Long Embankment Poems
Long Embankment Poems. Below are the most popular long Embankment by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Embankment poems by poem length and keyword.
PINK SCALLOP SHELL
Along my road to Freedom stood
showy blue-green sentinels with
white cloud whiffs representing Sky
starling decorated bushes joined
Party of the Road to nowhere
this was where Freedom
danced naked, her shadowed body
awaiting with roasted chestnuts
she met us with a hug and drums
on I moved to dissolve into River
braincells becoming numinous atomic matter
smiling towards Void, ever deeper into
Dark for Light, a von Gogh sunflower watched
in longing as breasted hills embraced
my drowning, matrix fell away
stillness and sound merging as did
boundaries, embankment with Freedom herself
from River into Sea
I became a pink scallop shell on
undulating ocean floor
I never consciously ever ever wanted to die
But one time during a car wreck I knew I was going to die
I was traveling eighty-six miles an hour on gravel.
Came to a t-road and knew there was no way to make the curve.
I yelled “thank you God for a great life!” right before my car slammed into an embankment.
I expected to look down and see my broken bleeding body.
But I was still in it.
I had the weirdest feeling ever.
I recognized it as this – I was disappointed that I had not died.
This shocked me.
It was a totally unexpected feeling.
When I ponder this feeling I know where it came from.
Part of my, the soul part, knows that whatever is waiting for me after death
Is much better than being here.
SIMPLE BLESSED
I may not have a lot of friends, some say no one
I may not have a love in my life, a loving wife
and I may not have a lot of money
But I only,
Only I
Can tell my testimony..
I may not be the best thing
I may not be the riches being
and I may not be a handsome man
But God created me, and He don't make no mess
I'm simply bessed...
I may not drive a brand new 2019 car
I may be not in debited to the bar
Higher that high, credit rating 580
and I may not have a lot of money
But I only,
Only I
Can tell my testimony..
And God created me, and He don't make no mess
He made me first and not last
I live in a mortgaged house, not under the interstate embankment
Got a job I'm not rich, but Lord knows I'm not poor
Got some food, some clothes, some time to myself
Got some shoes, some laughter, some sadness and I still got my breathe
And in the meantime, God has granted me life on this world and the next
I am simply blessed
and I may not have a lot of money
But I only,
Only I
Can tell my testimony..
But I only,
Only I
Can tell my testimony..
I may not be the best thing
I may not be the riches being
and I may not be a handsome man
But God created me, and He don't make no mess
I am simply blessed
6/16/18
From anthology “SIMPLY BLESSED”
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2018
Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.
We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘ed privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.
She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.
Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.
I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.
Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.
I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.
My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan
She or he
In this case it really doesn’t matter
The figure is an indigenous figure
Parka with a cinched up hood boots mittens
Nothing but tip of nose
Sniffing this bitter cold as a name
I am too far away behind an office window
Anyway
To figure it out
Nonetheless a human soul
Most definitely alive
And surely with a childhood and toys
And a breakfast table and a teacher that one day
Saw something in them
And told them that after class
Has battled with the paddles of his/her arms
Their blue tarp
Puffed up tent on the other side
A fierce angle of river embankment
Invisible
But now exposed
With the trees and invasive bush gone
And the river’s current stopped in its backstroke
White and icy as an old man
Over the wooden river trail bridge
It pulls yanks kicks
A shopping cart piled high with that folded blue tarp
And assorted other frying pans and lanterns
And chains for whatever reason
Wheels don’t work in the deep snow
But know
The figure keeps at it fighting the narrow railing distance
Until they reach our shore
An hour it seems
How much time I’ve wasted
Watching it
Haul that contraption up and over a chest high snowbank
That doesn’t give despite the hot breath of hollering
Parks it all itself a neat fit
Between our parking lot line
Space
Ready for work
I thought about this
As I waited in line at the oil change place
To re-inflate my deadened tires
The Jiffy Lube attendant
Is ten years older than me at least
And I’m old
Or so I thought
He shuffles toe to heel wheel to wheel
Around the four corners of the car ahead of me
The neck of a hose dangling from his fist
Squeezing air
His brow cursed
His lips a clown
His hair gone
I had wadded up five bucks
In anticipation of a small thanks
To some young man or woman
For the favor
But I couldn’t bear to insult this guy
To intrude with such a gesture
I drove away.
I start at the bridge
Down the steps I go
I pass the food stalls
All in a row
Beside the Cathedral
In its garden green
A beautiful sight
There to be seen
Down at borough market
There's a scent in the air
Of the food of many nations
They lovingly prepare
It makes me feel hungry
And I want to try
All of those dishes
So I quickly walk by
Then on to Drakes ship
by the old anchor inn
Where many will stop
For a beer on a gin
As I walk by the river
I see the Dome of St Pauls
I see boats on the water
I hear seagulls calls
I can hear a busker
As he sings clear and sweet
I stop to listen
And I tap my feet
I toss him some coins
Then move on my way
He will never know
How he's made my day
A little bit further
The Globe I can see
With the works of Shakespeare
Its a great place to be
I have so often
Seen a play there
Acted so well
In the open air
The sights smells and sounds
Of London you see
That's why I love London
That's London to me
Clutching
The end of my Zebco rod and reel
As the cast of tackle is flung
Like a small knot of costume jewelry
Skimming atop the caramel-colored Grand River
Dragonfly rattling awry
The vibration tingling in the palm of my hand
As if I had cupped an angry bee
Until the swivel hook and sinker
Puckers
The river’s muddy surface
Splash
Swallowed soft and thick
On the river bottom a dozen kernels of corn
Thread on hook
Weighed down by an ounce of lead
Waiting
For a big greedy carp
To come by and fight to the death.
