Long Homes Poems
Long Homes Poems. Below are the most popular long Homes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Homes poems by poem length and keyword.
I moved South from Seattle's rainy haze,
To Atlanta's charm in the early 80s days.
They called me a Yankee, a foreign soul,
But Southern living soon took its toll.
Sightseeing spots, reminders of the past,
Stone Mountain, Kennesaw hills, memories that last.
Civil war echoes lingered in the air,
A history woven into Southern flair.
Spring arrived, painting the land anew,
Dogwood trees blossomed, a pristine view.
Azaleas bloomed, colors vibrant and bright,
Colonial homes adorned, a majestic sight.
Kudzu vine spread, a creeping menace,
Climbing poles and trees, a relentless offense.
It suffocated plants, its control unknown,
A battle fought, but its crawl would not be overthrown.
Summer rolled in, with sweltering heat,
Porch-sitting, a respite, a welcome treat.
Neighbors dropped by, conversations flowed,
Cold drinks in hand, stories shared and bestowed.
Magnolia trees, white and pink in bloom,
An office entrance adorned, dispelling gloom.
Camellias, inspiring with their beauty so rare,
Po folks' meals, fried chicken and cornbread to share.
Warmth of the people, overwhelming and kind,
"Sir" echoed, a gesture of respect you'd find.
Cost of living low, money troubles ceased,
Georgia welcomed me, a place of peace.
No matter what they say or press may tell,
In Southern living, I found a hospitable spell.
From the charm of Atlanta to the warmth of the land,
Southern living, a true gem, forever grand.
Psst, You There, Just Once Won't Hurt
I'm Your Friend
By: Tom Wright
07/03/99
I have stolen your children,
caused broken homes,
fostered child abuse
and killed your neighbor.
Because of me you have ungodly thoughts
and perform ungodly acts.
I shorten your life.
Ad men say that I'm what's happening
while many teens think I'm cool.
Like other sin, I'm portrayed as glamorous,
the in thing to do.
To many, I'm a crutch,
still others an excuse.
When lonely, I'll pretend to be your companion,
for awhile.
Socially, I'll be just one of the guys.
I'm a battle in which you can't win,
at best, a draw.
To many, I'm classified as a disease
but correctly put, I'm a DRUG-- a habit.
A habit that you can't break.
Millions are spent yearly fighting things I've caused
yet I remain stronger than ever.
Man keeps statistics on Drugs,
Wars, Aids, Heart failure, Cancer,
Cigarettes and Automobile wrecks.
So it is with great pride that I say
I am responsible for more deaths than any of these
and the primary cause of a large part of these.
I raise insurance rates,
steal your pride,
and cause degradation and embarrassment
at every given opportunity.
Political lobbyist protect me as if their first born.
Citizens seek restitution in your courts
for wrongful deaths in all manner of things,
but not against me.
You will sue the car maker, the driver, the gun maker,
or the tobacco company,
but never the Spirits Industry.
I have a free ride as I destroy your lives.
Oh, in and of myself I'm not bad,
I've many useful purposes
and man has made me what I am.
I am that small bottle
that society chooses to ignore,
called Alcohol.
Psst, hey kid, over here
want a drink?
An artist smashes thick flaking paint the canvas seethes in boardrooms cigar doom winks
fat killers with gold rings crack their fingers melting glaciers flood the cities of rome union
jacks old glory tears flow down cheeks of countries shaking in war boots marching to
screaming huts of the breaking countryside clinging to ropes splintered wooden fences rusting
milk cows squeezed dry boarded homes soldiers sleep in spit gods stand in stone drinking
winter cathedrals yoked with old women in flowered dresses white pearls and rosaries
touching their hearts singing prayers behind eye lids shut windows and locked doors mute
crying sirens of the baying cities
The winner takes all, all your land, all your money, all your assets.
Assets like you, your family, your work, and all that you hold near and dear.
Winner takes all, all your stuff, like you and all of your assets.
Reading many historical records, we can learn of the winner-take-all wars, the loss of homes, money, jobs, and other stuff and the loss of people by many ways.
Winner takes all, all your stuff, like you and all of your assets.
Wars that have happened throughout time, the losers, the ones that lacked, lacked power, lacked knowledge, lacked the ability to protect, and had no knowledge, lost.
Winners takes all, all your stuff, like you and all of your assets.
So, remember everyone, you can lose, you can suffer loss, loss by failing to value life and assets, and freedoms that we all hold dear to our chest.
Freedom is not free, it has never been free, many have fought, many have died, many work hours and hours to keep us free from harm.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
Brutes, in name of God, to show their might,
fixed laws, that you’d succumb like measly sheep.
Womankind, kind woman, rise and fight.
Innocents of war with smiles once bright,
ravished; tossed like garbage in a heap,
angels hovering nigh have you in sight.
