Long Humped Poems
Long Humped Poems. Below are the most popular long Humped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Humped poems by poem length and keyword.
I've heard about the arrival of fanciful fushia strangers
but I've no fear of them and not worried about dangers.
They seem a bit nonsensical; funny the way they speak
To me, everything they say comes out sounding like Greek!
Maybe on their planet, peaches have three turquoise eyes
Could they be humans, just wearing an alien disguise?
I've never heard the haloed moon referred to as mother Mary,
nor of opulent opal oceans and a three humped dromedary.
I call them fluff nuggets; an accurate description, I think
Their gibberish makes me shake with laughter, quick as a wink
Life forms like these AI are manipulated by puppet strings
They're infringing upon planet Earth, inhabited by Earthlings.
*These are my thoughts and words, but if you take umbrage with
any of the lines, I'll throw Jan under the bus, cuz she started it.
A pair of new shoes in the thrift store,
the old shoes would shuffle away
from them if they could.
A ragged man struggles
carrying a large plasma screen
in outstretched arms.
He is walking it home
but he has no home
still, he is walking it.
There is little light to be had,
no one goes to the park
not even to stare at the sky,
not even to walk a dog,
not even to smoke a cigarette
huddled behind
a damp tree trunk.
A muffled clomp of boots,
a drizzle of slow traffic,
sludge iced over with iron
all this keeps away
unnecessary movement.
A bad day for minstrels,
knights and stray unicorns.
No one is curious
about the thinning daylight,
how it falls listless
upon new shoes.
An old woman,
hands wrapped in fingerless wool,
takes the new shoes home.
She walks them home
in a burlap bag
recycled by blind beetles.
Many humped mounds of shoes,
now rest in an unlit solitude.
An oversized plasma screen
struggles with a ragged man
as they walk past her dark window.
The new shoes do not fit well
with the old heaps -
not yet.
There is no more walking
or loose ends
to fray
by the end of the day.
Wake up grumpy
tired
much older than yesterday.
Day fifty-seven,
an irrationally
not nice
non-round number,
since defiantly challenging daughter,
with the contextual right-brain unhealthy intelligence
of a sociopathic alligator,
last came home from school
or anywhere without me.
Remembering her school's response
when I suggested her six-hours-per-day aide
five days per week
not be switched out every week
or two.
She doesn't do well with transitions
including interpersonal change,
lack of power to control
a significant Other's time
to stay
and go.
While aware this is an issue,
their larger concern was burn-out.
Aides couldn't tolerate the intensity
of her hostility
and constant need
need
need for attention,
for food,
for distraction,
for action,
for...
Wondering how the best of her school supporters
would feel after 228 consecutive
six-hour shifts
Without any supervisor
capable of reassuring me
or him
or her
or them
or us
of how many more to go
without adequate social distancing
within our lumpy quarantine space.
No possible reassurance
or warning
we're just getting started,
about to end,
over the hump,
or not so much,
actually.
Perfect.
Definite only about feeling humped out
and jumped in
lack of ease,
sucked out potential for unguarded rest.
Feeling sorry for myself,
yes,
but also for her,
and for all of us
who have taken risks
to give long-term care
where receiving care in response
is not a reasonable
or compassionate
expectation of hope-filled ways,
faithful truths,
loving lives
Quietly waking up grumpy
in unsolidarity
unsolitary confinement.
Standing hoeing garden stones
Eyes awash with tears
As memories flood back from
More than sixty years,
To the little village churchyard
For which my dad cared
And which duty I, as a child,
So very unwillingly shared.
He dug the graves, cut the grass
Scything carefully around
Each sheared and flower strewn
Humped burial mound.
All the paths were of loose stone
Which, after ever spring self seed,
Just attracted and harboured
Endless stretches of weed,
Each year it was my job
To shim and hoe them clean
So that those spick and span paths
Matched his carefully mown green.
I was a spoiled, lazy, idle child
Complaining every single year
But dad was quietly firm in spite
Of my every tantrum and tear.
Now he comes gently back to mind
As I hoe my stones, laid for easy care.
Just for a while it’s the old churchyard
And we are both back there.
Good job done he says
As we stand side by side
And we both inspect that path
And my chest swells with pride.
And now I stand here
Leaning on my garden hoe
Thinking of things I wish I’d said
All those many years ago.
But the past is the past
And we both know it’s for the best
That I wish his memory goodbye
And let him slip gently back to rest.
