Long Haul Poems
Long Haul Poems. Below are the most popular long Haul by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Haul poems by poem length and keyword.
Moniff Transfer Zone
Mass Transfer Zone
Atta Bouis haul ya
Sing that there?
Damn blame me
You forgot the
First word.
You should be singing
Since you know
Every Word
How they sing that
there
How they sing that
there
(Alto) You one of
them ones
So sing with the
Alto's
(Cantar) Starts the
Piece, gone sing
w up the the alto's
How y'all sing that
there
How do y'all sing that
there.
Meet with resistance
they frowned and moaned
I heard some curse and groan
but we talked it out.
We translated
and tweeted
Adjustments
Introducing a greet
Then we were happy
To see
We could get along
Our new song
We changed each and
Every verse
Music can first
ah brand new song
How y'all sing
That there
A beautiful Gaelic phrase exists
that in itself sounds soul stirring.
It encompasses everything you desire in a true friend - it reaches somewhere deeper than simply knowing a persons name or one or two details about them, for which the title "friend" is used.
Friends and acquaintances come and go. Sadly most are not in for the long haul.
When an Anam Cara comes into your life, you know you have someone special. You can feel it to your very core that this is a treasure - true and real. Anam Caras sincerely care about you and how you feel.
A miraculous bond formed as two naturally gel together. Not to be confused with soul mate and romance... like such, Anam Caras are forever!
~~~
Blessed with one you'll know
"Soul Friends" are a unique gift...
Oh, Anam Cara!
On one sultry August day
In a clearing in the woods
Within a long delay
for salvaged auto goods
Amid decaying vans, under glaring sun
High above one ant, homebound, on the run...
Along a rugged trail
of micro hill and dale
Between pebbles and sprigs
Over shards and twigs
For seconds brief, beneath a leaf
‘Round a rock, willy nilly
Root outcrop, dilly dally;
Up the maple, fast
With head-on-haul in grasp
In and out of bark
Inside crevice, dark
Astride the edge, at last
Across a lichen patch
Behind broad leaves of dark green hue —
To my chagrin, beyond my view;
Out from under the shade
Into the open glade
Within the reflective collage
of glinting metals and shards
Beneath the tranquil sky — recharged!
Not to be taken lightly, I burnt all my clothes
Cut the tattoos off my back, tore pins from my nose
Foraged for food particles, where wild beasts reposed
Lapped water vapour off thorns, when the thirst arose
My identity gone, I herded mountain goats
Built a makeshift altar, one by one, slit their throats
Looking to the heavens, chanting primeval quotes
Tell me what to do, this sacrifice I devote
But silence returned, I knew nothing else mattered
The goats now all dead, my hands blooded and spattered
A local tribe watched on, their souls not so shattered
Idolised me, then to the four winds they scattered
After two score and ten, they returned unforetold
Carrying symbols, textbooks, diamonds, and gold
Smiling in joy, I asked what stories they behold
All wrote versions of my life in books, but mistold
Some had butchered nations, said it was in my name
Others brainwashed little children, feeling no shame
The rest knocked on doors, telling lies they heal the lame
Scamming billions of sesterces, their one true aim
I condemned the lies, but was a very bad call
They burst into laughter, and pointed to their haul
Just then everything made sense, as I do recall
Killing goats made me, the biggest scapegoat of all
In early dawn‘s crisp air, we journey forth
with evanescent hope as we head north.
We watch for what we seek. A *golden-eye
glides overheard in blue of winter’s sky.
We bear the cold as we trudge through the snow.
Sometimes we stop for rest; then on we go.
We spy a stream that now has turned to ice,
and there it stands in pristine paradise. . . .
Perfection! It’s exquisite, straight, and tall;
without a doubt, the one that we will haul
back home, where those we love wait eagerly
To deck the lush green limbs of this year’s tree!
*golden-eye is a type of sea duck that can live in northern
US and in Canada.
For Francine Roberts' A Winter Couplet Poetry Contest
My theme is #2: A Winter's Walk
It was spread out all over the living room,
clicked along escarpments and apartments, soon
reaching a station, waiting for master's command,
It left, exuberant, at the touch of a magic wand.
Hornby was sub-standard, Triang was better,
engine would haul along nicely if you let her,
The Golden Arrow went past Harrow, gague narrow,
we leaned out of the window, some arsehole said hello.
The Flying Scotsman rounded a corner, took a turn,
ran into a poetry book, some people never learn,
obstacle removed, twice, journey half as nice,
we know how they run, grown men - not mice.
Finally, going the other way - know what jealousy lacks,
measured decorum on the other side of the tracks.
What crashes into them
is the oceans voice beheaded.
Seabirds skim upon verge and crest,
a green swell of rise and fall.
Open mouths trawl the air
then plunge into a rising wave
to scoop a thrashing fin
that dangles now
between life and death.
