Long Dismount Poems
Long Dismount Poems. Below are the most popular long Dismount by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dismount poems by poem length and keyword.
Could not find the kitty again; called her, she was too smart to meow.
At the top of the Christmas tree; dog told me with his gruff bow wow.
She was above two of my favorite glass bulbs, posed precariously.
Purple bulb from Russia, and my Gold K bulb from Grandma McPhee.
I removed them before I coaxed cat, who did not want to climb down.
Dog barking furiously now, he is a mighty hunter, this three hand hound.
Give me a break I told him, chasing him away from the Christmas tree.
I urged Poindexter to dismount; she was a head or two taller than me.
Poindexter knew she was in a heck of a fix, but she could not move.
So I put on some music, and I began to sway, shimmy and groove.
That did not work so I put some wet cat food on a plate.
The dog ran out from the kitchen and carried it off; what a mate!
Cat nip someone whispered inside my brain, it was the cat fairy!
So I sprinkled some around the rug at the bottom, it blew up kind of airy.
Poindexter was down fast, tree shook and quaked. She was very meek.
Had talk we always have, as it was her third time up there this week.
SAGEBRUSH RANCH
holding his small hand,
jumping up and down,
in the silver box —
a playground with mirrors
and three buttons.
people that look like us
are all around.
when the box is full
they disappear.
the ding-ding sounds
and doors part ways,
as we exit into the gallery,
where only grandma takes note
of the paintings that blur
as we hurry to the Sagebrush Ranch.
the stagecoach rocks,
horses hooves sound a steady beat,
as we watch the scenery (on a little screen)
the buckaroo protects his grandma,
with fingers cocked, ready for an impending shootout.
the checkerboard sings
as we press buttons —
the crooning of a cowboy in our ears.
we “sit a while” in the wicker rockers.
there’s a room in the ranch
with a rope-style bed, and
a treasure chest of play clothes.
the four-year old grins, as he digs,
putting on boots way too big
and a black and white faux-cowhide vest.
i help this towhead into the saddle
of a life size horse, teaching him
the little that grandma knows —
“giddyup” as he stirs the rein
and “whoa” as he leans back on his critter.
the boots oft slip, and he orders
“the princess” to pull them on again.
assisted with a dismount,
he runs to the chuck wagon to beg
a carrot from the nearby cook,
pats down the horse and urges him to eat
after the long and dusty desert ride.
the excitement as he gallops to each station,
enterprising in each task, never letting “the princess”
relax. he climbs the ladder into the loft,
and makes her ascend. they watch cowboy t.v.
at the end, they ride the stellar box, up and down
then to the cowboy store, where his cherub cheeks
blush and his eyes twinkle, with a dollar in his hand.
he pays for a lollipop in the shape of a cowboy boot.
this cowpoke falls asleep,
as the modern carriage rocks him
and grandma smiles as she wields the reins.
2/27/2019
By Izunna Okafor
Oh ye the sun
Why have you been stubborn like son
Consistent in gazing at ground
Endlessly waxing around the town
The ground is as though as husk
But you never consider the gross of dust.
Why have you always unleashed your anger
Treating your people as though we are stranger
Have you forgotten your mandate to the man on earth
To the extent of being a straw to uproar his thirst
Oh the sun when will you dismount from us
Thy wicked eyes of drought and blocks
Thy hotness of thy eye is severe to man
And the warmness of thy time has defied the land
You cool a hand with liquor
But beat a man to stupor
Your good works are never rejected
But your hook ones are ever dejected
You dread not the men
And you fear not the rain
Punching out the rays to the cloud
And mulching out the blaze to the crowd
A pregnant woman you spare not
Not even a new baby you spare wrath.
You make a giant a lazy man
And rename a Goliath a baby man
Oh the sun when shall ye retreat
And remove thy bricks along the street
The calves of men are now like blades
Crushing the earth as ruin abrades.
Our body is now at stake
Just as our colour is now mistake
Your dryness is never to quench the quake
But to bring the earth to thirst and quake
Oh thy sun I beseech thee to leave the earth alone
Your mandate to man is to bring the earth to growth
And not to bring the earth a groan.
Thus we appeal thee the sun
Dismount thy host from men and go.
About The Poet:
Izunna Okafor is an award-wining creative Young Nigerian Novelist, Poet, Essayist, Journalist, Editor, Translator, Publicist, Igbo Language Activist and an Administrator who hails from Ebenator in Nnewi South L.G.A of Anambra State Nigeria. He writes in English and Igbo languages, and has published enormously in both, nationally and internationally. Izunna has received over 25 awards, and has over 800 articles published online.
O, Villanelle Villanelle! Thou who rhymes
so well with “little bell,”—whose lines amount
to nineteen, a prime that works every time.
Thy two refrains permit no theft or crime,
yet throughout the end-rhymes repeat and count;
O, Villanelle Villanelle,—Thou who rhymes!
Rain or shine, in calm or tempestuous climes,
thy song swells and falls of its own account
to nineteen, a prime that works every time.
Thy grandioso tempos build and climb,
then culminate in the ending's dismount;
O, Villanelle Villanelle,—Thou who rhymes!
Thy strict form is not for all paradigms;
for everything's transacted less discount
by nineteen, a prime that works every time.
And when refrains together go sometimes,
thy chords take on a sound that's paramount;
O, Villanelle Villanelle,—Thou who rhymes
to nineteen, a prime that works every time!
And when refrains together go sometimes,
thine chords take on a sound that's paramount;
O, Villanelle Villanelle,—Thou who rhymes
to nineteen, a prime that works every time!
Great moments in childhood
THE PLAYGROUND.
Responsible for
bumps, bruises, broken bones
busted egos
Redeemed by
spontaneous acts of wisdom
retaliation, retribution and mercy.
