Long Cycled Poems
Long Cycled Poems. Below are the most popular long Cycled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cycled poems by poem length and keyword.
I get chatting with Irene in the pool.
We both on holiday in a new country,
The same hotel.
Irene tells me
How she'd worked for Cadbury’s,
In the ‘80s.
And I recall the factory smelling of orange creams
As I’d cycled by on my way home.
“It’s the first time I've flown,” she tells me,
“I've never been in a plane before.
Aren’t the seats small!” she tells me,
“… a tiny chair to take you anywhere!”
Irene has a daughter, Julie, living in Oldbury,
She helped her buy her tickets online.
“…you have to be careful on the Internet” she tells me,
“…it's literally like a web,
I get stuck using it.”
But it's how Irene met Adrian.
“Four years back on bumble -
And he's younger than I am!” she tells me.
He's sat in the shade under a tree drinking a pina colada.
Irene’s swimsuit has a big bold tropical print.
Fun and sunshine there's enough for everyone.
“Me - I do love it in the pool…” she tells me,
“…but I've only just learned how to swim,
So, the sea makes me nervous.”
But Irene wants to see dolphins.
So, she's booking a cabin on a cruise.
She tells me how her brother,
David, died of the COVID.
How he left her some money and the dog.
She's never had a pet before.
I think Irene is amongst the bravest women I've met.
Dad
I can't believe
Your here old man
You made it through the rough..
I love your
Laugh and chuckle..
For me that is enough.
But boy you've had a lifetime
And crammed it full of stuff
You climbed and walked
And cycled and taught
And shared to thrill
Despite your failing memory..
So deep those waters still.
You're table tennis champ.
You're youth club hero, nifty.
Fridays every week you did..
Until you landed fifty
You're Dad, and Grandpa, Brother
You've been Friend aswell to.. any..
A Husband, Leader, Teacher
An Uncle to so many..
You worked for forty years
Making chemicals for foam.
I'm very happy to have been
A member of your home.
And when it's all said and done
IF you finally get the call..
We'll spend our lives reminiscing
Of your story, to enthrall..
The ears of little ones
You'll never get to meet
They'll hear of your adventures;
All the stuff you'd like to eat..
Of your music tastes,
And passions, of adventures far and NEAR..
Of Singapore. And Germans.
Lost underpants. Of chicken wire and beer
But for this moment here and now
We sit with you and cheer..
You made it (phew)
And here you sit before us
At your 90 years plus two.
So Dad.. there are no words..
I've scribbled down a few
But really all you need to know
We're here because..
The one we love is you
Jinjagoliath
12th March 2023
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Written by : Elizabeth Barrett Browing
And still you scorn the confines life would cast
About your fixed and marked identity.
A father, lover, friend tried endlessly,
And all the cycled censors failed at last.
Now resurrected in your revived past,
At signal of the butterfly and bee,
Witness your love wedded in mystery!
Beyond the book, the dream once believed, you clasp.
Not what we read or see or trace in line,
Becomes the ultimate of greater worth;
It is the dream we hold as our own right
Unseen by men, but envied for the sign
It shines upon the face of these on earth
Who cling to love and faith beyond the light."
Emily Dickinson
Just thought that I would share..
I have always loved the first one..
Note these are by Elizabeth Browning and Emily Dickinson Not by me...
I don't remember when I looked up and heard a seagull's cries
I don't remember the line of gold of my first sunrise
I don't remember the time at Fire Island when Mom carried me to the sea
I don't remember when I learned that all that lives must cease to be
There was the first time I climbed the big rock in central Park
I was having so much fun that it made a lasting mark
But of summers in New England, when I didn't want to leave
Only mental snapshots remain, mental movies I can't retrieve
As I age, I feel new wonder about what I took for granted
In those first years, I can't recall, was everything enchanted?
Is the past a hidden country, and if we look, can we find?
Odd what we remember, and what we leave behind,
First, a chapter locked away when everything was new,
Then a lifetime swiftly passed—oh, how the decades flew!
I remember things that didn't happen, forgot things that did
Memory reconstructs and recombines, and I was just a kid
But I want to know what happened and to strive for what was real
Not distorted by who I wish I was or what I want to feel
I remember 9/11, I was in asleep in a Swiss hotel
Our leader knocked on my door, told me the Twin Towers fell
I looked out at the Matterhorn, realized this must lead to war
Twenty years later, U.S. recruits had to be told what they were fighting for.
Some want you to forget what happened at Tiananmen Square
Rebels once raised a Goddess of Democracy, new thoughts in the air
Some want you to forget the Holocaust, some the Holodomor
If memory can be overwritten, then what is a mind for?
I walked into an old cemetery on a busy street
I saw eroded words on a stone, a memory in retreat
A summary of a brave life, soon no memory will remain
I shed a tear for his memory, then it began to rain
I had cycled over two mountain passes there was just one to go
But it meant a big climb, and my strength had sunk so low.
A man came from an alpine meadow, offered me his chocolate bar
Odd what you remember, when kindness takes you far.
Beware those who tell you to forget
To lose all those yesterdays, to do a full reset
Do keep the warning signs, the values worth a fight
Don't let anyone wipe them clean, don't go gentle into their night.
The faintness of flight overwhelms me
boxed in caged, corseted, in a cattle car of the air
pristine bells and whistles cajole the herd
as the breath is cycled and recycled through the
bellows of plasticine and metal
germs jumping from orifice to orifice
knees crushing bosoms braced for the portent
the potential
the promise
of the fall.
