Long Gaul Poems
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Laying my head back, eyes closing,
reminiscing, the years falling away into decades ago
to the 1950s at my grandparents' grand home
for Christmas.
It was a gracious dining room.
Noontime sun streaming in.
Chair rail with deep red wallpaper, white trim.
Decorating the lace clothed "Big Table"
was a tallish 1870s porcelain Meissen fruit centerpiece
with lovers circling the stem.
Even the adults had to look around it.
Grandmother "Lil" and "Mister B"
were at their nouveau best.
All their progeny seated in good form
awaiting the traditional invocation by "Mister B".
Also seated were the ones that were to be
"seen but not heard" at our side table, the "Kids' Table."
Draped card tables for the dozen of us -
me, my brother and sisters and cousins.
Everyone all scrubbed in dresses and ties.
Mine was a clip on.
As expected, a milk glass got tipped. Spilt milk.
Besides that, we kids had great fun and
became friends again as we did each year.
The thing of it was, none of us liked
being at the "Kids' Table."
We felt lesser, unworthy, subtly so.
Even when I was ten, I knew there were
only two ways to get to the big one:
marriage or go in the army.
We all wondered what it was like to be adult.
After all, most of them smoked.
They all had drinks.
The women had figures, swishy swirls.
The men wore suits like they knew how.
At the "Big Table" they all talked like experts
about stuff we didn't understand
and they laughed loudly at Uncle Bob's jokes.
As the years moved on, things would change,
always do.
I saw virtually all my cousins
disassemble their lives too early -
marriages, divorces, addictions, lost jobs, left school -
beleaguered into inevitable submission.
My family miraculously unscathed.
But they're all gone now,
"Big Table" and little table too.
All that's left from the 50s
is my brother, sister and me.
For years, I was at the "Big Table" since my brood and I
took over the Christmas tradition.
The "Big Table" conversation was
superficial and posing was prevalent.
So one year, I put myself at the "Kids' Table." Just for fun.
Yes, milk got tipped.
But oh, the wonderment and hope. A meal that truly was
food for the soul.
Now that I'm old and looking back,
with a quiet smile, mulling it,
I kinda liked the "Kids' Table" better.
Colored pencil illustration by G.Gaul
My name is Spencer Byron.
My first wife Addy died tragically in 1991.
A devotee of surprise. She was so much fun.
The breadth of love is unchartered territory.
Not all loves can be explained.
There are many aspects of love.
Today my wife's name is Amy.
She knows little of this.
She mended my tattered heart left by Addy.
A night this week in our New England hometown
in the crushing crowd leaving the show
I saw a flash and a glance by Addy
between moving heads and shoulders.
Same exquisite, classic, good looks.
Same beguiling presence of my love thirty years ago.
How could it be?
After the crash, in the morgue
I'd sent her off to eternity
with a teary kiss on her pale, sweet cheek
before they took her away.
There are many aspects of love.
Where did Addy disappear to that night?
With an old snapshot the next day,
secretly I went to the hotel near the theater
on a chance. To my surprise,
she and her sister were staying there.
Should we, could we meet?
The sister answered the hotel room door.
I explained that her sister had a haunting
resemblance to someone I'd loved thirty years before.
Then I saw her - same long thin neck, deep brown eyes,
hair up in a twist, surprise in those eyes.
When she first spoke, my heart leapt.
The urban myth is each of us has
an exact double somewhere in the world.
There are many aspects of love.
We talked timidly, as the sister went to make tea.
She leaned forward, touched my hand and said,
"Dear heart, I seem to know you somehow".
My head exploded, I was filled with infatuation
once again. Spinning, it took me over.
How quick it was. I tried not to show it.
Stumbling over rushing thoughts,
I knew to withdraw, to protect myself from me.
"Dear heart" was Addy's pet name for me!
Startled and backing away, I left my personal card.
Later, I got a handwritten note on my door.
It said, "Dear heart, I met you two years ago in Brussels.
Your name was Emile Ibsen.
You were thirty years younger then.
We made forbidden love.
Should we do it again?"
There are many aspects of love.
Colored Pencil Illustration G.Gaul 2023
Vae victis! Her quick eyes spy out the field.
Reconnoitred, the foe's dispositions have been noted,
quantified, assessed. The forces of order
and tidiness, in neat array,
perfect their alignment, await onslaught.
The sentinels stand guard:
A pot of jam, a jar of marmalade are emplaced
on the strategic salient of the dining-room table.
In battle-dress, knives, forks and spoons,
the infantry, have been fully mobilized. Now battle!
