Long Firehouse Poems
Long Firehouse Poems. Below are the most popular long Firehouse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Firehouse poems by poem length and keyword.
When Mortimer Manders collapsed in the street,
his daughter, Muriel, was with him.
Though now seventy-five,
he’d continued to thrive,
in spite of the irregular rhythm
his heart was now keeping. But this was quite grave.
He hit the hard sidewalk real sudden.
When Muriel knelt
beside him, and felt
to locate where his pulse was, she couldn’t.
Soon, passers-by stopped and gathered around,
but no-one had medical knowledge.
“It’s good, I suppose,
If you loosen his clothes:
I think that’s what they told us in college …”
She looked wildly around, and thought that she’d found
a willing and capable saviour.
A red firehouse lay
thirty metres away –
(might as well have been Outer Moravia!)
When Muriel pounded the firehouse door,
a voice answered back through the panels,
“You make think it inept,
but we’ll only accept
an approach through appropriate channels.”
“But he pays your wages,” she argued with force:
and, pointing to where he was lying,
“You’ve got to come quick –
he’s collapsed on the bricks –
my father is probably dying!”
“You don’t understand how these things are arranged,”
said the voice, from the depths of the station:
“You just call nine-one-one.
If we try to respond,
we are risking adverse litigation.”
Running into the roadway, she flagged down a car,
and the driver agreeably shocked her:
with a white coat and bag
and a hospital tag,
he said, “Yes, you are right, I’m a doctor.”
As the quack pulled away, he turned briefly to say,
in a voice that was suitably gloomy,
“I will not touch that man,
for if I lend a hand
and he happens to die, you can sue me.”
The ambulance came, but things got more lame,
as Mortimer started to weaken:
though the ambulance crew
looked resplendent in blue,
the responders were all Costa Rican.
“We’ve lived here some time and our English is fine,
but we can’t touch our defibrillator.
To avoid getting screwed,
we must talk to him through
an officially-sanctioned translator.”
“But you sound good to me, and it’s peachy, you see,
for my father speaks German and Spanish.”
“But your ganso is cooked.
No interpreter’s booked.”
And the ambulance packed up and vanished.
So the moral is clear. Clear of medics please steer.
Your best course, if you’re feeling nervous, is
lay on linguists each day
in Magyar and Malay
– and don’t call emergency services.
Dragon went to the mailbox this morn,
And he came excitedly flying back, yes, toward the house…
So Now, you should… be doubly, doubly, doubly forewarned.
Yep! Now, you GOTTA know… We’re in for a LOT of ensuing chaos!
Yes, He had a letter addressed to him…
With a smile on his face and a letter in his hand…
And what, you ask, had him wearing, such bubbly, bubbly, bubbly grin?
He’s going, this year, to the Fireman Competition, and held the invite so grand!
By Now, you must know, such excitement, so fine…
As usual, made his fire to run, run, run… onto the letter in hand…
And that Date, and the Time? You know, that fire? Well… never mind!
Thought this would slow Dragon? No way! He’s ready, now, for that Laurel Strand.
He flew to the Firehouse, lickety- split…
Crashing into the fire truck, giving it a broken axel and 4 tires flat, flat, flat!
Leaving his head, stuck, solidly, through the window, into the trucks cockpit…
Fortunately, out ran the fire chief, to organize the rescue, of our little dingbat…
When NOTHING ELSE would work, all the firemen…
Put their feet on the door, grabbing Dragon, and they pulled, pulled, pulled!
Finally, it took old Grandpa Troll to pull his head out, by taking the door off…
And then breaking the door apart! My! What a day, I must say, THIS had been!
Then next week’s competition was explained…
As a Charity Event to enhance and outfit their old faithful fire truck!
Now a little rescue practice will never, never, ever… it’s ascertained…
Ever be turned down! And Oh My! And Oh Well! What’s that truck worth?
That is… compared to our klutzy, little clown…
Grandpa Troll donated repairs as Dragon worked it off, day after day, after day.
My Moral is: If great you will be, then mistakes will be made along the way…
As you walk to your destiny, don’t despair; just keep going to your brighter days…
Written By Carol Eastman 5-19-2016
Resting in Benign Pleasure
By Sy Roth
They watched me,
Waiting for a segue.
Continuously gazing at me
A waxen bowl of fruit
Tantalizing,
Clinging to my every move
Like lichen on the leeward side of an ancient oak,
Like barnacles on the underbelly of a ship
Gasping expectantly
Awaiting my keel hauling.
I dared an idle life,
I am a blushing-red, waxen apple resting atop
Single yellow banana,
Erect among the pear and globular-red grapes.
