Long Hopper Poems
Long Hopper Poems. Below are the most popular long Hopper by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hopper poems by poem length and keyword.
Artist - derelict and drifter.
Move about like windblown bones.
Bathing in the dry, veined riverbed.
Fashioning crafts and wares unwanted.
Weaving ends that never intend to meet.
Father of the northern aurora lairs.
Dancing with ice bears atop great flows.
So cold, both sun and flyer freezing midair.
Tooth walkers jab the flanks of ice ghosts.
Mother rainforest, a forever emerald charm.
Within every shadow, a deadly smirking slant.
The panther and poison dart hopper.
To the last known being of a dying clan.
They'll all meet within the womb of reckoning.
Far above this temporary mad blue orb. churning.
The mysteries opening only to the searcher.
Like a Fabergé egg on the apron of forever.
METAPHORS OF SILENCE a hopper ekphrasis
it is
what it is
without narrative
isolated
moments
of figuration
sunlight
on a wall
frozen
in time
conversations
of unheard voices
stillness +
paradox
commune within
the
interplay of
imagination
in
studies
of loneliness
emblematic
silences
soundless symbolism
saturated
with suggestion
soft realism
of the inner life
gestates
cries
on canvas
forever before
our eyes
juxtaposed
drip
by
drip
into
melancholy
an empty chair
a sad stare
it is
what it is
Toys from Yesteryear
Sitting very quietly, looking at a blank page
Prompted me to pen a poem about toys that were all the rage
I had some wooden jigsaw blocks when I was only two
In a wooden box with a shiny brass clasp
And a picture of Winnie the Pooh
I remember at the age of six, when I was given some stickle bricks
Plastic shapes so colourful, with brushes of small plastic fingers
Making a train of red, yellow and green, the memory of it still lingers
Then at the age of seven, I remember ‘coming a cropper'
When dared by my cousins to bounce up the street
On their big and orange space-hopper
When I was eight, my favourite toy was a plastic daredevil skydiver
Many parachute jumps from the top of the stairs, that guy was a true survivor
When I was nine, the Spirograph, a drawing toy based on gears,
Was my favourite toy to play with, watching marvellous patterns appear
At ten years old I found building with Meccano lots of fun
Metal strips and gears and nuts and bolts, invented in 1901
When I was eleven the Rubik’s Cube was really all the rage
With coloured squares, six sides of nine, a puzzle for any age
At the age of twelve, Shinsai Mystery was my fave
Two eight-hinged polyhedra could be folded into many shapes
At the age of thirteen, my baby brother was born
His favourite toy was Lego, my love of building things was reborn
There are many toys of yesteryear, would take ages to mention the rest
But for me, after all these years, Lego will always be the best
Visited the Whitney*
For the Hoppers – what a treat!
A gathering of works with which
Few artists can compete.
Yet in a separate little room
A different treasure lay –
A film of “Calder’s Circus”
With its figures on display.
For Alexander Calder,
He of mostly-mobiles fame,
Put together, out of wire,
And deserving of acclaim
Every animal and acrobat
That we’d expect to see
At a circus, bringing them to life.
(At least, he did for me.)
With a twinkle in his eye,
He made the dogs and horses prance,
While the trapeze artists flew
And Fanni did her sexy dance.
There’s an elephant and lion
And a strong man and some seals,
Every figure bringing laughter
And how-did-he-do-that squeals.
Though I went to see the Hoppers,
I was thrilled with them, despite
Thinking Calder’s wire circus
Brought to me the most delight.
*The Whitney Museum of Art, Manhattan,
which currently has an Edward Hopper exhibit.
You can walk right into this image.
Stand there near the typewriter if you like.
Edward Hopper has allowed plenty of room.
Although he has filled the space very well,
As it is a small office, and her desk is also there.
It suits the feeling of closeness without being cramped.
A secretary, back in the day was a sort after position.
She aimed to please her boss and be dutiful.
In a professional manner we presume, don’t we?
She has a wonderful figure.
That dress shows it off so well.
Look, he is pretending he hasn’t noticed,
Obviously she knew they would be working back tonight.
Her hair is formed so perfectly,
The removal of one comb, it will fall freely over her shoulders.
Tumbling around her opulent breasts.
Her lipstick obviously refreshed since morning,
Is she waiting to pick up that paper on the floor?
Waiting for him to point his attention her way?
Do we feel she is being provocative, is he about to make a move?
His silence seems deafening.
Her slight tapping on the filing cabinet hasn’t budged his gaze,
The open window is allowing night noises to fade her attempts.
As you stand there near the typewriter,
Do you wonder what’s next?
I think Edward Hopper meant you to wonder.
Even maybe depict a scenario in your imagination.
The silence between the two, is deemed a trademark of the artist.
But one can almost hear the two 'thinking.'
I guess I have said my piece about this painting,
Because as Edward once said:
“If you could say it, there would be no reason for him to paint it.“
Once
at morn
on my lawn
lying supine
watching clean clear sky,
bright Sun.lit environ.
Cheerful sparrows to chirp, prance.
Dawn dew drops glistening on grass.
Swift squirrel climbing up, coming down.
