Long Deposited Poems
Long Deposited Poems. Below are the most popular long Deposited by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Deposited poems by poem length and keyword.
The young couple surveys the area.
Large aged oak trees gift shade.
Thick luscious grass carpets the ground.
Pastel wild flowers dance on the breeze.
The pale blue sky is expansive.
She takes the time to spread each crease
Out of the checkered blanket.
Her hands are well manicured and soft.
He glances at her as she hums to herself,
Unpacking the basket between them,
Pure adoration in his eyes.
They laugh and talk the afternoon away.
The bread just crusts.
The crumbles of cheese minuscule.
A few wrinkled, too soft grapes.
The blue sky gives way to
Pinks, golds and a warm violet.
Wine and cooler air
Have provided an excuse
For romance in a beautiful meadow.
She looks up at him, pensive, in his arms.
He knows her inside and outside, this love.
He shakes his head sadly.
"But it looks so hungry and sad".
He reminds her of the rules as he packs.
She stands, not helping him,
But studying the creature.
"It has to sit in a cage in paradise,"
She sighs, almost to herself.
"My Love," he grasps her arm,
Starting to sweat despite the cooler air.
"We don't bother it, and it doesn't bother us."
He pulls on her arm,
The basket rushly packed.
His eyes trying to focus
On the other side of the clearing.
"I'm just going to give it a crust, b..."
As she put her soft clean hand
Through the bars of my cage,
The crust of bread deposited in my hand,
Her body launches backwards
Blood and bone spraying 360 degrees.
I still hold her hand in mine.
I am already crying
When equal machinery
Launch bullets of
Lethal capacity splitting the man
Into several pieces.
I am left to eat my bread crumbs.
Alone in my cage.
No one to watch parade in front of me.
No one to watch be happy.
I swing the cage door open.
Step out. Stretch.
Look around and scream.
When my throat hurts
I climb back in my cage and shut the door.
I built this.
I'm my own maker and demise.
I will choose my own ending.
Leave me now.
I wish to starve slowly over
Everyone else's bread crumbs.
I was strolling through Evergreen Cemetery the other day,
Glancing at epitaphs etched upon various stones along the way.
Some flowing verse was out of this world but I can only assume,
That the authors were forthcoming in how they met their doom!
"Should an inconsiderate bird upon my stone alight,
Please do me a favor and remove the blight!"
"Here reposes a dude who tried to rob a lady teller,
But she was a keener shot than this unlucky feller!"
"Here sleeps ace pilot Captain Cletus Cole;
His wings were clipped attempting a barrel roll!"
"Here reclines butcher Clyde who cheated on his wife.
Unknown to him she was also adept at wielding a butcher knife!"
"Here lies Hank his mortal shell riddled with lead.
He was nabbed rustlin' steers and the sheriff shot him dead!"
"Here is deposited the corpus of Eddie a top-notch baker.
He is now serving assorted donuts to his beloved Maker!"
"Please relay your regards as by this way you pass,
But for heavens sake, keep off the cottin' pickin' grass!"
"On a banana peel the dear departed slipped and fell.
We pray he landed in paradise and not in hell!"
"He didn't know his Volkswagen had all that power.
He met his doom head-on doing 90 miles per hour!"
"Fer nigh on 40 years old Hank rode this earthly range;
Now he rides in that final roundup on that heavenly grange!"
"Gambler Jim has left very few friends behind to grieve;
He was caught with a couple of aces up his sleeve!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Look around, city folks try to catch up
to what can never be done;
they squander money to fit into society,
renting luxurious apartments
in glass and steel skyscrapers...
I keep on dreaming and waiting;
oh, if I had been a millionaire
I wouldn't have wished for these things,
at least, I have a plan for tomorrow.
That dreamed vacation must wait,
and in the meantime I search travel magazines
for the best bargains offered,
and Europe is my favorite destination:
it's people, it's views, it's languages and History....
at least, I have a plan for tomorrow.
Every week portion of my paycheck
is deposited into my bank account,
and it's an awesome feeling to watch my savings grow,
not thinking how fast they will be spent
on an airline ticket to enjoy a month of adventure.
I can pack my bags anytime and leave on that plane today,
but extra cash will be handy to take home some souvenirs
to give to family, friends and neighbors;
at least, I have a plan for tomorrow.
It's July and I am ready to take off,
wearing cargo shorts and a yellow tee shirt
with blue shades and brown sandals...feeling the breeze
in my Chevy convertible as If I were already there,
but all that I have dreamed, wouldn't have been possible
to be achieved without a plan for tomorrow.
We woke up early to a 50 degrees morning….six o’clock to be specific
In order to make the 70 mile trip to Rialto Beach on the coast of the Pacific.
