Long Duffel Poems
Long Duffel Poems. Below are the most popular long Duffel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Duffel poems by poem length and keyword.
On youth's restless green puff.
I rode a southbound Greyhound bus
Everything I owned stuffed into one duffel bag.
Forty-eight hours plus on Highway X.
I arrived in darkness and settled for the first dive I could find.
One dingy room with peeling pink walls.
With a large painting of a red heart against black.
I assumed somebody pretending to be Peter Max.
The next night-I popped into "Geno's bar", to watch a football game.
There was a handful of locals-nobody spoke.
I bellied up at the end of the bar
From my angle, I saw hordes of cock roaches racing over hot dogs.
I was young and beyond hungry but settled for the vending machine.
Somebody would order; Geno would reach for a hot dog,
I think the roaches were trained because they'd promptly jump off.
By the time the dogs reached the bar top
They were sizzling, juicy, roach-free, and red hot.
Old Geno shakily handed them their roach dogs.
I was the newest guy on the block
and didn't want to bug bomb his loyal patrons.
I guessed that the infestation was our dirty little secret,
Geno winked and handed me a free beer before halftime,
I thanked him and guzzled the warm brew down.
I got up to leave as the game was a blowout.
I said so long to Geno and his roaches and promptly blew town.
A man of unquestioned probity in his community, stumbles upon
A hidden duffel bag in the woods while camping with his family
He pulls it out of the dirt and zips it open. The duffel bag
Is stuffed with $100 bills. He turns in the money, in full
To the authorities the next day. His honest deed earns him
Considerable, much-deserved kudos in the press. Unfortunately
He also gets the attention of an unscrupulous stranger, anonymously
Demanding "every last penny of my money back, or I'll...
Continue to make life a living hell for you and your family..."
A ruthless demand
Stranger wants his pound of flesh
Tough predicament
Date written and posted: 04/18/2019
A young man carrying a green duffel bag
over his shoulder shifts when he walks.
Off to war for our country and flag.
No military knowledge with little talk.
Enemy troops marched across the bridge,
with tanks, and hundreds of machine guns led.
As he sat dug in along and across the ridge,
bullets were zipping right over his head.
The dawn of the morning across the glen;
a plan was thought, bargain it was, the loss
of two companies to stop a million men
and ten thousand vehicles from getting across
Pop, pop pop, of distant sounds and then more,
trading volleys of gunfire with blood and gore
A friend gets killed and he dies to the core,
trembling with raging fire. A Casualty of war
5/24/2017
What is the purpose of your visit young man?
I heard that you have the best marmalade in the world
Well we do import oranges but you look a bit foreign to us
I am a seasoned voyager look at the stickers on my case
That is what we are worried about just making sure you are not a friend of Islam
Just a travelling tourist Sir and I am not a criminal communist either
The usual hassle ensued at the border post and the police enjoyed its authority
It gave them power and a reason to be with nothing better than a bit of control
Made Britain great again and ruling over waves of incomers called for respect
Open your bag we can sniff drugs and destruction because your skin is so dark
It is called mixed complexion blame the Spanish because I am from Peru
I can offer you some tales from my journeys to take home for the kids
Bribery won’t work and now trap your dirty snout while we consider your entry
You must be trafficking something and have come here to infest and destroy us
Don’t like your sort and you are too big for your camouflage Wellington boots
But my papers are in order please look at the stamp in my passport
I have been to the world back and beyond and now you give me grief
If you don’t keep your gob shut we must send you straight back to the jungle
Not before we blessed your pigmented pelt with a firm handout from true justice
I may look a tad scruffy to you but people come in all shapes and sizes
Small I may be and yet I can fill hearts with joy and kind exotic delight
He pleaded with the dignity of a stranger which was an alien concept to them
Diversity had died very long ago and the Empire had suffered a solar eclipse
The guard’s hearts had sclerosed from an onslaught of ignorance and regulation
Luckily Paddington had a duffel coat and hat to keep him warm while detained
17th November 2019
I never slept away from home
At either camp or school.
Where I grew up, we stayed close by
Our families, as a rule.
My son attended college, though,
Residing in a dorm
A good six hours’ drive away,
Which was within the norm.
My grandkids travel to their camps
And sleep, with friends, in bunks,
Their clothes and all necessities
In duffel bags or trunks.
For weeks, they do activities
With parents out of range
And even at the youngest age,
Nobody finds it strange.
I guess when college rolls around,
They’ll know what to expect,
Since being on your own must have
A powerful effect.
I liked my local schools and camps
So when I reminisced,
I rarely thought about that whole
Experience I missed.
Each day, she wallows in unspeakable despair
Her hunger is unslakable
There's misery in her downcast eyes
Poor woman, a have-not in the world of haves
She's a beggar and dumpster diver
Her appearance weather-beaten and unkempt
Her hand-held sign speaks more than she does
All that she has is stuffed into
her medium duffel bag
"Where will she sleep tonight?," I wonder. Where?
I sure hope and pray it's under a roof
Dear God, please keep her safe and sound!
CONTEST 555,ANY FORM OR NONE,ANY THEME,UP TO A MAX OF 20 LINES
Sponsored by Brian Strand (Winner: 1st Place)
Date written and posted: 02/06/2019
He was my sun, my one and only son,
attired as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.
Attired as a cowboy for the day
he searched for foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play
the part of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade.