Tim and me we got that bait
From a stolen can of corn that used to sit
In Tim’s mom’s refrigerator.
While we keep our eyes keen
To the taps and shivers
Of the delicate tips of our poles
Balanced in the crux of V-shaped sticks
Stuck in the dry embankment
Delta 88s clack across Waverly Bridge
And underneath teenagers dig the hard mud
Hitting a joint while sharing a Mad magazine
Their screeches and laughs rising and falling
Like hooks scraping against cement.
We stroke the knives slung in our socks
Wary of them.
Tim wonders to me what it means for the USA
To have lost its first war.
I don’t know.
I say that my parents think that Watergate
Was worse for us
But either way they say
Things will never be the same.
Tim says his older brother slapped his face yesterday
For parking his bicycle too close
To his black and gold-trimmed Trans Am.
We share a plot of revenge.
We listen on a transistor to Ernie and Paul
Broadcast a doubleheader from Tiger Stadium
“And he stood there like the house by the side of the road…”
We love the New York chef turned right fielder Rusty Staub.
The experienced river fishermen
To avoid snags and the false pull of current
Must trust the placement of his bait.
Sit and wait.
The Grand River makes no sound.
Has no reflection.
These kinds of friendships last in a man’s mind
For a lifetime.
...For years they both lived there
in the crisp mountain air,
the rolling ridges were their home,
it was not written down,
so what pleasures they found
are only to history known.
Come several years later
word spread of some raiders
attacking the valley for cows,
some claimed that Winisook
from their stocks freely took,
they had to move and do it now.
They formed up a posse
with one Joseph Bundy,
out seeing to avenge his shame,
they pursued the rogue braves,
and as they made their way
in the mountains Winisook was found.
No one could say if he
was the thief they did seek,
but nobody cared all that much.
Bundy saw his rival,
felt his anger in full,
drew his gun to end the man’s luck.
Bundy said, “I must civilize you
by letting daylight into your heart!”
Bundy then took aim, sought to bury his shame,
fired, and the bullet struck hard.
He fell against a tree,
and when his wife did seek
she found him dead, sitting upright,
though the loss truly burned,
she refused to return,
would never more be Bundy’s wife.
By the sight where he died
a new lodge did arise,
she would never be far from his grave,
and with Winisook’s kids
that is just what she did,
and lived there the rest of her days.
They say that tree remained
to speak of this great pain,
right into the last century,
but a railroad came by,
built an embankment high,
now it rests in the earth quietly.
Now the tale is near lost,
three long centuries off,
forgotten except for place names,
like Big Indian town,
the Winisook Lake grounds,
and folklore to speak of their fame.
A bear jumped in the water
to meet up with the fish,
he wanted to be like one of them,
it was his best wishes to be.
He figured he could do it
he had everything it takes,
with whiskers on his face,
and a tail like fish you see.
He swam down to the bottom
while holding in his breath,
but soon began to gulp for air,
which may end in his death.
His heart begins to pound for air,
as he raced back to the top,
he was determined to make it
that he wasn't going to stop.
He broke the surface with a splash
and gulped in lots of air,
He climbed up the embankment
and like he did it with care.
He ran through thick brier field,
and to his den you see,
and when he got there safely,
stopped to think about what he had done.
"I love to watch the fishes swim,
as they circle down below,
they move around so effortless
and offer quite a show."
He wanted to be like them
so he thought, in blissful glee,
but then he came to realize
It was only curiosity.
Their with mesmerizing silky glide
and tantalizing tryst,
offered a temptation
that brings us to this twisting thought,
The bear you see by then decided
that it was to be his fate,
that he should rather have the fish
on his dinner plate.
Late summer storm fells the defoliated tree
Over the hill slope it rolls on to the stream
No branch survives the rough downslide free
Entering the stream like a dead log it swims.
Lying on the lap of stream flowing down the valley
It starts its long journey on the cascading waterway
Far from lost home it rolls, the bends it doesn't see
Ensemble of boulder and mud holds it at bank bay.
Later when flash flood erodes the embankment
In strong surge the log starts the journey again
Keeps pace with wild rush of the water current
Even if the final destination it can't ever ascertain.
Drag of the rough times uproots my forlorn life
Enshrouded by despair I turn into a dead wood
Afloat on the turbulent flow of the ordained strife
Drift unattached to unknown destination I should.
With a free mind I float on the time's eternal flow
On the move I don’t remember where I used to be
Only the soul knows my home where I shall go
Drifting like wood my memory has no memory.
August 9, 2018