Long Disused Poems
Long Disused Poems. Below are the most popular long Disused by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Disused poems by poem length and keyword.
(an All Poetry feat to walk in
the poetic feet of Robert Frost)
Bucolic New England, circa
Early twentieth century New England
awash with dynamic harmonic leisureliness,
when much of North America favored rustic
visual whirled wide webbed watercolor
waiting afield at dusk, the thrum
of nature all abuzz didst feed thine
dizzily green jovial mien
unlike mean Gary Lewis
veritable innocence and naiveté
rollicked with mine lanky frame
relishing ambling into my own quietude
an infinite breadth, length and scope
of infrequently trammeled near virgin
woodland paths grown over with brambles
nonetheless a faintly trussed harbinger
marked by weatherbeaten
for sale signposts
with here and there an abandoned plow
long since given over
to rust when the pasture
seasons elapsed since
farmer(s) left unharvested
fecund fields absent
the cloven hoof,
and deprived enrichment
manure, sans ungulates
ceased sufficing healthy
free ranging bovines,
where etudes punctuated
the terribly gross fresh air,
now no longer audibly quickening,
snapchatting, nor twittering
with the last word of a bluebird
deathly silence now 'cept
the wind in the willows
whispering woebegone laments
tree tops pining to cradle
idle youthful dreamers
boughs devoid of
psalm quivering romantic songstress
clattering debris merely
delivering echoed whooshing refrains
continually disintegrating among
in a disused graveyard
prescient ken aches with nostalgia
hallucinogenic nightmare slams
irrevocably shut the door in the dark
closed for good upon the onset,
wrought genocide against
the vanishing Red man,
a ghostly scarification meaningless ritual
wrested, removed, and highjacked
from indigenous peoples
without rhyme, nor reason
as fraternities no
longer pledge allegiance.
Technically, not a sea at all,
Lake Superior churns up its share of sea storms.
There is not a lot to do in Marquette, Michigan:
Except for high school drivers to "buzz the gut",
Or cruise past a courthouse where "Anatomy" was filmed.
You could smoke dope or drink underage
Under a disused, fourteen story ore pocket dock.
Rusted off shards of flat black paint
Fall on the gently sloshing waves.
There is a breakwater of dumped cement blocks
That has a chain-linked fence and sign that says,
DANGER! NO TRESPASSING!
But of course, the young ones do.
And better yet if a sea storm comes.
Maritime law forbids including those who drown
As sailors lost at sea.
Larger than large, fostering the void,
Rippled iron for the walls, roof and door,
Above six-foot legs reaching up from the dirt,
To cradle the woollen greased floor,
With broken old memories in the years now at peace,
Years from the sheep shearing and men,
Years of disused hard immovable love,
Love from the chutes, race and pens,
This ghostly lit hall became an art hub,
Again a busy but with beautiful paint,
Where freedom can sit and relax with the past,
Where life can go to escape,
And walls are now coloured with exquisite art pop,
Everything here is a friend,
That greets folks each time they create art with a brush,
In the hundred year old shearing shed.
Mother had tuberculosis, and my sister and I were
a children’s home run by the state, which had many houses
Depending on age and sex
My brother had already been sent to one who had found German
hand grenades and used them at a disused airport.
The grenades made a terrible noise, and my brother
had to spend some time in a hospital and was later sent to a home
on a small island working at the stone quarry.
My sister and I had been invited to a big wedding
, a real working-class one
A wedding with plenty of food, booze, and beer for the adults
and soft drinks for us. We had been told not to go, but we went anyway
It was a great, really classy wedding; the bride was in white.
At first, there was jealousy amongst the women,
tearing of hair,
The man couldn`t stand there watching; a legendary fight ensued.
Police sirens, the police charged with batons, were beaten back
by police reinforcement. Gradually, the party was peaceful
and the police
themselves, the working class left the scene.
It was morning when we came back to the home, where my sister went
back to the girls ' house, and I, the boys, awaited punishment
I was ten at the time and angry.
When the big boss arrived, I, feeling overwhelmed and angry, threw a vase at him, marking a moment of defiance rooted in my childhood frustrations.
A week later, I was on a farm milking cows.
Ever since childhood, I have felt it was my duty to speak up and defend the have-nots, reflecting my core values of justice and fairness to inspire similar feelings in the audience.
A morsel of good news
Breaks out with sensation
State politics disused
Gone is a term of nation
Don’t wake me from this sleep
Don’t stop this epic fall
The old world gets a sweep
I don’t regret at all
The Equalizers came
From black hole outer space
We speak from our names
Since now, not from some place
No nation is allowed
Stigmatization banned
How’s it, to live without
Symbolic native land?
No borders whatsoever
No bloody history
False accusations never
Will be addressed to me
What a relief, my dears
The good news seem so new
I would rejoice to tears
If all above were true.
On the way to Porto for a week's holiday, we drove through a pine forest a man planted forest the way each
stood at a respectful distance from each other
A year later in high summer, the forest took fire and
when flames met on the road, cars were trapped and many people, and families, died in the horrific hell-fire.