Gullets gulp down then wide wings
swim on.
Indoor cats stare out of windows
as the heckling hunters tumble and dive
for shadows of silver iridescence.
Those engaged upon the land
hear the piratical calls of ocean winds,
the harsh and throaty feasting
above the seas rolling tongue.
A fishing village witnesses
this wild dance of catch and hide,
overhears that high cry above
the restless surf and spray;
and when the fishing boats return
they haul the harvest in.
Here under a shale roofed salty cottage
a portly house cat abides beside a tin dish
for its daily dine of scaly fish.
© 4 hours ago
I hadn’t heard of the wonderful Poets of Gloop!
How could I know that there was such a group?
I kept up a Blog where my work went to thaw.
But no one stopped by, no one ever saw.
Then one lovely day I happed on to this garden
So I strolled right on in, I do beg your pardon!
What I found smelled delicious, not gobbledygook
So I sat myself down and had me some soup!
I read and I cried, I skipped and I crawled
I laughed and I giggled, read more and I bawled
I thought, “What a garden they have here in Gloop!”
Then I pealed me a carrot and dropped it in Soup.
I had hoped it’d be noticed, not just sit and ferment
A nice A-type poet dropped by with comment.
From then on, I was hooked and set up my tent.
I’m here for the long haul, I even paid rent!
Those A’s and those B’s, now they know their knittin’,
But the C’s have such fun, like a room full of kittens!
I won’t make the A Team nor even the B’s
Can I please join the C Team, please, can I please?
Well I’ve read fifty poems now, perhaps ninety nine
And others have dropped by and read some of mine,
I sure feel at home in the Garden of Gloop
I’ll do what I can do to spice up the Soup!
After “The Poets of Gloop” by Becca Teagan
I was reminiscing the other day about people I've known o'er the years,
And found it strange that their names corresponded with their careers.
For instance, Joseph Carpenter was handy with hammer, nails and saw.
Clyde Barrister, famed ambulance chaser, successfully practiced law!
Art Paynter, dabbled in pornographic oils and is now confined in prison.
My dentist, Whitey Capps, takes care of my choppers as if they were his'n.
A neighbor, Semmi Riggs, is a long-haul trucker and is on the road a lot.
He married a classmate of mine, Tipsy Toper, renowned as the village sot!
An old army buddy, Hank Roper, is a cowpoke and rides the rodeo scene.
An old girl friend of mine, Freda Flick, is now starring on the silver screen.
The town ne'er-do-well, Don Heller, got religion and became a preacher.
His brother Bob (known as stuttering Bob) became an English teacher!
Willie Wrench turned out to be one of the finest Buick mechanics around,
And his wife Lila (nee Leak) is a plumber and none better is to be found.
Cyrus Cloud is working for the National Weather Service as a meteorologist,
And I hear that Buddy Butts has a thriving practice as a famed proctologist!
Frenchie Horne has his own band and I see him on the boob tube now and again.
An old pal, Gilbert Graves, is the village undertaker located at Fifth and Main.
Was it intentional or fickle fate that wedded these names to their vocation?
I reckon in a sense 'twas both due to a struggling bard's wild imagination!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Me, my brother Tom and Uncle Pat were on a fishing holiday
three men in a rowing boat way out in Dublin Bay
we anchored up and cast six rods over a sunken wreck
hoping for the catch of our lives to haul onto the deck
hours passed with the floats just bobbing up and down
Tom fell asleep and Pat sat watching with a frown
a ferry passed by and the swell nearly made us capsize
as I held onto the sides Pat stood there with staring eyes
his float had gone and the rod had bent double
I woke Tom up and told him we were in trouble
Pat grabbed the rod and with all the strength he had
he struck the line which went straight down, oh man this was bad
the boat began to list quite far and water was gushing in
we started bailing out, but Pat held firm he stood there with a grin
he had a bite that was pulling hard the line shot under the keel
only one fish had the strength for this, it was a giant conger eel
Tom rummaged through the tackle and handed Pat a knife
we shouted ‘cut the line’ or this fish could take a life
but he heaved and reeled then shouted ‘get the gaff’
we saw his head and great big teeth and said ‘you’re having a laugh’
Tom grabbed an oar and whacked it’s head, the oar it broke in two
Pat’s foot was in the firing line and the eel snapped at his shoe
the eel it thrashed; we kicked and lashed the eel half out the boat
but the eel was having none of it and was going for Pat’s throat
the screams were heard by other boats who came to our rescue
the next we knew the eel was dead killed by god knows who?
a harpoon in it’s head stuck out and we were showered in blood
Pat saw blood gushing from his foot, then fell with a sickening thud
we climbed aboard the other boat, the eel it was their prize
we lost our boat and rods, half a shoe plus two toes, It’s the truth, I tell no lies….
© 21/2/2014
For Caleb's Contest...Now it has been judged I can say it is all true....