Long Free range Poems
Long Free range Poems. Below are the most popular long Free range by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Free range poems by poem length and keyword.
i haven't retired
yet other then
retiring in my
bed which
that being said
leads me to here
where i took a day
off coughing but
not sick just clearing
my throat as if i'm
speaking instead of
simply typing what
words you are reading
and words on my mind
so in a sense i am
speaking but in my
mind with the always
present conversationalist
accompanied by the
random soundtrack
that plays but
never knows which
song or genre will be
preformed for that
score is written every
day and not the day
before for they are
fresh free range
organic thoughts that
with no impurities pop
up whenever ever they
decide to speak for
notes are words just
look at your note
book's scribbling
having meaning
but sometimes not
meaning anything
but suggesting due
to interpretation
as so simple is
music not even
having to have
that kind of
sensabilities
can't you hear
your heart
beat along
with the roof
drum rain is
playing on
adding to
the melody of
bird songs sung
along with con
struction hums
and the occasional
voices of people
passing by the
window that
you can't
seem to
be able
to pass
outside
Form:
When Sara and I take our walk each day,
We usually go the same old way.
Today we decided to make a change,
We decided to make our walk free range.
We went to a park named Natural Springs.
It had a dog park and playground with swings.
We chose a trail with overhanging trees,
We had a full sun, but also a breeze.
I saw a small path that led to a stream,
But Sara said, “the path’s too extreme.”
I gave her my, I really want to look,
And she said, “I’ll sit here and read my book.”
I walked a few minutes, looking about,
Then thought, I’m not sure just how to get out.
It wasn’t long ‘til I found the right path.
I crossed the stream without taking a bath.
There was my Sara, as I topped the hill,
She told her new squirrel friend, “here comes my Bill.”
We shared my adventure as we walked away,
We were glad we tried a different way.
I wonder if Wright
ever thought himself wrong,
before making an actual
flight?
I mean, pigeons heckling
him, from the tin roof's ledge (Oh yea! They
do laugh, a sort of subtle, mocking coo, a snickering choir
Wright all too well knew --
as if only pigeons flew
probably more upset that it was not Kitty Pigeon
(bemoaned a Homer of the Township's naming decision)
(damn hawks always got the greater glory!) – despite what pigeons did
during the perilous war story, risking beak and tail, so our nation would prevail --
and yet, still used, primarily, for Chow Mein and
free-range stew, as if humans yet had not a moral clue)
(But I digress. Should be cautious: feathered Ears everywhere...
myself soon expecting a head full of taunting goo – followed by
cooing laughter~ daring me to take offense~ just try to sue!) –
And now, it is high-time I confess
this write not about Wright, not about
wings, nor pigeon mess – but more about
being bored, with presently not a thought
worthy enough to intelligently address.... Addicted to writing.
When is hate,
voiced and aggressively acted out,
not a crime
victimizing all us criminals,
convicted and otherwise?
Should we criminalize
fear of fundamentalists
or anger about presumably predative aliens
or anxiety about internal
and external
climate changes
or worry about long-term costs compared to short-term benefits
of violent revolutions
in lives outside our narrow ego walls?
How does criminalizing hate
deter or feed it?
Does punishment for aggressively articulated bad attitudes
merely add hostile fuel
to short-fused flames?
Would active hate fade away
if criminalization evaporated?
Would love grow easier
if colonizing bullies,
with bibled GoodNews liberating intentions,
returned to creolization supporting naturally polypathic children
daily longing for reborn WinWin multicultural Trust?
PreHate children
prefer co-empathic PositiveParadise
and not so much loseLose
hellfire breathing hate
projected onto a jealous
all-powerful ecopolitical
yet personal
ForceSource.
What about crimes other than hate,
motivated by greed
or need,
or something in-between?
I would not know how
to criminalize my rampant raving revolutionary needs.
But your greed remains better locked up
for stealing our properties
and too loudly proclaiming me
your stupid and deluded chattel
at your greediest disposal
except for my inconvenient properties,
transparently vulnerable needs
to eat and drink
to taste and see
nutritious GoodFaith Integrity.
When, if ever, is active hate
not a crime against health?
When criminals, like greedy us,
are free to return polypathic love
to grow toward co-empathic trust
in our cooperatively nurturing
mutual listening
non-threatening and non-bullying
mutual infatuation,
curiosity,
co-redeeming grace
of mutual invitation
into shared trust
democratic space.
