Long Erie Poems
Long Erie Poems. Below are the most popular long Erie by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Erie poems by poem length and keyword.
So a cold winters chill steadies across the baron plains of the earth , ice and snow cover it like a patch blanket , with the narry a sign of life , echoing is the sound of old man winter howling and crackling as what seems the day never breaks .
A silence so Erie as to be deafening, the moon shines that shadows this desolate place of great vastness , call it the wild or call it the true test of life , it has an awesome scene of nature to be reckoned with , thus is meant for a challenge , dare to project yourself into this ominous reality.
This place of a harden atmosphere can test the bravest and strongest of any persons iron will , a question of survival tattoos the mind , to be apart of such fierce and dramatic endurance, a setting not unlike a nightmare, what is the just means , pontificating a plan that does not come to a sound conclusion.
The paradox of night and day are like twins looking into a mirror , ice and snow pelting the grass , the trees and the rocks , musically it knifes through the air so freezing as to look alive it is alive .
The wind howling , the wind burning , the wind a formidable foe , to realize its raw power can strike a blow to a once courageous will , it does not let up it never sleeps searing the soul , will it break an already tired spirit, never , never , never .
This force of nature is like a double edge sword , it plays a game of being calm and serine , even has slight repore of peacefulness, but on the it’s razor sides edge can pierce trough anything in which protects you and pushes one to the brink , trapped in its snare trapped in its ravenous plight .
Man in its vanity and narcissistic ego will not abandon this fight , it’s a such a challenge like no other , it does not quit , it will not falter , belief is what one makes of any obstacle, the strength of the mind is the one enigma the piece of a never ending puzzle , it’s vulnerablity is its valour, it’s immaculate design choose to believe choose to endure play your own game this is a virtue to be a calculated strength , peace with in , peace.
They tease people
and undermine relationships
they thinks it's cute
always at odds
making things difficult for the people
it aint cute
-------------------------------------------------------
The Savants shall warn the people
of the wierds of many
they shall sppeak salvation
and will couple to be unioned
we shall not recognize there togetherness
and there unions shall be frowned upon.
Exactio Malo and Femalo's
spoke the feathered Savant
as all clapped and cheered.
_____________________________________________________
Then the day came when the aspiring People wished to marry
and the Savants laughed at there desire to
do so.
It was aparent that they were
to tease these people.
And the members of the resistance began cursing and circling
calling the elders needless and useless
they throw nuts and fruits
at them and lored them into the caves
tthere they put up a fence around the cave.
___________________________________________________________
Article from WayWard National
A Natures Magizine
"I Lived 10 Months with Savages"
By Calli Comeanie
South Dakota Cattle Publishing Co.
New Jersey, Oklahoma, Lake Erie
Offices across the World
Contact: The Mallard Mimick
Prime Rib and Tenderloin
Visibility is low, wear a bright vest,
Cycle with lights on, caution is best.
Stay on the bike path across the Tappan Zee
The Hudson's below, but you can't see
You can't see the water, the fog is like a wall
It might be a blanket, it might be a pall
You peer through glasses - an ancient man smiles.
Your bike hums in tune as it laps up the miles.
Turn south to the rail trail above Grandview
When you see a face, you seek for a clue
a man emerges, with dogs on each side
He looks sarcastic, but you nod as you ride.
You reach Piermont Pier, last stop Erie train
Soldiers embarked, not all came back again
The white in the sky obscures the sun
Seagulls rest but your peace won't come
Memories like waves begin.
The air is soft, so what stings your skin?
Father couldn't speak before life disappeared.
You dream of him as you stand on the pier.
Fog as a cloak, you hide in a cloud
People are scarce, but you don't like a crowd.
Head down in the fog, try hard to shed a tear.
Stark bare trees on a foggy pier.
Last look back on Piermont Pier.
I was married a year in June of 1952,
when my husband, Doug, was drafted
into the Korean “not-a-war” that,
of course, really was a war in disguise.
After basic training Doug was sent to
Fort Knox in Louisville, Kentucky, for tank
training (for which he had NO aptitude)
that was supposed to be three months.
I was 23 but had never learned to drive, so
I took a crash course and got my license in July
because I had to drive to work. By then I
had decided to go be with Doug as long as I could.
I had bought a 1940 Pontiac ($200) with
98,000 miles on it, in which I planned to drive from
New Haven to Troy, NY, to pick up a stranger.
(Did I say everyone thought I was demented?)
I was scared to death but couldn’t have admitted it.
Off I went to Louisville with my 3-month-old license
and someone I didn’t know, who didn’t drive.
packed like the Oakies in The Grapes of Wrath
Three days – no Thruway then, only Rte. 20.
Labor Day weekend traffic – HOT – no air-
conditioning. Cold grape juice signs all AM, dry cornfields
all afternoon. Through Buffalo, NY, Friday at rush hour.
At last, blessed bed and breakfast in Erie, PA.
SOO tired, hands I thought were permanently
cramped from gripping the steering wheel.
Another grueling day and a half to go.
Cheered ourselves that we would have
a comfortable room and hot showers on the base.
No dice. A converted barracks, creaky cots,
We were so tired we just laughed hysterically.
For two months I drove to work at a bank and
Back and forth the Dixie “Die-way” to Fort Knox.
Rented a room, and, when he got his orders, sold the
car for $100 and bought a plane ticket home!
It juts out by the river road,
traffic passes it each morn,
what’s left of the old aqueduct,
something stately, yet still forlorn.