Frolic feral flowers frowning in fun.
Everything running smooth in fresh morning.
Flying butterflies visit blossoms.
Kittens playing at a corner.
Suddenly a grass hopper
settled on tip of grass.
A chameleon
prompt to attack.
A bit of
rough at
end.
There feeling wet and gloomy
sitting on the bench feels wet
why does rain do this to us?
love to be dry, but wet is all I get
Across the road sits that bus
folks sit inside there happy and glad
they sit there dry and protected
not going my way, that makes me sad
The water glazes across the road
it can be slippery, so watch your feet
a fall now would make me worse
even more so than this wet seat
Maybe I should just walk home
an hour or so would get me there
but the prospect of an empty house
leaves me to utter a prayer
God, please look down on me
what should I do at this time?
send me someone along my way
to lift me up with a rhyme
Look back at the street light
there it shines for all to see
I had forgotten it was there
just as God provided Calvary's tree
He reminds me of His love
where His son did die for me
so one day will take me home
to abide with Him, I will see!
{This is based on a painting by Edward Hopper.)
Miss Phobia was her fastidious aunt,tall and bony
Who ranted and always found fault with little Mini
In every work she did or proposed to do any --
May it be household task or play with a crony;
And retracted her any moment she felt proper,
And the latter jumped back like a grass hopper.
She had reared her as a parentless modest child ,
As her own bitter hard past had seasoned her so;
The child was to learn to be timid, soft and slow
No wonder everyone found her just dull and mild;
Things went on as the rigid Time kept his stride;
The other's demise left her in misery and fear-tide
Running back home on a stormy eve,she found
A snake chasing a big frog ,hopping for its life;
There was a twist when chance averted the strife
As the venturing jumper landed behind a hound ,
The hunter turned back and rushed for safety,
Leaving the stray creature happy, lucky and hasty
The days that followed found her struck down
Uneasy, febrile, with anxiety and psychic ache ;
The throat went dry and the voice could not make
Signs for the near or distant,cryptic a frown;
A loser without any contest earns no sympathy,
As success is not for those who do with apathy
Oh the peripeteia! there was a wondrous miracle:
The groaning sufferer had an odd ,frenzied bout;
From out of her window came in a huge snout,
Rolling eyes,and a soft croaking note empirical:
'Remember ,Fear drains out the sap of living spirit
'To fill the bane of inactivity and blind faith, in it'
Croaking,it now sounded closer and louder still:
'Sport with the hazards ,and Luck picks you out'
'As she often is wont to put uncouth Fate to rout';
As if out of a dream, the revealed one in thrill,
Sat up and uttered:" I know life is an endless fight,
"A battle fought all over, till prevails the inner might" !
Fragments of ancient stone, woman, sad and desperate.
She rests on a tomb of death, of longing and loss.
Her insufferable grief is an open wound of secrets.
In “Christina’s World,” she forlornly crawls across.
Dylan knows her as the “Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowland.”
In “Automat,” Edward Hopper portrays her all alone.
She drifted astray and lost herself in “The Waste Land.”
Oizys conveyed misery and sorrow; a goddess well known.
Fragments of ancient stone, symbol of human death.
Our Lady Madonna weeps, tormented, anguished, in pain.
She agonizes with the sick, expelling their last breath.
She mourns our lost humanity when war has left its stain.
Freda Kahlo painted herself as a deer pierced by arrows.
William Blake’s “Mary” bore the face of broken despair.
The Romans named her Miseria, goddess of deep sorrows.
“Lady, Weeping at the Crossroads,” Auden wrote her with care.
Fragments of ancient stone, emblems of shattered dreams.
In “Lady Sings the Blues,” she was crooned by Billie Holiday.
In “Sad Clown Girl,” Chris Motta’s painting is no meme.
In “Dead Love,” Sara Teasdale bereaved her love’s decay.
“All is Loneliness,” where Joplin screamed and cried.
All is shadows, anguish, and tears when Anias appeared.
Egypt called her Nephthys; death and mourning were her ties.
“The Pieta” has portrayed her sixth sorrow for hundreds of years.
Angel of agony summoned from our collective unconscious.
Jung told us that dreams reveal more than they hide.
Her mythical manifestations are glorious and harmonious.
Her artistic expressions grant us our weakness untied.
MY JOY
I enjoy free fall of frolic fountain
from chasms of rigid mountain.
My joy jumps on little brittle ripples
of river catching showers in dribbles.
My joy soars high with lone eagle in sky.
or spins around fluttering butterfly.
My joy runs with carefree cheerful shepherd
on fluent play of flute with sheep on herd.
My joy chirps with sweet tweet of birds at dawn break.
My joy swims with flock of swift swans at Lake.
My joy sparkles with charismatic charm
in warm glow of glow warms scattered on swarm.
My joy twinkles with blinking stars at night.
My joy swings from No Moon to Fill Moon bright.
My joy speaks with mellifluous voice
of kid giggling funny words on choice.
My joy glistens with dewdrops on glass blades,
hops with grass hopper in sunlight and shade.
My joy feels grateful for this life as gift.
My joy to cross death waiting for next shift.
07/30/22
Joy
Contest by Regina McIntosh