Faithful brides, for something less than trite,
set on fire in their beds as they sleep.
Kind woman, womankind, your soul‘s in flight.
Girls in huts, legs spread, cry out in fright.
A ritual to mutilate cuts deep.
Angels from on high do hear your plight.
Wives in their own homes (not all is right),
beaten, hush their children not to weep.
Womankind, kind woman, comes the night. . . .
Sisters, don’t be wearied by the blight.
For what they sow, God’s told us they shall reap.
Angels have prepared you robes of white.
Kind woman, womankind, hold tight your light.
For the 'TRIBUTE TO WOMEN' Poetry Contest
From river to the sea, an ocean of blood, filled with cries of children;
peace is broken, homes destroyed, lives shattered, a sea of refugees fleeing torrential bombs, under the ether of Western civilization resisting a ceasefire.
From river to the sea, Palestine is on the brink, like an express train to unspeakable tragedy befalling a whole nation, slated for extinction.
History's marching backward, to Rwanda and Auschwitz, a clever strategem for land without its original people, invaded by European settlers citing holy book to lay their claims, like Spanish conquistadors, proclaiming an "empty continent."
From river to the sea, a nation rises and put down like new Spartacus, mutinous against their slavery, and the new King Cnut desperately summoning the waves for Eretz Israel, with no more checkpoints and separation walls; they're only needed for an apartheid state.
From river to the sea, priceless treasures, highlighting architectural ensembles of centuries, buried under the chorus 'finish them,' finish them all, old, young, women, children, their animals too. The magic of land that spawned world religions suddenly has dwindled to a trickle of humanity, the catharsis of a crisis of spirit, shutting down conscience, and soon new settler homes shall be built on tower of skulls, with Gaza's unwelcome beaches available to western tourists again, offering kayakers great thrills at discounted prices, with its banks lined with daffodils and new palm trees, so the pleasure boats can anchor for a day to take advantage of the whirlpools of new resorts with a big sign, no Palestinian allowed.
From river to the sea, the light glows within the dispossessed, and with each martyr, their spirit of resistance blooms, and the saga lingers: Palestine will be free, and Jews and Muslims shall live together in peace.
They kneel in water that once was their streets,
hands, like small boats, lifting the broken
pieces of each other—what is left
of their homes sway in the wind’s aftermath.
But in the hollows of their ribs,
compassion flows, fingers reaching out,
the strangers have come as if drawn
by some invisible thread of the heart.
A woman holds a child not her own,
and in the grocery lines,
men share silence as a form of prayer.
The sea still seethes in their veins,
but they have become each other’s islands,
speaking in gestures,
their empathy moving through the ruin,
like light on a broken mirror.
"For someone's joy is often someone else's despair" by Poet X
Excited children grin and cheer to see the snow;
a winter wonderland indeed for them to play -
their parents are not quite as pleased to see it though
(but memories of joy remain from yesterday).
As creatures hibernate or hungry, search for food,
the children's pets will frolic, happy as the kids.
The foragers and playful children can be viewed
from cars that cannot move or only manage skids!
The elderly afraid to leave their comfy homes
-a slip or fall is something to be greatly feared -
will feed the garden birds and reminisce of roams
on snowy hillsides, drives and paths that they once cleared.
And homeless shiver praying that the snow won't last,
their thoughts are far from happy times when snow brought joys,
and pulling blankets up against the icy blast,
their slitted eyes view happy laughing girls and boys.
Excited children grin and cheer to see the snow,
as creatures hibernate or hungry, search for food,
the elderly afraid to leave their comfy homes,
and homeless shiver praying that the snow won't last.
written 7th December for Constance's Created Form contest
Serenade to~
Pandemic Lemonade
They are afraid to call?
No time to text ever either.
Live in homes called jails?
And have a stolen election!
A veritable Mein Kamp, ressurectdd.
With sadness on the earth.
Even kids stopped smiling.
Football now a BLM game?
Churches closed.
No real school ever?
A bug rules their hearts.
Now and forever!
Families limited in get togethers?
.
Once there was a country.
Now we are all slaves?
Unwilling Socialist knaves.
And like Jim Jones' follow
Will not revolt at all!
Just drink Pandemic Lemonade,
Till our nation absolutely falls!
11-25-2020
we had it coming
looking at pictures of an empty Piccadilly Circus
or the Eifel tower in Paris all are empty of life except
for police cars cruising to fine anyone breaking the law.
The emptiness is awesome and frightening to think
How quickly humankind can disappear forever and
When pandemic is over, there might be another one.
Millions of people all over the world rotting in their homes
The disappearance of humans is a near reality.
The only hope is that we lived a tolerable good life.
The future will consist of animals hunting each other.
Cities will crumble, art and culture of no value.
We had it coming, I despair.