Long Evening Poems
Long Evening Poems. Below are the most popular long Evening by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Evening poems by poem length and keyword.
On the Axle
On the axle, on the axle, I spin and I don't know if I'm the one who moves,
Or if the axle moves me like a wheel caught in a windmill's grooves,
The spoke is crying out... look at him... but all I see is dust and rattle,
I descend into hell and brush the moon with my lash... and can't tell which end is the saddle.
God is the unseen axle around which everything keeps turning,
The wheels pierce through my eardrum with their long roads, raw and churning,
The kids graze the clump of dried-out grass beneath the heavy noon bell's dome,
And I spin... and I spin... on the same old axle... through the same stars I've always known.
The motion brands me like cattle with iron that is red-hot and raw,
The trees slice off my shadow with their knives... and I'm left with none... with no more,
Life runs behind me like the dust kicked up by wheels on an evening road,
And I call out after it... is that me?... but the echo won't bring back a summer's load.
With all the roads wound up into a dizzying and blinded reel,
The axle moves me and I move the axle... in this deaf and bitter wheel,
I descend and rise and descend again... between hell and moon without a stop,
On the same old axle... in the same old rattle... with no way to drop.
Am I myself?... that question cracks inside the axle like wood in a freeze,
Or am I just the wheel that spins around an axis of mysteries,
The motion branded me slowly... and I no longer know when I ceased to be,
And the axle keeps on turning... without me... or with me... alive and free.
The noon bell rings of wilderness over the scorched and forgotten weeds,
On the axle, on the axle... always... through all the lives and all the deaths one needs,
The wheel's spoke whispers... believe it... and I believe... because I have nothing else to hold,
On the axle... on the axle... God moves me... and I move the world... and it moves the world it's told.
I am a cliché
A soul walked along the water
The winds yelling cliché cliché
A dark soul was on the other side waiting
The winds yelled again cliché cliché
The two souls met inside this cliché
Of dark poetic solitude
They ordered drinks and black roses
In the cafe of clichés
From the skies appeared an Angel
Looking down upon this earth
At the clichés of life
The angel too walked in the bar of dead souls
Immediately she realized
I have walked into a cliché of dreams
The most terrible of poem and verse
Attacks my very, my very, yes oh yes, my very soul
Then it dawned on this angel of the evening
That he too is a cliché and somewhat confused
The three of them in the darkness of life’s parodies
They downed some shots and spilled some blood
Slightly inebriated one looked at the other two?
He demanded what the hell is a cliché anyways?
The darkest of souls, replied, I think is Spanish for friends!
This narrative my friend is a poetic rendition of the three amigos
Touché
Ops
I mean cliché
My Lobster means it too
I felt the flow of Summer's balmy breeze
as it wafted in whispers like sweet melodies
We walked on golden sands at twilight,
holding hands as day drifted into dusk.
I was savoring memories of
cherished moments we share.
Tonight, resplendent roseate skies
fill my eyes with their color,
but a bit of melancholy crept in
and unconsciously my steps slowed.
He felt my hesitation and in concern,
he held me close in his arms and said,
"What is that makes you so sad?
I can see it in the mists of your eyes."
Tears flowed as I fought to explain
the pain I'd feel in my heart if we drifted apart.
I stammered the words but got them out,
"We fell in love and vowed it would be for life
but even mountains of stone can break.
How would I live with that heartache?"
He rested his chin on top of my head
and held me tighter to stop my trembling.
Then, he said the most beautiful sentiments
I'd ever heard...
"Whether in this life or another,
no matter the realm we might be,
I promise I will find you beyond the stars,
searching every corner of ebony skies.
On moonlight's path I would swiftly sail
beseeching her to guide my way to you.
You will never be beyond my reach,
for only your kisses sate my hunger...
and only your love quenches my thirst."
He turned me to face the fading sun
as it slowly sank into the skyline.
Pointed his finger in that direction
and whispered near my ear...
"Do you see far out on the horizon,
where the sky drifts into the sea?"
If ever we're torn apart, look for me there.
I'll be a ripple on the water
or a glimmer of stardust in the sky,
searching for you until we're together again.
Have no fear of love's lament, for
our love was meant to last forever."
The moon's reflection shimmered on the sea
as he brushed his lips across mine in a fashion
that made passion's heat rise in my heart.
Each beat crashing as a wave upon the shore...
Beneath flickering stars, we stood side by side
swaying with the ebb and flow of evening tide.
Cross Country Greyhound Bus
Very young 17 Year Old’s Couple as such
The young woman started throughout having labor pains
The Father too be felt worried and wanted to hurry
It was a small town the young couple got on
We had arrived in Salt Lake City, Utah
While there, the Labor Pains continued
Later, we arrived in Nevada
That split second crossing the state line
The young woman was ready to conceive
The passengers were and surprised, but not relieved
We were at a Rest Stop supposedly for 30 minutes, but turned into 2 Hours
Luckily for us, we were across the street from a Major Hospital
They were summoned, and a medics team, and took the young woman off the bus on a stretcher
The young man got off the bus with her, but was disgusted
Before that time, The Greyhound Motor Coach Engineer was timing her contractions
The Greyhound Bus Driver gave the Medics the information
Through it all, the passengers were calm and no scare nor shouts
The Greyhound Bus Driver than announced, “He must make up the time to get back on schedule”
Dash was acceleration
San Francisco bound
The Go Greyhound had meaning that evening
The bus was scheduled to arrive into San Francisco at 12:20 pm the next day
The Greyhound Bus wheels were rolling
The bus rolled into San Francisco on time at 12:20 pm on the dot
Imagine that.