It was a two hour circuitous trip …since we had to be there by nine
there was no time to linger about
because Rialto Beach is only open when the tide is out.
The beach is known for it’s sea stacks…tiny islands standing free
once connected headlands…that long ago have been eroded by the sea.
It is also known for its tree graveyard…once tall, majestic now fallen trees
that storms have deposited on this coast
made bare and bleached by ocean winds…
against the dark sand…they now lie there white as ghosts.
Finally this beach is also known…once the tide recedes
for something very cool…
the starfish, anemones and snails that inhabit its tidal pools.
Walking in the deep and darkened sand…for two old people was a chore
but on we trudged because we were seeing things we’d never seen before.
People watching us struggling to walk up the beach…
might have cried out wistfully
“Look at those two old people…walking tentatively by the sea.”
But something wonderful happened to to us
every time we sat atop a ghostly looking tree
every time we saw a sea stack, a starfish or anemone.
With each new adventure that day we experienced along the shore…
we felt a little younger than we did a moment before…
Which meant people watching us walk back down the beach…
might have cried out delightedly…
“Look at how young those two old people look…walking by the sea.”
Vostok 1
Within the time allotted
of eighty-nine minutes,
to orbit the planet Earth
at 17,500 miles per hour,
the Russian cosmonaut
inside the Vostok capsule
espies the distinctive
features of Earth,
from two hundred miles above
its surface.
And reflects upon
the physical violence
of energetic movement
that formed terra firma;
then watches the sun’s rays
penetrate the atmosphere
and thinks of the warmth
inside the magnetic shield.
He sees the beauty of the blues
deposited from frozen comets.
Out here, it’s so tranquil,
thinks Yuri Gagarin,
the first person in space.
“Cedar to Dawn,
I see Earth. The visibility is excellent, over!”
His message relays
to the Soviet command station.
Then, the Vostok retros fire over Africa
for gravity to force re-entry,
and readies himself for ejection
four miles above the Volga River
basin drainage system.
***
Notes:
On April 12, 1961, Yuri Gagarin (1934–1968), aboard Vostok 1, launched from Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan, USSR, at 6:07 am local time. The total mission lasted 108 minutes. He was the first person in space and the first person to orbit the Earth.
In order to escape gravity, the capsule needs to hit 7.9 km/s or 17,500 miles per hour, which is orbital velocity (approximately 20 times the speed of sound).
Vostok: “Vostok” means “east” in Russian.
Cedar (Kedr-Russian pine): Gagarin’s call sign.
Dawn (Zarya): Launch facility call sign.
On May 5, 1961, Alan Shepard (1923–1998) was the first American astronaut launched into space, and John Glenn (1921–2016) became the first American astronaut to orbit the Earth on Feb. 20, 1962.
The wind is too frail to carry across oceans
the echoes of distant bells,
too wayward to traverse the wild plains
to deliver wolves’ howls
and the hoots of owls,
too headstrong not to tussle with the storms
it passes, and thus lose its cargo
of muezzins’ calls and mermaids’ coos.
Jungles are jumbled with passages from rooftop
saxophonists’ solos,
valleys brim with the arias
it spirited away from piazzas,
and dropped heedless along the way.
The perfumes of rare books and hidden brooks
are lost too,
as are the aromas of faraway bazaars,
stranded on city streets,
harassed by exhaust fumes.
Snowflakes languishing in deserts,
petals flailing in glaciers,
the vibrations from a hundred fandangos,
the thunder of a million migrating hooves,
all were by the wind misplaced before
they could be deposited through my window.
To find them, I must travel forth.
How wonderful! God sees our worthless vessels,
yet they carry his message and light into the world.
O wonder! God moves our feet, directs our paths.
Our minds must not hinder nor slack. They must
attack the dust, muddy mess, and all life’s elements.
Special, me? If you flip my lid, there’s a dynamo
treasure trove inside. Jewels of the universe reside
within, deposited daily by the Holy Spirit. The gems
of God’s Word are precious, spectacles, reminders.
Blessings! Tucked away, dusted off, to heaven or bust.*
Don’t hold on tight but release fistfuls of holy dollars.
There’s much more where those came from. Fill
your jar daily then open up and let out the sun, moon
and stars. Don’t mistake a handheld diamond,
sapphire, ruby for a god. It has no power over you,
under you nor around you but God’s power lights
up the universe. We borrow it to light our houses
but most assuredly we can never illuminate our own eyes.
God lit them and will darken them. Take care if you want
to see the light of heaven colorize your eyes once again.
1/31/2022
*The term “or bust,” used in traveling in a vehicle.