The Beggar
* Isaiah 64:6
With soiled clothing and a shabby coat
He sat there near the curb
Unshaven and shoulders humped
Not a sound from him was heard
His body thin and malnourished
Sadness dominated a wrinkled face
It seemed he sought for attention
As he stared ahead, - into space
Some may question how and why
He came to this estate
Was it because of poor choices
Or was it simply, - - fate
Of this one thing, there is no doubt
Jesus had compassion on the poor
So many times, He referred to them
He gave them a status of grandeur
Lazarus at the rich man's gate -
Of this account, we've often heard
A great contrast, between these two
Jesus amplified, in His Word
A prime example God displayed
His Son was born in a stable
No pomp or splendor did He claim
A manger was His cradle
All of us apart from God
Are a mere castaway
"Our righteousness is but filthy rags" *
But at Calvary, He took our sins away
From a beggar to a king
It's a rags-to-riches story
From tattered rags, to a robe of white
Forever to bask, - in His glory !
Watching snowflakes settle
into a large earthenware pot,
frozen fractals grow.
The snow is ridged into serpentine shapes
and the humped backs of deep sea monsters.
Bobbled ice forms dimple and peak.
Is this a strange art, a contouring
or a sculpturing that takes form
by the act of watching?
Why is it not the snow
deep and crisp and even?
If you stare at a cat
it will look away, wash its paws.
that’s called ‘displacement behavior’.
People are not much different.
There’s a force behind a concentrated stare.
Cats know something about watching snowflakes.
You have to respect that kind of power.
Some are broken teeth in a hollow tree,
some are humped and beached,
breached by moonlight.
Nothing comes out of an old barn
without smelling of oil,
the oil is for the fur that grows
on weather-beaten iron,
for the mouse hairs that rise
on horse leather;
for tin cans when chill winds slurp
their green metallic wine.
For the tractor and its parts,
a devolved acropolis
of gaskets and camshafts.
Nothing goes in
without leaving its print
nailed to the air.
Possum pelts patch-work timbers
into skin-deep quilts.
Tobacco smoke and sweat linger
to tinker,
as if time could be fixed -
and shadows mended.
Light and shade are vital to life's beauty, charm, and richness. By Poet.
sun
sunshine
dawn to dusk
nature supplies
vivacious hues clash
cumulonimbus cloud
sprouts expanse toward the sun
every day, it swells keen and vast
as crocus sprouts muzzle widespread breeze
in stark peacefulness through the strides of verve
Melted gold gleams in the thoughts of moonbeams.
As light wanes, faint stars tackle to glow.
they shimmer like zillions of studs
while embedded to sunbeams
Scudding blue-purple swarms.
soar through azure sky.
gazed birch leaf buds
and clean grass
spring's rays
warmth.
scour
the bliss
tweaked and deep
blue fades to mauve
humped at hearts of stem
stream heavenly keenness
as waterway of sheer praise
sequent the path of least toughness
same as a flower's smell loads the air
linked to bode love, uttering lease to flow
Written: February 15, 2022
1st place contest winner
E Forms- Etheree - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Out-built, humped, and beached, breached by moonlight,
nothing comes out of an old barn unfound.
Engine oil, the fungal fur of time warped wood.
Weather-eaten iron coated by rusted smears.
mouse hairs that rise upon old horse leather.
The green metallic wine on tin cans
a devolved acropolis of tractor parts put aside
for a thousand nights to seek and hide.
Gaskets strewn where tangles bloom.
Nothing lingers long without leaving its print
nailed to the air.
Possum pelts patch-work timbers into skin-deep quilts.
Tobacco smoke and sweat, the turpentine film of the
once varnished, the once cherished.
Treasures bolted to a deathless sleep, well rubbed
tackle and tools harnessed now to a tumbled-down dust,
a sun-frayed flap of light slipping in and out
as if time could be fixed and torn shadows mended.
Snowplows rumble through the night.
A distant tomorrow
already applauds a surprised sunrise.
Later, Sol turns the slushy ice to diamonds
while it digs the world out again.
For a while, the land is shoveled up,
cleaned and rolled into paper-light reams.
Whether the earth melts
or grows backyard glaciers,
skyscraping winds will blow down
deeper than ever before.
Eventually winter pileups
are pushed back
by the steamy breath of labor
and the prayers of those who only watch.
Machines continue cleaning up dead spaces,
constructing viewing platforms
for the fur-fluffed and swift winged onlookers.
Lazarus moments come and go
between the humped heaps of ice and snow.