A place
not feeding prisons
while watering polypathic
free-range love.
^^^^^
Since
I’ve
NESTED IN •>
brazen
Bangkok
\\\\\\
ROUND THE CLOCK
I STROLL BRIGHT
DISTRICT BLOCK
~~~~~~ You can tell
~~~~~~ from my gait
~~~~~ I’m not very
____ straight
though deep under
I AM QUITE
A COCK
| |
| |
| |
| |
/\ /\
^^^^^
Yet my • • free range
is short ^ lived
till ~ when
SHOWS UP OVER BOSSY MOTHER HEN
///////// \\\\\\\\\
she will peck back to chicken
me off stage > Coop Cage
I AM _____ STRUTTING
RED _____ DISTRICT
TILL _____ THEN
| |
| |
| |
| |
/\ /\
What is that blaring in our ears,
is it the brain cutting loose
and spinning around our heads?
Brain figures and un-figures
looking through holes in its circuits,
what computes is painted on blank walls,
what just blurts
is spoken with a deeply voiced wisdom.
Look, the sounds it makes are visible
from the moon,
can be heard by dreaming camels
on the far side of nowhere.
It is running around bleating
getting lost in its own delusions.
Don’t feed it,
do not own it - it’s not you;
at best it’s a headless chicken
at worst it’s a chicken wearing your head.
Tell the brain it’s got to take a break
from its clatter chatter.
Ignore the gabbing,
look another way,
be filled with a sage silence
or find something real to say.
Watch the brain dance itself
into a dazed dizzy exhaustion,
watch it twirl
within its babel babble hell;
kill it gently
with an aware,
detached,
Mona Lisa smile.
The Remaking Of America
Written: by Miracle Man
6/21/2024
Each sunrise brings with it more horrid tidings,
America is now experiencing grievous change.
Seems no day passes without some rape or killing,
like livestock, illegals rush in to graze free range.
Many bring dissenting views and stated demands,
they wave their flags holding fast to former ways.
Some elected officials promote this way of thinking,
some stand around disoriented, frozen in a daze.
Many think it’s all a part of some grand scheme,
and time may come when only Government has a say.
We’re seeing the land we love destroyed from within,
the only hope we have is for Christians to pray.
One change that I notice most every day,
my freedoms are slowly being taken away.
But though they take all I have to give,
it’s the very best place on earth to live.
Tom
Though poetry requires
a sense of rhythm-form
(for clear recognition)
approach varies greatly,
the size of the word-ship
and runway --
whether calm sailing
or raging storm --
an even glide
or extreme dive alarm --
the pilot of his poem
the Imager of his sea and sky,
some plot more
while others, haphazardly
simply take-off and fly --
what is poetry?
what is living?
calmly controlled aspirations
while the athlete pushing beyond
safe limits, what we are
secure with~ or also phantasmagoric?
thus having choice of Free-range
a poet, I believe, will often test his craft
will chance a dunk and raft
will test his life
will break-ranks
and recklessly
daringly explore it!
Rose early, dressed fast.
quick grocery store run
already eight-one degrees. glad car has air.
brought home fresh vegetables
out of someone else’s garden
feeling weird about that
When I was a child we all had gardens
shared produce with our neighbors
at the clothes lines, no fence lines
free range people where I grew up
small town southern Iowa
poorest dirt in the state
Delabettas had corn and tomatoes first.
Edna across the street brought over radishes and carrots
Our mother took gardening seriously.
We were out on a real farm in the country
from six to ten every morning.
We had an excess of everything.
The Pelligrinos brought over their watermelon,
which was always a treat.
And the Ingrams had pumpkins, but later,
more toward autumn
None of us would have bought fresh vegetables
out of someone else’s garden.
It would have seemed weird.
He was a crazy old coot.
Spoke of his treasure. Not buried.
But hidden. Where was it?
In this hoarder house?
Who could stand to go in there?
With free range rats, and all that food.
The county came in, served him papers.
He had six months to clean it. No follow up.
The paper helped no one, including him.
He had alienated all of his loved ones years ago.
His only son was notified of his death two weeks later
When the postman reported the odor. August heat.
The house had to be burned, worth nothing.
The rats abandoned it, dispersing themselves among the neighbors.
His treasure was no doubt burned, along with everything else.
A sad and sorry tale, unfortunately, more common than we know.