People would make signs, “To New Orleans or bust,”
for example to indicate they would do
everything possible to get there.
courtesy of management in general
and particularly Jackie Geiger
assistant property agent.
One benefit living social
at Highland Manor Apartments
until decrepit and bent...
constitutes qualifying for reimbursement
direct deposited into checking
as chump change event,
hence one generic grateful gent
feels self satisfied as Clark Kent.
After broken wing and prayer
granted courtesy The Flying Tigers
at long last located valuable information
issued December of each year
surprisingly enough exactly where
social security (2021) 1099 form
remained untouched, I swear,
yet earlier yesterday April 5th, 2022
at 1500 hours though very near,
and finally located necessary documentation
(think rental rebate) here
with unexpected discovery
birthed following poem aware
many if not all avid readers
will not care, nor give rat's a$$
regarding humdrum minor dilemma
involving one bonafide
*****sapiens merely
bruising himself – common Joe
garden variety generic biomass,
nonetheless, he fetes, lauds, tauts...
rental rebate tantamount
approximating financial reimbursement
without being unduly crass.
Thus reasonable rhyme
yours truly doth aire
without stut... stut...
stuttering, yet no guarantee
wordsworth their weight
in gold will ring clear
more likely receive
frosty reception everywhere
across world wide web,
perhaps with unwelcome glare,
yet profuse apology
if man with wit - me,
(i.e. Whitman) didst unwittingly interfere
with unwanted distraction
courtesy bobbing square
pants donned sponge
soaking up precious time (yours)
foolish longfellow rushing in where
one capricorn long since wed
not nsync, but alone,
cuz angels fear to tread
"quod erat demonstrandum"
forgotten Latin accessed
at least once year
when yours truly crafts poetry
more familiarly recognized as Q.E.D.
(shares close pronunciation
with ska quid word)
ditch costs extra nay saying
horse sense according to Ned,
whoop sorry, I meant mister Ed.
Oi Oi ..saveloy…caps do doff..bless Joffy boy…with injury woes and blows…
From the off some did scoff…Joff can no longer bowl for toffee…clearly not really…
Not being coy but some of those press hoi polloi said Ben had chose..
A risky ploy against our Indian foes…but seeing him let rip
For the fans unbridled joy..a trip to our favourite offy..
It must have been hard..his comeback marred..alright scarred
By what the keyboard warriors deposited…despite his trouncer
Bouncer calling card…was abused.. and accused of being coddled..
Even swaddled and cossetted..
While everyone in the stand thought it was grand…
Our corn row mane not dread lock..spearhead…
Gold chain warlock.. with the ball they all dread
After four sore years to once more..
Adore pure pace grace so raw..
Watch the speed gun soar…
A hardcore encore we saw for sure..
You can’t really match it…the Jofra creed…
Watching batters in tatters..can't relax..sow the seed..
The champ axe in our camp does ramp it up to the max…
Trying to face our flying ace hatchet who when he does need
Can just ratchet up his speed..
No faking…Joff did always say he would do his best..
In his quest to play another test…the ultimate contest..
Can’t be forsaken by those mistaken that he would just be taking..
The cash for some crap brash slap and dash bash..
Fleeting greetings from the future..where we will all being well ..
Will be meeting our speedster suitor…us.. amorous
About our glamorous Jofradamus..his blizzards will neuter..
Have willow wizards by the gizzards..our tearaway tutor..
So a quick nod to the bowling God…giving him another
Chance to prance and dance..sod each odd bod..
Getting sniffy or spiffy.. Joff somehow iffy..
Cos it was bloody lubbly jubbly..
To see you back having a crack on the track …
Like the scene of that 2019 tiff between him and piggy Smith…
Us again getting squiffy in a jiffy..with this new riff..
By our corker stalker.. wicket hawker…..the bliss
We did miss due to his injury abyss..
A new era ..finally coming…Joff still strumming …humming..
Nice one my son…so come on let’s open the bubbly…
I was distracted
and could no longer recall
the thought that had just
occupied my mind.
There was only
the pleasant afterglow
of whatever it was,
a sweet residue lingering
in the place where
the thought used to be.
I was annoyed
that I'd let it go.
Most of our identity,
our past, is like this,
a vast ocean of formless haze
floating between small islands
of what's remembered.
Sometimes, that haze is toxic,
sweeping in from an unnamed
place with it poisons
deposited by an event
long erased of detail.
Others come in gently
as a feeling that settles
like perfume, driftings
from a contented moment
of love set free of time
and place, an escapee
from memory.
It can be electric.
Who we are
seems mostly hidden
in that vague region
where the aura and lint
of our lives accumulate,
too ethereal for memory
to hold captive and replay
in the now, no more than
mere notions arising
out of the nowhere
from where we come.