In my quiet hours of an armchair
Sitting idly by a window overlooking a waxen-western sun,
Humming a lilting song to the juicy, tangerine-soft rustle of grasses
Dancing among the ferns
A mambo to a sirocco wind.
Cochlear serenity
Settles in.
indolence writes a silly book filled
swirling in the brackish waters of their existence—
as I, a rotund Macintosh, rest niggardly and escape.
They Google frantically—
add apps to their already long playlist of useless ventures,
having spirited debates about my latitude and longitude.
They bide their time awaiting their own frenzied End
As I, afloat in the bowl of fruit, revel in my indolence.
They die in their fashion astride fictitious, snorting steeds,
Their backs bent, arms laden with Sancho Panza spears tilted downward.
And I dwell in my own painting, red-ochre in lethargy.
Their frenetic activities justify their existence.
Firehouse-red exit arrows guide their exigencies
while I, un-bored, rest in benign pleasure
Confused by an un-need for the trilling loons.
A blue, velvet drape of Victorian-prim frames the bowl.
Mindful of their confusion, I settle into my page-turning frenzy of non-activity.
Beneath a rainbow sky, cloudless, crammed with endless thoughts
painted on the rime of morning mist.
Guides my exit.
I told my therapist I had a fall back position That I had saved the pills from my wife's death bed Enough pain killer to bring down an elephant Hiding in the back of Mary's closet Waiting for me if things go Gothic black again My therapist in a calm concerned tone of voice asked me to get rid of them Made me promise to do that as homework and I tried Today the the Firehouse excepted Mary's used and unused needles Then sent me back home with the rest Having brought my attention to these pills has brought them to life in my mind They know my name They have an intimate connection with Mary's pain They have made me remember it all again I will keep them in the trunk of the car tonight And tomorrow they will go to the dump One more shadow of darkness removed One more day of moving beyond the barricade of myself
There is a presence to a Sunday morning,
an ease. People waiting on line for their
coffee seem more animated, less agitated,
friendlier….almost chatty. The traffic seems
to get along better too. No schedules demand
cut throat tactics to beat the next red light.
School buses, along with their riders, are
tucked away for the weekend. The hum of
the tires on the pavement seems almost
musical, soothing, in a movingstillness
kind of way. Joggers seem more relaxed,
their dogs less pressured to “get it done”.
Ducks idly talk to their shadows. Church
bells chime more jubilantly echoing over
the breaking day. We sit. Two old men
sipping hot coffee. Reveling in the present,
reminiscing about the past, in no hurry
for the future. An elderly woman ambles
past, smiling at the blowing leaves,
shuffling her feet in mock childhood frolic.
Cyclists relax into a near traffic-less rhythm
of wheels, spokes, gears - grinning into the
chill breeze of November. The firehouse
doors are open, the firefighters resting
between rounds, trucks sitting idle in
the bays, hoses rolled and ready. Two
squirrels play tag in front of a blue house
disappearing into piles of leaves only
to re-emerge atop a fence post. A grey
and white cat lays motionless nearby.
There is no rush to the cadence of the
churchgoers. It appears they may have
already entered into the day’s prayer.
A gentle sense of unanticipated hope
pervades the subtleties of life.
There is a presence to a Sunday morning.
John g. Lawless
11/8/2015
You respond to the call twenty-four hours a day,
you lock up criminals, showing them crime doesn’t pay.
You make our communities and neighborhoods safer,
our chances to live peacefully are a whole lot greater.
You risk your life by simply wearing your uniform,
but risking your life daily is pretty much the norm.
You seldom receive credit for your heroic acts,
I am telling the truth and I am stating the facts.
A firehouse alarm sounds, breaking the night’s silence,
as for the number of casualties, you are left in suspense.
The Dispatcher says, “Apartment complex fully involved,”
the issue of being short-staffed has yet to be resolved.
First alarm out and you’re the first on the scene,
from a window above you hear a faint woman’s scream.
Without thought you rushed into the apartment,
you successfully saved a life with little time spent!
Accident with victims, a man and his wife,
you saved their lives with your “jaws of life.”
You are an innocent bystander that springs into action,
“Civilian Saves Lives” read the newspaper’s caption.
You have the tough task of keeping the country safe for us,
I was once in the service so it is easy for me to discuss.
I mentioned you last but you are certainly not least,
you are the main reason we live free and in peace.
You save people’s lives and you don’t even know them,
I am thanking you all with this inspirational poem.
Where your courage comes from nobody knows,
but to me you are all “modern day heroes.”
It was a hot summer
It was a lonely summer.
In many ways it was
Really a sad summer.
Mother with a new baby,
Dad without a job,
First summer in Connecticut,
Far away from family,
Far away from friends,
Far away from the familiar.
