Long Crowding Poems
Long Crowding Poems. Below are the most popular long Crowding by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crowding poems by poem length and keyword.
God gave the world color to add interest and beauty,
Matched and perfectly blended, from purples to ruby,
From autumn leaves to endless lavender fields of joy,
And from forest birds, to evening sunsets we enjoy!
Cherished sweet blooms, crowding the gardens of summer,
Days like the gay peacocks, strutting past in a blur!
The orchards of sunshine days, ripe and pretty to eat,
And the whiteness of winter, giving relief from heat.
The moments of springtime are brimming with greenness,
From vivid tulip fields to honeycomb's amber sweetness,
And the profound blackness of each starry jet midnight,
And the pale changeless moon, lending its silver light!
Clouds that change colors according to the sun's mood,
And the brightly hued harvests that we consume as food,
Rainbows and bright planets, such as our neighbor, Mars-
I'd dearly love to read, Earth's kaleidoscopic memoirs!
A park has been making the news
Because people have differing views.
Those who live very near
Wish that all would adhere
To the rules and stop breaking taboos.
But a younger crowd’s recently found
They could party with no cops around
So they flock to this park,
Even more after dark,
Where their music and motors resound.
Since the park is a public-fed place
The old-timers would always embrace
People spending the day
In the usual way,
Not the mob that’s become a disgrace.
So it’s time for the city to act
When, at night, the park’s overly packed,
For the drugs and the noise
And the crowding annoys
Every neighbor who’s feeling attacked.
What to do when the young and the old
Find their values so often controlled
By the difference in years
Which, quite strangely, appears
To have neither side feeling consoled?
just give me paints and some brushes, the little girl said.
She had drops and drips all over her face and her head.
Her overalls were saturated with paints in reds and blue.
What else could we do? Asked her mother, what else could we do?
She painted her way through college, covering canvases galore.
Sixteen hundred paintings, and maybe two hundred more.
The paintings were crowding her parents who had no more room.
Can we sell them? Asked her mother, who was on Zoom.
No, the girl said, just burn them, I can make new ones every day.
But her parents could not do this, so they threw furniture away.
They got rid of their couches, chairs, and tables to make room.
“What happened to your house?” asked their daughter on Zoom.
(In Rome, a small plaque on a wall shows
how high the river rose in 1872.)
It says a lot, this little marble line.
The river (Rome’s life-giver), prone to flood,
could raise, erase: the rhythm of Proserpine,
of summer, winter, it’s the beat of blood.
What are we, then, we humans? So much krill,
to flourish and then wither? Nothing more?
Accretions crowding every Quirinal Hill,
but rinsed away like Ephesus, Elsinore?
A tremor pulverised the gems of Giotto.
We labour, learn and languish – then we’re dead.
Achievement? Summed up by the Ponte Rotto.
Try grasping, with your educated head
(encapsulated in this modest motto)
that rivers rise and fall. What’s then been said?
There are butterflies and beetles in my gut,
for my stomach was occupied by hungry caterpillars.
Their pinchers prod me when I'm making the wrong decision.
Their wings flutter around to warn me of the dangers that might come.
I have spiders in my brain
stringing along my mistakes
making a web of my life,
they are my personal dream catchers.
Crickets live in my throat,
rubbing their legs together to make the sound of my voice
as it fills the silence.
Stars make up my eyes,
and water, my veins.
Ants are my bones,
holding me up.
And vines, my hair,
reaching down to the ground,
wanting to bury itself back into the dirt.
Dragonflies race back and forth through my nerves,
their wings tickling my skin,
bringing life to my arms and legs.
Mushrooms grow in my lungs,
moving with my breath.
I release their spores when I sigh,
as they slowly creep into my throat, crowding out my voice.
My hair grows persistent,
it is down to my knees now.
I've tried to cut it, but it only grows back faster
more stubborn each time.
The spiders in my brain are growing hungry and weary.
They have no more dreams to catch in their webs,
for I have run out of dreams to give.
The ants are growing tired,
and so are the dragonflies.
They have slowed down, making my movements jerky.
I have lost my appetite
for the caterpillars have crystallized in their cocoons
The stars grow bored
looking out into the night,
wondering when they can return to it.
I don't have many crickets left,
Most have gone.
My voice is now soft and easily drowned out,
barely loud enough to fill the quiet.
My hair has reached the ground now,
the vines tugging my head down.
The spiders have all moved out through my ears,
leaving empty webs behind in my brain.
The caterpillars, now butterflies, join the others
along with the beetles,
and burst free through my chest,
The ants have given up holding me
and leave me too.
Dragonflies break through my skin
as the water drains from my veins.
I become the silence that my voice used to fill
as the last cricket leaves,
and the mushrooms fully envelop my throat.
The stars leave my eyes
and join their friends in the sky.
And my hair drags me with it,
back into the ground,
as my heart of nature stops beating.
How many years is it
From the long past decades
When we were young
And brought our children
To Martha’s Vineyard?
I often think “How many?”
