Long Hopscotch Poems
Long Hopscotch Poems. Below are the most popular long Hopscotch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hopscotch poems by poem length and keyword.
Back in my day shell suits were the latest fashion
And I made sure I wore my diamond socks with a passion
The only sky I knew was the one up above my head
No dvd player, just a betamax had to do instead
The only laptop I knew was the tray my dinner was served in
No sat nat to direct us, just maps and a lot of guessing
My social network involved playing outdoors with my friends
If I had an important message there was no text for me to send
Instead I would simply go and knock on the door
And enjoy a good game of hopscotch, drawn neatly on the floor
If I wanted to listen to music I held my boom box to my ear
And I felt like a millionaire in my latest pair of L.A Gear
No ipod to shuffle or touch just my sony walkman
No google to look for answers, just the library to depend on
No Ipad, no playbook, just a good old storybook
It may even be in hardback if I had any luck
No freeview, no Virgin, I was lucky to even have colour tv
And a rubiks cube would suffice, never mind an XBOX 360
It was all about hammer time and wearing those pants
And the theme tune to Fraggle Rock I would happily chant
No cyber bullying, only cyber I knew was the tamagocchi pet
No loading plates into the dishwasher as it hadn't been invented yet
No cd player, my cassettes were the in thing
And to have a sovereign ring on every finger meant you had some bling
The A Team, crossroads, tiswas and happy days was the programmes I watched
No series links or reminders to watch programmes like Lost
No rewinding the tv or pausing whilst I nip to the loo
Instead I had to ask someone and hope that they have a clue
No Adidas for me, just my trusted bum bag
My girls world doll and scrunche's were things I just had to have
In my day the only kid I wanted was a cabbage patch kid
Not a real one so that in a hostel I can live
No PS3, no Wii, no Vita or Nintendo DS 3d
Just my good old NES on my four channel tv
Care bears, the moomins, playschool and dangermouse
No crimewatch to make me afraid to be in my house
In my days if I was rude I would get a good smack
And I couldn't dare say the clothes you just bought me were whack
No microwave dinners, No chinese takeaway for me
Saturday soup was the best, one big bowl balancing on your knee
The 80's and the 90's I enjoyed it while it did last
But every now and again I take a glimpse of the past
These are the times you wish
you could pack it all up and be a kid again:
Take me away from the Now
and into the Then
(that's where I wish to descend)
Back when it was all so crystal clear-
just one emotion to steer the gears,
whether wafflewonder days
or weepywillow nights
(no nuance, no twilight)
Just perfect joys and poignant fears.
Happiness like butterflies-in-sunshine,
hopscotch-in-the-rain;
sadness a gray cloud to shut out the world
(the dust getting blown away, like autumn leaves,
from Monopoly)
The world was something to See.
Yourself someone to Be.
From the moment the eye closed
to the instant it opened...
... resurrection.
The monsters were beneath the bed, or in the closet--
(never once hiding in our reflection)
No possessions to speak of or concern us,
but we had Gold in our laugh,
a Sharpness to our gaze,
and a Sureness to our step,
from one emotion to the next
with no discernible causation.
"I am HERE!" shouted the feeling
without hesitation
(this, of course, the norm
before they gathered in committees
to make a sensible decision)
We were Fireflies--
sometimes on,
sometimes off ... but we always BURNED.
Didn't care a lick about the darkness
that grew weary of our light;
because we said what we meant
and meant what we said
(didn't hide from the Truth--
we were already free
to be Me,
to be You)
But the years soon passed as they so often do.
The adrenaline rush to adulthood finally came,
I can see it peak over the horizon
(...but I'm not Roller-coaster Ready...)
Yet here I descend into that maelstrom
where the colors twist and blur with every turn, jolting us here, jolting us
there
into that rickety reality,
reminding us our mortality
(Death just sitting there smiling that ancient fear)
We are all of us, strapped to the cart,
with nothing but our beating hearts.
And no one knows where it's going, but we're here.
Arms raised high until we die
(at least that's what my intuition is showing)
--
I now wave to the school bus
filled with adults-in-waiting
wishing I didn't know what I know
(someday soon,
perchance tomorrow, perchance the next,
that sunflower certainty
is sure to go)
"You're all too young
to not take in the sun.
