Long Crisscross Poems
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Lakes and beaches are wiped clean like a whiteboard,
each day by waves, tide, wind.
Then marks of ripples and tracks provide transient tell-tales
of what has gone on since, of what is yet to come.
What caused those ripples? Where did they come from?
What caused those tracks marking crisscross paths on the sand?
From whence did they come? To where are these interlopers going?
The agents and causes know nothing of these things.
They do not care.
They can't know they are being tracked.
They do not wipe their foot or finger prints clean.
They wander furtively wary,
scarily and carefully looking about, but unaware.
They dare not look back,
lest they be cast into salt or stone,
or sent back to hell,
for defacing such clean pristine spaces with
their street-art hieroglyph graffiti.
A hushed stillness lies over the lake at dawn
A single plop or tremble stirs a ripple the mirrored plane.
Soft as a whispered caress on a sleeping cheek,
Perhaps the kiss of wind, barely daring to touch.
Perhaps it's the kiss of fish rising to take a fly.
Perhaps an insect flitting, skittling onto the surface
Or a bird dipping to drink from beak.
The ripple propagates outwards in concentric rings,
echoing and resonating on its journey,
long after the cause has passed and gone.
Where are these ripples of unknown causes going and why,
The sources are untraceable via back-tracking,
remaining hidden and mysterious,
long since gone.
Do these ripples want to cuddle a distant shore,
to caress a foot paddling in the shallows,
to rock a boat with sleepers to sleep,
or to kiss the pebbles puckered up to kiss in rows?
Or to simply go and then fade gently and dissolve from view,
happy in their journey getting there.
In time the wind and water gathers breath,
to blur the lines, to wipe the scroll and slate clean,
To blow the sand grains around to cover the tracks.
The tide comes in, obliterating the imprints.
The wind builds waves to crush the ripples in chaos.
The defaced becomes a pure clean mirror surface unmarked again,
With no trace of regret, or memory to replay.
The defacers, shakers and movers,
long forgotten, forlorn and forgiven,
have faded away, to dreams and memories,
forgotten, hidden, wiped away, until awaken.
Daylight fades, a city pulsates, and traffic is reflected in store windows.
Hurrying headlights come out of the darkness.
They crisscross like dueling knights. People in the crosswalk scamper
as if squirrels and streetlights leer gleaming yellow eyes, like watchful hawks.
The shrill trumpets of the charging gale force winds, rattle an awning,
and newly planted maple saplings bend and sway
in random pairs. Set in concrete planters, they hang on by tender rooted toes.
Pages of a discarded newspaper are hurled into the air,
buoyed on the steely breath of a frigid winter evening.
Several leaflets scatter into the street and down the sidewalk,
into the path of one lone pedestrian.
He slaps away the sports page, that flies into his chapped, red face.
Without hesitation, this castaway vagrant, down and out
by the rape of hard times, will accept an offered dime,
from a passing man in a Red Sox ball cap.
Head bent low, face hidden, a worn and dirty pea coat
pulled tightly around his thin frame, he carries all his meager belongings
in a large paper grocery bag, wrinkled and beginning to tear.
Serving as his satchel, the brown bag, damp and worn,
still displays big bold red and black letters
advertising "Smart and Final Grocery"--"Located in Three Convenient Locations".
A city bus roars by, splashing through three days of rain,
and a siren and a blaring horn is heard from the next block.
The dark silhouetted outcast, stops for a moment,
peers into a sidewalk trash receptacle, then continues slowly down the sidewalk.
A taxi pulls up along the curb behind him, and the attractive couple,
dressed in evening wear, emerge, pay for their taxi, and arm in arm,
enter Mario's Italian Restaurant, the brick bistro
that sits on the corner of Broadway and 1st.
It begins to rain again, and across the street people open umbrellas
and like the afore mentioned squirrels, they scurry home to supper.
The lone man walks in the rain, his pace doesn't quicken, his voice never spoken,
a spirit broken, ............ his sack held together by circumstance.
A passerby takes a brief glance...just a quick, chanced moment,
to take notice of "Smart and Final's" last stance.
Water rains the philosophies of mums each morning plying jeer can with tough
faces because the taps have been experiencing months of loneliness in it
gush.
The waking of sleepless mums gluing their hope to the taps gush, merely
believe this city certain to save the mums from slavery of their own. Owed
the boredom drenching in strings water to the songs of birds close the
window to the windmill.