How many pails of clams dug,
How many dozens of crabs netted,
How many pounds of mussels
Picked from the rocks?
How many kinds of fish
Wrestled in, gutted and filleted?
How many baskets of blueberries,
Or bags of wild grapes picked,
Or rose hips or strawberries?
How many dinners eaten of
Clams, crabs, and mussels
Dripping in melted butter?
How many dozens of jars
Of jams and jellies, carefully tended?
Where are the children now?
Grown and moved away.
Few crabs now live in the pond,
Some clam beds closed for pollution,
Some mussels still, but smaller.
Many places we loved to pick
The wild blueberries and grapes
Built up now with homes,
Even the once wide beaches
Eroding with each storm
So much has passed, but oh!
How many things remain!
Like our beloved ocean isle,
We ourselves have changed
And now have different dreams.
And so I think – how many yet
Of pink and gold Menemsha sunsets
And sunny beach days?
How many roses and beach plums to see,
And shifting ocean views?
How many drinks on the porch
And jokes and chats with friends?
How many velvet foggy morns,
Birds crowding at the feeders
And squabbling in the trees?
How many blazing autumns
And blue October skies?
How many blankets of snow and
Warm lilac rains? It really doesn’t matter
For we’ll treasure every one!
My childhood cookie jar was brown
And looked like it was Asian.
It must have been a gift, but
I don’t know for what occasion.
Bright flowers and some animals
Were intertwined with gold.
I always found it ugly,
Yet such sweets were in its hold:
Vienna fingers, Hydrox,
Chips Ahoy and Pecan Sandies;
Nothing homemade, only cookies –
Never cakes or candies.
It rested on a pantry shelf,
Not really on display.
That “out of sight” thing didn’t work –
We plumbed it every day.
For years I hadn’t thought about
That jar or sneaking snacks
Until, in an antique store,
Something stopped me in my tracks.
For there it was, in front of me –
“Tobacco Jar,” it said;
And all those memories just started
Crowding in my head.
I didn’t buy it, even though
Nostalgia has its place.
You can’t relive the past
But certain objects we embrace.
That cookie jar seems special now,
Still ugly, though, in truth;
But buying it would not return me
To my long-lost youth.
something stirred in this place, long, long ago
presence lingering
half-hidden haven on the crowding hillside
enchanted enclave
Iberian portal still open to a time confused
dreams drifting on through
thrum across the gridiron, quiet gravel grinding gently
the sentinel awakens
drowsing, curious at the latest visitation from the future
the bubble reseals behind
the house is real...and unreal, the garden weaving spells
light gathers and pools
pause at the fronting porch, then enter an inner sanctum
a fulcrum where eyes uplift
dark images look down from a facing wall, side-lit
high pointed fenestration
shadows fall and mark fine furniture with moments passing
feel the slowing...of now
the outside follows room to room, minds roaming free
tranquility lost in thought
foliage frames fields above the sandy isthmus curving coast
chameleon sky shaping
worn-down mountain flat-top with broken-ended stack
vantage glimpsed by gods
vital organ chambers in this ancient time-spun being
pleasure spots under the sun
blissful verandah vista beyond the stay-forever lounge
arterial corridor, cosy nooks
quaint meandering kitchen parlour, the Churianna heart
memories replenished
oceanic winds deflect clear of the insulating calm
cyclic seasons hesitate
storm clouds cumulate around a thinning efflorescence
imprisonment below
containment creaks, dead weight of imagination lacking
chain-gangs build borders and walls
human habitation draws in, ... the membrane may burst !
sky cracking, dreams leaking
the sentinel awakes more fully, observing the scene
small steps of avoidance
humanity dances to a new tune, Inishowen reeling
to the slow beat of aeonic time
Who am I today?
Husband, Father, Son or Brother
A noble thought that gives itself away,
Or some distant, self-obsessed Other?
What shape I don tomorrow
Who can say
If I shall move across my stage
Enacting joy or sorrow?
What tides shall bear me
To what familiar or what stranger port
Whose ears shall hear, whose eyes shall see
Old things or new, of unfamiliar sort
Come crowding 'round my senses,
Who may know
What meanings they may bring,
Or how assault
My incomplete defenses?
For I am, at base, like every man
A shambling, shapeless Legion
Who strives for sense as best he can
Within the compass of his crowded reason,
Bounded fore and aft by birth and death,
Seeking for some middle way
Amidst the crowd he is;
To speak some sense with his last breath.
It’s wanting from a few years of neglect,
relentless weeds crowding out the flowers.
But like they say, her bones are pretty good,
with some hard work and time we’ll make it ours.
Replace a few boards to repair the fence,
maybe put a bird feeder in this tree.
Pull out these shrubs on this side of the house,
that will create a better view, you’ll see.
The master bath looks newly remodeled,
I wonder why they tiled the bedroom floor.
We will need to replace these two windows,
and why the hell is this such a small door.
But I guess we have no right to complain,
the price is right and the location great.
In no time we will be lounging poolside,
saying life in the Ozarks is first-rate.