Don't shed a tear,
enjoy it while it's here."
Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.
We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘ed privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.
She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.
Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.
I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.
Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.
I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.
My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan
Mary Fletcher was prime minister in olde England, like fondest memory,
Of days when the twilight stood still, with silver moon, floating on sea.
Mary Fletcher was capable and caring, to the country's great benefit;
Like spring rains of green benevolence, trailing the fragrant evidence.
Andrew was Mary's loving husband. Their lives were so happy together!
Like allurng, violet future, that recalls moments in lush, green heather.
Scarlet summer was all in a fever, as faceted friends called, flustered;
Passing fields of fabled enchantment, where silky, lilac wind muttered.
Faces of family came in dreams, and in person, on the Fridays of fairs;
Full of food, games and fun activities, like colored, hopscotch squares.
Mary lived in the house of butterflies, forever peeking at the windows;
Offering the frequent flashes of color, like every shade of the primrose.
Saturdays wore its smiles, on Mary's street of pretty robins screeching;
Where blue dragonflies were dancing, and chirpy crickets had meetings.
Owls stared wide-eyed fascination, as neighbors came, one with night;
In the company of nostalgic, new moon, like velvet under the spotlight.
'Mangave mission to Mars' lifted off, when the 'corpse flowers' lay dying;
And 'grow anywhere' trees sprang hither and yon, without halfway trying.
During storms of 'dahlias electric flash,' or dark nights of 'showy lanterns,'
'Rose feather' blooms took the spotlight, while secrets hid in blue caverns.
As Andrew was crossing a bridge one sunny day, a large chunk of it fell,
Breaking the car's blue windshield! How he escaped harm, none can tell.
Andrew sent Mary an emergency message, apprising her of grave danger;
And she notified the right departments, within moments. Anxiety changer!
The bridge was capably repaired, due to the action of Andrew's first lady;
Like midnight of mimosa fragrance, giving raptures to areas grown shady!
'London Bridge is falling down,
Falling down, falling down,
London Bridge is falling down,
My fair lady.
Build It Up With Bricks of Shaw,
Bricks So Sure,
Bricks So Sure,
Build It Up With Bricks of Shaw,
My Fair Lady.
It Will Stand For Ever More,
Ever More,
Ever More,
It Will Stand For Ever More,
My Fair Lady.'
Compared with us, the kids today
Too little play and too much weigh.
Alone indoors they snack and sit
And buttons hit, while we stayed fit.
We'd quickly chores and homework do,
Then dash through doors to fun pursue,
To basketballs and arrows shoot,
To jump with ropes, and footballs boot.
We'd earthworms dig for fishing bait,
On scooters glide, and roller skate.
We'd hopscotch, seesaw, chase. and swing
And boomerangs and frisbees fling.
We'd tackle, dribble, leap, and throw.
We'd tunnel through and shovel snow.
In haystacks dive and wagons ride,
On ice and into bases slide.
We'd whittle wood and baskets weave
And pennies pitch and horseshoes heave.
We'd yank the strings so tops would spin,
When wrestling, try to shoulders pin.
We'd kindling fetch and firewood chop,
Inflate balloons to later pop,
Sink numbered balls in billiard halls,
And topple pins with bowling balls.
We'd weekly swim at downtown Y,
Our kites and model airplanes fly,
We'd darts and putts and marbles aim,
With lens or flint set twigs aflame.
We'd sneak beneath the sideshow tents,
Climb ropes and poles and chain link fence.
We'd hike and camp with scouting troops,
Rotate our hips in hula hoops.
We garden weeded, hosed, and tilled,
We'd soap box car and treehouse build,
At picnics joined the tug-of-war,
And barefoot romp when rain would pour.
We raced on stilts and pogo sticks,
Made pies of mud, our pets taught tricks,
Were paper, pin, and altar boys,
Ignored complaints of too much noise.
For caddie tips, we'd golf bags lug;
To jukebox records, jitterbug.
We'd carpets beat, played kick-the-can,
Collected rocks, and errands ran.
To school and back on foot we tread,
Down steepest hills and alleys sled,
Played pitch-and-catch in yard with Dad,
Pushed mower that no motor had.
We'd rake the leaves and chestnuts crack
And toddlers carry piggyback.
