Long Hay Poems
Long Hay Poems. Below are the most popular long Hay by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hay poems by poem length and keyword.
Dumber than Dumber and Dumber...
Wondering about the plundering of a slumbering hunter king...
Thunder from down under sundering over the paper Sunday brings...
The flavor to be savored for later when the alligators escape the ring...
Sinking stinky shrink y dinks when the ding of the doorbell didn’t ring...
Fiending friends minus the “r” in new types of mining while whining...
Finding time for aligning the dining of jinxed schemes blistering a mister...
Fixating on everything,
Hating nothing,
Hustling and bustling,
Some muscle-
What a tussle-
More trouble-it is a daily type of thing...
Huddled, befuddled, bugged, drugged, once was hugged,
What a lovely thing!
Tugging on a rope for Cope,
NOT coping but hoping and hoping,
Smiling over that sink,
NOT winking, slinkies shrinking and expanding,
Chest pounding, wound, drowning,
NOT clowning, frowning, at downing more towny styled vodka drinks,
Bout to doubt more @ the shouting in store,
Illegal activities, radical tattle, two-paddle style wild child mascot teams,
Hassled twenty million castles for fascist rapping more poetry,
You know it be; still a honeybee that is me...
Cheese! For my Queen strung out like a string bean seeing what life brings all steamy,
... A Midsommer Night’s Dream
Dad was a great piano player
Grandpa Luther was a great man
He burned his wife’s Bible
In 1942, when Colorado farmers
Decided all Germans and Japanese
Threatened them
My grandmother
Got another Bible
English version
She didn’t have to hide
Governor Ralph Lawrence Carr
Was a great man, too
The only one who stood for
The rights of Japanese
–Americans– just like he
Said, “if you harm them
You must harm me.”
Thanks to Governor Ralph
Ito
My grandpa’s neighbor
Remained free
When his haystack was burned
He would not accept charity
So grandpa accepted his trade
Ito’s piano for grandpa’s hay
And that's how Dad
Learned to play
Upon well-worn barstools, tales two codgers tell,
Deep in drink, their stories swell.
Reflecting how the eons have flown,
Strengths once had, now overthrown.
"Ah, beauties chased, both bright and keen,
Yet in our brews, our sighs unseen,"
One muses, his gaze alight with jest,
"Great tales spun ‘bout adventurous quests."
Yet as dusk deepens into night,
Their bawdy laments take flight,
For now, as years their passions cool,
'Tis kinship's warmth that proves the jewel.
"Lust we chased, a fierce endeavor,
Yet who'd guess? 'Tis these bonds we'd treasure,"
Laughs the other, his tone now cracked,
"In our twilight, kind gestures n’er outmatched"
Thus they salute life's jest renown,
To joy's pursuit, with trials abound,
Yet as nightfall deepens, they both concede,
'Tis the company of a friend, true wealth indeed.
"For now," they laugh, "let truths be aired,
Our liveliest nights in legends shared,
Yet of friendship, let this be told,
It's the dearest consort we'll ever hold."
Here's to these venerables, their legends vast,
Inebriated, yet together steadfast,
For though the yearn for carnal dreams persists,
It's companionship they seek, with all its twists.
And as this epic closes with a laugh shared,
Recall, 'tis friendship that has our vessels spared,
For lust may wane, and fervors stall,
But a true friend stands as the finest of all.
PS: Originally written in 2015. Another poem from my old computer
Make hay while the sun shines.
I grew up as a closeted polypathic nature-mystic
on a marginal, at best, family farm
in Michigan.
This farm was my embryonic home,
an extension of my vastly loved and nurturing Mother,
more than my workaholic homophobic Father,
who most emphatically did create a patriarchal god in his own image.
His farm was for slave labor.
Her farm was a garden for growing healthy wealth.
I loved Mom's Multi-ReGenerational Family Farm
like an extension of my ego-mind and anthro-body.
And, like a turtle without a shell,
when I first headed off to Ann Arbor's University
I brought my happy and healthy ego with me,
eager to begin my new adventure story,
yet I emotionally stumbled,
felt naked and exposed and depressed,
for lack of my embryonic habitus,
my eco-center,
my home,
my interdependently embracing love of sacred spaces
and their seasons of regeneration and degeneration,
growing still and fading without ego me
conjoining.
I was homesick,
but not for Nurturing Nanny
and Fearsome Father
or even Perfect Princess Sister, whom I cherished,
whom I could talk and listen with as whim might invite,
and, although somewhat more of a sore detachment from our farmhouse interior spaces,
my disorienting alienation from Ann Arbor
was as a too-urban outside place
just as my recreating resident embrace
favored my dorm and classroom youth-learning multicultural race
against more oppressive monoculturing times.
To this day,
despite a six week backpacking hike
along California's Pacific Coast Trail,
plundered by surreal vistas and fragrance and light and unspeakable beauty,
when I imagine a meadow, a field, a woodland,
a pond,
a barn,
an unpaved road,
a gravel drive,
a herd of cattle,
a pen of pigs,
a coop of chickens,
a litter of kittens with eyes still sealed shut,
I recall iconic scenes from this sacred originating home,
my eco-memory
calling my doubly-bound ego-enculturing self
back home
to where we permaculturally began together,
making hay while the sun did shine.
“I say, I say, pay attention when I’m talkin’ to ya, boy!” Classic line from Fog Horn Leghorn, a Looney Tunes character
A husband was prone to get details confused.