Nine years old and in a
Strange new town with
No friends, no context.
Our big old gray-shingled
Three-story rental was
Beside an alley behind
Stores on the main street,
High hedge of lilacs between.
Firehouse on the other side,
Bar across the street.
I learned the main street.
The little kosher market with the
Wonderful generous owner
Who gave my mother credit
When there was no money.
The candy store where
I watched candy being made.
The flower shop, the bakery,
And, best of all, just beyond,
The Brock-Hall Dairy.
Even though we were in town,
Behind the retail dairy store
Was the dairy farm itself,
The tall barns with the cows,
The sweet-smelling hay,
The smell of country.
I could spend hours there
Petting the big, gentle cows
Watching the milking.
Other times I’d walk down
Putnam Street from Whitney Avenue,
From our house past blocks
Of houses, then the fenced and
Wooded water department land.
A half mile or more and
I would come to the farms with
Summer farm stands where
We bought strawberries
And fresh vegetables.
I wasn’t always lonely
Just because I was alone.
I was more lonely when I
Was left out of things at school
Because I was shy and different.
when the tourists go home
someone special sleeps in the hall
most of the time he smells like wet grass
once so full of life, he licked my face
but now, he has become just an old friend
winding my heart around his long pink tongue
he used to hang out at the firehouse with dad
now dad says, Free, he’s not much use to anyone,
or so dad says
but dad is now lost in the war
the war of words
between mom and dad
where lawyers are shadows and salacious lies hide
tucked in tight
between the lines
of a separation
but even lawyers can’t separate memories
the smiles seem so strange these days
in yellowed pictures under plastic sleeves
once, they were new
and we were all happy
before mom took her
and dad took me
and the bank took the rest
the rest is rusted as an old spoke wheel
junkyard fancy
fancy words on long law paper
jails, and courtroom wrecks
ships crash on childhood rocks
inside our burning house
and broken chains
rotting in the rain
where the old play set sits
abandoned and ugly
as harsh words
explode in the courtroom
while thick smoke fires
in my parent's eyes
burn bright red
and ink stains the document
turning us to drift free
like broken boats
crashing on a hostile shore
my parents chased love away one night
when blood flowed
on the kitchen floor
and the cops came
splitting mom and dad
and us up in separate
corners of town
closing the door
on family
and fury
Dance tonightl at the all girls Catholic high school.
Come on join us tonight, we are all looking cool,
New leather saddle shoes, bright, white ankle socks.
Hair high in a pony tails with satin ribbons, we were ready to rock.
Jackie's pink Angora sweater, soft as a baby kitten.
How she longed for Tommy across the dance floor, with whom she so was deeply smitten!
The nuns were on the sidelines to be sure nobody did not dance too close.
The music began and all hearts to the ceiling, mightily rose.
Tommy was coming toward her, his cheeks all blushing, a gorgeous shade of rose.
Jackie jumped up in that twirly gray poodle skirt, heart pounding like a gigantic firehouse.
The gym was not dark or romantic in anyway.
After all, the priests and nuns were there to be sure their bodies, did not close-
in any sensous way.
"In the Still of the Night," by the Satins, was the love song of the night.
"Hound Dog" by Elvis, put the nuns into a state of religious fright.
The boys were perfect gentlemen and oh,so sugar sweet.
The girls found them delightful, more than the best filled, confectionary treat.
All too soon,this dashing dance evening did end...
Some went home with parents, but the luckier girls went in '56 Chevy Bel-Air ragtops, a most popular trend.
March 9, 2020
Kim Rodrigues Dance Contest DWM
~ Placed Second ~
Thank you, Kim!
Almost Gone Forever
I thought she was secure inside her cage,
as I departed from the shelter and
was walking the short block back to my car,
when all at once the door flung wide and she
jumped to the sidewalk, scampering away!
I rain so quickly, but she disappeared
right near the curb into a storm drain there;
my heart was broken...suddenly, she's gone.
Some passersby had heard my anguished sobs,
as helplessness took hold with no way out.
Quick on my knees, I vainly called her name
not even knowing how far down she was.
Poor thing was orphaned, never had a home,
and I had fallen for her big green eyes
and soft, full fur of charcoal gray and white,
well-patterned...such a lovely tabby cat.
A firehouse was right across the street,
and suddenly two men were at my side.
They quickly knelt to lift the iron grate;
one laying on his stomach pulled her out.
So much had happened in so short a time...
I found a dear, sweet kitty to bring home,
then lost her in a storm drain down the street...
a fireman rescued her...and my sad heart.
March 6, 2019
Contest: Down A Storm Drain - Gone Forever
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Fiction For Contest