The moment's silence is conflict's omen.
Certain of the issue, she advances,
knowing all order is as brief as day,
while primal Chaos ruled
when all was void.
She crawls towards an unwary footstool,
a defenceless lone straggler near the door.
This, with one fell blow knocked out,
her target would now appear to be the oak sideboard.
With a sideways reel, the feint is over.
Blitzkrieg is launched on the dining-room table,
the heart of enemy operations. She tugs
the table-cloth; a pepper-bomb descends,
inducing heavy sneezing fits
(didn't they outlaw biological warfare?)
Thus repulsed, she makes for the paper-stand;
papers, magazines, ordered by number, edition or day,
take heavy poundings till they lie scattered,
littered on the floor.
The main assault no longer brooks delay! She tugs again -
the infantry charge down.
They miss the mark but make a hellish din.
With head well positioned for cover, she tugs
a third time, and with a mighty splut
the jam-jars teeter, topple and tumble,
and tumblers crash down with deafening jars.
With jammy hands, the victress daubs the walls,
and in triumph commemorates her feat.
By the shindy wakened, Father stalks in,
his face like that of Jupiter tonans
before the fatal blow.
Her sunny smiles pierce the dismal gloom -
O double conquest! Did Gaul, cowering
to the gore-drenched blade, love Caesar,
the British tribes, defeated, bless Agricola?
What smiles leave hard a little tear
makes tender as a lamb, and Dad,
a willing captive to her wiles, gives in -
surrender unconditional.
And Mum?
She'll do the mopping up, of course!
Captain Kuni-Lemel strikes again
(even when iron not hot, but rather cold as ice)
Yours truly a day late dollar short
dollars to donuts bonafide klutz
living testes mint procreative
seminal squirt biological reproduction,
could never conceive to abort
despite countless occasions,
I blithely admit characteristics
linkedin with being a putz
going off rails as a one man train wreck
mine impossible mission to avoid
NOT running amok imagine
bull in a china shop.
Pigeon toed, I trip over me own little feet
size nine shoe small size for grown man
leaving utter disaster in his wake
synonymous when havoc strikes
chaos theory alive and well
ensues when I walk about
and dare take even one baby step.
Ever since adept with ability to crawl,
I ofttimes tumbled down the stairs,
but never did shed tears nor bawl
e'en when taking nosedive head first did fall
out the hatch of airplane
splattered, plastered, and matted
think suddenly feeling comfortably numb
joist another brick in wall
nevertheless acquiring stunt man role
paid big bucks
as *****sapien disguised as Sasquatch
(cause unkempt harried styled hair)
more times than I can remember
fell to Earth minus parachute,
which hoop fully explains
the incomprehensible drawl
earnestly and frankly harkening language
once extant within Gaul
which reverberated inside hall
of mountain (lionized) king.
Prior to any madcap misadventure
yours truly envisions his clumsiness
plays out within my third eye blind
hilarious scenario unfolds in slow motion
whereby accidental flick of wrist,
barely brushes up against
flimsy clothes rack
(the original motive begetting poem)
knee jerk involuntary reaction,
kicking obstacle clear across Compton
generating comical feedback loop
impossible mission to stop
blockchain of fateful bitcoin events.
Living amidst (amongst) disarray
courtesy the missus, whose domestic habits
never merit housekeeping seal of approval
twenty four/seven pose
a hazard to mine existence.
