Long Ears Poems
Long Ears Poems. Below are the most popular long Ears by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ears poems by poem length and keyword.
As I run through a street of rubble and dirt
I have no wounds but I am still hurt
Where is my mum where is my dad
Where is the family I once had.
Rockets from the sky explode all around
Buildings collapsing and shaking the ground.
Screams of the innocent ring in my ears
streaks of dirt on my face made by my tears
I running now trying to survive
I must not stop running to stay alive
Clothes torn and blood stained eyes wide with fear
I blown off my feet that bomb was near
I am screaming and running my mind running wild
You see I am NOT soldier I am A 10 YEAR OLD CHILD...
Between the politically correct and good sorts,
No contest.
Between the non starters and the go getters,
No contest.
Between the those with context and those out of it,
No contest.
Between the givers and the takers,
No contest.
Between those who swear and those who hit,
No contest.
Between those with ears and those without them,
No contest.
Between those who see and those who can't,
No contest.
Between those with time and those with excuses,
No contest.
Between those who try and those who cry,
No contest.
Between those who throw a ball and those who throw money,
No contest.
Between those with chips on their shoulders and those without them.
No contest.
Between those who take selfies and those who love nature,
No contest.
She’s one lonely soul with occasional
Nosebleed, all from the sea-salt of distant
Waves, charmed to weariness by breezes powerful enough
To unfurl umbrellas rolled behind Grandfather’s clock.
She combs her lofty hair seawards, with particles, flimsy and
Delicately grey, tiny and microscopic, storming the sea in their looseness.
She hopes to borrow the strength of the waves
And attract her wayward husband’s lost attention imprisoned
By the west and south seas.
Her letters, before they reach him on the fragrant sails
Of running fleets, get partially soaked by lack of trust
And the impatience of the post.
She needs him.
Just his body and soul.
She misses his kisses, so full of the breath of sea-whisky.
And he misses, though not terribly,
Her long, brunette hair,
A single black sail of bedtime voyages
With patterns of gentle, pulsating tempests
When only two specks of light from a voyeur’s eyes
Light up the hidden corners of the two souls.
She misses his sailor’s whistling power,
Loud and musical,
Like the squawk of an inebriated, singing eagle,
Which is sexy to her young and whimsical ears
Not the rums he ships home late in November,
In readiness for lonesome, tenebrous Christmas,
To her to keep her company —
Among ten-or-six foreign candles she lights in the face of storms
To dare the raging sea-going madness of absent men.
In the grass, glimmer of dew on early dawn.
It's first kissed by the glimmer of gold hued sunrise rays;
a new beginning of gold sun-rays.
Rain from a wisp of teal sky, pounds on pane glass,
the sound of patter rain beats in my ears.
When the rain ceased, a double rainbows arches
the heavens into teal bluegrass.
A soft gentle zephyr tightly weaves and lacing through
one another’s tendrils leaving a wisp
of pure clean white breath scent,
savoring sweetly tangy flavor
of emerald tender blades of grass,
among the foliage of spring nostalgic growth.
Autumn embraces natures laced in summer.
Heavenly.
3/17/2023
In the Grass' Contest Info
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
Ecotone
I did not plant the prairie tickseed that appeared among
The cultivated flowers of my garden and quickly dominated.
It seemed to say, “We live, still!
My house sits in a tension zone, an ecological “no man’s land” where
Tall Grass Prairie and the Cross Timbers, vie for control.
Here the vagaries of weather assure that all who enter are mistreated.
Seasons turn through the Zone as Fall, Winter, Spring,
And the Heat. The moisture-prickling Heat, like a visit from
The in-laws, comes early, stays long and wearies the endurance.
Rainfall is the fickle arbiter of the Zone. It befriends the trees
Almost; the grass too much. Legions of plants, playthings
Of climate, contending over millennia for land suitable to neither.
They were not untended. Cultivation by wild fires, twisting winds, floods
And drought, performed acts of purification and renewal; encroachers purged,
Minerals recycled, seeds scattered, and the arena reset for the endless contest.
But gone now are blades of Blue Stem and pickets of Post Oak.
Red subsoil overlaid with Bermuda sod is my “Sooner” system;
An inanity to the Zone kept on life support by irrigation and fertilizer.
Bermuda minders are hungry yet grow heavy with time
And plenty. They seek order amid uncertainty, and
Shelter from risk, yet cast their lot in a tension zone.
Their dis-ease stems from attempted breakouts of the Cultivators
Struggling to wrest free of human controls. (They who are said to have
Ears to hear a wildfire in its death throes claim it hisses, “We live, still!”)
They are not alone. Homes of the coastal naïf become
Mere tender for Chaparral fires as those of a floodplain
Are flotsam for the river.
