Long Horn Poems
Long Horn Poems. Below are the most popular long Horn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Horn poems by poem length and keyword.
Once I had a bicycle,
A loving present from my grandfather;
Since I was his favorite granddaughter,
He granted my wish at a snap of my finger .
Since he was so old,
A new bicycle he could hardly afford;
He took his bike when he was young,
Which I found it once at the back of our barn.
As far as I remember,
It was really so old and rugged;
But my grandpa was like Mr. Mac-Gyber,
Amazingly fixing all things all-over.
My granda was a well-known painter,
I thought he will repaint and use sandpapers;
When I surreptitiously sneaked into his hut,
He was there recycling all my milk cans.
When everything was done,
He gladly gave it to me with a big hug;
I hurriedly drove it at once,
Down the street and field with so much fun.
“My bike was real a unique one!” I thought.
So different from others in our neighborhood,
Its wailing siren was made up of a cow’s horn,
Tubes were made of dried bamboos and corn.
Other parts were still the same,
Like forks, hubs and chainwheel set,
The rest were made up of my milk cans,
They were pedal, brake and seatgear stem.
Handle bars were what I liked most,
Converted from the handle of his old plow;
So sturdy and so strong all I knew,
And I can drive it so long in full control.
However, when I travelled quite afar,
Parts were falling one at a time;
Until everything suddenly split apart,
Eventually it dropped and rolled me down.
©2012Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
Date: Aug. 3, 2012
4th Place Winner (My Very First Winning Poem)
Contest: Any Poem of the Week Contest
Contest Judged: 8/4/12
Poet Sponsor: Secret
How refreshing to experience
a reprieve from sultry weather
when hazy, hot,
and humid warm front
unleashes a very short sweaty tether.
Man hat tin dar overcast skies
hint potential rain on the way
perchance avast dastardly
flickr ring instagram
kickstarter linkedin shutterfly
Taurus headed soundcloud
skidding across celestial
(span hushed) rink
surprising forecasters by yowl
ling whimsically, unexpectedly oye vay
training (laser like),
Asian outsize dark cloud
climatological frontispiece
randomly making next stop Old
Rotten Gotham's Greenwich Village
zero wing in on
Poor (Chuck Keys) Uruguay
neighborhood possibly confidently
foretold by meteorologists today
pointing at map showing
cold air mass as it doth sashay
July twenty first 2018, though
Mother Nature defies pre
diction pulling out all (busted) stops,
vis a vis via "her" quay
zee bag of tricks nay
saying trained forecasters klan
hush all self importance
also to humble those mere mortals
getting paid a handsome buck
by anthropomorphizing viz cluck
king in tandem with duck
billed Baritone Horn
Trumpeting "FAKE" luck
trotting out obstreperous
Sunny Rays, who doth beam
with radiance a
diametrically opposed extreme
over zealous call for precipitation
instead raining one after another quanta
bright blinding meme
outsmarting the seem
ming airtight (cat in the bag)
prediction leaving once supreme
vouchsafing without a doubt forecasters
left holding the empty bag
large enough tuff fit the whole team.
Chetley was a runt dragon, the kind some kingdoms drowned at The Horn.
He weighed a mere 160 pounds, when he was born.
His dad took a hatchet and held it above Chetley’s newborn head.
And his sainted mother begged for his life, and then fell dead.
His father always blamed him for his mother’s demise.
Chetley tried his best to please, but he could never suffice.
He was lucky to have a grandpa, slick and wise.
Who loved him with all of his lungs and his eyes.
Young Chetley grew up and fell Dragon-madly-in- love.
With the dragon of his dreams, who lived in the valley above.
They raised a fine family, and two turtle doves.
He never held a hatchet or hurt anyone he loved.
I felt a sudden shiver.
Night begins to fall.
We floated up the river.
The city lights..enthrall.
Wind in my hair.
You holding me close.
My heart beating fast.
Ships horn it blows.
Laughter from the cabin.
Wine glasses chime.
Music is sexy..
it's a quarter to nine.
We duck inside.
You ask me to dance.
You kiss me gently.
A passionate glance.
We walk by the bar.
Wine tastes so cold.
Love in the air.
It never gets old.
Dinner bell rings.