I am myself unable to know
If what I am about to say
Is totally wrong
Or is may well be right
Can I
Should I
I am still not quite sure
This true story about my actual real life
Share
With any of you
Would that even be fair
For me to want others to know
And therefore buy into and care
Because this in fact is about
And is in regards to my
Nearest and close family
But here I go and I will leave it up to you
To decide if I am in fact
Totally out of order and morally wrong
Or altruistic and right
When my mom said to my sister
And referred too and called Kayleigh
Her little sh1t
A term of endearment
And my sister , my mom's daughter
And Kayleigh mum
Said and I quote to my also her mother
You can't call her that
The total and utter gaul and sheer audacity
And I don't know who if I was in their shoes
Would and should be more offended
Should it be my mom
Who's daughter doesn't apparently seem
to know her at all
Or her daughter who she doesn't seem
to know anymore either
As Kayleigh once told laughed it and
brushed it off instantaneously
And said my mother her Nana can call
her anything she likes
As she has earned the right to as she
in fact stood by her and bought her up
And if my sister knew either of them
She would hopefully then realize just how offensive that is and may appear too the
pair of them
And as this is after all to close to home
for comfort
I am hesitant to say I can only imagine
But I don't and can't and would never
wish to be
Suffering such an indignity if it was ever
Directed at me personally
At least I would be and am willing to admit
That would break and crumble me into
A thousand pieces and leave me on
my knees
And that is my own
And worst of all I can't intervene
And do anything to fix that
Apart from stand bye and look away
Rather than look them in the eye
Because it will only make me cry
She calls herself Bunny Boucher, but she was born Veronica Chermak. She’s tall and leggy with a body that looks tidy, yet lived in. She’s high and tight, but flexible like a strong rubber band in a tricked out pinball table. She reminds me of that actress Tracie Lumbar playing the actress Fern Hall in that old movie Iguana Sunset. Her topography leaves no room for global climate change. Her tropics are seductively torrid, while her poles remain perpetually cool; makes you want to straddle her equator with your meridian. She’s been to Mussel Shoals, Shucked Oyster, Bearded Clam, Moose Knuckle, Camel Toe, Beaver Falls, Cottonwood, and Rabbit Patch, just to name a few of her more well-known hangouts. Some would say she looks Greco-Roman, but I’d describe her as looking more like a Hellenized Phoenician who emigrated from Trans-Alpine Gaul, or maybe she looks more Etruscan, with a hint of Minoan when you see her by moonlight. They say she’s as pure as bloodstains on a purloined letter. She traded in her Biblical name soon after she left her home in Mississippi and never spoke of it again. It may be just routine housekeeping, but who could blame a girl for sweeping off her back porch. She recently had a front end alignment. They say her rearview mirror never lets her down. After arriving in New Orleans she passed her bar exam at Vaughan’s on Dauphine and kept the circuit judge disrobed till way past last call. She’s a sexy banshee when she’s in the catbird seat with her cherry basket swinging from a bungee cord. Last I heard she was sharing a dump with a couple Guatemalan dancers. Her room ain’t worth a dollar, but it cost a pretty penny. She pays the rent with a pickup truck full of contraband. She says she needs the space, but not the distance. Like most women, nobody’s ever been able to figure her out. But there is one thing I know for certain, her smoke may sometimes offer you a tempting indication of certain possibilities, but her fire has never been known to lie.
Warriors of austere adventures,
soldiers for suffering and tribe survival,
children,peasents,women & men,the penny poor & candid criminals,
proud peoples,honest heros,
we marched on all the flesh of earth,
no terrain was forbidden for the fantastic forbearence of the foriegn fighters,
campaigns on the cold clay of Europe's mountain valleys,
the smeltering sands of arid Arabia where the sanctuaries are shadows,
mundane manuevors upon the hot hills of the mutinational Meditterrain,
marching in spread points across Russia's frozen waters,
mildly marching single file through soft dirt along the massive Mississippi,
going above and beyond the shattered rock the Hindu Kush does pile,
forging fanaticaly in columns of two against angry winds that whirl and wail
amid the plateus of Peru where pain is pink and mercy mute,
motives for marching can be exquisitely egregious,or simple and sanctified
like the beating of a boy in order to make a man rather than a brute,
Hannibal climbed the hellish heights of the Alps,
Caeser acquired apotheosis by the grinding of Gaul,
the Khan of Asia killed for culture,
irreproachable rebels like Moses and Boudica fought for posterity,for legends,
Joseph Brant and Alaric broke yokes of the Imperial vulture,
Cincinatus pushed forward the march to ensure the peace with plough,
Tom Paine for freedom of expression,Joan of Arce burned for rapture,
simplicity brings relief,and sometimes joy while on the move,
oddities like bluejays & baccon,
wonders such as hawks & large wildlife,
good things like clean water & a commrades cackle,
mysterious events of improvised spiritual ritual,omens deciphered
unique to each are rife,
in the snow & in the beach,through the mud,grass & crisp leaves we traverse
to bring the battle to the enemy,
to deliver the war with might,
we march so to bring the conflict to ourselves,
we march to meet,compete,and to defeat ourselves,
we march to meet our Maker's light -
J.A.B. %
When things go wrong,
Seems it sort'a cascades....
You sigh in sad acceptance...
Yet you're always amazed...
And it's seemingly relentless,
Before you know it, you're crazed...
Like losin' a remote,
Sounds like a thing trite,
But search, and search,
and search as I might,
It's still out of sight,
Not much entertainment tonight....
A 47 inch buit-in HDTV and cablevision,
With no way to view the picture....
