Long Dunbar Poems
Long Dunbar Poems. Below are the most popular long Dunbar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dunbar poems by poem length and keyword.
I scream for ice cream she shouted until her lungs burned
she was a tomboy with a strawberry birth mark on her cheek
she ran like she owned gumby legs and Popeye arms of steel
never wiped a dish in her life, she was too busy climbing trees
When she was home her tongue would never stop wagging
and the stories that she told took up all of mom's afternoon
She would dig into the fridge for freshly washed strawberries
then ask with a grin " when is the ice cream truck coming? "
"Dishes don't get cleaned by themselves" mom noted
Mr. Dunbar is fixing his truck, its going to take all afternoon
then she would pull out a tub of strawberry ice cream and say
"Dig in and enjoy the taste on your tongue" while Annie smiled
I scream for ice cream shouted a hoyden girl with wild curls
she could really dish it out when she chose to holler
when she came home with a tongue on fire from hot pepper candy
"Dig in, enjoy the cool taste on your tongue " mom said with a grin.
July 5, 2022
Words used : strawberries, dish, tongue, afternoon
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ dream, ¦¦¦ all through life,
¦¦¦¦¦¦ up ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ through toil and strife.
Afloat ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ before ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ colored ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ skies:
The storm-cloud dark
Above ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
The calm ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ blue
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ hopeful hue,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ passing beam—
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ labored ¦¦¦¦ and failed at last,
¦¦¦ sails too weak to bear ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ raging tempests ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ sent ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ astray.
But ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
For wind or sea!
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ "The tempest will ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ come to port."
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ through every cloud a ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ dream.
(Blackout of He Had His Dream by Paul Laurence Dunbar)
We Wear The Mask by Paul Laurence Dunbar
After poem by Olabosoye Wemimo Olaoluwa
Love of our land's labour should make us proud;
The efforts, time, and energy put through...
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.
But we wear the mask of pain we don't plowed,
When slavery is to labourers in blue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud.
Showers of rain ain't just of dusty cloud,
But of heavy downpour and not dew;
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.
Yet all harvest couldn't feed suppose crowd,
We become weary of need to pursue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud.
Just an endless space to measure; unbowed
Hearts and heads under threat, government subdue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud,
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.
Maria is a Scot born in Dunbar,
With fine, neat Cerebral Palsy,
Spastic diipelgic CP is her car:
Mum got shingles in pregnancy.
She’s only sixteen years old,
So goes to Dunbar Grammar,
But a running club did her enfold,
So with a WR she set the bar.
At the tender age of just twelve,
At the 2012 Birmingham Games,
Maria into her vast bag did delve,
To post 32.72mins - she had aims.
Classesd as a T35 competitor,
She took part in Fezaa’s games,
In 2014 to win 100m gold for,
Herself, to prove her best flames.
In that same year in Swansea,
At the Euros she collected, tall,
Two golds for the 100’s sea,
And for the 200 metres call.
Then 2015, the Worlds in Doha,
And she won silver for the relay,
Plus bronzes for the sprint tar,
Of the 100m and 200m way.
At Grosseto in Italy in 2016,
She swiped the boards in style,
Taking 3 golds, the total queen,
For the 100, 200 and T35-38 file.
Rio came not too soon at all,
And Maria won two bronzes,
Plus a silver for the relay’s hall,
‘Cos she’s coming up tops, is.
Self-imprisonment
Is the worst form
Of punishment
Still, it is not out of the norm
To find a tiny bee hummingbird
Ruby Zoom, hidden inside a double-glazed display cabinet
One can think or fathom how absurd
It is to be imprisoned in a knotty net
Conspicuously clear like black ice. And yet
One is trapped. One cannot
Get out or escape freely, effortlessly or easily
Without the help of a demented brat
Rufus Colibri bird is not like a bee
Which travels everywhere
And yet lives nowhere
The latter chooses the universe
For being ubiquitous and annoying
While playing the violin, despite the thirst
As the former is seeking and yearning
For something strangely unknown
Unlike a bowwow that barks for meat and bones
Self-confinement
Is the worst form
Of punishment
Don’t follow the decorum
Maneuver yourself and manumit your mind
While synchronously remain kind
In the pursuit of happiness and freedom
Don’t stay quiet or motionless in a corner
Do something; say something, sing, clap, talk or whisper
Loud enough to irritate the grouchy bogeyman
Don’t be your worst enemy or an evil undertaker
Be free like a bee that plays the tuba and the violin
Life is an impetuous dream
Not a Sunday afternoon marshmallow fudge ice-cream
Life is a live reality
Not a willy-nilly fantasy.
P.S. A tribute to Paul L. Dunbar, Maya Angelou,
All freedom fighters and lovers.
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Sympathy
BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!
Why Do I Write?
You ask me why I sing?
You ask me why I write?
You ask me why I bleed?
What choice have I besides?
I long to fly, to run away
To some safe haven just to play
To see the light of blessed day
And give my longing heart full sway
I want to grasp the star and moon
And live my life; t'will end too soon
And kiss the clouds up in the sky
But here am I, what choice have I?
Why do I sing?
Why do I cry?
Why write of pain
No lullaby?
What choice have I?
I want with zeal to be adored
And I want Fame there at my door
I want IT ALL and so much more
Tell me, is anything for sure?
Why so I beat my wing?
I was born to soar…
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Form:
Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar [1460-1525]
translation by Michael R. Burch
Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear,
except only that you are merciless.
Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently,
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.
I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again,
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.
Desdemona
by Michael R. Burch
Though you possessed the moon and stars,
you are bound to fate and wed to chance.
Your lips deny they crave a kiss;
your feet deny they ache to dance.
Your heart imagines wild romance.
Though you cupped fire in your hands
and molded incandescent forms,
you are barren now, and?spent of flame?
the ashes that remain are borne
toward the sun upon a storm.
You, who demanded more, have less,
your heart within its cells of sighs
held fast by chains of misery,
confined till death for peddling lies?
imprisonment your sense denies.
You, who collected hearts like leaves
and pressed each once within your book,
forgot. None?winsome, bright or rare?
not one was worth a second look.
My heart, as others, you forsook.
But I, though I loved you from afar
through silent dawns, and gathered rue
from gardens where your footsteps left
cold paths among the asters, knew?
each moonless night the nettles grew
and strangled hope, where love dies too.
Published by Penny Dreadful, Carnelian, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Life & Times
Doing an Irish Jig***
(To the music of The Bothy Band)
——— ———
So early in the morning,
If you looked, you
Couldn’t tell that I
Was really awake,
With my mind mixing
Through an Irish hornpipe jig
Beside pretty Peg
And Tiddie Dunbar.
After meeting in
What seems a dream,
We’re friends now
Here in the Glen.
We click.
We switch and twist.
We swing quickly
Our feet forward
And back, to stir
Along on our route
Corner by corner,
Searching for a feis.
They can’t trail our tracks
On this fine traveling.
Perhaps we’re keeping
A foot to foot over the earth!
————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 10/16/21
Thanks be to God