Long Grandstand Poems
Long Grandstand Poems. Below are the most popular long Grandstand by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grandstand poems by poem length and keyword.
In a hallowed grandstand,
I do quietly sit,
high above the noise
and ruckus of the pit.
Staring out upon
a curving, long race-track,
as thoroughbreds set off
running races back-to-back.
Around me are sitting
a mannered, genteel crowd,
dressed up to the nines,
only deigning to be loud
when jockeys round the curve,
pulling hard for home,
and the losing bets first scream,
then so loudly moan.
I don't think they really care
all that much for the horse,
it's the gambling that brought them,
and brings them back for more.
It kind of reminds me
of NASCAR when I think
of all those horses turning left,
it's kinda the same thing!
But I don't dare mention that,
if I did these people all
would rush me with intentions bad,
claiming they're shocked and appalled,
I guess it's really not my crowd,
and next Saturday I shall go
down the road for a real good time
at the weekly, circuit rodeo.
Ride 'dem broncs! Y'aahhh!
My body is a liquid
that keeps your glass half full
I'm merely there to fill the gap
between episodes of a screenplayed life
the need for symmetry
is overdrawing a story
were us could be presumptive
like you said
those expectations were my mirroring
so your repulsion stepped out to the scene
now we're sitting each in his corner
shrunken
as the vertical thoughts aim the heart harder
like a drone
released with purpose
absolved of liability
from the shelves of my soul
you're removing belonging titles
stacking your books
while happiness in this head is playing a tennis match
in front of an empty grandstand
I'm not standing
you've lent my nature disrupting the statics
I stand no more
I'm floating between this viscous heart
and knowledge that for me you're nefarious
preparing your clean exit
I'll sweep hidden agenda letters
which were adjusting to all of my lightheartednesses
you've turned the light off
and my heart became raspy
as you kept introducing roles in this performance
curtain is lowered
I'm bringing us to the end
Wistful is the heart, silent the walls
where the gambols of youth echoed.
A return tale’s sentimental journey
inside the gates of Sweet Briar Road
Long it behoves me my thanksgiving
to you, aunties Yvonne and Jocelyn T.
For all the love you showed withal
and for all the good you saw in me
Hearken the jumbie bird in the night,
the heat of day and smell of rain.
And QRC bell tower sombre tolled
the hills and valleys of Port of Spain
The crowd’s roar filled its cricket halls
on window row to a grandstand view.
And an open door its gates would be
to weary travellers passing through
By candlelight on evensong sabbath
I saw hands petitioned in God’s raise.
And among portrait, altar and chattel
an old ne-gro woman chanted in praise
Downstairs eating pepper mango,
salt prune and sweet preserved plum.
And upstairs the ghosts of the dead
a trickery of wind and light become
With long treetop fruit picker in hand
softly chorused the sound of Greyfriars.
When joyfully as I picked to my ear
sung the weekly Church Group Choir
Up creaky staircase bedroom chamber,
pantry annex and old livery quarters.
Home to where my grandfather lived
with his wife, eight sons and daughters
In Christian soldier evangelical prayer
waited I for sleep’s silent lull perchance.
O but late by BBC midnight wireless
did growl the dogs in lunar trance
I followed the trail back to its past -
a prodigal son on long returned stay.
When time and fate and the risen sun
dawned upon a much younger day
Written: January 1993
One by one they fall from grace.
The mightiest mouth, a pathetic case.
Good will win, the bad will fall.
You take your swing and miss the ball.
You’re not a man, more like a mouse.
Another empty room up in your house.
Go back home and leave us be.
You’re not so tough up in that tree.
Squeal and bawl, huff and stuff.
Your words of wit are powderpuff.
You’re lacking class and you’ve got no game.
Your pathetic attempt was pretty lame.
With vulgar words and comments, you disrespect.
Your ivory tower has now been wrecked.
People are tired of your arrogant ways,
rude remarks, and your grandstand plays.
Our Nordic God run roughshod by the cynics
Mimics all those skeptics & pundits in pulpits
Sod odd bod critics clinics their unfair optics
Hysterics but Bazball clerics are not yet relics
Despite batting lapse alright collapse specifics
The insult not horrific result of cult’s gimmicks
Got it wrong will still sing same mesmeric song lyrics
Twits witticisms & criticisms taken a toll…troll gits
Shaken has Bazball forsaken its soul..drole misfits
No more stealth or self control just abysmal skits
Dismal death roll rigmarole gambits whole Bazball in bits?