Faintness elicits only minor response
from the tenders who un-tenderly steer the crowd
small moans garner memories of the mallet falls..
but fail to unseat the kindness
so needed..sought
watery eyes wave
and the floor seems the only safety
and still the settlers stay settled in their complacency..
neither rising to gift an aged woman with their perch
or commenting as she hits the floor
ah the joys of twenty first century flight
in the belly of Virgin America.
They looked at me with doubt
The light had long gone out
I was long past my prime
Ripples in a pond subside over time
"That's him?", an onlooker thought it odd
"Yes" his brother said, "I swear to God!"
A girl said "I don't see it, but it must be there"
Their doubts didn't faze me, I really didn't care
"It's all a fraud," said a sad man staring
I laughed inwardly, I was past caring
A colleague thought I was magnetic, explained it by a pheromone
He thought I didn't wash; I just gave a groan.
Then a woman said angrily that I must be kept down
A backhanded compliment, but I'd rather not drown
A young man told his friends that I had a "dog face"
He didn't feel I belonged in his land, his place.
For many years, I hadn't slept through the night
But one day, I got up, feeling alright.
Put a bike helmet on my bald head
Got on my Trek, like a 70's retread.
Cycled out of the city, into green lands
Blood rushed to my face, heard musical bands
Light came from somewhere, buried inside
Perhaps its last stand, before it expired and died
A few people caught sight, gasped with surprise
We were all feeling good, there were stars in their eyes
They gave me a smile, a smile from the heart
Like a sudden symphony, like a work of art.
Should we believe in illusion, should we stick to the fact?
Should we get to the real, or fall for an act?
Whatever was true, I'm old now and worn
But in a smile, in enthusiasm, it's always reborn
Smiles are cheap, I think there's no harm
Life is short, why not add myth, no cause for alarm.
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like resting birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
I had cycled to Upper Montclair
It was humid, hot, smoke in the air.
I was sweaty, and smelled of Deet
circles under my eyes, and I was beat.
It was Sunday, I'm agnostic, or I'd be in church
Anyway, my state flipped to desperate search
I went to the gas station, to the staff I made a plea
I said "Do you have a bathroom; this is an emergency."
The owner said "sorry, not for your kind."
So I pedaled off, nearly out of my mind.
I saw a port-o-potty, with a lock on the door
Seemed to defeat the purpose, what it's made for.
A drug store was open, I gave a sigh of relief
But the bathroom was out of order, this was beyond belief.
I scanned the trees, but each patch of green
Had a house, a dog, or a camera unseen.
(chorus)
When nature calls, on a Sunday morn
You forget the rose and feel the thorn.
It isn’t just pain—it’s a primal shame,
When the bathroom calls you by your name.
Finally, I rode my bicycle through church doors
The crowd looked shocked, but when it rains, it pours.
The priest pointed out the restroom, I just made it there
And thanked heaven for religion in Upper Montclair.
I had made my fortune shorting the Lebanese pound
So I gave ten thousand dollars to each parishioner, shock all around
Shook every hand, then rolled out of there,
The faithful will remember that day in Montclair.
QUEST
Now imprisoned
within closed contour of span of my life.
Where to venture on quest ?
North- South : East -West ?
Or introspecting spiritual consciousness
rising above space and time.
Neither can surmise not aprehend
where to ascend or to descend
while transcending death.
A big quest, no finding ,
while confined to breathe in and out !
Reply rolling rippling propagating far away
beyond my vision or perception .
Out of my reach ,
a silhouette of 'after life'
displaying umbra and penumbra
shadowing my journey of life.
Me to pass through eclipse
as soul , provided it exists
and slips to escape
from mortal body surpassing demise.
Yet the question, which is vital :
Is the SOUL really immortal ?
If the answer be ' NO'
then prime question is superfluous.
Death is the final point : Oblivious.
No need to explore more.
Answer is bold and clear.
Query ends here.
But eventually,
if the answer stands 'YES',
then QUEST is endless.
Does every living being own a soul ?
All Members of Flora and Fauna including Insect World !
Or only specific characteristic of Human species.
Living beings are originated from non-living things
through evolution.
When and from where souls do evolute ?
Is there any special hub for Souls to originate
or to take rest ?
What’s their status ?
Escaping from body do they search for new foetus ?
Can they choose any special foetus ?
Or bound to obey any Cosmic law !
Or to float free as Spirits.
Or to be cycled, recycled !
What's the explanation of new formation
of Souls keeping parity with inflation
in Human population ?
I enter my primeval room lit with candles
from an ethnic sanctuary, and revisit
the mural of ancestral stories
where horses and men flock to graze
the oracles of generational chants
along a temple of ceremonies fed by rituals
now slowly molding in my mind…
the old folk confessions and communion
of decades cycled and recycled
by a rare history: parables marching back
to fables of peace -gongs and Asian warlike drums
claimed by time, claimed by my elder's rice wine,
that marrow against marrow
my flesh entwines among brave natives --
brothers of protection...mothers who nourish homes
as this ancestry cascades unto next heirs
of heirs of children like myself
bequeathing ruins and triumphs from
wise old souls, from our men’s legends…
and as the candle drifts,
my origin's history floods
these veins: I climb into life’s inner roots
and there my great forefather dwells
inside my blood... feisty, gentle, life-giving:
that somehow, I carry his heritage today,
I am his blood.
John Hamilton's Ancestral Roots
Submitted 6/10/2017