His wife told him this when she was not amused:
“I asked you to get just one thing that I needed.
When at last you returned, I was steamed.
It was clear that my simple request wasn’t heeded.
You should try your best to be redeemed.
I had asked for one pack of six corndogs; instead,
you brought six cans of corn and six dogs!
They all bark day and night, and they’ve taken our bed.
If I’d asked for bacon, would you have brought hogs?”
Your mother Mary lay you down
in a bed of hay, and that was incredibly humble;
your foster father Joseph made it all possible...
he raised you in his birth town,
to keep you safe from the pagans
who worshiped those gods you called idols!
In a bed of hay, little King, you watched unafraid
that log-tailed star that stopped over the unused manger at the inn...
where the cow and the donkey breathed hard to keep you warm;
and how could the Wise Men have known of your coming,
to take on a long journey and claim you their King,
refusing to return to the almighty Herod the Great?
When the angels appeared above and started to sing
words of peace and good will toward men, and the shepherd boy,
who heard their voices, ran down the hill to fall on his knees...
while the drummer-boy played his drum by the drooping palm tree;
and others came to visit you and offer you their gifts!
The Magi came with gold, incense and myrrh:
the three gifts that revealed the stages of you destiny,
and you accepted them by showing no fear!
In a bed of hay, little King, you invite the blind and the sick,
the persecuted and the poor to get rid of their hopelessness:
to enter into the Kingdom where gracious love is the temple of holiness,
where no one is ever turned away if that soul has faith!
In a bed of hay, we declare you King,and you stare at us:
speaking of Paradise...proclaiming a divine message that God approves!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
I visited my wife again today
In the Sunrise Nursing Home
I just could no longer care for her
Living in our home all alone
She stared at me in wonder
Not knowing who I am
After forty years of togetherness
I am now, to her, a strange man
It’s the same routine every day
I search for the right words to say
But she has lost all of our yesterdays
Like a needle in the hay
Pictures of our family
That sit on her tableside
Mean nothing in that mind of hers
Those memories have long since died
I keep hoping for some recognition
A little piece of history she might recall
But day after day I receive the same blank look
When I come to make my call
It really is an awful shame
We had so much fun on our journey’s way
But she has lost all of our yesterdays
Like a needle in the hay
I’ll see her again tomorrow
And cry when I walk away
She has lost all of our yesterdays
Like a needle in the hay
BALING HAY
We three are farmer girls primarily.
named as Alice, Linda and Emily.
belonging to same peasant family
of almost same age holding simile.
All of us work hard in field merrily.
We hold skill to cut, chop and collect hay.
We are performing throughout the whole day.
Working under open sky and Sun rays.
Enjoying work staying cheerful and gay.
Panorama touching horizon gray.
Linda standing as her bundle is done.
Emily holds bunch on shoulder in fun.
Me Alice, baling to finish my turn.
Since childhood ' Baling hay', we are to learn.
Farmhouse close by: At eve, we rush, run.
We are close friends, being cousin sisters.
Not rock STAR but shine as Bailing Hay STAR.
Expert to bind bunch of hay in cluster.
We do job fast, yet try to do faster.
We enjoy festive days during Easter.
HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
NARM HAWAE, NARM GATAYE — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
ZAKHMO JAFA YE TERE HAWALE — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
TEG-E-MASTAK, TEG-E-WAFA — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
ZARB-E-ISHQ MERA BADAN — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
SAH-E-BALANDI, SAH-E-FASANA — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
DIL PE DASTAK TERI IZZAT — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
MOHABBAT-E-KHAFA, DARD-E-WAFA — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
MERA LAHU, TERI KHUSHBU — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
ISHQ-E-NIGAH, ROOH-E-HAYA — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
TERA QADAM, MERA RASTA — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
FARQ-E-RAFTA, SAATH-E-HAAL — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
TERA BADAN, MERI DEEWANI — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
NOOR-E-DIL, NOOR-E-SAFA — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
TERA R.D., ISHQ-E-WAFA — HAY RE ISHQ, WAH RE WAH
The sky, it's not blue, It is silvery grey
a canvas smudged by trembling rays,
You—
Like the inside of a poet’s soul
Who is going insane, but laughs it off
sketches madness, speaks in dread
He writes with a pen of crimson red,
Pouring words in existential dread,
somehow alive, yet almost dead
in every phrase he has ever said
Khaki dress, brown horses tread,
a field of daisies, where no dreams wed
Blue beret falls, flashing death
Vivid dreams, the tulip's Dead
The sky's not blue it's vivid grey
Ever heard of leaver's stay?
He paints his muse-
As the conscious fuse
a girl runs, in silvery-grey
Yellow hues, field of hay,
face hidden, hair in disarray-
a moment lost in dim-lit decay.
For no logic could comprehend
What came his way
Shooting stars in iris gleamed
Visions repeat in the vivid dreams
Straw hat falls, drowning death
The Indus flows, daisy's dead
The skies renew, with a reddish hue
Giving the reader a timeless cue
Reindeer screams, panther sleeps
Creepers climb and the willows weep
Moonflower blooms, in sunset hue-
Lavender wilts, with a muddy view-
the sky, it watched—
In monsoon grey—
and swallowed all they didn’t say.
No place for you to be naive,
No shelter left for hearts to grieve
For every illusion has to cease
With every single paper crease