Long Ducking Poems
Long Ducking Poems. Below are the most popular long Ducking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ducking poems by poem length and keyword.
What kind of world will we leave for our children,
one that is shackled in hate?
Tying their hands in the wake of the future,
sealing the edge of their fate.
Killing of innocents minding their business,
filling the shadows with fear.
What is the plan to relieve all this worry,
now that it’s already here?
Why is it right that we turn against neighbors
just for the clothing they wear?
The color of skin and the faith they believe in,
did we forget how to care?
Racism churned from the bellies of monsters,
pointing their fingers in blame
When will they learn that we’re in this together,
regardless of language or name?
Why do we hide always ducking for cover,
waiting this terror to cease?
When we can stand up like sister and brother
walking together in peace.
We are all people who live on this planet,
being the best we can be.
It’s up to us what we leave for our children. . .
why not a world that is free?
Is my room in such disarray
That I'm not even seeing straight?
Are those dust bunnies wearing candy wrappers as hats?
Their building an army, I'm under attack!
They start to charge towards me with their toothpick swords
holding shields made of buttons and whips made of extension cords
They begin constructing a catapult made up of popsicle sticks and a wooden spoon
One by one the dust bunnies shoot across the room
Ducking every attempt to hit them with the broom
I bet I can suck those little buggers up with my trusty vacuum
Their little cries are covered up by my suction tool of death
I hope you bunnies enjoyed your last breath
I will keep my room clean I promise you
Now I am aware of what dust bunnies can do.
Before it’s too late
Distant bells clatter on cloud fed weathered skies where
darkness creeps past low light vestibules, faded beams flicker
Short skirts wave in a winter wind, breezy attributes
revealing fishnet thighs calling to the next hidden passenger,
batting lashes and blowing bubbles of stale gum placed under
crushed velvet seats worn in places, stained deliberately
for bragging rights and handkerchief blotting
A ghostly mist lingers as lips are touched up, bright red, crimson,
shades of desire, occupational decisions, advertisements leaking
into sewers and hopscotch squares spread along the avenue
Silhouettes in porch lanterns, whistling…so unladylike, ducking
constables with nightsticks swinging like the clapper in those damn bells
waking the unsuspecting and spooking the transients offering
a few coins for a ten dollar dream
Swine wallows in last week’s gossip, slimy little beings
fat on sausage and biscuits, cursing the rats pushing their way in
below curtains and kitchen windows framing inquisitive eyes,
watching cash change hands and satisfied smirks
on the faces of those wiping feet on mats,
greeting the family in disguise, shirt un-tucked,
long day rewards and dinner on the table
Yesterday’s newspaper tumbles down the walk,
clinging to sign posts, featuring headlines of death, a warning in bold print,
still at large, a menace to society in a grey overcoat,
double breasted and fancy shoeprints in the fresh mud
No further traces except the body, contorted and frozen, smeared faces
littering cobblestone gutters, frightening children and pets,
as passersby look to second floor balconies, oblivious
Midnight calls, staggering drunkards exit Chauncey’s,
hard up and spent, slurred laughter, boisterous to hide worries
and tomorrow’s jobs, time clock lies and penciled in wishes
Iron fence posts rust at the gateway as they glance to the headstones
of friends long past and recent memories, sensing the urge,
seeing the painted nails and low cut blouses, thinking…
before it’s too late
While from a secluded archway…
Now I'm not complaining
Just a little whining
'cause I feel the need to vent
for there're times things get too hot.
I work all day
twelve hour shifts
Look forward to rest
then play with my sons.
Up my driveway I go
then through the door
Home at last .
When ....zap ! zap! Zing! whissssss! pop !
Ducking and weaving
I narrowly miss the bullets
from the wife's drawn tongue.
Nothing can stop her
once she starts.
A slam of the door
is all it takes
to start a volley of bullets flying.
I hold my breath,
say a prayer and
God does intervene.
She runs out of bullets
retreats, quickly reloads.
Sliding along walls,
easing thru' doors
I grab the boys.
