Long Eared Poems
Long Eared Poems. Below are the most popular long Eared by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eared poems by poem length and keyword.
‘So many moons ago..’
In Each tale we visit a new style of castle.
The villages or rivers, they lead us through a quest;
All so very different and yet the myth is the same;
An antihero who fights the villain as he gains courage
as they slay some version of a dragon once again;
‘So many moons ago..’
The page is flipped over;
Words fallen into so many times by so many
still retain their youth; We follow along a metaphor
of good versus evil to remind us that we too
can triumph with a pure heart, sharp sword and tongue.
Transcending time the response is the same,
no matter when you were born. Dog eared text
shared by your grandparents with love;
‘Happily ever after..’
what will this phrase inspire next?
The longevity of bed time stories
read once upon a time …
Shrunken sweaters, dusty ball caps
Tarnished silver, and hedge clippers
Pointed hat pins, gaudy jewelry
Faded jeans and worn out slippers
Greasy fry pan, wobbly table
Crates of dog-eared musty books
Tattered doilies, ragged Barbies
One brown old crock pot that still cooks
Rusty shovel, dented buckets
Ma's old apron, broken dishes
Dated calendar, crooked lampshade
Chipped glass bowl for all your fishes
Ugly painting, candle holders
One old bike for exercising
Broken TV, toaster oven
Doesn't work....it's not surprising!
What's the point?" our husbands mutter
While we fill the garage with clutter
I explain to him..."She buys mine, and I buy hers"
"What's the point of shopping stores??!"
"Now...don't you know the grass is greener?"
"OH GOOD!" "She's bought my vacuum cleaner!"
Just then I point across the street!!
Another yard sale.....and we both shriek!!
He points at me and shakes his fist
But I'll just ignore and toss a kiss
And side by side I'm in a race...
Who gets there first will buy that vase!!
Whoopee!!! I spy a broken chair...well, I can glue it!
Just hope she doesn't beat me to it!
Another point about my purchase
Perhaps I can use it for another purpose
Oh No!!...he's found old tool collections!!
And points at them with great affection!!
The point I'm making is simply this
Another's person's trash or junk, may soon become your bliss!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At dawn, your fingers
still trace the curve of my spine
like they're reading braille~
each scar, each shift in the landscape,
a sentence you know by heart.
You laugh when I steal the blanket,
when my knees find the hollows
behind yours, an old map
drawn without compass or reason.
Our fights are old books now,
their spines cracked open
to the same dog-eared pages~
we know the lines by heart,
but recite them softer these days.
We are two trees grown
into each other’s bark,
gnarled and weathered-together,
no longer remembering
which rings belong to whom.
Some loves are built like this~
not with grand gestures,
but with the quiet tyranny
of your coffee cup left warming
on my nightstand,
the way you hum off-key
in the shower, still, after all these years,
and I pretend not to hear it,
and you pretend not to know.
Forty-three autumns,
and your hands smell like sawdust
and onions, and I wouldn’t trade
our slow unraveling for anything~
not even the taut, bright thread
we once were.
Wynken Blynken and Nod???
(ah...oh methinks this pissant pooch woof lee
barked up the wrong tree –
reed don my mongrel friend)
This poetic endeavor doth not boast nor brag
to take digs on front page
headline grabbing news, nonetheless dag
nab bit significant dysfunction prevails
when bodily energy
does shutterfly like a black flag
without rapid eye movement,
this lix spittle chap
feels like an old hag
whereat every friggin bone (er)
in this straggly, mangy, and creaky ship
of state feels like jag
head shards piercing thine flesh
with pronounced jet lag
and reacts with
the slightest provocation
like a curmudgeonly
cranky compromised nag,
yet, this muttering mouth foaming
flea bitten doggone chow barker
bows down in (toto) obeisance
(like an obedient Dachshund)
tail wagging, trump petting,
and snout sniffing out provenance
on par with the smell of new sofa despite
fur vent angry ma
stiff masta paws zing
aghast at dog eared, glom haired,
and icky stained new furniture,
how petty, versus slumber
lest awakening the Cerberus within,
hence faux long enough
to excel as the top notch mix breed
boxer golden retriever terrier
male delivery postbag
(as taught at canine obedient school)
upon spilling contents,
the bulk of printed material
detailing importance,
sans letting sleeping
Canis lupus familiaris lye undisturbed,
especially after a bath
when pooch resembles
a limp dish rag
all apropos hot (gravy trained) relevant
topics for instance,
when feeling sleep deprived
detailing how to shepherd
and summon the snoop doggy dog
inchoate hounding gnarly
Marley elusive dream
fostering feigning fearsome nightmare
asper getting lost without a name tag.
