, as much as I do roaches
I loathe them so much I feel like screaming
I wish I could urinate colonies of them off a log just for kicks
I never cared about their infinite diligence
They don't work for me anyway
And they sure don't work with me
I don't care that they carry off crumbs
That break off my bread. They continually invade
My home, overstaying their welcome.
They invade my pantry to suck honey and sugar
They snake across my countertop when they smell the aroma of spilt coffee
I always spray them dead, but they eventually come back two-fold!
I hate that they're too tiny to see from a distance
I take pleasure in crushing them under my thumb
Crawl far out of sight, you unsightly irritants!
And please, stop coming back for sweets!....
A Rant Poetry Contest/Winner(9th Place)
Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton
Date written and posted: 08/30/2016
My favorite wild animal is
as strong as Hulk Hogan
and eats fresh quail.
She is as strong as
Chuck Norris, and Rocky,
and they fly faster than mail.
My favorite animal makes a
hungry cheetah look unnaturally slow.
He conforms into a aerodynamic
teardrop when he hunts below.
My favorite wild animal is
a dark bird of prey,
who makes quick strikes.
When mice and rats
and small birds watch them
carry off their friends,
they yell "Yikes!"
Clocked at 242 mph
they are the fastest
wild animals on earth.
The mama
peregrine falcon
reproduces in litters
of three or four eggs,
30 days until birth.
They are located everywhere
except the rain forest,
New Zealand and the poles.
Hungry foxes would
love to catch these white-faced,
yellow-eyed creatures, but they're too slow.
Peregrine's enemies
are the bald eagles,
great horned owl, and the hawks.
They were eating
carrier pigeons in France,
and lots of Frenchmen squawked.
Their natural color is
black and gray;
they strike so quickly, and on time.
They've been off the
endangered list since
August 25th, 1999.
If you ever see a teardrop
shape dropping toward you
swiftly from the sky,
Check your pockets
for fresh quail.
If it's not there,
you're going to die.
written May 12, 2018
Fog is a folded shadow cast on a concrete wall
Dim lights fall to the dirty pavement drains
As rain sweeps up around the gutter rims
Along the open cracks a mist fills in
In currents rippled, diamond tumbled days
To the streets as steaming sheets of white
Streams gather into water falls they carry off
Thin channels form umbrella shadows black
Mimic life, silhouette solid images of passers-by
In puddles muddied at a time designated by the weather
Prevailing conditions as predicted become a ripple
A wrinkle as a shield deploys
Informed by such knowledge born before the storm
Precipitation bounces over plastic sheets of linen
Stretched to their limits, thoughts, images
Roll over a framework of skeletal remains
Metal on plastic for their protection
Dancing down about their feet are rubber boots
Fog creates a film, a mist, a cloud on glass
A gestured finger, invisibly smooth to its touch
Rolls over wet forget-me-nots as surface tension
Prints a name remembered only by the window
Separates smoke from mirror
In a single stroke it disappears
Imagine that
Tributaries run randomly, continue to the river
Streams rush with white, clear as diamonds bright
The sun is blotted out by gray meanderings
Gathered false images shimmer in the mud
As they become the puddles
Rain separates, splits into currents
Channels water falls into the ocean
Cascading over umbrellas folded up
And over linen as is there luck
Streets receive so much information
Feet still get wet beneath umbrellas progress
Before the flood comes in to drown the innocent
So what's your status,
Nimbostratus?
Are you here to stay, like old Aunt Gladys?
- To rain and rain until we're glad it's
Not for you to own the day,
But eventually must fade away
Before the steady strugglings of the sun
Which must break through once they've begun
To tear apart your greyish gloom
And give the sunlight proper room
To push along those friendly, fluffy clouds
Through blue skies where you're not allowed.
So go thy way, ignoble cloud!
Carry off that misty shroud
Below which you have so confined us,
And let us put thy wet behind us
And revel in the newborn sun,
It's warmth welcome to everyone.