The nights become longer to the size of river Nile wishing the night to
swallow the day, their pace can be heard in parliamentary to the voice of
the kettles rumbling in the morning
Their sweat determines the pain they have been through to ignorant of the
truth the pipes are like dead snakes on the roads biting us with fear.
It gushes no water that too melancholy on milky tooth of incompetent man
hovering his wings to the nation and attribution regretted.
She colors her behavior to spit the crowded of women around the well to
the crisscross that wills the nation to notion active only by the title of
competency if imagined.
The cascade of the city to scent of village with tantamount hope boiling no
interest to glue in city that with no sign of before, but backwardness
rumble to the dumbbell in the morning to mothers cry.
The dampness of their clothes to the scent of cockroaches well being, the
fake manifesto entertains poverty and glue the water collectors to
colloquial gossip in the morning hoping to ram the messed up and the big
mistake ever nation has cried that circulated in short saga.
Dumb in parliament to the palatable junks of protruding stomach shining
gown to the shake of lizard to the fall of Julius Cesar by the sword
And by the oath of power to the pointless of being a President to the
resident overdue of coalition of poverty is fence of blunders on the frying
plate
by then the imagination of mums fetching the tinkling of water enshrined
them each morning to months of lamentation
They rallied you to paint their faces with hope of impregnated oath to
breath of thief with heavy sombre spell diction's where we must defend to
the arrival of Jesus by jumbling solutions to fix broken ideas to the
weight night.
I was thinking today
That in itself
Is a very scary thought
About all the people who
Crisscross +++++++++++++
Through our lives
Some of these people
Without any doubt
Are just people we want something from
Or
People who want something from us
And once that need is gone
So are they
Then there are other people
That we know forever
But wish we had never met
And lets not forget
The ones we only met once
Wish we would know forever
But never see again
Well this isn’t about any of them
This is about
The people
We loved and lost
But never should have
Please know that the love I’m speaking of is friendship
Our friends define who we are
More than anything else
In life
My best friend and I
Haven’t spoken
In now on 15 years
In all honesty
That is my fault
It is also one of the worse mistakes
That I ever made
I was so hurt
The hurt brought anger
The anger brought action
And it all happened so fast
Soon as I did it, I felt so ashamed
I think his father could see that in my eyes
The whole family was a part of my heart
Dennis was my best friend
Judy was my girlfriend
Kristin, Jeffery & Haley were my step-kids
Dale was my younger brother
Jack & Joy were Mom & Dad
We had all known each other
Since I was knee high
I learned a valuable lesson that day
I learned that no matter how strong love is
How many years of foundation it may have
Addiction will destroy it
--- It’s the nature of the business ---
The following reasonable obsolete rhyme
verst heard in my faux class (sic) lilting brogue
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19) rogue
wrought approximate sixth month academic hiatus
nevertheless September 1st, 2020
signals resumption of school year back in vogue.
Challenges abound as millions of students re:zoom
trudging off to..., yet another bus comes by... vroom,
whereby administrators establish
virtual and/or actual room
adapt to delegate assignments as reported by newsroom
facilitated by yours truly,
a bonafide married, yet unbridled groom.
Though mind boggling, death defying,
and harrowing scenario daring to crisscross
(dangerous information highway road)
will confront those most qualified to teach
impressionable minds to overload
nevertheless I envy those learning
courtesy high tech mode.
Golden (gated) opportunity
spectacularly presented to bridge,
kickstart, and buttress young minds
immodestly excited and
amenable to learn online
one old googly eyed
aging pencil necked geek
makes his poetically cameo appearance
crafting awareness about severe complication
hash-tagging those best equipped to teach,
which alternatives pinterest me
linkedin, trumpeted nsync with
tried and true methodology
(think white/blackboard
with markers and/or chalk respectively),
who by the way never got chosen to
clap erasers outside,
fold flag ditto after said
emblematic sanctified cloth unfurled,
nor serve as safety patrol.
Though born within baby boom generation,
I horrendously (nobly) struggled
to acquire cognitive consonance
floundered like a fish out of water
forever barely achieving passable grade
He readily attests de facto failure
if hypothetically enrolled in kindergarten today,
I would get demoted to preschool
(a slight bit of hyperbole),
thus both laments abysmal track record,
whereby attending conventional
schools of hard knocks
(situated within Lower Providence district)
emotionally fracturing psyche
until this very waking moment,
and moost likely mine
remaining tenure on Earth.
