Long Handed down Poems
Long Handed down Poems. Below are the most popular long Handed down by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Handed down poems by poem length and keyword.
Joes corner
Joe watched every morning,
The sun that pecked over the trees in the distance view,
Watched has the sun rays drifted over his row of growing veg,
He sat in his rocking chair and waited for the birds morning calls,
Beautiful musical song,
He sat and whistled along,
The breeze would add the slapping of the leafs,
It would often sound like the melody to Mother Nature’s song,
The swaying of the rivers waters and the drew drops splashing the river below,
To Joe sounded like the beat to Mother Nature’s song,
Joe loved to watch from his pouch,
The beauty in his flora home,
A farm handed down,
To him from his father and his glad to call it home,
I asked an artist about love…she smiled then answered most colorfully:
When my heart is loved…and loves another…I find perfect symmetry.
I asked a musician the same question…he sang his answer out to me:
When my heart is loved…and loves another…I find perfect harmony.
A writer said, as she was about to pen some prose…or was it poetry?
When my heart is loved…and loves another…the words flow naturally.
A philosopher told me when I asked if he knew where love could be found.
When my heart is loved…and loves another…I see it all around.
And they were right, for those times in my life I thought I was on my own
when my heart was loved…and loved another…I never felt alone.
And when I thought I didn’t have enough and wished I could have more
I realized:
When my heart is loved…and loves another…I never will be poor.
Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned here…one we all should heed:
When our heart is loved and loves another…we have everything we need.
It’s in our paintings…in our music…in our prose…and in our poetry…
handed down by artists, musicians, writers, philosophers…
and today…with a little push from me.
Passed down through generations I hold a gift of soup poetry,
it doesn’t matter if it’s hot or cold, as long as it comes in rhyme,
free verse is also tasty when I add a good analogy,
and sometimes I add a little bit of limerick and thyme.
The flavor that I savor is in the magic of the recipe,
boiled in the heat of the night or chilled during the day,
I have tendencies to stir and sip quite constantly,
just like my great grams used to do and say.
She wrote journals of emotions holding dreams of aspirations,
when she died they were handed down to me,
I learned that while making soup poetry I need inspiration,
and keep craving verses that will set me free.
The combination of deep love and gaining old age,
brings me satisfaction when thirsting for release of pain,
sometimes it’s nice to add some haibun and sage,
because adding a little cilantro can leave a senryu stain.
Footles of noodles and chicken marinated in raspberry villanelle,
reminds me of growing up when I was sick with heart ache,
my soup poems were yummy in my tummy with some garlic ghazal,
and when feeling the sorrow of loss, I’d add a fibonacci flake.
The soup poetry that tastes the best are the recipes from the soul,
and when the cooking is done I can sip from a poetry soup bowl!
My Poetry Soup Recipe
January 26, 2017
I've been musing lately about things that really make a home complete.
One thing for sure - a happy home is one with laughter and love replete!
'Twill be a place with affectionate parents who dearly love each other,
And blessed by a couple of kids - a little sister and her big brother!
A home ain't a home unless you have a faithful dog and inscrutable cat,
And a stoop on which to greet folks whereon lies a welcoming mat!
A grandfather clock to intone the inexorable march of time is needed,
And a fireplace with a cozy fire by which to reminisce unimpeded!
There'll be a library of classic tales with yellowed and dog-eared pages,
And a Bible that is read, having been handed down through the ages!
Displayed on the fireplace mantel will be pictures of folks from the past -
Folks from the family tree who set standards for honor unsurpassed!
There'll be a white picket fence and a trellis with climbing yellow roses,
And a huge front porch with a swing on which to enjoy pleasant dozes!
At the kitchen table, the family dines, discusses the day and grace is said.
Later the kids say nightly prayers before being tucked in their featherbed!
Marks to measure the kid's height mar the wall nigh the kitchen door.
Happy holidays and birthdays are celebrated that will add to family lore!
Though the dog and kids may create havoc as about the house they roam,
If I may quote Edgar Guest, "It takes a heap o' livin' to make a house a home!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Cockroaches backstroke lazily
in pools of condensed milk.
Stacked newspapers pile up,
yellowing ingrained tabloids.
Her bed has a curved spine,
her couch is a witchery shaped coven,
a semaphore center for twitching tails.
At her whirling core, she is mad,
the way angels go mad,
with bright-eyed ecstasy.
The cat food cans are collectible,
labels brown in a mold-tinted twilight
all else decays
with the half-life of stale urine.
She calls her pink-tongued children
by secret names,
names handed down by necromancers
to generations of neurotic felines,
cackles, while she sleeps, spinning fur balls
the size of small planets.
Written By: D. Collins 1/28/16
Throughout life you should trust nothing but blood.
That is where you get that unconditional love.
It won’t set you up, nor put you in the cross.
Blood is what you need when it is time to floss.
Anything other, will hand you to your foe.
Maybe from envy, or your stash of ‘Dro.
That’s the times we live in, so please take the nudge.
In the foxhole next to you should be nothing but blood.
We live in a society that is borderline insane.
So, know what you’re doing before you get in the game.