On the dole or run rate wealth in rude health call it quits
Flits their way to play their flair hits as prole media spits
Grandstand Baz Ben stable fable big band brand label fits
Aussies canned.. gawking Larrikin ti*s balking..its the pits
Goal corking victory at the Gabba hoodoo fortress venue
Folks blabber talking of Stokes blokes stalking voodoo
Oz jibber jabber fibber distress as we made history..phew
Yes JuJu mystery temptress played express Yabba Dabba Doo!
Form:
319.
Ikaapat na Araw ni Papa Francisco sa Pilipinas
Enero Diez y Otso, Dos mil Kinse
Kayrami paring mga sumalubong sa kalye
Unang tinungo Unibersidad ng Santo Tomas
Tuloy parin ang pangaral at pagbasbas
Nakipagkita mga pinuno ng ibang relihiyon
Humingi ng pag-unawa at kapayapaan sa mga nasyon
Nakinig sa hinaing ng mga kabataan
Inalo isang batang babaeng luhaan
Huling tinungo ang Grandstand sa Quirino
Kung saan may pinakamaraming dumalo
Tinig ng koro nakapangingilabot
Mensahe ng Dios abot na abot
Oh anong saya nang tawagin ng Santo Papa
Na dakila ang aming munting bansa
Ngayong kapistahan ni Santo Niño
Kanyang ipinaalaala halaga ng mga bata sa mundo.
-01/19/2015
(Dumarao)
*Pope Francis Fever Collection
You have permission to use these poems of mine on your terrific sight if you wish, from a series of Desert Poems I have written. Joe DiMino, author.
"From Desert Series" by Joe DiMino
Horses have come through here--
no jockeys though--
tracks too free for that;
no grandstand cheering...
but one can tell,
by the long strides,
horses always know:
An eagle steps from the cliff...
struts high above the canyon floor...
shows her young what wings can do.
"From Desert Series" by Joe DiMino
The sun is not too hot, here,
on the lichen side of the mountain--
where the edge is taken off, absorbed
into the oranges and yellows and
greens and blues of my patterns:
There!--I see an Indian woman
breast-feeding her swaddling-child;
and there!--a mystical buffalo,
in marble of color (sort of an
unfinished puzzle): I search for my
missing piece in the shade of a tall
saguaro….
Hardware
to spare
Software
quite bare
Firmware
full glare
Upload
bug sowed
Download
smart code
Cursor
fervour
Cyber
fibre
Password
absurd
Hard disc
at risk
windows
hellos
Wide screen
green scene
Hotspot
jackpot
Screen shot
rogue bot
Desktop
nonstop
Thumbnail
all hail
Clipart
from heart
Browser
dowser
Broadband
grandstand
Toolbar
gold star
Macro
steals show
Micro
back row
Wizard
not hard
Rich text
what next?
Template
create
Pixel
oh well
Sharp hack
attack
Portal
mortal
Mail merge
we purge
Dot-com
random
Systems
victims
Viral
tidal
Net world
unfurled
Alligators break the dark circular water,
later, a guy with a big belly and low belt
will grandstand while throwing half-frozen
chickens at them.
This early I’m still surfacing,
last night my legs got jailed
behind lidless dreams; the back of my neck
tingles now, as old sweat refries itself.
I’m waiting for the ‘man’.
A breeze combs damp hair
while I make-out with a Michelob
inside a soda bottle.
He’ll show-up in sockless Crocs,
baggies bulging
from the pockets of
his camouflage shorts.
I and Frick and Frack over there
fake an interest in the egrets
as the morning sun flickers through
snowy spread out, translucent wings.
The ankle-deep mist rises
revealing clearly
that we are simply here
as another form of park life,
waiting to be fed
one more far-out evening.
You fly toward the finish,
and take the last curve
The Mulsanne behind you,
your legend—your nerve
Worn tires losing traction,
the edge of control
Fate laughing inside you,
old blood on the pole
Your mind now invaded,
the ghosts have arrived
Eighty-two came to watch,
eighty-two lost their lives
Your brakes are on fire,
you tap them just once
The last lap demonic,
a young driver in front
You fake to the inside,
diving deep to the wall
The rookie left startled,
checkered flag set to fall
At over two hundred,
charging down the last straight
With both hands on the wheel,
death again has to wait
You roar past the grandstand,
your right arm in the air
A dark podium beckons,
—the Devil’s to share
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)