Worthy of wide spread derision...
And in your pocket,
Is merely one buck,
Your lawyer and your friend,
have yours,
And it seems you're out of luck...
And the ultimate insult,
The revolting remote...
And now something else,
That really gets your goat...
Is being cut off by AOL,
You seem to be cruely smote,
No chance to reach friends,
Trade quips and cute poem,
Left alone by yourself,
Your mind does now roam...
What's next on the agenda,
A plague to erupt?....
All about me in trailerland...
To die quite abrupt?
A dog to lift leg, and pee on my shoe?
A bird overhead to "sheet" on my head?
An insect on the run,
To fly in my eye?
I wonder, "Why God?"
For me, please answer why...
Better go back to bed,
And dream once again,
The nightmares to end,
When the waking world,
I no longer retain...
When things are bad...
And you are sad....
And nothing works for you...
There's always someone
to tell you...
"Oh, this is what to do!"
"Keep your chin Up!"
"Why the long face?"
"Count your blessings!"
Can't they see somehow,
You've long lost this race?
"Be the silent strong type!"
Like I could believe
that croc of hype...
And remember in the midst,
Of that trite word,
The word "believe"
Is the word "lie",
And those who would deceive...
And "God will find a way!"
My favorite of all..
Seemes loaded with gaul...
God may find a way...
But will I last, another day?
Coffee, it is evident, is not Sherry's cup of tea;
She likes spirits like sherry and brandy
and knows the ropes of winemaking to a tee;
An oenologist by profession, like her pal Brandy,
found her niche in viticulture. Numbers of spirits
she's tasted, as a sommelier whose forté is wine
tasting. Oddly enough, she will actually whine
if I try to talk her out of dealing with other spirits.
She's involved in paranormal practices
and that chills me to the bone. She will lock up
in her tiny cubicle for hours to "communicate
with the beyond" and claims to have connected
with certain famous individuals after their
departures and says they are doing fine.
At least she says my "poems" blow her socks
off but I ought to massage her ducky feet
so that she read my verse. If I don't, she socks
me right in the gob! I feel I accomplish a feat
without an oxygen mask. It's not easy to bear
whatsoever the task of massaging her bare
dogs though I'm glad I don't have to polish
her toenails. She never paints 'em. Her Polish
friend concurs that Sherry is a little cracked
in the upper storey.
Dating a 146 IQ girl isn't all it's cracked
up to be. End of story.
I'm wondering: If we were in the North Pole
would she be barefoot so often? The Pole
thinks so and misses the golden days
when they both made money doing pole
dancing. "Boy we would definitely daze
the men at the club. They voted each night
for the best dancer. Most times the polls,
I have to admit, were in Sherry's favor.
Jolly times. But don't you dare have the gall
to say a word. She helps folks lose weight
today and loves it. Be kind to my half-Gaul
half-Brit friend and don't have her wait
when she wants foot massage. You would
be putting your foot in your mouth. Now go
put your feet up." Well, knock on wood,
the Pole's words made me feel lucky. Yo!
Set the scene
strike the slate
a plague befalls Rome this day
like the Gods bless the clouds to spew rain from its jaws
A hurricane of envy washes the city streets
already filthy with the foul stench of death and rotting flesh
The universe knows the tyranny of deceit, deception
lurking in the public, the Senate
all the twisted, despicable crimes we commit against our own brothers, our kin
and instead of burning this whole city to the ground
the universe glorifies and preserves this wasteland of corruption
Do you not see the blood permanently staining the walls, the welcoming street signs
Are you that blind to not notice the number of ill increase steadily
with every passing day, impossible
The riots paint the city vibrantly
a sea of red, orange, yellow; fire
outrages and cries of innocence ring out through the night
and disassembled limbs: arms, legs, fingers, toes, torsos, breasts, name it
and you shall find it in silent parts of the streets
I find myself chuckling while on the run
Here we are, considering ourselves the perfect society
righteous above all other yet we hold timid, sensual orgies in our very beds
in our beds, backyards, neighbors homes where we bury our beasts
we murder our political figures in chance to gain their riches
only to find ourselves shaking hands with them in the afterlife
poetic justice
Let the public decide but not these villainous savages, these savages...
If I had the opportunity to flee
to flee to Gaul, to flee to Hispania, to flee to the Alps
to escape my fate here
I'd gladly take it than to have a sword find its way through the back of my neck
because I am out of money to pay off the loans I have stacked up
A lonely beggar I am and a lonely beggar I now fall deceased
Gaius Lucian Alteranius