Long Crews Poems
Long Crews Poems. Below are the most popular long Crews by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crews poems by poem length and keyword.
I look out the window at the tree
in the back yard next door
just behind a small yellow house.
Its crown is still green, but I
know leaves will fall.
A dump truck
with a flashing yellow strobe
crawls along the side street
as a city worker looks
for cracks in the asphalt.
And the neighbor’s pickup
has been gone since last week.
He said in passing one day
he didn’t know if his lease
would be renewed.
I figure that’s the way it is—
people move into the house
and are gone before I have
the chance to know them
as they grow into their lives.
And the city—
it is living and dying
even now, forty years after
the tractor factory closed.
Locals in the neighborhood
bar downtown still gather
watch football or baseball
and commiserate—
but even someone new
is greeted as a friend.
And I’m back in town
to stay after four years
of working with construction
crews in five different states.
Two darkened windows
of the quiet house gaze
across the front yard, ghosting
the lives of those who have
come and gone.
Back in the eighties, wild and free..
A golden time for you and me.
We'd ride our bikes through streets unknown..
No screens, no apps.. just flesh and bone.
Vinyl spun and cassettes played loud..
Walkmans made us feel so proud.
Sunday sessions, pub lights dim..
Happy hour.. middies brimmed.
Beaches burned with summer’s glow..
Boardies, sunburn, sand in tow.
Bonfires crackled, smoke rose high..
Underneath the star-lit sky.
Dating boys with puffy hair..
Lipstick smudged but didn’t care.
Waiting by the phone each night..
Waiting for a call, he said he might.
No ATMs—our cash was king..
Hard-earned dollars, ching ching ching.
Weekend drives to hunt for fuel..
Breaking our parents curfew rule.
Holden Kingswoods, Toranas too..
Panel vans with wicked crews.
Number Three Carpark.. burnouts spun..
Late-night laughs and endless fun.
Roller & Ice skating, ice so slick..
WAFL games and goal-side kicks.
Live bands shook the pubs at night..
Fake IDs for the bouncer to sight.
Ravenswood drags and bogans galore..
No respect for the rules or law.
Chiko rolls and Fast Eddys feeds..
Hangover cures.. a friend in need.
Fireworks lit the sky so bright..
Parties raged through endless nights.
Australia Day, we stood so proud..
Singing anthems strong and loud.
Sunday roasts with family near..
Good mates laughing, ice-cold beer.
Life was simple, bold, and fast..
A time we knew would never last.
Now we look back, hearts so full..
The eighties had that magic pull.
No likes, no texts.. just love and grace..
Those were the days, our golden place.
We had 16 crews that were assigned to the raid,
Of Japan, ‘cos of Pearl Harbour where we got laid;
We prepared on Egland Field for the aircraft carrier,
And didn’t believe a B-25 could take off the warrior.
We speculated that we headed for Japan, their deserve,
And the second day we were on the carrier, did serve,
We began to have meetings and be drilled to attack,
To implement the Doolittle Raid to get them back.
Was I scared? Well no, I was ready for it, was waiting,
And that taking off morning was a benefit according,
But when we took off, I immediately let off and said,
“My God, we did it, we did it,” and it was a fine bed.
The B-25’s were truly amazing, popping into the air,
And we just knew they could do it, fly off a carrier,
And the navigator sent us on our way to the target,
A Japanese chemical factory, big and was a magnet.
Our assignment was to fly 50 miles out to the sea,
Then parallel to the Japanese mainland, then definitely,
South and then fly west, which would take much gas,
So we just had to hope for a strong wind our way to pass.
It did, and I consider myself as a lucky guy, got out,
‘Cos other pilots didn’t, only got ten miles inland, were out,
They were captured and never came back to tell their story,
Whilst I seem to have admiration and to get all the glory.
I just did my best, the best that I possibly could,
Those guys are just as much of a hero, understood,
I graduated with many from a US flying school,
To do with major league in England, a death pool.
Listen, my dears, and I'll tell you a tale
Of a princess, a pirate, and glory.
There's a shipwreck, a rescue,
A romance, a ransom,
And a handicapped whale in the story.
