Long Flats Poems
Long Flats Poems. Below are the most popular long Flats by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flats poems by poem length and keyword.
She removed the drops of perspiration from her forehead with the back of her garden glove, leaving nature’s makeup in its place, a small streak of brown soil. As I stared at her, she put her hand above her eyes in a salute to block the sun. With a quizzical look she said, “What?” I laughed out loud. “Nothing” I said, lowering my head and shaking it side to side. She extended her arm pointing to the bottom of the yard and proceeded to tell me her plans. I was too busy looking at her to hear the words. My eyes moved from her face tracing along her extended arm. In the sunlight, golden downy hairs glistened on her forearm. Small blue rivulets of vein flowed across the back of her hand, curving around tiny islands of age spots. At night she always used the latest cream, rubbing eagerly in hopes of erasing them. She never could read a map or she would have known, Landmarks define a territory. It is our familiarity with landmarks that make each place a home. At the tip of her outstretched finger I stopped, reluctant to continue, as my eyes would have to leave her. At her insistence, I forced myself. “You aren’t even looking.” she said impatiently. I responded with a half-truth, “I am looking.”
She taught me things I never knew about her garden. I never noticed her begonias remained in bloom into October. Her marigolds, in yellow spotted pots, were planted just for fun. Luxurious lupines leaned into squat hostas that hoarded space, bleeding hearts were all over the place. Beautiful tender crocuses were gone too soon. Pelted by early hail, stoned to death for their loveliness by angry, jealous gods. Vibrant coleus leaves, daisies, lilacs, and hollyhocks. Roses, pansies and morning glories, impatiens, all with different stories. Petunias, violets, and daffodils sharing space in flats or on hills. She introduced them to me one by one. I made a friend of each and when her the tour was done, I left her resting in the sun.
Like her flowers, she was looking toward Heaven, unaware that being with her I always felt as though I was already there.
With women the heart argues, not the mind.
MATTHEW ARNOLD, Merope
1. The stand of old growth Melalucas, graces the lowlands of our farm.
For over fifty years, accumulations of leaves have formed small soft islands.
“With selective clearing,” my husband says, "larger areas of grassland will grow.
More grazing for the cows and less hay we’d need to buy in Winter."
Inwardly, I lament, not wanting to lose the beauty of these trees
with branches that rise like huge broccoli bunches against bright blue skies.
My husband, much harder, by necessity, over-rules my sentiments.
2. Conveniently, earth-moving machines appear early on the first day
of the New Year. They cut a long swathe
but on the dam are left a large row, marked by me,
for sanctuary.
They cast reflections on the still water.
3. The felled trees are piled into rough heaps. Prophetically, the car
of the Inspector for Primary Industries appears.
“You must know, these are protected trees.”
He asks for permits (not granted) and orders a ‘cease and desist.’
His scowling looks are an indictment.
4. For months the operation was on hold
and, then the rains came and the floods—almost our undoing.
Flocks of water-birds occupied the flats, nesting on the islands
formed by the grassy hummocks. When these waters receded,
an overgrowth of young melalucas sprouted, where the old trees
had once stood. A network of roots underground had signaled
a catastrophe. New nodes erupted along all the root-ways.
Dumbly they announced their guardianship of the swampy land.
“Give us back to time,” they said , but the un-relenting slasher
leveled them again, so grass could grow.
5. I go back into my house now, secretly pleased the trees are speaking.
The topaz flames from the fireplace, warm my bones.
The hoary frosts have come. The envelope containing the D P I’s
decision waits on the mantel shelf, propped by a row of grazing, ceramic cows.
From the window I see our cows enter between the Melalucas.
They graze on the new growth pasture.
I warm my hands, as the flames lick firewood.
The scent from Melaluca smoke haunts me.
Suzanne Delaney
365 words
A nubile young vicar named Jude
Was seen swimming, totally nude
The bishop said WOW
Just look at you now
Your assets - they need to be viewed!
Fiction write!
07-05-17
Invited him home for a drink
A toast as their glasses did clink
Robes down on the floor
Performing a chore...
How far will this story now sink.
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
The vicar bent over to pray
The bishop could not look away
So for his protection
Took up a collection
A robe now conceals his display
WRITTEN BY CHRIS GREEN
I think this story about being nude will sink low
I will tell on those guys, all I know
Those two men are not holy
The bishop's roly-poly
And the vicar used to be in a nude girly show
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
The bishop was feeling romantic
The vicar thought the man pedantic
When the vicar turned around
To give the bishop a frown
The bishop gasped, "Lord, you're gigantic!"