You overstay your station here
Far beyond what would appear
A decent spate of soft rainfall;
Your prescence doth begin to pall
When you hover close from day to day.
All caught beneath wish you away,
And confer on you non-gratis status,
O aggravating nimbostratus!
You ask if my home caught on fire and I only have sixteen minutes to gather those things that I treasure; what seven things would I hurriedly carry off with me.
The first thing I would rush for, would be my husband's pillow. I hold it tightly when I go to bed to have him close. To remember the times, I would look into his eyes and taste his lips, to hear his heart beating with mines once again.
The second thing I would rush for, is a briefcase, I keep all our important papers, special small mementos and collectibles that I keep of my children.
The third thing I would rush for, would be my reading glasses.
The fourth thing I would rush for, would be my cell phone and call 9-1-1 after leaving the property.
The fifth thing I would rush for, would be my handbag with my wallet and of course some of my cosmetics, brush, aspirins, allergy pills, EpiPen, Tums.
The sixth thing or things I would try to carry out would be, as many of my oil paintings that I've painted and kept in my own collection; to me, are irreplaceable.
The seventh and the last would be, my husband's collection of Seraphim Angels by Roman or at least one. The angels meant the world to him. He would say the angels always made him feel a warmth inside him.
Take my car out of the garage.
It is really hard to put a value on some things. What is really important?
A fire is disastrous, and as little as two minutes, a house fire can turn into a rapid movement and life-threatening disaster.
2/5/2019
Poetry Contest :Seven Things You Would Save If Your House Was On Fire
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
So now there falls the longest dark,
The hours of stars and cold
That in their icy silence reign
Above a world full dropped to rest..
The winds carry off another year
As the newborn next comes stealing in.
We turn within to find ourselves,
To dream of what may come to birth
Out of the death of what has been.
The fire cracks upon its grate;
Ashes sigh and settle.
Tomorrow's shadow stands await
Against the door
As all things turn upon the fulcrum of the night.
What wisdoms we are granted
Stir deep within the deeper quiet.
May they rise in us with the rising light
That draws along the dawn.
The old year sinks into its Forever sleep;
But let us bring its lessons to the new,
For the life unexamined is a fallow field
Untouched by hand or heart.
A new year beckons,
World turning back to face the sun.
Let it find us fresh with hope,
As does a bridegroom find
His smiling, waiting love.
Many an angel does wear white,
Though the flawless, blinding, perfect cloth
Is seldom a part of the celestial uniform.
True angelic attire is as often as not
A bloodflecked smock
Inhabited by a cranky, caring cynic
Bent on saving you in spite of yourself.
Dr. Monica, Best Friend to my wife,
And a second sister to myself,
Is such a one.
Unlike The Ones Who Thunder From Above,
"Fear Not!", Dr. Monica never said so on arrival;
She lives in the land of fear
And knows it's always standing by the bedside
While you lie there trying to hang onto your soul.
I know all this, from what she did for me,
Once upon a time when I lay skating
Over Death's bottomless lake,
Steering me past the thin ice.
She came from other places, other duties
To keep on fighting Death in ministering to me
In double, unpaid overtime,
Because that's what the real angels do:
Fight a fight no one can really win,
But persuading Mr. Death it just ain't worth his trouble
To carry off this one, just yet.
Impossibilities being the angelic currency,
She spent them liberally on me,
Finding my blood when my veins tapped out,
Talking to me though I was unconcious,
Inflating the good and tactfully omitting the bad
For those standing watch over me;
Real angels know how and when to lie.
Michael, Umbriel, Gabriel, Ariel
And their subordinates
May dress to impress, up there in Administration;
But down here, where the real work is,
The real angels walk the halls of pain,
Wear smudgy robes
And make sarcastic cracks
In disregard of all religion,
And with firm shakings of a head
Haloed with a mound of wild black hair,
They purse their lips and say,
"Not today, Mr. Death, not today."
Like Dr. Monica.