Long Crack of dawn Poems
Long Crack of dawn Poems. Below are the most popular long Crack of dawn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crack of dawn poems by poem length and keyword.
Blemishes
My body’s mistakes
My wounds of disgrace
Injected by faith
In science and progress
Flogging myself with second-guesses
I have given myself away.
to uncaring men, pressed jackets
white jackets, packets of sympathy
baskets of fruit set upon the writing desk
in solitary confinement, padded walls.
haunted halls, bathroom stalls with locked doors.
Linoleum floors
Poor, poor pitiful me
Cherry pick my favourite reasons,
depending on the season
Why do the patterns keep repeating?
serve them up on a platter!
for delicate devouring
and just desserts
some things are generational.
inherited
bestowed
I cradle my worth.
In my own wretched hands
Once delicate
Here I stand.
Not stolid
Nor stoic
I am not put together.
Not sorted
I am apart.
Electrical currents running through the pieces,
stringing them together
Making a woman out of angst and energy
The sheer will of being.
I have nothing to live for
Only these words
Hospital gown flowing in my rage.
Windswept, like a mage
In the middle of casting a spell
A sorceress in distress, in peril
Fighting to remain
In the moment, present and tame
But wild fear presents itself at my feet.
The wolf is ready to eat.
I stay indoors to hide from the chase.
But at the end of the day
When night falls to the ground
I heard the call.
I wish to respond.
To howl back at the crack of dawn
Rolling in the sun with my wild baying, panting, praying
But I stay put.
I hold it back.
Inside my skin that cannot contain
My ancestral blood
This is the flood.
The flood
I drowned in the flood.
The wolf is not only animal.
But avatar
for gods too abstract to see
with the naked eye
It growls it snarls.
It bites my legs.
It promises peace.
as it gnaws on my pride
the alure of freedom,
teasing me to leave my comfort zones
knowing it will crunch my bones.
the first chance it gets.
when I trip over my intentions
into mud
face first
ruining my escape
I do not outrun the wolf.
I do not outsmart the gods.
I do not escape the flood.
I fall—
not like a heroine,
but like a relic dropped mid-ritual
mud in my mouth,
bones in the wolf’s grin
the spell unfinished
The door still locked.
the howl still inside me
rotting sweetly
like fruit on the desk
It feels like spring is almost here despite a warning of snow, I fear
A handful of daffodils in a vase, their joie de vivre intoxicates me
Warming my room with their gilded hue banishing my winter chills
Their glorious golden trumpets; a panacea for all winter ills
Glimmering golden trumpets bursting forth from winter’s frozen ground
A springtime serenade they play arousing dormancy all around
Whilst Mother nature gently wakes from her winter hibernation
Plants prepare their vibrant shades for The Annual Spring Celebration
Despite my aches and pains, another restless night I have survived
Beholding joy and magic; like the daffodils I feel alive
Birdsong at the crack of dawn gently waking up my day
So in love with our beautiful World, I send up thanks for this day if I may
A precious gift sent from above, oozing with joy, overflowing with love
Written 12th January 2019
Hope and optimism garnered from a handful of daffodils saying spring is on its way…
Contest 543
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st place
As you know we're getting ready to move
Just a couple more days to go
Cathie insists on being prepared
No underwear for a month or so
Asked my dear wife where they're hiding
Said they're packed of course
Wondering why friends no longer come over
Could even be a reason for divorce
Afraid to leave my false choppers around
She'd certainly pack them for sure
And what about my most favourite toupee
Now that's more than I could endure
“Are you ready for Freddie?” Cathie asks
She takes that old saying to heart
She'll be up and about at the crack of dawn
Long before the Movers will start
But we get along as long as I remain calm
Never rock the marital dinghy
Without doubt I'll be walking the streets
No pants to cover my thingy
(Obviously wrote this before moving...
have since found my choppers but my toupee is still AWOL!)
© Jack Ellison 2013
Ugh, Why Must The Missus Vacuum At The Crack Of Dawn?