THE “JUNGLE BARS”
A ten foot high tower
ruled by a reincarnated
Olympic gymnast.
THE “SEE-SAW”
An 18 foot plank
Balanced on a fulcrum
(never trust the other kid
to dismount slowly and ease you down)
THE CENTRIFUGE
(aka the kid killer)
A 12 foot in diameter lever powered device.
Purpose - to allow children to spin so fast
that they could be thrown in a tumbling
mass across the stone strewn ground.
THE “SLIDE”
A 15 foot long metal chute
Capable of reaching temperatures of 125 degrees
on a perfect “let’s go play in the park” day.
THE “SWINGS”
A controllable Grandfather Clock
capable of inducing great fear and excitement
and an insatiable desire to get higher – faster.
(often thought of as a “gateway drug”)
John G. Lawless
©6/15/2021
From my drone, I see you far below
The elk stampedes, the red rocks glow
I'm like the storm over the plain
Can you outrun the rain?
You hope to make it to the black rock lands
But no-one is left, no helping hands
My drone lets loose, a bolt from the blue
The earth erupts, but it misses you.
You think of sunshine before this war
No idea back then what was in store
That foolish empathy now seems in vain
Can you outrun the rain?
You galloped the prairie, now your horse is lame
You dismount you and jog, can't face the blame.
Behind you thunder shakes the plain:
Can you outrun the rain?
You think of the horror that you helped bring
The bombed-out craters where vultures sing.
Truth wasn't your value, that was your stain
You seeded the cloud and now comes the rain.
I send a new command to the drone
I can't go through with this, so I call it home.
My heart goes out to you, I feel your pain
I'll look away while you outrun the rain.
An interesting form indeed:
this one’s the Shrinking Verse.
The more you let your ink pen bleed,
the more, stanzas get terse.
The opposite, I must concede,
for sure, would be much worse.
I can’t draw forth the words I need,
an older poet’s curse.
From eight to six to four to two,
so goes the stanza’s count.
Like run-off rain will often do,
a trickle from a fount,
and when you’ve pared to pairs, you’re through:
time for the big dismount.
The rhyming pattern does repeat;
’Tis just an ‘a’ and ‘b’.
The ‘a’ line always has four feet;
The ‘b’ line, only three.
In truth, it’s not that much to ask,
so I will not shrink from the task.
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The Shrinking Verse has a decreasing number of lines per stanza, typically 8/6/4/2, but you could start at 12 or 10 as well.
The rhyme pattern, 8a:6b, repeats as many times as is needed for the stanza.
The exception is that the final couplet is 8a:8a
There are baskets full of something's;
While there are barrels filled with nothings;
And as I reply, no ones reading my divines;
There are boxes filled with everything's;
As God is the all creator of all and every beings;
I place the knot on the sheep;
As the leopard and lamb fell fast asleep;
No one dreams tonight
As the chickens take flight;
Now as you read this, are you aware;
That there's nothing here;
And as you feel you say I've been here;
So when you fill your baskets full of something;
And there's a barrel full of nothings;
Ask the sales clerk for a discount;
Because you fell off the horse, instead of a proper dismount;
Never less fill your boxes, barrels, with prayers;
Every peoples pray to God
Sleep not on sheep when your sleepy;
Instead fall on the ground, lay down, sleep in a tent;
and when it's all said and done;
Snore
What co-arises together
must co-exhale to part.
Last night my HIV+ hunted down my negative,
my darkside,
death and fear,
my anger about my mortality,
my greater anger about our mortality as a species,
my greatest anger about our mortality as Earth's DNA/RNA Tribes of Life,
that we all are so wrong and pointless
given limitations of our time's memory
riding,
hiding,
hunting inside our skin
for how to not let this incarnate hunt ever end.
Yet, with dawn's light,
this haunting by endless nothingness,
as if we had never become, so never been,
this fear of death and anger against its organic final demand,
we hope to end
with seamless faith in eternally timeless ego-identity.
Where did this ego emerge from?
Endless nothingness?
Or, a paradise womb of cooperative eco-normics,
eco-logically self-optimizing nutritional health,
perfect temperature care,
nurturing co-abundance
between this seed of ego and this Mother Earth ElderEcoSystem,
sufficient well-being wealth
which, as decomposed,
became creolizing syntax
Natural elements with spiritual flows and functions
progenerated by co-arising gravity of time's folding
and refolding
and unfolding revolutions,
the stardust structure of Father Time's seasonal
reasonal
primally relational language.
How do we ecologically reason and induce,
expand and contract,
regenerate and decompose,
produce and consume,
this emergent hypothesis about ego's discontinuous nondual co-arising.
Inevitable mortality,
just how frightening and maddening is this,
to embrace
absorb
devour
soak up
co-prehend
Ego v Eco-science
co-arising to co-decompose
integrative/disintegrative folds
of cosmologically progenitive
dual-destiny transparent
Eco-Time?
Those who surf our co-arising together
must learn to co-exhale dismount
to co-arise the waves of future's time
now foreshadowing sacred co-presence.
I rode to power on a Midwest horse,
Bearing amongst the feathers in my cap this terse brief
from my broken people:
To lay waste to the irksome order
That home and abroad now prevails.
Strained voices break out in the valley below
And many more in the world across the seas
Bidding me to dismount at once
And move to saddle the global kingdom
Of Reagan, Roosevelt, Clinton, ...
That now is mine to ride.
Yet this very kingdom I came to crush;
My Midwest horse, I wouldn't trade for it!
In her neighs, I hear a nay
Forbidding me to consider the bargain.
Her counsel I think I'll heed
For between the two, she's the easier to ride.
A horse that trots on cheap lies
Or a kingdom that floats on costly allies--
That's the question I now confront.