Long Construction Poems
Long Construction Poems. Below are the most popular long Construction by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Construction poems by poem length and keyword.
The wrecking ball long since
demolished boyhood house zen
located at 324 Level Road,
a once rural residence,
which soulful yen
I called home
since February 28th, 1968, when
Boyce and Harriet Harris
(my octogenarian
widower father, a transplanted urban
cowpoke father, and late outskirts
of poker flats mother) than
experienced livingsocial in the country,
cuz aforesaid domain didst span,
and encompass,
one hundred plus acre estate
listed in national register
as "Glen Elm", where ran
woodland surrounding a golden pond
favored by Canadian Geese,
but under game plan
of commercial developer Donald Neilson
(a tall lumbering
"all business no play doh" man
blueprints drafted for
an army of vinyl city
exemplifying Little boxes
on the hillside ditty
Little boxes made of ticky tacky...gritty
material upending wildlife refuge,
ah...what a pity
yet, impossible to stop industrialization,
the das capital way
spurring thy preferential longing
for nature preservation oye vey,
and to make a million bucks in USA
if land left off limits
for propertied class today
then in the near future,
an aggressive builder will sashay
confirming prophecy
scooping up gobs of profit
out maneuvering competition
analogous to a marathon relay
race quickly witnessing little boxes
to sprout all the same
by construction workers,
who hammer away,
nailing steady income,
viz all work and no play,
who maxim eyes
American middle class dream
asper buying affordable home
after acquiring a mortgage to outlay
their limited choice sans, may
be there's a green one and a pink one
and a blue one and yellow one, how zing
free enterprise, and they're
all made out of ticky tacky
held together on a wing
and prayer they all look
He painted the ocean
in fifty shades of green and blue
with his mighty paintbrush of perfection!
He sculpted a garden of coral reefs
and barrier reefs for us to see
with his powerful chisel of praise!
He sketched the outlines
of slithering bonefish and Nassau Groupers,
and sneaky Spiny Lobsters and humpback whales
with his graphite pencil of glory!
He shaded the colors of gliding dolphins
drifting sea lions and green turtles
and soaring stingrays
with his pastel sticks of righteousness!
He crafted a collage
of magical starfish, sand dollars, seahorses
conch shells, oysters, clams and seaweed
with his scissors, glue
and construction paper of greatness!
When I think of my father my heart
starts beating in time with his 7 A.M.
footsteps on hardwood floors.
His image rests in the second chamber
of my heart. If I could shrink you
down and put you in there, you’d hear
the sharp, industrial twang of golf balls
alongside windblown, sun-wrecked dune reeds and shark
fins cresting the ocean’s ceiling.
My nose fills with scents of SPF 4
and scheduled coffee. Salt spray off
the foreshore permeates the air as he runs
up and down the neural pathways he forged
with white hot reaffirmations and ice cold habits.
If you were to run the needle over my
inherited, though painted skin, the music would
radiate in clouds of bookstore doorbells,
deafening sneezes and sports bar televisions.
This year I’m starting construction on a new
chamber in my heart; one just to hold
the memories of my father, a chamber filled
with the loud, consistent banging of beanbags on wood,
a chamber big enough for me to chase after
frisbees tossed with sixty-eight-year-old skill
most crucially, a chamber with integrity
enough to hold the blue, persistent flame
in focus long enough for me to light my own
cigarette, and smile as the smoke comes out.
The new room design has soundproof walls
and the door and locks are all fireproof,
withstanding flames as hot as the water my
mother uses to wash his greasy meatloaf pans.
The sign you hold:
a) says either stop or slow
b) is a matter of perception
c) makes for moments of conversation
d) is a pause in time
When one lane is closed:
a) cars must stop and wait for others
b) another lane is open
c) each of us must live another life
d) time stands still
The pilot vehicle:
a) will take off on Runway #1
b) is painted in psychedelic colors
c) leads cars through the work zone
d) will take you to the stars
When an emergency vehicle approaches:
a) the old man down the road must be sick
b) close your eyes and hope for the best
c) realize everything works out in the end
d) hold traffic so it can pass
A change of weather:
a) observe the clouds as they sing and dance
b) soon it will rain
c) work pauses
d) lightning never strikes twice
e) all of the above
At the end of day:
a) skies are painted
b) all lanes are re-opened
c) the sun falls over the edge of the earth
d) someone will cry
February 7, 2023
Creativity,
When our Lord Jesus created the heavens and the earth,
The light day and the darkness the night.
He gave us all a creative mind.
Creativity dwells within
When singing, reading, dancing, and praising.
Creativity is in breaded in everything that we do ,
cooking, cleaning,
To the accounting, electrician and the plumber creativity is in you .
That artist beholds and even you who choose to volunteer .
And that construction worker building that structure.
That's Creativity,
Also the agriculturist, the healthcare workers, the many businesses and their phone workers.
See creativity,
the educators, law enforcement, environmentalists. The public and the national broadcasting stations and all the advertising.
Creativity,
is there although it's more obvious with celebrities , professional sport athletes and fashion designers.
Creativity !
Is even right there in parenting beside nurturing.