(circa: early December 27, 2018 morning)
There appears to be a
virulent (possibly deadly) strain
of housekeeping virus
Hoover ring in the air
asymptomatic tentatively linked to rein
deer droppings (micro-organisms) blare
ring and trumpeting beyond
the threshold to humans, though plain
lee send audible wavelengths
to symbiotic species clear
as a bell, which organisms don
nano size MAGA hats, and main
lee set up shop in carpet threads,
and chiefly thrive on deer
pellets, where one bee bee
gun size bullet serves long lane
of critters unseen can easily
make headway into ear,
eyes, nose, et cetera other
orifices, and Kane
inject unsuspecting vacuum sealed
byproduct to forswear
unsightly piles of dirt, debris,
dust bunnies, which Jain
Dharma would find
appalling horrifically glare
ring at desecrating supposed germ
carrying pests calling utterly inane,
the constant effort
to keep house beautiful heir
ruled ding disinfectant resistant,
whether mite tee Germaine,
or itty bitty teensy weensy siblings
many named Oh Fair
Roe One Wade for me, nonetheless seek
out porous fleshy terrain
allowing, enabling and providing
pinhead size portal
i.e. vector to engineer
transmitting a fast
acting alien entity
without any explain
nation, an immediate urge to spruce up
the place applying interlinear
trigonometry (of course adhering to
Feng Shui when rearranging), without drain
ning, lessening, zapping,
et cetera, but meer
really loose sing a whirling dervish
(mini tornado) fiercely
finding the spouse on feverish spree
to clean entire apartment chain!
Feathery snowflakes as large as silver dollars waft slowly to the ground!
It's been snowing since yesterday and in the house we are cozily bound.
It has blanketed the lawn and adorned the ponderosa with garlands so grand.
Jack Frost has etched arabesque designs on our windowpanes without end!
My spouse and I are cuddled on the couch sipping Beringer Chardonnay.
Shadows dance about the room from the fireplace log smoldering away.
The lights are low and Montavani's soothing music is so pleasing to the ear.
'Tis the perfect ambience as we watch it snow and reminisce about yesteryear.
Spooks the dog and Simba the cat have called a truce to their usual brawling.
They seem to be at peace and, entwined, nigh the hearth they lie sprawling.
Outside, the snow is drifting and suddenly I hear a horse's muted neigh,
Trotting merrily along with a load of cheerful folk in an old-fashioned sleigh!
Currier and Ives would be hard pressed to depict such a scene as this.
With the one you love before a glowing fire on such a night is pure bliss.
I am going to savor this special evening 'cause just as sure as I'm alive,
I'll be up at the crack of dawn shoveling heaps of snow from my drive!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 1 in Gail Angel Doyle's "Winter's Blanket" contest - Nov 2012
Slam Slam
What’s with all the rants!! The Slams!!!
Why is everyone so pissed!!
What was it that I missed??
So – Some ******* cut you off,
Banged a left, ran the stop.
The neighbors dog crapped on your lawn,
Those squawking birds at crack of dawn.
Am I just nature’s freakin’ pawn?
Egg yoke broken, - milk gone bad
Toast is burnt – How very sad.
One shoe loose - the other tight
I’m always wrong – she’s never right.
I play the freakin’ lottery
In hope the STATE will rescue me.
One question troubles saint and sinner..
I wonder what the hell’s for dinner?
So rumble through your raucous rant
Scream and vent until you pant.
If you don’t like the way the plan it
Grab mike or pen -
And Freakin’ SLAM it!!!!!
John G. Lawless
5/22/2014
Upon a whim arising on this sunny springtime morn
hearing birds perform their songs at the crack of dawn
my knapsack packed already with a tasty picnic lunch
bread with cheese and wine
oh such a scrumptious tasty brunch
so full of joie de vivre am I for the day ahead
a slow ascent upon the bus as we reach *Beachy Head
then on to Belle Tout lighthouse where I alight instead
for on this glorious sunny day
in springtime sunshine I’ll make hay
Catching the light in stripes red and white
warning all mariners of dangers at night
a beacon of hope in a cobalt blue sea
her beam shining out majestically
Meandering gently nature's gifts I espy
a host of golden cowslips as if sprinkled from the sky
perchance if Wordsworth had beheld such beauty as have I
his host of golden daffs would have a rival for to vie
wafting gently in the breeze their lemon coloured blooms
a more stunning sight is seldom seen on sunny afternoons
I wander through the woodlands approaching Birling Gap
uneven ground negotiated, avoiding a mishap
then I espy the smallest orchid I have ever seen
with purple blooms and spotty leaves
exquisite flowers I could gaze for hours
secreted for her own protection
her subliminal message for all…
‘Please do not disturb me as
you stand here to observe me
for my beauty - my shape - my hue
and please leave me in situ, for all who pass just like you
as they pause awhile admiring the view’
Written April 2019
Contest Strand any form any theme
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st PLACE
*At 152 metres Beachy Head is the highest of Britain’s chalk sea cliffs, attracting nearly half a million visitors each year. The name ‘Beachy Head’ is believed to be a corruption of the original French, meaning ‘beautiful headland’. Some of the flora and fauna to be found at Beachy Head are purple and bee orchids, bluebells, primroses, cowslips, oxslips and hedgerows crowned in white - baby lambs and wild seas and so much more - just stunning!