The rock, with no mortar, was set
so fine it would make Incas proud,
precise enough to still hold up
today, and centuries from now.
There’s a display with a picture
of how it looked in days of old,
twenty arches spanned the river,
hand-built by men flinty and bold.
On it ran the Erie Canal,
crossing the rough Mohawk below,
on barges towed by stubborn mules,
the trips were long, steady, and slow.
This once helped open the Midwest
to settlers, to goods and trade,
but that’s a different country now,
and long ago such things did fade.
The roads and rails brought prices down,
and moved much quicker than a mule,
they went and dammed the river up,
much wider than some man-made pool.
That fact, alas, would be its end,
the arches blocked the way of boats,
and in the winter jammed the ice,
so floods onto spring banks would flow.
They blew up all the arches grand,
only those by the shore remain,
buried half of that great canal,
now barely known, save for the name.
Those who still use the aqueduct
are kids leaping into the drink,
someday they’ll try to shut that down,
claiming that it’s a ‘safety thing.’
And the arches that look just like
something made back in ancient Rome,
will be like all great things men built,
reduced to naught but broken stone.
Hopped a rattler out of Akron.
Rode the high end all the way.
On the Erie-Lackawanna,
Made North Jersey by next day.
Between a bottle and a biscuit,
And that’s all I’m gonna say.
‘Twas a rude accommodation.
No Angelina on my arm.
Stumbled in Towaco Station,
A-number-1, no false alarm.
I raided Harrigan’s at midnight.
Came to find my lucky charm.
Jacked a barstool with a seatbelt.
Took that baby for a spin.
Tanked a beaker full of vino,
Ran some red light sure as sin.
I traced the towpath to a piss pot;
Couldn’t keep from falling in.
Old Black Joe and Camptown Races
Waged a juke box culture war.
Jumped a willing breakneck filly,
Spilled her potluck on the floor.
I played her pussy foot to cat’s paw,
Then I danced right out the door.
Fleeced a rummage sale in Boonton;
Empty pockets, long-term loan.
Found a brown old five cent nickel,
And a plastic pocket comb.
Ain’t no sweet back, blue-eyed beefer.
New Hobohemia’s my home.
S trange is the way unbound mind hovers, I don’t steer
T rapped in insecurity web I tread life in lurking fear
A t times I feel someone trails, my tense sense strains
L ook out, but find no one, the eerie feeling remains
K nowing fear won’t go away if I don’t face the stalker
E xplore boldly I must, encounter the equipoise breaker
R esolving strongly in impulse I look back in the hollow
S talking me I perceive is the creepy mind in my shadow.
September 2, 2021
Contest : Message In An Acrostic 2
Sponsor : Kim Rodrigues
From the Ohio River to the Great Lake Erie.
If they come from Cleveland, or south in Cincinnati,
these talented persons’ works are the ones we should see.
They have written some of this site’s greatest poetry.
They may live in the cities of Canton or Akron;
or perhaps in Columbus, Youngstown, or in Dayton.
They also come from many smaller towns in between.
They’ve written some of the best poetry I have seen.
Many of these folks have graduated from college.
Those that have not still possess incredible knowledge.
To them, poetry is both a science and an art.
Our Ohio members are all naturally smart.
Alone by the Sea
By Franklin Price
04/18/2020
I originally wrote this when I was a senior in high school 1963/1964. I found it when I was looking for my senior picture, in my '64 year book, to post on Facebook, with others, who were doing the same. I write much more now than I did then. I thought I would post this to let you see what my writing was like in the days before I graduated high school and went out to seek my fortune in the world. I went and sought. The fortune I received was not as much in money as it was in the love and friendship I found along the way. My wife and I are retired now so there's much more time to write than there was back then. I would not trade the life I have led for anyone else's. I am still rich with a wonderful wife, a great family and the best friends possible. More money would be nice, but it isn't the real treasure in life.
Hope you enjoy this poem from from so long ago
Alone, alone, alone by the sea
Alone in a distant cave
Away, away, away from all else
Save only the crashing wave
What is this sound that I hear now
Alone by the glimmering sea
Are you man or are you beast
Or am I imagining thee
Closer now and farther then
As the sands blow more and more
Who are you to trespass here
In my haven by the shore
Night is nigh as day goes by
And the winds begin to moan
And the mighty sea is tossed and turned
As the monstrous waves are blown
The thing I see approaches me
Through a mist of gray salt spray
And the failing light gives an erie glow
To the creature of the bay
I'm frozen here with stately fear
And the beast is close at hand
The menacing sky is darkening now
As the storm envelopes the land
What shall I do, the creature's here
I dare not breath or scream
There is but one more avenue
To wake up from my dream
The Grim Reaper calls; I invite him in with a smile
Halloween night, everyone’s wearing creepy costumes
Eerie figures are dancing round my bubbling cauldron
Guessing who is wearing each costume is difficult
Realistic blood drips down the fangs of one vampire!
I'm so impressed all my friends have made such an effort
Mummies, witches, ghosts and zombies are having such fun
Right on the stroke of midnight there’s a spine-chilling scream
Everyone bursts out laughing ... then we find a body
All eyes turn and see the Grim Reaper’s bloody scythe
Petrified party guests slink back into the shadows
Everyone removes their masks, all except one figure
Realisation dawns… The Grim Reaper was real!
Halloween Scare Contest
Sponsored by Russell Sivey
13 lines, 13 syllables per line - 169 in total checked with how many syllables
10-27-17