A table for two.
Exquisite cuisine.
Oh! what a view.
The city lights..
ignite the sky-line.
Flames in my heart.
He pours me some wine.
Jazz playing softly.
Friends all around.
We dance and we sing.
A beautiful sound.
Ship pulls into port.
We all bid her farewell.
Dinner on the Hudson.
Fills..my sails.
Christmastide
Between light or dark imaginings
Our lives flash past,
Beneath bright sun, moonlight stark
Reflections fill the glass
Spread wontonly about the city's feet
Omnipresent stone
Catches all those movements fleet
As starlings soar above, alone.
The dreams of many urchins
Flow upwards through the slate-grey skies
Appealing to silent Djinn
Who rule their lives and sigh
Willows swaying in a starry night
Beckoning shadows back to open fields
Where spirits fight
Against the moon, wind, and beat their shields.
Snow settling on each frozen shaft
Of iron skeletons of our new Leviathans
As they grow brittle through excess of craft.
They rear their heads; lay cryptic plans
In silent converse high above
The light-jeweled streets which run
With undefined, secret love
Towards the drop of the horizon and the winter sun.
Concealed somewhere within this swirlingness
Old men drift home with paper bags
Containing gifts of blessedness
For grandchildren in silks or rags,
Which they'll receive with shouts of joy,
And smiles endearing as rainbows,
Both old and young are wise, the world as yet their toy
Their hopes run not too swift, nor slow.
The lighted squares of many homes adorn
The solid jet of Winter's darkness.
Pierced now and again by Gabriel's horn -
Sounds of train blasts followed by a clacking sussurance
Much laughter flows through many rooms
Tonight as love haunts every musty hall,
Goes creaking past each doorway; at last assumes
The quiet shape of All in One and One in All.
O keeper of this softened moment,
Warders of men's peace of mind,
Shades in solitude, teach us to relent
Our urge to seek and find
The roots of all our fears;
And rather let us learn
To rest content, let fall the tears,
Rue last mistakes, look up, and yearn.
The Dark men fought on past their mother,
many had seen the mighty one fall
they fought on with bitter hate,
as now, once more, did the mother of the storm.
Her spear flashed lightning,
she stirred on her horses,
the chariot moving quickly forward,
the spear drinking deeply of Arlagh's blood.
The battle now raging,
one large cacophony of terror,
many smaller battles now being fought,
each as important as the next.
The mother of the storm,
so terrible in her warlike glory,
the darkness of the storm in her movements,
the lady dressed all in black.
She fought like a typhoon,
a mother wishing to meet her son,
to slay all in her way was her goal,
her mind upon the destruction of the foe.
It was arduous work,
she saw the Dark man stand again,
still, she struck with lightning speed,
her spear thrusting home with such anger.
On her left, many of her Dark men,
they struck the left flank of spiders and wolves,
in this crucible, they felt no fear,
they were truly children of the storm.
Their hatred for these creatures was ingrained,
they struck home with such power and speed,
nothing could withstand the shockwave,
nothing did.
Then a voice was heard to cry out,
"Walk in the light!"
It was the dark man,
all the Dark men repeated the call.
Then all the field of Badicha cried out,
"Walk in the light!"
the battle did rage on,
death and destruction on the plain of Badicha.
Chapter ..... 3 .....Part ..... 5.
Turvehr now led a contingent of Dark men,
to the Palovar ford, they did charge,
the enemy were now emerging in great numbers,
across the ford they did stream.
Battle was met, and its crash was heard,
the thunder did fill the air,
this emergence of the enemy had to be stemmed,
whatever the fatal cost might be.
Turvehr had led this charge,
his mighty body crashing into that of a spider,
the mighty horn of power finding its mark,
the underside of the spider now open.
How it did scream in its death agony,
now it was a dying terror,
it now attacked anything near it,
only wanting to escape the dark-winged death master.
To Be Continued ..........
We’re always in a hurry
To get there yesterday,
With the absence of caution
We blindly speed on our way.
The only goal we harbor
Is to get there fast,
Ignoring respect and patience
As we hurry on past.
With the flip of a finger
Or honk of the horn,
Our disrespectful impatience
Is driven to be born.