Creativity,
In marriages, bond in love, understanding with forgiveness.
Creativity,
In friendships that doesn't judges.
I see creativity when I'm writing.
How about you?
It isn’t the voice of Aristotle, Plato, Shakespeare or Anton Chekhov riding down red square. It isn’t the voice of Adolf Hitler rumbling underground or Dwight D. Eisenhower building construction in the town.
It is not the voice of Woodrow Wilson, Ron De Santis, Ragan or Trump shouting from the podium. It is not the voice of Barack Obama, King Charles the III, Hillary Clinton, Theresa May, Nicola Sturgeon, Hallie Jackson, or policeman Righty Righty, running around the town on his European motorbike issuing traffic tickets from left to right.
It is the voice of reason crying out from the slump. It is the voice the you hardly hear and it is a voice that you hardly can bear. The morning whispers and the evening shouters speed through the town shouting out a message where destiny is bound and Greek philanthropist with money to spear rebuild the culture to reestablish the age of reasoning. But not too many people embrace it.
It’s contextual and it’s deep, and it put the paparazzi to sleep in a cage beneath the ground constructed with a long corridor stretching across six countries border and the center of the post is about to explode it’s the voice of reason baked in a can waiting for the conscious one to settle the squirms.
I don’t know what you are hearing and what you are currently sharing, you can either reason with sense or you can sleep with cats, dogs and lions in the den. The tiger and the baboon are waiting for you and Giraffe with its long neck is watching you but the voice of reason is listening to you.
There are some sixteen century markings on the Vatican chart and it is written in tiny markings, you have use a magnifying glass to read them, it is the voice of reason speaking to you and it is the voice of reason telling you what to do. Reason with the voice; try to understand it and you will know which way to roll the dice. The voice of reason does not lie; It is the voice of reason on which you must rely.
Today speaking to someone Holy and reverend
all the research I had done for many years
it was answered like speaking to God easing a burden
heart to heart we shared something deeply considered special
Many moons I have searched for answers knowing the truth
where there is no smoke without fire
It tells a tale to a soul searching by itself
the questions asked am I on the right road not judging but heeding the Words written by our doctors
Out of charity speaking in direction knowing sinful characters
how much Love does it take to speak from wisdom
so many have become shallow supporting evil ways
The blind always claim to be victims of condemnation
one thing for sure happiness is the peace of mind praying
The left will never be right when push comes to shove
satan has the power we give him over us
who wants to know the truth or keep living in the lie
denying the common good its rightful place
A SAILORS HALT
The sea arouse rushing with the valiant force of wind,
Seeth he, pose in fear, arms froze
With splash of the wind, eyes close.
If he Christ, would 'ave wish a quick resurrection.
Beholding the mighty rush, eyes smoked with watery execution.
The shipwrecking storms and daring thunders strikes
Although the new home he envisions do entice,
Still pondering, looking at his own ring, wondering,
Know'st not how the spring where comfort seem to come
Discomfort swells up to harm.
Bearing his cap and angelic attire which normally
Goes home with him timely,
Now goes with him to home of all homes.
Facely, he prepares to make the sea his eternal covering
Although there's no art to find
The minds construction in the face hovering,
The eye blinks for a moment
And see not what the hand does.
Mothersea roars and yawns as a lioness preparing for a prey
Making his troubles doubly redoubled strokes not go away
But he, a "sea lion" whose ship was his home
Still set with cap-in-hand, without spouse or seed, to leave alone.
Can sparrows worry eagles in the spacious sphere
Or Hare the Tiger, and try to scare?
Though faultless for the judgement, life to a halt and no more.
Adieu, for nature hath drenched and extincted God's last creation.
His book has finally come to an end.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©2009.
She notes how the days
have grown shorter.
A cacophony of grackles
near a cornfield fills the air.
A farmer across the road
walks along his field
checking his corn before harvest.
Leaves rustling
in the wind sing.
The construction crew
has passed her driveway.
She asks the flagger to
help her daughter across.
The school bus arrives
late afternoon. Lights flash
She rushes onto the porch
and hugs her daughter
who wears a backpack.
The mother notices
the sky is gold
as she looks out the window
and cooks supper on the stove.
Her daughter sits in a chair
hands folded on her lap.
So good to see her daughter
she thinks after letting go
in the morning and waiting
for a late afternoon embrace.
THE SCENT OF EARTH
Modern cities have grown in all possible direction
Captured by construction, expanses of soil aren’t seen
I live in a concrete jungle, our avant-garde creation
An uprooted tree, at all times I feel suffocated within
I wish so much I could go back where I had once been.
I remember fondly the green hamlet where I was born
On my eyes childhood memories hang like framed picture
The grass-covered land rolled with trees to the horizon
The land and the sky made for me an enchanting pair
I grew up there imbibing the pristine elements of nature.
After the scorching summer when the first rains fell
In relief the parched soil sighed exhaling the scent of earth
Embraced me with aromatic arms of nature I knew so well
The scent still wafts in me, nobody in city knows its worth
With the first rain I’ll return to a green land in my next birth.
February 18, 2018.