Ticket to Heaven
We drink from the fountain of earthly delights
Sweet to the taste, ever cool to the touch
Blushing of purity bred in our hearts
Glistened enchantment now needed so much
Beneath a rainbow’s curved ribbon effect
Painted in singular motions of love
Rippled reflections bare moonlit disguises
Memories fashioned below and above
A ticket to heaven on silver cloud linings
With only the touch of your rose petal lips
Swallowing all that affection does offer
Consuming desire in delicate sips
Breathless endeavors of water fall shimmers
Deeper we dwell inside every dream
You in my arms on this aqua blue evening
Illumined in passion, aglow in the gleam
Softy your eyes shine eternal devotion
Beautiful visions now all I can see
There is no need for this ticket to heaven
For heaven is anywhere you are with me
Good night Soupers
In the silence of the evening, when thoughts intertwine like smoke rising to the starry sky,
I wonder if I ever truly understood how love works,
I've always been concerned with the things close to you, those little universes that make you happy,
The things that matter to you, like constellations in the uncharted map of your soul.
But often I wonder how love is lived, is it a spectacle to be performed,
Or a state of being, a silent melody flowing through veins and open hearts?
Should I "make" love, like an art sculpted in time and space,
Or just exist within it, like a dreamer carried by its endless waves?
Maybe I wasn't trying to impress you, but just to protect all that you hold dear,
But I wonder, is that love, or just the fear of losing the light you carry?
In my attempt to keep intact the universe that brings you happiness, I often get lost,
Wondering if it's love or just fear dressed in the clothes of care.
So, in the quiet of the night, I turn to the stars, trying to find answers,
Understanding that maybe love isn't something to be fully understood, but simply lived,
A journey through unknown realms, where with each step I learn to be,
To feel, to open myself to that mystery of existence that binds us in silence.
Wood Carving
He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul. “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?” The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him. The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be. Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness. One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother. “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?” They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults. That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”. “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”. The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here. “I know, Mommy”. She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”? “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?” The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed. The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.
John G. Lawless
9/27/2014
For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest
This is my headache
that I can't call a migraine
because it doesn't go away
and its not strong enough
for that convenient label.
This is knowing how
to collect pennies,
not quarters, for
Coin Star.
This is going to a grocery store
not to buy food.
This is hoping you can afford
a Bento Box of wine so tonight
the headache will go away
for a couple hours.
This is asking for money
gently, and mot making it seem
like you are begging.
This is putting dignity
behind your family,
and yourself.
This is writing poetry
because words are free,
sometimes.
This is having a close relationship
with Tupperware
and leftovers.
This is learning the art
of meditation
because I can't afford
yoga classes or the pants
the women wear
who go to them on Saturdays.
This is learning to cook
based on the cans
in your closet between
bowed down shelves
you are too tired to straighten.
I have learned what it is
to recognize the song
of a Mourning Dove
and the peepers in the spring.
That makes me smile
when I run in the evening
and time and no-money me
can slide down a colorless
rainbow
towards
borrowed serenity.
The sparrows and cardinals
squabble -
hedgerow turf wars.
Sudden low evening rain.
Do the trees weep, or does the sky?
Anger seeps into drywalls
fills eyes with a restless acrimony.
Yesterday the sun was a brightness
on the wrists of small boys.
They played out a violent video game,
a shrill virtual savagery;
strife is merrily cast into the consonant air.
Garden blooms seem to badger each other
for a nook of sky.
Tonight I hope the owls keep blinking.
I hope tomorrow,
the Dalai Lama, or a politician
will actually say something wise.
Perhaps, a news anchor
will tire of his daily sneers?
Will owls stop questioning?
Wait! Is this a fresh morning breeze?
Are there hand-washing angels, do they rise
now within us to scatter and flay,
lather all into amity;
dissolve the moth bones, the spiked wings,
of that darkly spawning fray?
The Beauty of It All
red yellow gold
glistening beauty
sparkling dew
falling floating
winds blowing
rustling paths
through the woods
morning sun rising
new day lighting
evening darkness
hovering covering
moon glowing
through the trees
revealing beauty
of autumn leaves
God forever painting
like a canvas
ever changing
natures majesty
Early in the morning, walking up the rocky hill, taking in the autumn air, I think of the swampy terrain of my past life in the south. Such a difference in climates, from the humid, hot days, but green winters to four pretty seasons of the Midwest with gray winters. Lost in my thoughts of this beauty, My daughter interrupts,”Mom let's go shopping when we are through hiking”.
Autumn leaves falling
Around corner snow
Coats and boots in fashion
We head back to the car to get in style. Awe the beauty of it all