Our hotel was situated at a height, we had asked for a downtown hotel, my wife said it was my fault since I had tried to speak Portuguese- not far from a disused water tower, it's gated surrounding full of rats where every night hideous screams were heard in the ongoing war of rodents fighting cats
we decided to walk into the center, but with her hips and my feet, we soon tired and hailed a taxi.
Porto, the old part, is a marvel with shops from a time long passed yet still open for business and lovely old churches, not to forget the railway station, its waiting hall a work of art in its own right.
Back at the hotel, for a change of dress and rest, there was a commotion outside a dead obscenely rat that was to be removed by the unwilling staff at the hotel
in the evening we dined at a posh restaurant we will normally not visit because it is too expensive, but the food was superb as was the wine, which I drank too much of and in a festive mood offered to sing until my
wife explained in Porto they are not into Fado!
The next day, we went to where tourists go to bars
along the river, it was packed, I hated it and wanted to
go home but endured to me wife was tired too and
we took a taxi to our hotel.
The next day she met a friend she had not seen since she left Congo and the two women had much to catch up on
and I was free to read the papers
Let's melt down all the plastics that will not biodegrade
and form some giant ice floes to replace the ones God made
so Polar bears will have somewhere to sit and sleep and stand
instead of getting persecuted when they come inland.
Lets crush unwanted bottles down and grind them into ice-
like crystals, line the kerbs with them, hey that'd look quite nice,
a safety feature for the roads that aren't lit well at night
and visually cool rivers of car reflected light.
For all the stuff mankind discards that uglifies the land
the answer is an easy one, and really close to hand
compress it and then pack into flasks, all concrete lined
and stack it in the empty shafts of all the disused mines.
And in the meantime let's change attitude, and though it might seem rough
but if we were less greedy then we wouldn't stockpile stuff
the latest craze, the new gadget to keep up with your friends
not thinking when it's obsolete just where on Earth it ends
so let man learn a lesson from the stupid things he did
and give a fighting chance toward the future for our kids.
10th June 2015
For competition 'Stuff' sponsored by Thomas Martin
My other man was birthed on the back of my son.
My other man was broken in mouth, thought and dream.
My other man was built from torn jigsaw puzzle pieces and self-loathing.
My other man roamed disused houses of neglect.
My other man distorted my face, back, legs and arms.
My other man intended harm.
My other man wanted to crawl inside you.
My other man was my Father.
My other man was my Grandmother.
My other man was my fears inverted.
My other man made others bored.
My other man made others laugh.
My other man made others cry.
My other man made others faint.
My other man made others vomit.
My other man wanted to lead you up the garden path and leave you there.
My other man hated you.
Hated you.
Absolutely.
Upon surrendering this self
hypnotized faux yes ("FAKE") Earthing,
I noticed nothing amiss
(which temporary state of transcendent bliss
twice daily meditation strives to attain),
ah...before you dismiss
a non "FAKE" claim lemme juiced
apprise ye with a very brief hiss
tour re:, how this generally outlandish
(long gush fellow) doth wanna kiss
hippy, cheeky and buddy
UFO's (with chess
a mon bot of errant knightly -
je ne sais quois finesse,
Oh Henri Matisse -
yea artfully add a touch of Swiss
obviously predominantly
French laced politesse),
though up pawn occasion
this lousy manque non
rook key mutant doth miss
long disused subtle social cues, cuz I still
feel asper (in) a human aberration
always felt like an outcast in an alien nation
even though born on Mars,
(a distinct honorable station),
yet resided on third rock from the sun
what seems like forever damnation
yours truly experienced abolition
against supposed invaders from outer space,
and essentially targeted, kindled,
and bullied on par like an abomination,
no surprise while attempting
to escape being walled din,
and trumped "illegal" accusation
crackled, snapped, and popped with abjection,
your honor (forgot to mention
earlier got picked up mistaken as invitation
from outer space by a kid prized
as some sophisticated surveillance drone),
within a sketchy section
of town, and must avoid acquisition
by mad scientists (employed by NASA),
who will undoubtedly take immediate action
and disassemble me (carefully as if dismantling
Bono fide atomic bomb), hence activation
must be established pronto against administration,
sans powerful GMO firearm, emitting disinformation
(mine defense of last resort)
will definitely signal to nemesis
furthering my aggravation,
and Putin this webbed, whirled,
and wired woebegone wysiwyg at risk.
This is my story, my telling.
It was a Monday morning
in a time that never existed.
In a past that was fictional
until it was revealed as a plot
writing by a man-made ghost-writer,
nevertheless it became this yesterday,
this legend told to a child.
Even though Mondays keep turning up
as regular as clock-work hamsters,
or as wheel walking somnambulists
all those faceless namesakes
called forth by a light-eating moon.
Even though that particular page
in a fading paperback was not recorded
but only jotted down on a slice of burnt toast
at the time,
it happened just as I say it deed.
I was ten or sometime after.
I was late for school,
I was running uphill
knowing I would get a detention slip
and then I stopped
and walked into an open field
knowing I was nobodies problem.
I left town following a disused railway track
and never turned back
but then I must have
because the following week
Monday returned like a wet dog
coming in from the rain.
And that is that
except it's all very hazy,
however the day after Sunday
keeps returning now
to haunt my disappearing footsteps.