The snow leopard
A snow leopard is walking down snow covered streets.
In these empty streets, she walks alone, a vision to be seen.
With skyscraper buildings on either side,
All the cars are silent,
The apartments only have a few lights on,
As she walks outside in the night-time.
With every stride the snow leopard creeps along,
These empty streets with her eyes fixed upon,
Her destination; the local fountain has become an ice rink.
She needs a place where she can sit and think
And the frozen water is calling.
The scratches on the surface from skaters earlier in the eve,
Are sliced crisscross by fur-covered shoes;
Her claws dig in deep.
With perfect balance she moves along;
Tail flat, she is relaxed, no pressure is on.
No need to flee, no-one to be seen.
The snow leopard lies down to relax; her cub inside is heavy.
Before dawn has arisen, the snow leopard has awoken.
Her ears pointed skyward to listen to distant sirens.
From early risers, phone calls have been made;
The zoo keeper is on his way…
But with a flash of her silhouette, the snow leopard is gone;
She was only seen close up for a second,
Before she disappeared into the thick winter’s fog.
Never to be seen again, but the lights in the skyscrapers remember.
The snow leopard stood here, on this cold night mid-December.
From where she came, nobody ever truly knew;
Some people say she was here simply looking for food.
She had been hiding a long time in a snow cave;
Her footprints were filled by the snow and her tracks began to fade.
She never was found and never again did she return.
The snow leopard was just passing through, her image just a blur.
Like a wind through a narrow street,
A piece of ice falling through a cloud;
A memory of a snowflake that disappears as soon as it is found.
There was no sign that the snow leopard had ever been around
And there was no way to know why,
The snow leopard ever came walking through this town.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
My jeans I’d wear, twirling in the air
the cousins, loved those kids; I’d
see them hardly ever, flying, laughing,
rising. Mother couldn’t understand
the wriggling out of the purple dress;
nails were temporarily permanent,
bought in Poughkeepsie, when it
was safe for teenagers to shop by
themselves.
In thirty plus years,
my daughter-in-law would be approached
and encroached upon; she’d chase off
the ho-supplier. Not far, not far at all
from my childhood neighborhood.
My friend and I look at jewelry, but buy
an assortment of polishes for our eyes
and nails. Purple would fill the nailbed,
on the unwrinkled, no need to iron hands.
Could I explain,
time, cannot be bottled;
tears jeans, cracks nails, hammers.
Could I imagine a son, a daughter-in-law;
not a thought
unless we played the game
of
crisscross.
We’d write down places, numbers, names of boys,
- we’d see where we’d live, how many kids, and
find out who we’d marry,
no one
expected me
to fly
militar-ily
find that guy
who followed me
to places
in disguise.
In purple skies
at cross purposes
we intersect
I now know - where, how many, his name, and more.
Simpler days, would I return the polish and the friend?
I remember the celebration, followed by the divorce.
I remember his daughter, at five - she’d survive
his death. I’d not forfeit the purple polish - in the end,
before my marriage, three kids, in-laws, grands;
I’d not sail away from Sandy - I’d play a game;
it’s been a long, long, long time since we sat
in our grandparent’s house, in her Dad’s absence,
and behaved as cousins, fourteen years apart.
In the supine chambers of my mind:
Thoughts of different hues spring up unsought
They crisscross like fireflies in the dark
Dancing virtually 3D all night
Love isn’t always reciprocal
In several cases; many will vouch.
One way traffic, is true in love too.
Romance and marriage being exceptional ties
Are stereotypes and status quo a boredom?
How does one retain self respect and dignity?
Is getting old akin to walking up hill
Does pursuit of virtues lead to spirituality?
The Generation gap is absolute
Senior citizens get branded folks
Age ushers feelings of isolation
Is ‘time to quit’ the next foreboding?
Does seniority start at Sixty?
Or in Seventies, Eighties, Nineties?
What about one hundred and plus?
Is a senior human an asset or a liability?
Spouse alone is synonymous with trust
For guaranteed love and care
For emotional and physical relief
Tending siblings rank the best
Is keeping one to oneself not right?
Prayers offer solutions to a roller coaster
life
Joint family promises solace
Yet freedom in old age makes little sense
Are old friends the choice to confide
the troubling thoughts?