Like mallards returning to the same pond
After each thinning by hunters, the unwitting
Rebuild as the Cultivators whisper, ”We live still”
Copyright Paul Thomson 2017
Sun has made its big grand entrance. Great right? Right? RIGHT?! No, sun is something that happens by nature, Yes but its just beautiful outside, right? No, WHY!? Beautiful things get destroyed by things that are natural and made from mixed up atoms. The sky is clear so go a head ruin that. No, the sky is clear to see those who have places to be to those who never have to look down. The world is- Burning. But this day is nice an- No. What now!? The day is to each their own. Like a sneeze you might miss your soul coming out so there's never garentee a bless you.
The temperature is perfect! No way to that up! Am I the cloud that you dont see? The helicopter lifting the sick to the hospital? Or maybe im the ones on the floor on the streets you refuse to acknowledge? This "maine character " is the only way to not say peace out the grid. You are impossible!!
No, i believe you are in your bubble and im outside the globe looking down shaking my head. Close your eyes and dont trust your ears, youre hungry yes! But can you trust your food ? Thats why they say ignorance is bliss, because when you were never raised to see roses as anything but thorns with petals you see everything all the time, you dont get to be ignorant even when you really want to. Its not a fault to see the sun and know that the earth is dying, to see a beautiful day an know that war, hunger, greed and selfishness are at the top one percent of s given. Its a fault to ignore those facts and keep contributing to the horror.
I watched in awe the laboring tenants of the birdhouse I'd made,
And for their family devotion, they (and I) have been amply repaid!
Mr. and Mrs. Wren became the proud parents of a couple of eggs,
And unto them were born two chicks with big mouths and wobbly legs!
The pair began building their cozy abode along about the first of May.
I watched from my patio as they stashed bits of grasses, feathers and hay!
They'd rest now and then 'tweeting' each other on the porch of their dwelling,
And not unlike we uncouth mortals, I sensed a bit of familial yelling!
Bye and bye, my ears heard two little birdies faintly a-cheeping,
And from the entryway I saw two little bobble heads shyly peeping!
Their wide-open mouths kept Mr. and Mrs Wren flying to and fro,
To fill cavernous craws with who knows what to help them to grow!
Then one bright morn I was privileged to see a wonder of God's Creation!
One little fellow emerged from the nest and paused with some hesitation.
Then, into the rising sun it flew from its perch - what a beautiful sight!
My soul was filled with elation - I had just witnessed the miracle of flight!
Entry for Soup's International Contest - December 2011
Amidst a dissonance of human sound,
the constant hum of voices as each swarm
of people pushed onto the streets, the pound-
pound-pounding workers made, which like a storm
rained in my ears, my mind‘s eye glimpsed a thing
that could not be of this unholy sphere:
a woman, nymph-like, on a glassy ring
of wintry pond. . . and all that I could hear
was breath of wind, the song to which she danced.
I marveled as she effortlessly spun.
She beckoned me, but then as I advanced,
she gracefully collapsed, her dancing done.
The blaring of a car’s horn jolted me
back into city life’s reality.
June 19, 2016 for The Sounds of Day Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
Twelve guinea pigs are placed under my Christmas tree,
Brightly colored pegs and tiny ribbons on ears,
They run around, so lovely!
When Christmas lights are on, they stand and bow
In glowing scarfs- red, green and white
They sound, “We’re your Christmas pets.
We’re all here now”.
Oh, how lovely!
You are my Christmas pets! I said
Can I bring you all after Christmas Eve under my bed?
I’ll take care of you until New Year comes
While I wait for New Year
Is that the year of your Mom?
I heard a humor but I know it’s true,
It has similar name but much bigger than all of you
Chinese calendar showed its huge body bank
A golden symbol filled with joy, health, wealth
And bountiful blessings and love?
Then, you’ll welcome with me soon,
Guinea Pigs with lots of cheers and big bangs.
Dec. 26,2018 1.50pm
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year 2019 to everyone!
I've always looked rather young for my age, or so I'm told,
But a kid in the burger joint today was ever so bold!
He rang up a "senior rate" for the burgers that he sold!
That little scoundrel! How dare he assume I'm that old!
Nowadays, when I go to the barber and settle in the chair,
She suggests a subtle "retouch" would really enhance my hair!
The dermatologists says the "wisdom spots" on my hands and face,
Must be eradicated since they are a terrible disgrace!
I used to wear stylish shoes, they'd really knock you out.
Now I wear ordinary Doctor Scholls to accomodate my gout!
I wore suits of the finest cut when I was young and trim.
Now to oblige my portly physique, my clothes look so grim!
Seems my ears ain't functionin' too well as of late.
Hearin' aids would rectify that, accordin' to my mate!
I'm obliged to wear trifocal spectacles to improve my sight.
They hinder my depth perception and besides they look a fright!
Doctor visits leave me concerned about glucose and cholesterol,
Shingles, hypertension, triglycerides and acylglycerol.
Maybe that young burger vendor was right, truth be told.
There ain't no gittin' 'round it, I guess I'm gittin' old!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)