With feather pillows fight in bed,
Our cap guns fire, and fall down dead.
We'd wildly flail at punching bag
And batted balls and passes snag.
We'd zig and zag, avoiding tag,
Till tuckered out, we'd homeward drag.
No trophies or applause we'd get.
Our play was real, not internet.
To kids today, I this advise:
Get off your butts and exercise!
Behind caution tape, I stand in the shade
watching a wrecking ball, tethered to sway
And soon with a gasp from the crowd standing by
A piece of the past is ready to die
I am seeing a lifetime, as it falls to the ground
the old tenement house, on Avery Street
For years it was home, to folks across town
Rarely do people now straddle it's shores
Where the root-buckled sidewalks lead up to the doors
And feet skipped over the cracks, with swift daily chores
All the chalked hopscotch lines have since washed away
along with laughter and the gold of the day
Summertime colors have withered and fled
Into bruised, battered bricks, of memories bled
Now, forsaken, this dethroned queen
With broken limbs and shattered eyes
of shards of glass, and broken lives
Still haunt the northwest wing
Thick layers of dust, cover the limpid leaves
of an old silk rose, within a vase
and reminds the gloom of dime store trips
when the passing lives, that used to be
were alive with simple certainty
A curtain, torn, hangs by a thread
and shivers, laced within the wind
A haven, built, of brick and clay
Defaced, disgraced, red-brick decay
Each story told, each life it held
Now crumbles with each stone, once laid
There were some who still remember, well
The ones who lived above the rim
By whom you could set the clock
By footsteps walked on wooden stairs
Who made this place a home
Now far away, the gossips say
"Their health had failed, such hell to pay
For now it seems to live each day
Someone has to tell them...
When to eat, when to dress and when to bathe"
People had watched them come and go
It was always with hand in hand...
Their music was heard between the cracks
Mozart, Bach, Glenn Miller bands
They had lived here forty years or more
Or so the legend goes....
No one really knows for sure, but know it was for years...
But now a flower in a vase
Is covered dust to dust
The lights turned off, no sigh, no trace...
with windows black, and lyrics lost
The wave that came, went back to sea
Like the hopes that fade away
Tomorrow's dreams have come and gone
to leave a winter's song
And is the only thing that holds the years
From waning into none....
___________________________________
I don't need to remember what it was like to be a kid
I don' t need to memorize where all the fun had been .
It was in the unique moment of a first-born spirit
without obligations and responsibilities .
A Brief moment recalled and lived in a dream.
Immersed in the body of a little brown-eyed girl
How I danced with the flutter of a butterfly ,over and over again.
Dressed up neatly in a white collar shirt ,and a navy blue pinafore dress,
How I ran , breathlessly , in evergreen fields
full of yellow buttercups, dandelion buds, and almond trees
which barely blossomed through the eyes of women , and men .
How I jumped like a frog earning its freedom , doing my utmost to catch the sky,
to reach the soaring hand-made kite ,which kept moving far and high.
My left -hand never letting go of that special red balloon ,
Mama's reward , on a windy afternoon.
Each following morning, feet too tired to get out of bed
but that lasted only till' I saw Uncle Frans'hat.
How happy I was to sit on his lap ,, and listen to bible stories He read.
How happy I was , to lick early fresh raindrops running down
my cheeks,so different from the ones
I feel when I'm out of my sleep.
Moments to preserve. ..
There on the back seat of papa's olive- green car ,
Our Chitty -Chitty Bang- Bang , travelled so far.
Mum,dad, my brother and I ,face 'gainst the wind,
Open mouths , Indian sounds , humming along ,
waiting for birds'wings to flutter as they sing.
What a moment , of hide and seek,musical chairs ,
Of midnight mass and Christmas prayers .
I lived them all ....
Splashes of waves, shovel and buckets on sands ,
Autumn's foliage , picnics with cousins
uncles,aunties ,and friends.
Immersed in the body of a little girl
with long noichettes french -braids swaying in the breeze ,
Playing hopscotch,running wild in vacant cobbled streets.
I do not need to remember what it was like to be a kid
I am there, in the dream , I had lived .
I tasted pure honey before I'd been kissed
Before years took their toll , wiped off
sugar -frosted pink from my innocent lips .