He searched for foes (with bows and arrows made)
well written in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
Well writ in history books before he left from school,
the tales (retold of victories that we’d won)
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
The flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun.
From tales retold of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun
and bane to both sides (as he’d later come to know).
He learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the wounds of war were kept unseen (while nigh)
and bane to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
but still he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye.
The wounds of war were kept unseen. While nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12 at last, his time to leave.
But, still, he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who wouldn’t grieve.
The hours boomed, the clock struck 12 - alas, his time to leave.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who wouldn’t grieve
with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died;
his boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud.
With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.
His boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud;
they said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son.
**A Travel East**
We pass the Grand Mesa cruising like lightening at 95mph,
I feel like a passenger on a toy train.
A mountain 11,000 feet above the ground,
auburn colored, rock faced cliffs, complimented
by a spectacular baby blue sky.
Clouds scatter, trying unsuccessfully to cover
the rapid sunrise.
Blue,
Indian orange,
and red mix together well
with the beauty of the cliff face.
Along the base,
the Colorado river
races.
Not quite a rapid,
yet swift enough to scare rafters,
and small animals.
Miniature icebergs travel through a small channel
created in the ice of the once wide river.
A family of coyotes gather on a patch of solid ice.
The young playfully roam,
while the adults relax, lick themselves and watch.
Deer prance across the terrain,
chasing the train.
Detained,
inside a fence,
cattle graze in a group of one hundred or so.
A cottage rests along the perimeter
where children play.
Bundled from head to toe,
Snow,
thick and heavy.
Frosty is created!!
Homeward bound!!
The ride semi-pleasant,
better than the first.
The lavatory still with that distinctive
musky urine scent.
The passenger car seems bigger this time,
more spacious.
Room for my long legs,
and wide enough to accommodate my beer gut.
I hear the rantings of an old married couple
as they bicker about what time dinner should be reserved for.
Beside me,
laying awkwardly,
an old man snores.
Shallow breaths in between,
I can hear his heartbeat.
Pounding like
a heavy percussion solo,
his feet propped on his duffel bag below.
The lobby car when first entered
looked barren.
A few passengers sit with books and laptops,
others watch as the fast moving terrain passes
through the tinted double glass.
My cell phone lost battery life and I
needed the accommodation of electricity.
Occupied,
I wait for my turn.
From my peripheral I saw her,
I could sense her aura.
Smell her aroma of Vanilla Musk.
Dirty blond hair with red highlights,
short but not to short,
with a friendly disposition.
So,
I sparked a conversation,
that helped better this expedition.
Jared Pickett
3/7/08
Asavvy1
Duty called once again for the warrior brave and true.
His loving family gathered about to wish him a sad adieu.
The somber skies cast a pall upon the poignant scene,
As they bid farewell to their hero, their United States Marine!
He held his parents and they whispered, "God go with you son.
We'll pray for your protection until your tour of duty is done.
Remember well the lessons in Sunday school that you were taught,
And that the Twenty-third Psalm will comfort you when you are distraught!"
He knelt holding Danny saying, "You're the man of the house now.
I love you, son!" and tenderly kissed him upon the brow.
To little Nan he said, "Keep that smile on your pretty face."
His eyes misted as he kissed her and held her in close embrace.
As his children clasped his legs he held his sweet wife near.
They promised eternal love vowing, "I'll always love you dear.
I'll hold you in my heart - I eagerly await a happier day!"
With a final kiss he grasped his duffel and slowly walked away.
'Twas to be his final battle and then he would at last retire,
To regale his children and grandchildren nigh a glowing fire.
Alas, 'twas not to be for on the field of strife he perished,
Sacrificing all for his nation and those he loved and cherished.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Lili Marlene
In times of war, love can subdue cynical
(Men separated from their vocation, now filled with hatred),
And quell the beast inside their misdirected hearts,
And free their consciences to allow sorrow’s comfort.
A noisy silence pervades the barracks’ atmosphere,
Where soldiers stir, stuffing duffel bags with miscellaneous items,
While others reminisce, writing letters; maybe their last,
And await deployment orders for the Western and Eastern Fronts or Africa.
Belgrade, a woman’s voice over the airwaves is transmitted,
Allowing for a moment of silence and reflection for those listening
Alone; spiritually uplifted by memories of better times,
They seek a reason to justify this madness of sacrifice.
“My Dearest Marlene,” the pen begins when all hell breaks loose.
By bombs flashing bright, bloody hands write, then the pen stops:
“Until we meet again underneath the corner light,
Like we used to do, my Lili Marlene.”
***
Note:
"Lili Marlene" is a German love poem set to music by Norbert Schultze (1911–2002) in 1938, based on the poem “The Song of a Young Soldier on Watch,” written by Hans Leip (1893–1963) in 1915 during World War I. The song was first recorded by Lala Andersen (1905–1972) in 1939 under the title “The Girl Under the Lamps,” which became popular during World War II (1939–1945) among both the Axis and Allied troops. The song was first broadcast by the German Radio Belgrade station throughout Europe and North Africa, following the Nazi occupation of Belgrade in 1941.
Marlene Dietrich (1901–1992) was the daughter of a Prussian officer. She refused to work in Nazi Germany and was branded a traitor by Nazi supporters when she became an American citizen in 1937. She gave over 500 performances entertaining Allied troops from 1943 to 1946. Marlene Dietrich recorded the song entitled “Lili Marlene” in 1944 for Decca Records (US) and Brunswick Records (UK), which was released in 1945.