Long Carting Poems
Long Carting Poems. Below are the most popular long Carting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Carting poems by poem length and keyword.
We’re monopolized by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
absorbed by the clutter of the food tray.
Numbed by hours of jiggling,
the carting of torpid bodies through interminable distance,
we’re wedged now into boredom, uncomfortably numb.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls, few will scream.
We’ll keep decanting small bottles of vin de table,
butter buns.
As the aircraft plummets
and drops like a stone to certain death
we’ll still be struggling with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers, with small, molded cruets
oblivious now to anything less important.
As the gossiping canary sat on the wharf
Watching the west ham going forth
“Off to mingle”
Thackray said who was single
“With the white lilies”
Forgetting about the wolves who were very chilly
No goals on the board
Points being ignored
Entering into the lovely garden
Thackray wondered
Was this a survival test?
After a long rest
Knowing her recording record was not the best
Looking around Thackray saw the black and white message
Feeding the buzz honey mustard dressing
No middle ground to blur
Only the relegation zone pot to stir
What was starting?
Luring apples needing to be carting?
There was a cherry in Aston’s Villa looking to be on top
A sweet surprise inside the Championship League ice cream shoppe
Already finding a flat down stairs
Investigating canary wanting to know if the west ham was in an affair
When Thackray engaged with the beautiful buds
Enjoying the scent dreaming for a stud
Seeing one in a spot
A place where the defense could put an end to the shot
But somehow there was a miss
And an own goal occurred without an assist
“I did this all alone
It was me on the phone “
Thackray would gingerly groan
Minutes later a man appeared
From the darkness the west ham was in fear
His name
Was Kane
And he ended the west ham visit
Right in the net he really kissed it
Returning to make a plan
In the dungeon the canary laughed like a spur fan
“I will make a note
Bachelor Jason was Thackray’s vote
They were secretly wed,”
Corresponding canary said
Walking down broken heart lane
Thackray realized she was turning insane
Due to the obsession fame
Until she picked up the mail
While scratching off a lottery ticket that failed
Opening to read the newspaper’s tales
She exclaimed, “That canary is going to get nailed!”
We’re absorbed
by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
tired brains monopolized
by the clutter of the meal tray,
numbed by hours of jiggling -
the carting of torpid bodies
through interminable distance,
wedged into
a restricted boredom.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls,
if an engine fails
few will find the strength to panic,
we’ll keep decanting small bottles
of vin de table,
studiously apply hard butter
to soft buns.
As the aircraft plummets earthward
we’ll continue to struggle
with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers,
with small, molded cruets,
glad to be occupied
and totally blanked out
to what comes next -
or whatever.
Where do teardrops go, a taxing question,
Suitable for a sturdy champion;
They well in our eyes, a soft salty plea,
Then spill down our cheeks, for the world to see.
Do they fade in air, like morning mist thin,
Or gather aground, where lonely hearts spin?
Do they nourish weary roots, or flowers
Or drip down into the earth like showers?
Do they join rivers, that rush to the sea,
Carting sorrows far, setting spirits free
To turn to rain, that washes over pain,
A cleansing gift, to make us whole again?
Do they soar to the stellar starry sky,
Simmering bright, with memories up high,
Each shining bead, a story left untold,
A tribute to life, as precious as gold?
Do they just fade, unseen, unheard, unknown,
Absorbed by space, on pathways overgrown,
A momentary trace, a fleeting art
That marks the inner depths of every heart?
Do they reside within a hidden well,
A spring of grief, a secret we can tell,
To rise again someday, in laughter true,
Reflecting brighter suns, skies of hope blue?
Do they trace downstream, a path of sour brine,
A silent, soft sorrow, a moan divine,
Damping the ache that settles, down the soul,
Seeking inner peace to make oneself whole?
Do they cling a while, then dry and depart,
Leaving behind space for a shining heart
A gentle grace, a moment of release,
From burdens borne, that steal away our peace?
Where do teardrops go, if not in thin air~
In their silent flight, they lay our face bare,
Teaching us darkness and light, to endure,
Mend our broken parts, carve our futures pure.
Sinking feeling springs eternal...
courtesy sucker punched by vehicular travails
Truckload of banshees muffled
as more'n yours truly wails
he feels wheely tired
as one after another
significant snafu devilish
troublesome impish of the
poe pervert car -
tell driver unveils
scarier than Stephen
King's macabre tales
one illusory monster with
(by Scott) matted pointy scales,
who infuriatingly rants and rails
against dependence on
unstable, unpredictable, and
unmentionable car rear,
where his ruffled quilted wings,
stand on edge quiver and quails
analogous to how Jack
and Jill arduously lugged pails
splashing water to and fro
hither and yon some
drips drops long as nine inch nails,
actually pleasant sensation
though futile schlepping,
sloshing, and spilling bucketful
after bucketful eternal
rhyming task without reason
synonymous with Sisyphus,
but lo and behold
agony no longer assails
only fleeting ecstasy, think
Bos taurus came back
to animal farm -
carting... yup countless hay bales
(sh....) stolen goods,
under the whinny some nose
of neighboring Equus
at Clyde on dales,
one Mister Ed, a horse -
laugh he exhales,
said bovine won't be cowed,
cuz fodder knows beast,
that charity never fails.
Linda with the crippled fist.
Knarl to her smile.
Walking with the slightest limp.
Cap held on in style.
Moving like an Engineer.
Cane to shrug her on.
Spectacles of smiling eyes.
Pain as good as gone.
On her way to see a friend.
Pleased to share her time.
Often helping with a task.
Spirits on the climb.
Staying out for many hours.
Later to return.
Carting back a tired smile.
Proof of fun but stern.
Humble in her quick hello.
Greetings left to say.
Linda quick to say goodnight
moving on her way.
Finally back at her apartment.
Resting on her mind.
Entering her speeding door
expecting what she'll find.
Home at last to end the day.
Completely Satisfied.
Tomorrow coming just as fast
as Linda to be tied.
Snuggling in her bed at night
remembering the day.
Thankful for the one she had;
tomorrow on the way.
That will have to wait for now.
Linda's fast asleep.
Dreams are what the world needs now
and Linda's just that deep.
Devotion Poem - Our Dance (For Jim)
You are the first and last poems
God wrote for me.
You are the sparkler
I found flaming sun yellow between
The sprigs of early green grass,
Before the shoveled piles of February
Snow had melted away
Their last signs of winter.
You came unexpectedly,
Beyond probability, carting too
Much physics homework for your
Left-brained studies, and
Declaring, “I don’t dance for anyone.”
Emphatic. Like an evergreen.
But I had seen trees dance, just as I thought
I might go on dancing if I knew you.
Then you fell silent, telling your life to me
With your smile, while your eyes glanced
Through space dismissing time, sparkling
A reach to my heart for a continuous dance…I
Have never stopped my wonder, or my own
Silent joy surpassing the physics of falling
Through dimensions into your heart.
————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 6/2/22
Thanks be to God