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.
Lockdown over, I had to head to school
my pupils waiting to learn the golden rule
I got ready and put on that mask
following the health protocols is a must
How would I each word articulate?
and those whole lessons explicate!
***
Principals in their towers have their say
and teachers, Skills For Life, have to convey
So eager to see my pupils and join the classroom
no time to spend with colleagues in the teachers room
Just virtual wishes.. Love and hugs
and the joy of all the social media tags.
***
I looked weird, in need of a breathing space
with that mask and my glasses, nothing remained of my face!
High time I proceeded with the warming up
avoiding to preach or give a negative heads up
A perplexed look in my pupils eyes I could see
a strong desire to build in them a motivational esprit
***
Nothing has changed, me doing all the talking
in day dreams they seemed to be sinking
My voice in the void echoed, "am I speaking Chinese?
I'm afraid, these are but the English language abcs!"
'If you can't turn the page, burn the book'. "Would you please paraphrase?
not all at once, please, one at a time as always!"
***
"Sorry teacher, we didn't bring our textbooks"
I was maddened but they got nothing from my looks
"Teacher, isn't burning books wrong and bad?!"
I felt deeply disappointed but could nothing add!
I see you've been learning English off by heart!
and with revision you've torn your minds apart!
***
We are wise and curious, teacher! glued to our smart phones
learning from Peaky Blinders.. Breaking Bad.. and Game of Thrones!
I thanked God I was wearing that shielding mask
I could resist my rage and carry off the teaching task.
To my pen, a deep gratitude for such a relief
such a consuming task could make funny and brief.
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.
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
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
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
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
It's passing strange;
I never liked bees very much.
--thought them ugly, mean and hazardous.
But now they disappear,
together with the crops dependent
on them to survive. My sentiments
have crossed the battlefield and joined
a more quixotic enemy--one who feeds me
first, then falls away to sacrifice his sting,
his life, and his creative sweetness.
I cannot celebrate. Belatedly it is
the Charleston I hear
that echoes that ironic requiem
my brothers sang and danced to--
that burlesque of rhyme that mocked
our noble insect friend.
(We didn't know just what we do!)
We and our "beekeepers" made
a travesty of enterprise to raid
the hives and carry off the fruits
of all the buzzing, patient labor
from the little guys who wanted just
to leave a happy nursery
before they died.
It seems the lords above the hives
don't keep them very well at all.
The makers of insecticides still forge ahead
in competition with themselves,
their killing wares more perfect each successive year
while in another room they play with genes
to introduce a super flower;
how sweet!
Such are the blessings of democracy.
OUr fuzzy friends still fall
upon their hairy knees, then rise
to buzz a hymn of thanks to
all the plutocratic giants enabled
by the ballot boxes, spilling out
their "yes" to corporate power.
Or do you question that?
~
WHEN ALL THE WORLD'S AT SLUMBER
When I am up, the whole world snores.
No-one dares to stir.
Seems that I am the only one
To have escaped this sleeping
World.!
No hustle-bustle in the air,
I breathe in the silence deep.
While friends Ignore my restless calls...
I can't go back to sleep.
I ponder as I re-run the movie
That's reviewing my life in scores,
Thoughts of today's activities turn,
While the rest of the world still snores!
When it gets to the highlighted
parts
I call some friends to share;
Excited to tell them about the
memories in my head.
Yes, I Sigh because the worlds at slumber
and no-one cares to speak.
So, all plans and future adventures...
I carry off with me back to sleep.!
I will cultivate my ambitions further
I am never shallow; As always, l am deep!
Somehow, I smile and thank the Lord...
For the sweet dreams in my head.!
I'll rest now and carry on;
Plan the new day that’s ahead.!
Thankful to my creator that
I didn't wake up dead.!
And tomorrow again I will rise up
to create more beautiful things.!
So, I'll leave all of you who slumber
To go back to your dreams.
And if you've awakened to emptiness _
and have held no dreams of your own
"I'll leave you so inspired
to wake up to this poem."!
Copyright © Vicki Acquah
POSSUM SONG
You are the same possum
I saw eating my garbage
like a recluse,
your long pointed snout
hissing at me through your teeth.
When I first saw you
I backed away
and quickly closed my door,
my legs still shaking
as if I'd been chased by a bear.
For months now I thought you'd be there
upturning my garbage cans
for some tasty morsel.
Oh, yes, I believed I'd see you again
every time I opened my door.
One night as I turned into my driveway,
my car lights focused for an instant
on your gray face
and mutilated body
lying alone in the street.
In the city when an animal dies
they carry off his remains
with the trash.
Only another possum could appreciate
the grotesque fierceness in your eyes.
I couldn't leave you there.
That night I carried you up my hill
in a shovel
and buried you
beneath my pomegranate tree.
The next day the neighbors spoke of you briefly.
A dead possum is usually only valuable to God,
but you stay alive in my memory
along with the night sounds
and barking dogs.
Janet Marie Bingham
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