For as long as you live, know there is only one love.
The one handed down by being born of blood.
Belts, paddles, switches, and rulers were once instruments of punishment.
Although very rarely, in my early years, a belt was Daddy's favorite.
I was always a quick learner and never a glutton for punishment.
Some believe that both the home and the schools presently bear the
results of unwisely changing the rules with regard to curtailing
bad behavior. Others think, 'Good riddance'. Others call for balance.
When corporal punishment of kids was applied and acceptable,
whether handed down at home or in school, there were always
those who never seemed to be persuaded to alter their behavior.
As a result, punishment was repeated whether proper or not.
Neither the applier nor the recipient ever learned any lesson.
However, there would be tears, sometimes by the applier also.
I suspect both learned "To WEEP THE TEARS THAT NEVER LEARN".
Perhaps the misapplied method was bad medicine for Donnie.
Perhaps tenured teacher Miss Peterson wept tears of failure.
It should be noted that life is complicated and gives rise to many
mysteries. Such convoluted mysteries often force us "TO WEEP
THE TEARS THAT NEVER LEARN". As for corporal punishment, I wish.
I wish that it had been abolished when I was a kid. Many troubled kids
turn out to be the best of citizens. And I've observed that many parents
and teachers despise the pain medicine they administer. Need I say More?
Come drink with me this moment,
let"s raise our vessels high
and toast tomorrows victory,
celebrate who will die.
For come the morning sun
we shall stand with sword and spear.
Swallow down the early mist
to rinse our mouths of fear,
then onward to our foe
face them eye to eye.
Send their ears back home
to hear their mothers cry.
For the Gods are on our side
this day it will be ours,
time shall clap both hands
upon the victory hour.
For we must now protect
our women land and cattle
so raise again your drink
and toast tomorrows battle.
So to sleep my men
beneath the stars and trees,
for come this time tomorrow
our land it will be free.
Each man can hold a thought
about his death or glory,
for they will live forever more
handed down in story..
Each one of course a hero
who killed at least four score
and has become imortal
within this tribes folklore,
brave men that gave their lives
to stop this human chattel,
so again lets hear the toast,
the toast that is
"To Battle."
Our two youngest grandchildren visited yesterday…Aden is 18 and Ava turns 16 in September…we opened a time capsule made 12 years ago and took time to remember.
I sat there for a moment thinking about time and how fast her river flows…as we tried to remember what we were doing a decade plus two years ago.
And I thought about my dad and words I often heard spoken from his tongue…
words I swore growing up I’d never say…four words…when I was young.
Making these kind of promises, I imagine, is something we all do when we’re young, innocent and carefree, until, one day, perhaps with our children or grandchildren we listen to ourself and think…Oh no! It’s happened to me.
We try not to show how much our pride and our ego have been bruised…as we find ourself using words and phrases our father…and grandfather…used.
When I was young, we tell our children, people were kinder…the world was not as hard…neighbors gathered and had fun together…there wasn’t a fence in every backyard.
When I was young we drove old cars…we didn’t have all these outrageous prices…
When I was young we played outside…we had no hand-held devices.
When I was young we respected our elders…and our hair was neatly combed…
When I was young if we got in trouble in school…we got in trouble at home.
Could it be as we climb the ladder of life…with changes at ever rung…
we’re just trying to hold on to a piece of our past…to a time when we were young?
Could it be we want our children and grandchildren to know they are lucky…they are blessed…for all the world has set before them…for all that they possess?
Perhaps as I’m echoing words my grandfather and father once, long ago, said to me…I’m continuing a custom…a tradition…handed down from family to family.
That’s probably why I sat there smiling…
thinking how far back life’s pendulum has swung…
listening as my grandchildren remembered…
and wondering if they’ll use the same words my father used
to tell their children…about a time…when they were young.
once you take that first step down the path
the decision has been set upon and you cannot go back
now it is up to trust, that invisible demon or angel in waiting
right or wrong the pendulum will swing in either direction
time a curse or a blessing guided by a compass
beholden to no one it has its own destiny
for love once betrayed is a vengeful enemy
setting off a cornucopia of storms of anger
unleashing the torments only goddesses can bestow
their ire thrust forth like a thunderous lighting strike
wishing to smite those that have broken her heart
there is no hiding from the maelstrom your betrayal has unleashed
bringing embarrassment to those that inhabit castles
a dire misjudgment in a moment of voluptuous temptation
is there now regret to having succumbed to human wontedness
it would appear so, hands now tied striding towards the inevitable
step by step moving closer to the sentence handed down
the walled fortress now a corral with no escape
and then I am there, she and a legion of men in waiting
a gilded sword sharp as any in the kingdom prepared
her golden hair blowing in the wind, delicate features revealed
utter beauty astonishing in the backdrop of a scorching sun
how could I have traded this for a night of passion with another
now I am pushed down to kneel before her my heart racing wildly
she is judge and jury and as she draws back the sword
I wonder if there is one morsel of sympathy in her repertoire
so I close my eyes and ponder why has my lust brought me here
all the whilst listening for the whoosh that will end my days or not
Andreas Simic©