By the time she's ready ,
me and my sons?
Boy, do we hit the road.
I looked out into the yard - guess what I did see
Hoards of sunny yellow blossoms - looking back at me
Then dark rain clouds came to call - with cold wind bending trees
All the blossoms hid their faces - oh where could they all be
I know I didn't pick them - mow them I did not
I think this chilly rainy day - has made them all distraught
They hide their little faces - closed petals ducking down
In the cold and wind and rain - they lay close to the ground
Tomorrow when the weather breaks - with the sun all warm and bright
They will come out of their hiding place - to dance within the light.
Hungary 1956
The innocent flowers peered gingerly
Through the stench in the iron pavement
Hesitating, then stretching the petals greedily
To drink of the sunlight of Possibility...
Czechoslovakia 1968
Beaming, grinning, grown men giddy with laughter
Liberty unleashed! Gone Repression's manacles
Now marching, shouting, swelling to a gale force
Unstoppable, sweeping aside all resistance in her path...
Happy Endings
...When, bludgeoned by cement-faced tanks
Petals ducking inward, collapsing
Pistils and stamens suffocating
Vanished smiles annihilated
Choked on oxygen-depleted
Placards of Freedom unbetrothed...
...All the flowers died...
...All the people withered...
...Crushed -- oh-so --Happily --ever --after
What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat–set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.
What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of flame
and then had long taken up living as metal–
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.
What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up, arched and coming back again.
Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs–
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
And I supposed that no sparrow would ever crash.
And what was this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn head gesture,
a thank you for the bread I’d left on the sill? Or to say
I’d better shut the curtain and make my exit?
Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow language
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.
That morning, with the last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in an open quadrilateral,
held its position.
(Written one day before the Boston Marathon bombing of April 15th, 2013)
Pale brimstone
emerge on days windblown
hover flower to flower
ducking Spring's sudden shower;
Common butterflies so blue
each season,two generations new,
small heath,argus,marbled white
and speckled brown,so slow in flight;
Winter's caterpillars green and small
fragile miracles,to enthrall.
Once,summer green
Then,autumn gold
Bedecked the ancient tree-
Now,in silhouette,laid bare
Mistletoed in winter frieze;
Flurries of snow,fine & dry
On its branches lie
White stars,scurry and shift
In piles of patterned drifts.
No breeze tonight
Trees pose statuesque
Flowers icily still
Time slows to a stop
Grasses stand to attention's call
Thought holds on pause
Air has that feel of fall
Listen to me read these poems on youtube under name ichthyschiro
Everyone has a wild child; she is sometimes the middle child.
And in our case I will call her T-burger, because that is her nickname.
This happened forty years ago, when she was eight.
My dad took T-burger and her sisters to the farm.
A place where he kept a bit of livestock, a garden, a smelly outhouse.
He also had his dad with him; so there was grandpa and great-grandpa
With three little girls who were ten, wild child, and five.
After a bit Great-grandpa got all excited and began to point and mutter.
He was losing it a bit, and could not talk as well as he once did.
Dad looked out to where they had been keeping a wild horse.
T-burger was ducking into the corral with the monster.
She walked right up to the bucking kicking overexcited thing.
The thing stopped bucking and kicking and let her pet it.
My dad looked at my uncle who was also there and said
“Wild knows wild”.
Pale brimstone
emerge
on days windblown
hover
flower to flower
ducking Spring's sudden shower
Common butterflies so blue
each season
two
generations new
small heath marbled white
& speckled brown
so slow in flight
Winter's caterpillars
green & small
fragile miracles
to enthrall
No breeze tonight
trees pose
statuesque
flowers icily still
time slows
to a stop
Grasses stand
to attention's call
thought holds on pause
air has
that feel of fall
Once,summer green
then autumn gold
bedecked the ancient trees
now in silhouette
laid bare
mistletoed
in winter frieze
flurries of snow
fine & dry
on its branches lie
white stars scurry & shift
in piles
of patterned drifts