WRITTEN DALE GREGORY COZART
Said Jude, will we both go to hell-
Said bishop, you never can tell
But please will you turn
I've got carpet burn
And my knees are beginning to swell
WRITTEN BY GARY SMITH
As the bishop continued to stare
He thought such a body's not fair
To see the nude vicar
was hard on his ticker
and soon he had to change underwear
WRITTEN BY ROGER ADAMS
Mother Teresa told me so
In the heaven we’ll dance too slow
If you want to come
Bring us some Rum
Otherwise you may stop and go
WRITTEN BY PASHANG SALEHI
btw... What would the Pontiff say?
Would there be hell to pay?
Or would the Pope
just drop the soap
and hope he'd be invited to play
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
When suddenly a knock at the door
they decided they'd rather ignore
in walked the pope,
joined in the group grope
next day they were all saddle sore
WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER
The pope thought it not at all freakly
when asking the other men meekly
that if they were game
and would do the same
they could set up appointments weekly
WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART
Jude's assets developed so well
As the bishop could obviously tell
But you might be surprised
How it grew to that size
Well, he used it to ring the church bell
WRITTEN BY RAY GRIDLEY
07-06-17
A lesson needed to be taught
This wandering wolf thought
Prowling the area Birmingham flats
Saying “we are not getting into that”
Finding the villa owned by Astin
Gate code giving without the asking
Went up a few flights
To have afternoon conversation with bites
Ringing the doorbell
“Are you gonna sell?”
Right off the bat the wolf questioned
It was the first stage to the Wolf’s lesson
Trying to find out if Astin was in debt
Something he was trying to forget
Feeling invaded
Astin made the wolf do some waitin
“What’s your price?”
Inquiry was very nice
“Are you ready to go downtown?”
Wolf was let in, Astin showed a frown
For the first half
Two of them had a laugh
Now it was time to drop
Excuse being there are nice shops
“You all are very good
Kicking the ball around like you should
You need to better your skills
And forget about the high profile bills”
Wolf explained as the tea arrived
Astin knew he was giving it his best try
“I am leaving here with one goal
Am I being honestly cold?
Or are you playing very bold?”
Back in the dungeon
Doing some watchin
Working the financial books
Spicing them up like the money cook
“Who is going to be with me down here?
Winning matches without any global fear”
Canary wondered shedding not a tear
“Will it be the angry buzz?
Or the west ham that was?
There may be some nice cherries
For Astin whose villa must be sold in a hurry”
Hey kid, it's been a while since you and I have talked in silence. In fact, it's been over a hundred years now. Just a quick little scribble to remind you of the ways you and I have lived in the past. remember those days when we were young and we lived carefree and wild. Those days of young when we played in the woods, went hiking, fishing and camping. Remember those days of young men when we would hit up the night clubs and party our brains out all night long, dancing and trying to pick up any young lady that was intoxicated enough to fall victim to us trying to fancy them and luring them into our flats and onto our cots, after the clubs closed. (Ah...those were the days). Remember the wives we've had and the children we've raised... I wonder how our great-great grandkids are? I wonder if we even have any? Who are they, what do they do...what are they like? Do you think they even know who we were, what we were, or how things used to be when we were alive? Are there still trees, plants and water still left on earth? Is earth still in existence? Have people finally come together (highly unlikely- I presume). Is white still white and black still black? Are men still men and women still women? The list can go on, and on, and on. So many questions, so many thoughts, so many...so many. Well kid, before I say so long and say "see ya soon- hopefully" And, before I put this letter in a balloon and send it up to the stars in hopes that it reaches you in the heavens one day. I just want to say "thanks" Thanks for being you, thanks for the life you lived and the paths you've chosen. Lastly, I am sending two balloons with this identical letter up so if and when you do capture these floating balloons a hundred years from now, remember to pop one when you catch them... pop it so that this letter can fall to earth so to remind people of how things used to be, how I was when I was alive, how lovely life used to be (for me). The other balloon and letter is yours to keep and treasure. See ya soon kiddo... Love you always, Self
Letter To My Future Self Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
9/21/2021
Jake was trying not to think of kittens, or fluffy tailed cats.
He’d been dreaming of them since he’d seen one in the salt flats.
His wife wanted a dog, but cats were the creatures for him.
He knew their chances for an agreement were decidedly slim.