TAKING STOCK
“STOCK” – the bits and pieces of accumulated this and that – with tags!
Strings of memories, and far off debt, and a sea of medicinal prescriptions rustling
In a cobweb bound table draw which needs as I do, a repair, “STOCK” then glancing across
Boxed books and movable immovable objects piano, Dresser, TVs, and three different pale green
painted splashes of a future make over or fast fix.
Toffee -less tins stacked and not open, and only thoughts of toffees in them, and photos taken long
ago, I think! Dog eared edges caught under the lid, - then impatience digging out the bank
Statements, lots of cash for a rainy day, there have been many floods, and the cash is still here.
Cars and sheds and kids, and dogs, and clocks unwound, AND laptops, alone in sealed boxes.
And all this Stock for a bonfire down at the crem! And - relatives.
It is a singular place
a high plains lake of isolation
where erratic waves
slap the shoreline
in haunting echoes
that blow away with the wind.
It is a place of the “nearly dead”
of caution and decay
yellowish foam forms at its edges
creating abstract designs
that disappear in the sand.
I can hear liquid songs
flowing forth from rippling currents
mesmerizing, hypnotizing
moving in the shimmering sunlight.
Tufa towers stand stoic
rising randomly above the water
like obscure, calcified aliens
in a scene that is as mysterious
as the majesty of its Maker.
High winds are howling
when suddenly I need
a respite, a reprieve
for this place suits the vultures
eared grebes call it their home
as sun sets over the horizon
I know it is time to go.
Such is Mono Lake
a mystical, other worldly place
where silent stars shine bright
on a black, moonless night
over the baneful, barren lake below.
“An imbalance between rich and poor is the oldest and most fatal ailment
of all republics.” ~Plutarch, Greek Philosopher and historian.
Poor people living on the fringes of society
Obscure existence, day to day struggle
Verily, abandoned by the mainstream
Eking out a meager and hapless livelihood
Reared in the roadside shanty hovels
Tortured by their fate, ignored by their gods,
Yes, poverty is the scourge of our times.
~03/27/23
~Contest: Writing Challenge 'P' words
~sponsor: Constance La France.
Goodbye then.
We have closed the book and
replaced it on the shelf.
Dog eared pages straightened.
Tens of thousands of words
read, spoken, stored for posterity.
Goodbye then.
No longer a working title,
but an archive which will
gather dust in the annals of time.
Maybe one day to be discovered,
like some ancient tomb.
Goodbye then.
Remember when we began the story?
The newness, the excitement and
anticipation at what would unfold.
Spellbound by adventure, mesmerized
by speculation as each word became exposed.
Goodbye then.
All done. Story complete.
No more surprises, just the
anticlimax of finality.
The eerie silence of conclusion.
A lingering pause, one last look, a smile -
The end.
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
the dusty sign
in the dirty window
read
paperback dreams sold cheap...
since i lost mine years ago
i stepped inside to read
i found a book
that held a name
pages
dog
eared
&
torn
a binding held by
duct tape
a cover
clearly worn
what caught my eye
were the dreams inside
blank page upon blank page
tear drop stained
from
years
gone
by
disappointing day after disappointing day
i set the book
down
on
the
floor
with the feeling...that's where it belongs
like my paper back dreams
i left behind
a
long
time
ago