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.
As I laced up my tennis shoes
I hurried to meet up with you
and ran to find you getting off the bus
And when I saw you standing there
in uniform so debonair
I was hoping everyone would notice us
As you picked up your duffel bag
we walked, and you took off your cap
and put it on my forehead just for fun
And as my curiosity
began to get the best of me
I asked you if you’d ever shot a gun
My mother said that you’d been gone
you’d gone to fight in Vietnam
I couldn’t have been no more than nine or ten
With pride I walked right next to you
And wondered if you felt it too
Or would you feel anything again?
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
The young lad left his Mother's hearth when he was seventeen.
There was adventure beyond the far horizon, so much to be seen.
Her only son to distant realms and o'er the seas did roam;
Now he wearily trudged along the moonlit country road to home.
From afar he saw a candle in the window casting its mellow glow.
It beckoned him to the humble cottage he had left so long ago.
'Twas Home! Home!, the most beautiful mansion in the world!
He paused and mused as about him precious memories swirled.
He dropped his duffel and leaned upon the sagging fence,
To capture the moment and his random thoughts condense.
There, framed in the window was Mother with hair of snowy white,
Reading her dog-eared Bible by the flickering candlelight.
He recalled her parting words, "God go with you son;
I'll light a candle to guide you home when your bourne is done."
As he gazed upon her so serene, o'er him many emotions swept;
Recalling her tender love, his shoulders shook as he quietly wept.
He swept his frail Mother in his arms as he reached the door,
Saying, "Your wayward son is home, Mom, a-roaming never more!"
All roads lead somewhere, but the happiest road of all,
Is that which leads to home, be it mansion great or cottage small.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 8 in Linda-Marie's "Razzle Dazzle" Contest - April 2011
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.
keep the music sorrowfully low,
so big daddy doesn’t hear.
the shadowy figures, surrender
and whisper in your ear.
the psychedelic colors flow
like the sea foam beat.
Angie, your chromatic hair
smells incandescently sweet.
locked and loaded, alone
with your beastie dreams.
your pillow’s soft and it leans -
your coming apart “at the seams”
one boy plays peek-a-boo, sniffing
your honeysuckles suspended.
tickled by your goldilock curls,
not realizing all it portended.
like walking into the deep dark wood,
he creeps hand and foot, eyes first
like a prowling tiger, tail wagging,
with a rattling tongue a-thirst.
Angie, swooshes her fingers
through his hair, hushes him.
...he stares at the ceiling stars
...loud music descends on his limbs.
Angie digs her embryonic duffel bag,
smiles and adds his decomposing bones
to the ashes of her huge imagination
and recalls that in this world, she’s all alone.
5/8/2019
Musical Inspiration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Song choice: Angie, Baby by Helen Reddy
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
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
**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
our Jeeps pulled into hanger four as we saluted our first Sgt my thoughts were racing again as home became a vivid battle zone of raw emotions several caskets lined the entrance way inside of the chanook bravely I'd placed flags on each one clutching my dogtags trying to remember my name it could have very well been Col Sgt or perhaps private Kennedy I focused solely on the name tags of the fallen my mind settled into an untimely grief where I'd forgotten my duffel bag behind leaning against a stone walk way inside carrying a pasttime of glory forgotten was my mind mingling about sorted nerves of steel that shattered apon take off over high calm waters as I noticed a sea of dark tears I bottled them for souvenirs