There once was a princess, fairest of all,
But also quite vain and spoiled rotten.
She had a semi-private
Affair with a pirate
That would be but for me now forgotten.
The pirate, Mad Jack, was bloodthirsty and crude,
When upset, he'd explode, blow his top off.
Merchant vessels he sank,
Made their crews walk the plank,
Or, more rudely, their heads he would lop off.
One day Princess Daphne set out to sea
With her maid, they were bound for Majorca.
But the maid, in a gale,
Was swept over the rail
And inhaled by an asthmatic orca.
Lifeboats were lowered, the crew clambered in
And rowed quickly away, only thinking
Of saving their own necks,
Not the princess below decks
Left alone on a wreck that was sinking.
Then through the storm a ship hove into view,
At first Daphne thought it would dodge her.
But before she could hail her,
She felt courage fail her,
From its mast flew a vast Jolly Roger.
When Princess Daphne was brought before Jack,
She was haughty but thought he was handsome.
But to his greedy eyes
This fair royal prize
Represented a shipload of ransom.
But Jack was still human, Daphne was too,
And soon they were sharing their privates.
To his quarters she moved
And his crew all approved,
No one loves a love tale more than pirates.
But what of the ransom, yet to be paid?
Well, here the plot gets even deeper.
The stingy king said to Jack,
"No, I don't want her back.
It's cheaper for me if you keep her."
So Princess Daphne became Jack's sea wife,
And though common, but not mandatory,
When they became parents
They stopped being pirates
And passed peacefully out of the story.
For now then, my dears, that's the end of my tale,
An adventurous one hard to equal.
But, if I may be so bold,
And there's more to be told,
It may one day unfold in a sequel.
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers don't grow deaf,
they become deeper, more blunted,
like mallets.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
plows a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing its trenchant path
into the cramped streets;
where in the absence of safety barriers,
a defiant deconstruction
has begun.
The First Responders
By Franklin Price
6/12/2019
The Day was nine-eleven, the year two thousand one
Twin towers in Manhattan, down before the setting sun
Each was penetrated, by a commercial highjacked plane
Flown by U.S. hating terrorists, who no longer would refrain.
Alarms were sounded for the scene, first reponders made their way
Their jobs to rescue anyone still living on that day
They came for the thousands, and risked their life and limb
They did everything they could, until the towers fell on them
More came as the dust cloud cleared, to search through the debris
Exposed to poison residue, to set survivors free
First responders and survivors left, when search and rescue done
Replaced by clean-up searchers, until all they found was none.
The years have passed, not memories, or the long term health effect,
To the crews that first responded and the lives that still connect.
Exposure sickened many. Now they're gone or on their way.
They should not have to bear the cost, for what happened on that day.
The terrorists would not have come, to do the bad they did.
Were we not the U.S.A. who had not run or hid
Would not have knocked the towers down and left new vets in place
Was the modern day Pearl Harbor for the war which we now face
We are the world's protector whether we like it or not
Have been, since the last great war, or have we now forgot
Must take care of all our vets, no matter how they came to be
The ones made when the towers fell, or those militarily
The U.S.A. is different than other countries on this earth
Our declaration said it, when it was written at our birth.
It's best we not forget that, if we care that's who we are
It's time that others paid for just a few rounds at the bar.
SPRING AT LAST
The long awaited spring has come today
To chase away long winter months of gloom.
Unprecedented floods have drained away
And crocuses are bursting into bloom.
The soggy, overflowing bags of sand
Are slowly disappearing from the scene.
The farmers gratefully reclaim their land
And watch as muddy brown returns to green.
The signs spring has been waiting for are done.
The clocks are forward, Mother’s Day has passed.
Six-nations rugby has been played and won.
And Oxbridge crews have reached Mortlake at last.
Now nature has the freedom to perform
Her annual miracle when life’s reborn
4th May 2020
Spring Rhyme Contest
Sponsor - Emile Pinet
This is the crews final flight, their twenty-fifth mission.
"Lord", they pray, "deliver us one last time from this perdition!"
Thank You for Your guiding hand upon the yoke thus far.