A TOUCH OF NOSTALGIA (Fitton Hill Story Group)
When we were little we would all gather our favorite toys – a fireman and ladder, an aircraft carrier and RAF plane, a wooden top and whip, with marbles in the rain.
We’d make our own toys, from shoeboxes and planks, houses and go-carts – whatever we could chance.
The best toys we ever saw were wooden bricks and Meccano, a walking, talking singing doll, Tin Can Alley and Lego. We’d peer at the train-set through the window of the toyshop with a slot outside where your coin would drop.
Our favorite games with friends we’d play. Snakes and ladders, hopscotch, darts on a rainy day, in the house and on the street. Through army games we’d make believe - “Gather the troops, prepare to battle bring your sticks, perfect your Sten Gun rattle!”
Reminiscent of the America I Knew
Seventy years have come and gone as though
it was a watch in the night,
and if we would choose to turn back the clock
we can’t even if we tried with all of our might.
I was born right after WWII ended
in a time of buildup in our now and forever changed land,
but it was a short lived peace with hope and dreams that
would soon be dashed as we entered another war because of aggression in Korea’s land.
I remember I was a small girl as I read on daddy’s newspaper the big headlines
stating the Korean War has ended it was posted on the front page,
though I didn’t realize all of the implications behind that statement
I must have known that my daddy in this war at least would not be engaged.
There were soft summer nights of neighborhood fun as we kids
would play night games till about 10 p.m.,
we would run home and get washed up and into our beds
and then after being rested up and we would start it all over again.
It was a time when radio and television were fun and all would be listening and watching Father’s Knows Best and Let it to Beaver because they were sweet and clean,
and not having to worry about language that was not suitable and sex outside
of marriage and trying to keep it all safe for your children in decency.
The children did a lot of fun things then, climbing trees, hopscotch, Red Rover
and marbles just to name a few,
the boys playing cowboys and Indians, baseball, basketball
and bb guns providing they didn’t aim them at you.
In those gentler times, women and girls were safe
within their own public or private restrooms,
because the men and boys for the most part knew their limits
and respected them as part of their early manhood grooming.
Families in those days had a father and a mother who instilled decency
into the hearts of their child,
and only a few in my classes at school back then
had ever chosen to run wild.
So what am I trying to say in this poem
that I feel needs to so badly to be said,
America, America how far you have strayed and fallen and the light
you once had has gone out and now simply put, it appears to be dead.
Written by:
Marilyn S. Jennings
May 2, 2016
The Mystery Of Girls.
When I was just a nipper
And I was very small
I didn’t really like girls
At all
I found most were very spiteful
And when at primary school
No one wanted to kiss me
When we played in the farmers den
But looking back now
Looking at the state of some
Who’d want a kiss from them
Always playing elastic hopscotch
And two balls against a wall
They seemed like a different species
Full of mystery voices like fog horns
When they shouted and called
Of course I found some pretty
And I was madly in love with Marilyn
Elsie Tanner and Doris Day
And I was so jealous of Elvis
Surrounded by pretty girls all day
Unless you were a Tomboy on the Common
Girls generally hanged around together in gangs
And us boys in ours
We had so many adventures
Went on long walks through the fields
And wouldn’t be back for hours
I had three blister sisters
We had good times and some bad
But wearing my sisters hand me downs
Didn’t make me glad but sad
I had to dance with a girl around a maypole
Yuck!!! I was so embarrassed
What if my sister blisters and mum found out
So I just watched from a safe distance
When I opted out
As puberty came along
I couldn’t help noticing
Something was wrong
As girls started sprouting everywhere
And when adolescence finally came
I noticed things had really changed
Girls looked so pretty
their hair smelled nice too
I wanted one or two
At school and the Laughton Common youth club
I’d be in love with a new girl every week
But they sere not in love with me
I was shy and could hardly speak
I was so embarrassed
My Mum would find out I liked girls
And my older sister would tease
I was 33
Before I brought a girlfriend home
And put posters and pictures up in my bedroom
As far as the eye could see
Been out with a few Rotherham Lasses
Who must have been short-sighted
And needed glasses
But I'm a good guy with a big heart
Who just wants to settle down
I have a lot of respect and appreciation
For the women in our town
Just need someone to share life with
Before the sun goes down
For the last time.
Peter Dome©2019.