Long Cul de sac Poems
Long Cul de sac Poems. Below are the most popular long Cul de sac by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cul de sac poems by poem length and keyword.
Saturated with fish fry smells, Bar-B-Cue smoke,
rodeo dust and sounds of deep water blues,
with teasing frothing lace spread on the shore,
Gulf Coast birth breeze blew winds
in sails to Caribbean Sea, Blue Mountain
berries, banana walk yam hills,
And coconut rain drops tapping reggae beats
on zinc roof tops on cool verandah nights,
in herb scented air, curling roast breadfruit smoke.
The tarrying there tested the soul,
matured the spirit, fulfilled long tried
attainments of deferred dreams; then
the sea recruited its journeyman again.
Pacific Coast pleaded an adopted native son home. Home
to new sea shore sands dusted in smog self negation
of urbane destruction and self nullification of community,
caught in the veiled nightmare—lurking in the promise land.
Hence, lessons learned from a gospel tower that never knew a church,
yet gave life-lived sermons that put homiletics to shame, crucifying
pipe-dream pie-in-the-sky nuances on the crosses of realities.
Atlantic waves, undulating like rhythmic buttocks, frothed
a scent of magnetism greater than the tightening hold of gravity,
attracting an uneasy soul, searching spiritual solaced sands; only
to discover that the seas all share the same shored design: Yes.
Same shared sorrowful savage slave story! Different sea: same sand.
Now awaits Guinea Coast sunsets and Cape of Good Hope
cul-de-sac early morning sunrises; then on to the sands of heaven.
Regrets are for those who fail to chase their dreams to realities.
Bake the world a cake and wear your shimmering crown of perfection.
Gorge on pure bites of unearned kindness to feed your grievous bodily farm.
Your dignity is a sight unseen.
Like a spider in mucous your predicament is set, your progress smothered.
We all know your street of benevolence ends in a potholed cul-de-sac.
Vanish down your own sinkhole.
Tears on a fat cheek bleed a needy trail that screams for holy reverence.
A path carved in righteous marble yields nothing but jeers from the gallery.
Consider yourself considered.
Interactions that pass like a kidney stone from bloody stream to toilet bowl.
All is mimicry, all is disgust, and the smile is ill, the smile is façade.
Your smile needs a trauma clean.
Eyes that feel like bullets through me
Bloodshot, guilty
My skin is splattered crimson
Does it remind you of home?
I think i knew you then
Running around the cul de sac
You’d climb the trees, too tall for me
I sure can’t reach you now, where have you gone?
I remember the last time i saw you
Your daddy gave you a mean kiss
Right to the cheek, purple and tender
That faraway look haunts me now, forever.
I’ve forgotten your voice
You’re the only one with it
You don’t answer my collect calls
If you go home, will you remember me?
That cell turned you cold
In there for life, the judge said plaintively
Until death does you part
From the mess you’ve made.
Vengeance dissolves making room for something new
Redemption blossoms in hope colors the dawn
In silence pain fades like mist
Among the remnants of conflict forgiveness is born
The family welcomes him, the offerings of warmth
The likeness of Christ shines in every gesture
The crossfire marks the end changing destiny
Suffering fades and in the night dissolves
In a gesture of clemency forgiveness manifests
Through the shadows new light advances
In the heart burns the desire for peace
The family, strong, embraces every change
Riggs gives Rianne the decorated bullet
A symbol of peace between tears and smiles
Christmas lights up and down the cul-de-sac
In forgiveness the divine likeness is reflected
The family gathering the new bonds
Love sprouts where grudges once reigned
Hatred shouted finds echo in the wounded heart
Anger shatters but time soothes it
Acceptance means growing and letting go
The family becomes a refuge redemption is built
In forgiveness unexpected strength is found
The soldier resists but lets himself be assured by hope
In forgiveness the image of Christ is renewed
The family is a manger where one is reborn every day
The likeness is reflected in the gentle gesture
Vengeance finds no room anymore, only harmony
Redemption in memories in the comforting present
The light of Christmas illuminates every face
The soldier whom no one can bend
He finds strength again as God changes his heart
Resilience leaves a mark deep and alive
In the warmth of the family pain is transformed
Redemption is fulfilled forgiveness triumphs
And the likeness of Christ remains eternal
Vengeance vanishes now one of the Mertaugh clan
Victoria Lynn Riggs' memory (his family)
This soldier’s resilience reflected in the warmth of Christmas
If displaced, found nowhere, but in water
of the retention pond,
no longer in V-formation, nowhere
in the bluest sky,
however, beneath and at the behest
of angels, ruled by God,
it is my greenest eyes that you swim in,
as I exit the highway.
This exit didn’t exist when Mom was alive,
nor the quick stop, QT,
that I pass by, so close to my dad’s house.
On a cul-de-sac, road’s end,
I pull into his short, straight driveway, push
open the door, unlocked.
I quick-tell my story of the seized geese,
it was only mine to tell,
of how I saw their takeoff as if they were planes
leaving the lonely spot,
their brief stay with only my mind and heart
to excite; somewhere lifting
into the gray, blue day prodded on by
a host of angels.