We ask for Your protection, nothing this mission to mar!"
They get the green light from the guys in the tower,
Then roar down the runway, engines straining at full power!
Crew place their trust in the Lord and their venerable old queen:
Their durable, faithful, war-weary B-Seventeen!
They climb steadily from their British home station,
Joining other flights in a protective box-formation.
Gunners on the alert and the bombardier at the ready;
Navigator charting the way, pilot keeping the plane level and steady!
The target is sighted, shot and shell fly as thick as hail.
Over the intercom is heard an anguished cry from the tail!
The gunner is wounded, please God, don't let him die!
Two engines are gone, it's becoming difficult to fly!
Two little buddies, P-Fifty-Ones, close in to escort them home!
Flaps and wheels are lowered, they land smoothly on the drome!
The gunner survived, they thank God for their salvation,
Each full of jubilation, ready for home and joyous celebration!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Exercising belief about unknowns.
Makes sense to take your best guess.
Using history, numbers, extrapolation.
Getting the trajectory right for re-entry.
Few dissenters left for climate change, evolution.
Nuclear power brings a process to earth
that occurs only in space. Dangerous
but necessary? Not a risk-averse weasel.
One among many mammals is the weasel,
not known for its consideration of unknowns
but, for its extreme caloric needs, considered dangerous.
My wife says in England violent gusts
forced a locomotive off its tracks. One interpretation
might reasonably be that the mother, earth,
has stopped mothering man. We're entering
a period of unknowns and must evolve.
What might this involve
and what adjustments are possibly feasible?
Walking rather than riding to the subway entrance,
using less electricity until more is known,
preserving agricultural soils and forest land,
buying fewer plastic contraptions.
My brother's washing his pajamas less often.
None of this may make the slightest difference
in how the earth and the sun and universe revolve.
But we are human and addicted to action,
the probable less attractive than the possible.
Also, there's no percentage in respecting death
unless it's imminent. Better to remain centered,
focused on food, child-bearing, war and the poem.
All driveways plowed, all lawns mowed.
Just in time before the first snow, I raked our leaves.
Two eight hour days. What percent of all time is that?
Draw a ray with point A the first pile of leaves
extending to the extrapolating end of universe.
.01 of Aaron. Zero of Zach.
Hawks playing, hunting, mating, canaries in the mine.
Having been too many places to count.
Sex bars, infant formulas, fire crews, last rites, permanent jobs, traffic
tickets, judges' chambers, out houses, wedding banquets, boiling
teapots, frantic centuries, facial tissues, presumed innocent, clear
intentions, stainless steel.
Spiderweb glove. Deerfly earring. Daddylonglegs seeingeyedog.
Memorized songs. Privatized loans.
You cannot know what you're doing until you've done it.
Erudite sweep the floor. Articulate make the bed.
Infrared town hall. Crab nebula. Your last crap.
Eye of the tropical January sun. Slouching toward temperate zone.
It was a year of revolutions
Worldwide, quiet little fights
Wanting more from democracy?
Fighting for Civil Rights.?
From Hull three trawlers sank
February, fifty eight lives lost,
Adding to that 10 thousand
Deep sea fishing would finally cost.
They called them Headscarf Heroes
Big Lil lead the housewives, the few
Who stood and fought for
More safety for the crews.
They marched on Downing Street
In defence of their men
Met with PremierHarold Wilson
Up there at Number 10;
United the fishing community
All over the land,
Brought the fight to the public,
Made an historic stand
To fight for basic safety
To fight for better ways
For the men who fished each year
On average over three hundred days.
She was vilified and attacked
Received letters threatening death
But BIg Lil and her companions
Fought with their every breath.
They won many concessions
At their personal cost
The efforts of these ladies
Saved many lives from being lost.
The fishing fleet is finished.
Old Hessle Road is gone.
In time and at a price
This City has moved on.
Such an historic figure
I find it such an awful shame
So very few know or remember
Big Lil and the others names
Lillian Bilocca 1929 - 1988 and the Headscarf Revolutionaries, Christine Jensen, Mary Denness, and Yvonne Blenkinsop,
with respect