Long Glumly Poems
Long Glumly Poems. Below are the most popular long Glumly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Glumly poems by poem length and keyword.
Someone's at my kitchen door
I hear them gently knock
But it really is quite early
I look glumly at the clock
Who could be there waiting
Who would be about
I haven't had my coffee yet
It makes me want to shout
They must still be standing there
Again I hear them knock
I can't open the door like this
It would give them quite a shock
I haven't had my shower yet
And my hair is everywhere
I've just hurried out of bed
I'm looking kind of bare
I wish that they'd be gone from here
Once more I hear a knock
Why can't they just walk away
Or drive around the block
Oh, but now I'm wide awake
And it's clear they're here to stay
So I guess I'll quickly dress myself
...Welcome to my day
Five hundred years Giovanni Fontana had the notion
To rope gears to wheels and put it in motion.
One hundred years ago an idea came to Baron von Drais
Horses had been killed, ploughing required other ways.
Two wheels, no pedals, all made of wood
You had to push through the field, but still did some good.
A Scotsman added pedals, to the rear wheel
Maybe to celebrate, his friends danced a reel.
A Frenchman made the "boneshaker", which lived up to its name.
Ahead of its time, though reasons to complain.
It vibrated horrendously on the bumpy roads
Rattling teeth, rattling nerves, rattling loads.
Then England's "Penny Farthing" led the attack:
A five foot wheel in front, tiny wheel in back.
It was hard to climb on, and to keep a balance.
Every mount was a test of acrobatic talents
If you fell off without a helmet, it was hard on the brain.
Inventors went back to the drawing board again.
Radial spokes came in 1870, ball bearings 2 years later.
Progress is a goddess, love her or hate her.
Caliper brakes, multiple gears, shifters came fast.
Still too bumpy to have a blast.
Societies of bicyclists lobbied for roads paved and smooth.
Women started riding, old attitudes moved.
Across the pond Thomas Stevens rode a trans-U.S. ride.
With that kind of bike, a reason for pride.
Then pedals to gears got linked with a chain.
Derailleur was the next step, and a drive train.
The Italian Army used a foldable during World War I.
Between incoming bullets, they might have had fun.
Like the future Mountain bike, it handled rough terrain.
But for that, California cyclists tinkered, got the fame.
So that brings me to the day that I was cycling on a country road
composing verses, humming, reciting an ode.
Overtaken by two cyclists on electric bikes from Preston
Were batteries cheating? I glumly asked the question.
I concede it's liberation, more folks in fresh air
Their efforts assisted, but still mostly fair
Causality doesn't focus on me, of course
I'm just a convergence, a bike over a horse.
But all this history made it possible, on a rural lane
To move on my own power, through really nice terrain.
(hub bur rigid version.)
All la names bespeaking deity froom
Noah Mo' Room India Arc
of Covenant to Blood
(sweat and tears) of
San Gennaro devout wowed,
and/or Turin shroud
consonantly demonstrably,
desperately, faintly, glumly
yet plaintively, muttered aloud,
no evading the steadily avowed
Atheist approaching funnel
(dum mental) stormy cloud,
cuz far as the eye could see -
at least by this Beatle browed
bipedal hominid (north, south,
east, and west),
the conical, demoniacal,
and elliptical endowed
sky high reversed cone, bow wowed
wailing 10,000 maniacs +
same number of banshees
wove weft and white
across wide whirled web
whereat, the black vortex
vacuumed everything
in sight (chowed
down) with loud violent row
dee earsplitting sound everything
within a vast path got plowed
obliterated, and annihilated proud
lee into bajillion smithereens,
hence mine entire being
held spellbindingly agog
frozen in place ruff akin
to well trained dog
without a chance to bark a blog
mired stock still courtesy, sans
extreme fear comp
pounded (zero apr) via
quintessential supreme tear
roar immovable paralysis
plus helpless as pollywog
lacking seizure of critical
whatsapp cerebral cog
as if blinded by a mental fog,
cuz nothing withstood
the incalculable suction
emitting barrage of sounds -
hmm...methinks or imagined,
I heard cry of a hog
amidst the pandemonium,
plus uproarious, ominous,
and insidious howl,
though still some
scant miles removed,
the deafening roar
felt like top of my head
blasted unable to jog
free (like a bajillion trained
thundering monsters at log
er heads) these screaming
quasi nemesis seemingly
horrifically, and directly
into my tender ears.
(Victor Hugo fought against the dictator,
first on the barricades, then in scathing
poetry like this - "Souvenir de la nuit du 4".)
She took him to the hearth to warm him up,
not noticing his legs, already stiff.
Alas! Our mortal fires can't give back breath
to those who've felt the icy hand of Death.
She bent her head and took his little feet.
"And isn't this a thing to break your heart?"
she cried. "He wasn't even eight years old!
The teachers in that school thought well of him.
I tell you, Sir, if I should need a letter,
he'd write it for me. Are they terrorists?
Sweet Jesus! Are they killing children now?
I watched him play this morning, at the door.
This gentle little creature. I am old,
it would be nothing if I had to die.
So couldn't Monsieur Bonaparte shoot me,
instead?" She stopped. Her sobbing took control.
Emotions mastered once again, she said,
"What am I going to do, alone? Tell me.
He's all that I had left of his poor mother.
What did they kill him for? I wish someone
would walk in and explain it all to me.
Some shout for the Republic, that I know,
but not this little scrap of life. Not him!"
We stood there glumly, speechless, hats in hands,
helpless before this grief which couldn't be eased.
I'm sorry, Ma'am. You don't know politics.
But Monsieur Bonaparte is full of tricks.
A commoner like you, he feels that since
he has the name, he ought to be a prince.
He likes fine horses, servants, palaces,
and Sandras, Julies, Saras, Lucy's, Alices.
Of course, he'll save the Church, the Bank,
protect the Family, and folks of Rank.
But first, he needs Saint-Cloud's unblemished lawns,
where second-rates can come and grovel, fawn,
and flatter him. Such things just have to be.
That's why old women who can barely see
must sit up, weeping in the dark and cold,
to sew the winding-sheets of seven-year-olds.
War does not determine who is right - only who is left. - Bertrand Russell
It’s a darkness so sad and grim,
Dreams destroyed by the bleakest sins,
It’s more than loss of life and limb
World War isn’t just about who wins
Homes are ruined and lives are wrecked
It’s a darkness so sad and grim,
Death in each shadow or suspect
Was this war started on a whim?
Here at home, we all sing a hymn
For those soldiers who will not live
It’s a darkness so sad and grim,
Warriors, hearts and souls they give
Though we sought peace, our hope was lost
Beneath seas of pain, our souls swim
Glumly fighting despite the cost
It’s a darkness so sad and grim,