Not cats, not cats, not cats, he chanted, as he walked to work.
Someone in a luxury car nearly ran him down. The big jerk!
He saw them on stoops, behind garbage cans, and one near a tree.
Altogether that morning he counted six hundred and three.
One who understood omens and clear signs from Alaska, Gnome,
Jake wondered what would happen if one followed him home.
He was whistling big now, singing “Cat Baby Don’t You Cry”
When he happened to hear a loud sorry meow way up in the sky.
What to his wandering blue non-looking-cat-eyes should appear?
But a fluffy beautiful minx cat whose brown eyes were full of fear.
He told her to jump, but she was way too fearful to comply.
So he bought a ladder that reached nearly up to the sky.
He got up there and got that cat, saving its life.
It did not appreciate it nor want to go home to his wife.
Then he tried to take the ladder back to get his money.
But they refused to take it, so he took that home to his honey.
In the heart of the evergreen state where mountains touch the sky
You’ll find the PNW Poetry Guy under Mt. Rainier’s watchful eye
With the South Sound’s rain-soaked landscape boasting tall fir trees
The PNW Poetry Guy’s verses are penned in the cool misty breeze
From Seattle's shimmering skyline to Tacoma’s tide-flats
The PNW Poetry Guy honors his roots wearing many hats
Observer, consumer, and admirer of the beauty mountains to sea
The PNW Poetry Guy inspired by an Emerald City spirit so free
Mossy paths winding through sprawling foothills in the Cascades
The PNW Poetry Guy enjoys the forest-covered steep hiking trail grades
Through the Puget Sound whispers to Ocean Shore’s rhythmic songs
The PNW Poetry Guy writes among scents of coffeeshops, fish grease and bongs
City Center, Montlake and SODO are special places energizing Seattleite’s hearts
The PNW Poetry Guy at the stadiums and arenas as our teams do their parts
Sure, we have problems but through diversity and inclusion they are addressed
The PNW Poetry Guy is proud to be born and raised in the majestic Northwest
The hazy morning dew of spring
Glitters as a Sheppard’s son
Envelops a gentle fawn
On equally wobbly knees.
Clear blue summer afternoons
Shine as a man
Wrestles the mighty lion
On legs of iron.
Foggy chill-winter nights
Freeze as a grey-haired man
Nods to a inky crow
On sticks of wood.
Between hypnagogic trances
And vivid hallucinations
The flats, sharps, and rests
Of tones reflect off
A Queen Alexandria’s wings
As the Monarch soars by
At seventeen miles per hour.
Taking place in dreams and time.
Insomnia begins to blend
Real and fantasy
Today and tomorrow
Then and now
Who and how
Misty harbors of psyche
Attain carnal knowledge
On the grassy knoll of
Psilocybin. Exploding
Inside a weary head
With finger paints
On a black canvas.
Fickle now the transcendence
Of the color spectrum
As it aligns to those
Who die and are dying
I refuse to babysit any more of your litters I told the McCats.
They begged, and pleaded, and complimented me on my flats.
Oh man. I am easy. A parrot who does not ever say “no”.
How far away will you be? I asked. “Where will you go?”
Just to the store, these cats lied through their teeth of yellow.
We’ll be back in a jiffy, they’ll be easy. You are such a kind fellow!
If there is one thing I know it is that good guys always finish last.
I said “Yes” but then I drank the rest of the whiskey out of my flask.
Kittens are trouble; they are mewers, whiners, swatters and worse.
They dumped the contents of my owner Mrs. Tee’s luxurious purse.
I knew I’d be in trouble if they were gone more than an hour or two.
They double crossed me that day; and these kittens were new.
They never came back, and that was sixteen years ago.
I am still taking care of this last litter, and they slink to and fro.
They love me like a mother, have imprinted with me.
So I guess it’s not horrible; it’s kind of great as you see.
A sunflower-sun blooms high in the skies,
beaming its rays onto the sand and waves.
And seagulls assault the air with their cries,
as crabs dart in and out of flooded caves.
Their orange carapace, in stark contrast;
crabs feed on green algae as flats expand.
And chase the tides, relentless and steadfast,
o'er coral shards and alabaster sand.
When a moist mist coalesces offshore,
fog obscures the sun, dimming down its light.
And Sol's shy face isn't seen anymore,
till brisk breezes disperse this ghostly sight.
As the heat of its rays intensifies,
a sunflower-sun blooms high in the skies.