Dad doesn’t recall the retention pond; is
it nowhere
but in my imagination; oh no,
it is so real, beyond nowhere, somewhere
where his eyes can’t see,
for Dad drives straight to the liquor store,
prepared to see olives
in his martini; but he’s happy to see geese fly
out my retentive mouth.
From ~ LARGE ~ to ~ small ~
K~Konstantin had travelled the world in unbeknown searching~g
A~Ariadne lost the plot and her thread a modern Sisyphus on the run~n
R~Raised in mathematical precision he questioned logic and Pi~i
M~Meandered streams of his mind with no delta or source without fill~l
A~Archimedes had drowned in the bathtub and produced wanton spill~l
C~Cartesian logic and Newton merely kindled heated debate full of lava~a
A~Acropolis Bergen Belsen Cairo Constantinople Calcutta a firm cul-de-sac~c
L~‘Leave cause and effect behind for a while on its quest for mens sana’~a
L~‘Life happens when you follow the flow squared circles teach no realm’~m
I ~In sight of the Ganges loin cloth in hand near naked emerges a star~r
N~Nirvana does not fall from the tree but intentions and actions feed Karma~a
G~‘Go resolve not hurt sentient beings and the world will be a little less sick’~k
27th April 2018
There was this cul-de-sac I well recall
when I was not quite thirty. We’d just bought
our first house, which was cute and kind of small.
Blue, ranch style; rose carpet I liked a lot.
In the cul-de-sac, our house was set
right in the middle; but the number of
the several houses there I forget.
Not many neighbors did I grow to love.
They kept to themselves, but my children played
with kids from all around, and that was nice.
But three years later I became dismayed.
My husband found work out of state. The price
we had to sell our house for was too low.
But new horizons we were meant to know!
Feb. 20, 2023
for Edward Ibeh's This Or That, Vol 16 Poetry Contest
Word chosen: Cul-de-sac
the floorboards offer only joist only the give the soft jawed stud in the hall
plaster molts white flecks like the chicken did last winter
the tv spits a grey electric grit
a static stuck rattling the cul de sac the deadbolt evening click
i have swept the dead from the wires the cold clot they leave in the pipes
the notice said final in red it promised a merciful eviction
in a neighborhood of taped up windows
the crabgrass a green fire where the dog used to squat wait
inside the mind a leaden bell a pendulum already swinging
the weight of crown molding and sweat
a siyn nap pops like a fuse when the heart stops
just the thermostat clicking off
the house already a frozen meat locker of blue bellies
as the soul snags on the splintered jamb by the side door
while the neighbors count the moving boxes
i kept thinking about the fridge light how long it could burn
over the fatback sweating into a cold yellow brine
the stars rock salt in a split lip
the factory a pulled socket wired to nothing bleeding soot
porch light a clotted throat of toasted wings
the smoke alarm battery dead
all that evisceration funnels us back to the kitchen
we sit in the kitchen thumbing the unpaid slips
my fingers gelid sticking to the paper
the fridge drones on borrowed power
just caught in the clock slow gears a germ in the cogs
the sink drips
the soul stays low in the wiring
behind the lath
holding on
until the breaker snaps
For some 30 years, I was faced with Cul-De-Sacs. No
resident in those Cul-De-Sacs exited without facing
my house.
A few years ago, I began to muse over the
significance of Cul-De-Sacs in my life. Occasionally,
I would drive through the Cul De Sac only to see my
house as others saw it. I considered the fact that
it's vital that we should occasionally place ourselves
in a position to see ourselves as others see us, making
it better to understand others as well as ourselves.
My first encounter or experience with Cul-De-Sacs
was when we bought our first home in California.
Our house faced a Cul-De-Sac. Our street formed the
only outlet for three Cul-De-Sacs on our block.
In later years, those Cul-De-Sacs became my primary
walking ground. My exercise routine consisted of walking two
short blocks, two long blocks, and three Cul-De-Sacs. I am
rather fond of this memory.
Our second connection to a Cul-De-Sac was with the
purchase of our second house. It too was not in the
Cul-De-Sac but faced it. At the entry of that memorable
Cul-De-Sac was a most beautiful tree which, from my
second-floor bedroom spoke volumes to me in the Fall
season. If that tree said anything, it shouted out to me
saying, "Look at me, I am the beauty queen of this Cul-De-Sac".
2523PSCtest,This or That, Vol 16 "Cul-De-Sac". Edward Ebeh.3P
Chasing this into that, chasing that into this.
Chasing silhouettes into a half-assed crevasse.
Echoing, "Boy, what is your purpose on this good earth?"
Poking the dark for a piece of velvet, a note from a harp.
A claw pokes at the skin of the soul.
A change of direction is needed again... pronto.
Mamma was right. Nothing good comes out of the dark.
Eating the light like a greasy moth.
Pitting parched lips against brightness.
Just another false prophet holding an empty Bic pen.
In the cul-de-sac of middle-class wish.
At least it was an honest attempt to find a grain of meaning.
In the dusk of my breath, the same silhouette yaps...
"Man, what is your purpose on this planet"?