A raging river tenaciously floods
Tannins and silts combine to dark blood
A hut, just fifty metres, occupying their sight
Two men, cold and wearied, stuck for the night
An adventure all planned, lasting a week
In the middle of nowhere with red deer to seek
Twelve-hours of hiking, commencing that day
Now trapped with some refuge a stone throw away.
Cracking of boulders being pushed by the current
Affirming the folly of crossing this torrent.
Necessities shaping a cold camp till the dawn
Just tattered old plastic, to use as an awn.
Soft moss as a bed but soaking from rain
Ferns as a pillow don’t cushion colds pain.
Dark of the evening only adds to the pall
Deaths favoured colour, as rain continues its fall
Shivering endless; bodies fighting the shock
Drops of clouds tears slowed to the tick of a clock.
Moisture still falling, no hope for them now
Prospects were mirrored by the dark of the hour
Subtly the winds whispered breathe in their ear.
Fight.
Rekindling the flames to survive their harsh plight
Packs full of food, swiftly emptied for fuel
Bodies recharged in spite of the cool.
Rain in the dark hours continued to pour
Sounds from the river commenced to fair roar,
First crack of dawn and they got up and away
Wilderness wins this particular day.
*Based on a true story however my companion and I were stuck in the elements
for 2 days and nights. Another river flooded and blocked our exit.*
Yorkshire, 1914
I patch mended her copper saucepan,
Edged an axe, two cleavers and a knife.
I did all the jobs that were required.
By this comely young farmer’s wife.
She served me a platter of rare beef
With chunks of home baked bread,
And along each large slice of meat
Relish of horseradish was spread.
She served me there in her kitchen
Sat me at a large wooden bench
As I watched all around the room
A young and fine buxom a wench.
She slid on my knee quite suddenly
And I held her there in my arms.
For how could any young man
Refuse an offer of such charms
She kissed my mouth with a passion.
She kissed me with a lust and desire,
That set may pulses off racing
That set my whole body on fire.
I held her for all of that evening
And most of that coming night,
Enjoying the play of our passion
The pleasure and sheer delight.
She served me a farmhouse breakfast.
For which my whole body yearned.
Eggs and home slaughtered bacon
Bread, and butter near freshly churned
I held her once more in that kitchen
In thanks for the love we had made
Then out to follow my fortune,
A wandering Jack of all Trade.
I could hear Shires in the stable
That fine November’s morn
As I set off on my journey
Just at the crack of dawn.
I strode away quite briskly
Down that winding cart track,
My body so pleasantly sated,
Possessions slung over my back.
Oh how I so love this my freedom
To enjoy while there’s still chance
For I reckon it’ll soon be the recruiter
And a spell in the trenches of France.
Maybe this really happened.
I wonder did he survive
The carnage of that bitter war
To come back whole and alive.
Yorkshire 2022
dusk settles on an Anglican Shrub
vespertine is downy down upon the vertical horizon
spring like frost is unraveling
toward a sunset on its late afternoon decline
at this stage of early-black twilight
a cygar shaped delirium is seeding
its exotic fragrance sweetly empowering
will linger until the crack of dawn
tenderly grown staked and supported
the poisonous angel scrumpet trumpets
a crepuscule's sundown into darknness
a pitch illumination begging to brighten
bathed in orange moire reflecting
by her petaled drowsiness unfurling
a day dream and a nightmare
time travel in tandem
lying dormant now in a trance
like flesh inside a nutshell
vespertine pulls away from early-bright
she's never this reflective in the sunlight