Is it the close acquaintance or
childhood stamp?
Do love, romance, relationship leave
a soft touch?
Are passions just avenues for escape ?
What about the thoughts that bombard?
Gratitude forgotten and guilt unpardonable
Victories cherished and challenges pocketed
Defeats shunned and
despondency sunk
How about happiness on achievements
Missed opportunities weighing heavy
Hopes brimming and despair haunting
Victories inspiring and failures devastating
What about lingering memories of
good and bad?
Causing ripples in the pools of mind
Betrayal, ingratitude and sorrow,
Love, friendship and separation.
The night is always dark and silent
Many times sleep is far and evasive
Yet the eyelids close for rest
When the fireflies stop to fly!
As I rounded the bend aka driveway to the school, a precarious-looking something caught my eye.
I thought it was a garbage bag, and could not imagine what it was doing where the crossing guard stays.
He is not here this early, so I turned, and gave it another quick look. It was not a garbage bag.
It was a man, wrapped in a blanket. Hm. This is a grade school entry point. What is he doing here?
At a quarter to seven in the morning? Rumors have circulated about homeless living in the woods.
Woods behind our school, woods that are extensive, and extend from our school to the next school.
That is where my mind immediately traveled. Okay, today is cooler, but not cold. What then?
What happens to this man when the temperatures plummet, and the ice and snow arrives?
Luckily we have a large metal crisscross fence that keeps the children from the woods, but
What about the man, what happens when he gets so cold he cannot stand it? Does he come closer?
Does he sit in the sun, next to our brick building? Does he think about how warm and cozy it is in here?
Does he sit under the trees, dreaming of when he was in school, warm, safe, away from the elements?
One tiny thing, and yet, it has me thinking. I ask another teacher if he is still there when she arrives.
He is gone, but to where? And does he have a coat? Mittens? Food? Is there a tent in the woods?
Do they have a campfire at night? Is there only a lone man, or is there a family? Are there children?
My imagination will not let this go. It is going haywire, and for what reason? Am I hopping the fence?
Am I jumping into the woods? Am I looking for the tent? Am I taking these people home with me?
I have done this kind of thing before, and from experience, I know it almost always ends rather badly.
Hello, Joe, there are people living in the woods. What do you want me to do about it?
After Eight Mints
Anchovies
Apple Pancakes
Applesauce
Atlantic Cod
Barbecue Sauce
Black Bean Soup
Blue Cheese
Blueberry Pancakes
Brussels Sprouts and Lamb
Buttermilk
Caribou Liver
Carrots
Cauliflower
Chicken Breast
Chicken Patty
Chicory Roots
Chocolate Pudding
Chocolate Pudding !!!
Cinnamon Raisin Bagel
Coffee Cake
Coleslaw
Donkey Balls
Dried Plums
Durian Fruit
Garlic
Garlic Roast Chicken
Green & Yellow Peppers
Green Leaf Lettuce
Grilled Cheese
Hamburger
Hashed Brown Potatoes
Honey Pops
Horseradish
Iron Steak
Jellied bouillon with frankfurters
Jelly Sandwich
Marinara Sauce
Melba Toast Crackers
Milky Way Bar
Mozzarella Cheese
Muffins
Onions
Pasta Shells
Peanut Butter
Plain Bagel
Pot Pie
Potato Medley
Potatoes
Queso Asadero
Salisbury Steak
Shredded Gruyere
Shrimp
Smoked Chicken Sandwich
Smoked Ham
South-western Sandwich
Turkey Pastrami on Rye
Waffles
Weight Watchers Chicken Enchiladas
Whole Wheat Bread
He comments Beuys’ art
they hang to his dentalia
in slimy appearance
menus on wrapping paper
then
note the mental thing
yes, yes, he said so,
and where are the nuts
the crackers, the slow food
crisscross
crosscriss
a cookie with my coffee
still harvests thoughts
wrong war thoughts
so wrong during the war
November sun
warms a sanitary finger
and goldfish in my hand
hidden under fallen leaves
in brown memories
alma
Explanation
Joseph Beuys is a controversial artist, one of his
works is called 'food for thought'. I saw this at
the museum of psychiatry when I guided some folks;
theme of the exposition was "lost in memory".
Next to the museum is the garden where 3 of my
sculptural works can be visited. We did so.