Four letter words
Carelessly fly from our mouth,
As traffic builds up
North, East, West and South.
Many innocent victims
Have been robbed of their lives,
As our desire to hurry
Continuously thrives.
We are all guilty
Including me,
Of speeding through life
As fast as can be.
Isn’t it time
For us to slow down,
To impose caution and respect
For other people around.
We’re always in a hurry
To get there yesterday,
Even if life becomes
The cost that we pay.
I'm Still trying to perfect this poem. For some reason it seems like it's either missing
something--or something is out of place. Your opinions would be greatly appreciated!
“Paste”
by Positive Mark
At times, I find it difficult to call myself a poet.
Can such a grandiose tag be placed on a recluse?
It’s one thing to possess a passion for words,
quite another to put them to use.
Political climates produce frigid spells, intended to get on your case.
Busted relationship matters that swell into masks that I wear on my face.
The pieces of man and his harsh incantations
The heartbreak of vixens revealed at this station
The murder of music
The horn blasts of sports
The sight of my girl’s daughter prancing in shorts
The use of two eyes, while ignoring the third
The smoking and toking of each broken word
The hairdo
The smile
The swagger
The butt
My slip on the grip left a kid in her gut
The Black on Black crime
The innocents shot
The infrared beam never placed in one spot
The wording
The phrasing
The stories we tell
The eloquent way to tell you “Go to Hell!”
The grease on my lips
The holes in my shoes
The deep crystal stare, tryna find Langston Hughes
The coffee
The creamer
The over used pot
The anguish of wanting to be what I’m not
The piping hot liquor that burns in my chest
The rhyme at the Devil’s behest
I’ve discarded pieces of my broken soul with the chaff on my living room floor.
The poetry virus just cannot be killed, so the hurt ones can even the score.
Peace.
The stump of one spar poked above the rest beside me slope descending
And I roped that spit in the hope that it would not have me on the fire turning
On that fire burning
I tied one end to my saddle horn with a stirrup on each side
And I held my breath diggin' in my spurs prayin' this would be my ride
That this would be my ride
My wooden bronco bucked and turned in this rodeo from Hell
As the torrent grew round and round we flew to the Talon down below
The Talon down below
In all of my riata days I never held on tighter
I knew that this was my last crew and I'd go down a fighter
I would go down a fighter
Then something came upside my head and last I saw stars blazin'
And when my sense at last I found I was floating down the Talon
The swiftly flowing Talon
Around me floated such a mess as I have never seen
But the mount I chose still above it rose and carried me to safety
It carried me down to safety
I prayed and swore on that rocky shore where the Talon left me lying
And when I looked back t'ward the peak where we had all been standing
Nothing was left standing
________________________________________
I miss those boys and the open skies but not that haunted mountain
I’ll not return with all I’ve learned and days I still am countin’
Each day I will be countin’
As a day I've earned by lessons learned and not taken for granted
So I won't go whether sand or snow to the Talon River Crossing
Ne'er the Talon I'll be crossing
The days I've left before my death not many I can count on
But with my last breath I'll curse his name that surely you can count on
That surely you can count on
With my death rattle I'll curse his name
That surely you can count on
The Pope Came to the Congress
By Franklin Price
9/25/2015
The Pope came to the Congress
Both houses gathered there
His excellence had no defense
For their uncooperative share
In the state and the condition
That this nation now is in
Cannot repeat the words I heard
But paraphrasing I'll begin
This nation is still wonderful
Even though I must confess
It took a lot of thoughtlessness
To create this awful mess
It's not too late to fix it
Just have to reach across the aisle
With open arms of friendship
Handshake and an honest smile
Heritage of most Americans
Came from immigrations past
Conflicts were more than many
Resolving made this country last
When it got too much to bear
An example we were sent
A Lincoln, King, Melton or Day
One was even President
I could go on forever
As I thought the Pope would do
Was a little hard to understand
That's why I translated him for you
You have to stop your stupid ways
Be politically astute
Negotiate some resolutions
You're not here your horn to toot
You're here as representatives
Of all the people of this land
Government of, by and for them
You sometimes don't understand
Your job's to ask and listen
And act on what you hear
Hope what I here have said to you
Did not fall on deafened ear