Long Hydrants Poems
Long Hydrants Poems. Below are the most popular long Hydrants by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hydrants poems by poem length and keyword.
Two rust-red tubes running up the hillside,
by the wood's edge, hidden just in the trees,
they have water, and compressed air inside,
pumped up the mountain to hydrants steely.
Hoses conduct it to tall silver tubes,
snow guns that spray the white stuff on the trail,
coating brown grasses, hiding them from view,
building tall piles that some call snow-whales.
The groomers will come and flatten them out,
leave corduroy patterns on the long slope,
the skiers will come and race on a cloud,
they don’t like to wait when winter is slow.
One must be consistent in a business,
take five Mother Nature, we have got this.
The days are long and painful
The nights are long and bare
Those alleys, hard and brutal
Between buildings built with care
Springtime held a promise
Its lilac on the wind
Summer opened its hydrants
To the many colors of kids
The sky bled with the autumn
The moon stabbed thru the eye
Before too long, it's winter --
A city waits to die
They came there by the thousands
To work in grocery stores
Left the pogroms of the Old World
For the scent of something more
But it's business as usual
It's the same thing as before
The same old anti-Semitism
The same rotten, slamming door
The sky bleeds with the autumn
The moon stabbed thru the eye
Before too long, it's winter
When a city waits to die
Here's your great-grandfather
Unlocking his fruit truck at dawn
His tree of knowledge, shaken
The apples of his eyes, gone
He'll fall prey to scavengers
They're just like all the rest
Who'd seek to exterminate his kind
Just like virus, just like pests
The sky bleeds with the autumn
The moon stabbed thru the eye
Before too long, it's winter
And a city waits to die
Hell hath no fury
Like a city's scorn
If you're on top, it raises you up
On an altar, gilt and warm
But if you're in the gutter,
That's as high as you should aim
'cause that asphalt hunter
will track you down
Just like endangered game
Yes the sky bleeds with the autumn
The moon stabbed thru the eye
Before too long, it's winter
And now a city waits to die
Fire hydrants, fire trucks and firemen's faces
After they have been heated up
Chocolate heart boxes, and the prettiest roses
Some of the most fragrant tulips
Ruby jewelry, all sparkly and haughty
My favorite boots, my checkered shirt, my brick oven
An artist once told me without a splash of red, art is not art
I do not know about that, for I favor orange, which is red with the sun
Red umbrella with orange cats, red dog collar, red french fry holder
Valentines, and Santa Claus, Christmas stockings trimmed in green
Best of all, my mother's red stove in the early 60's
Which no one else bought because all other stoves were white
She did her whole kitchen in red and everyone loved it
Pizza Huts, and Christmas lights; all in reds.
Bulls and red hankies, clowns and red noses.
What would we do without red? How would we know to stop?
NO FLEXIN/ Word and Art/Tony Adamo
Iconic slick rhymes/
trumpet beats sampled/
Latin soul grooves on Bronx Street/
No flexin’, just real 90's rap/
Hip hop flows into jazz spoken word soul/
jazz whispers into Afrobeats ear/
a political word from Angela Davis and the Revolution speaks to Gil Scott Heron/
Nu jazz beats as congas play/
Bronx streets come alive with stickballs flying high/
Gil Scott’s voice/
singing for change that will never come/
a ghetto child,
runnin' wild/
hydrants spray/
cooling off the summer's day/
DJ BEND IN doin' his thing as the table spins/
John Lee's Hooker's blues N hip hop/
Hip hop and blues/ yeah that's right/
Thoughts flow free like a humming bee's sound/
Hip hop rap's musical notes make/
The Milky Way a sound system for the universe/
underground hoops play for money and dope/
Miles does do bop on his trumpet/
tasty like a Mars candy bar/
do-wop, boom bap/
what a solid remix, man!
I'm diggin' on your track/
So, relax and kickback/
This is what It means to be free/
Part 2 - The Great Fire of London, 1666
Just think of a town, put up with no plan,
where people build houses wherever they can.
The streets twist and dip, hugging ditches and streams,
and safety's a thing of which nobody dreams.
There aren't any rules, or best practices, codes,
regulations, fire stations, no hydrants or nodes.
The street where you live has no concrete, just clay,
and it's narrow, foul-smelling, and no light of day
can squeeze in. Your ground floor is brick-built and stout,
but your upstairs is flimsy and jetties right out,
almost touching your neighbour's. You thus form a tunnel
through which rats, cats and faeces can constantly funnel.
Well, come with me now to meet Thomas and Jane,
who live, work and worry in just such a lane:
it's always called "Pudding", which gives us a clue -
for baking is what all the people here do.
September the second, the year sixty-six,
and Old Mother Nature's been up to her tricks:
we haven't seen rain since the start of the war,
and timbers are shrinking, and drier than straw.
Tom's oven malfunctions. The house catches fire.
Our instinct, in peril? To try to get higher.
Tom, Jane, the children, and Sukie, the maid
(Sukie is thirteen, and very afraid)
climb out on the roof. Oh, the smoke and the heat!
The roof tiles are baking, and hurting our feet!
We've all got to jump to the roof to our left:
but don't glance below as you're leaping the cleft!
But Sukie can't do it. It's asking too much.
She'll be the first to be killed by the Dutch.
The signals aren't vaulting across her synapses.
She's lost from our sight when the storey collapses.
Four days blazed this greatest of all conflagrations,
engulfing some thousands of poor habitations
and scores of old churches, whether timber or stone.
The tally of people will never be known.
A square mile of ruin. A city destroyed.
A blackened and acrid and comfortless void.
Saint Paul's is a shell, its rubble still smoking.
But who is that gentleman, measuring, poking?
I remember the days of the yellow fire hydrants
In the scorching heat, pretending to be a pirate
Having fun in the sun was what it was all about
Buying frozen cups of kool-aid at Mrs.Gertrude’s house
cherries and strawberries, how they melted in my mouth
The boys chased the girls and jammed their hands in our pants
We'd bite, scratch, and threaten them with big brother chants
And if by chance I forgot about double dutch
Or peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches for lunch
But, my hood has changed from the early days
It's plagued with poverty, drugs, violence, and AIDS
Filthiness from all abominations have flooded the streets
My femininity as a woman has become a tasty treat
My heart bleeds, I need the love of God to heal it
The enemy sees my joy and he's come to destroy, steal, and
Kill it. In the heat of midnight chats now the thought starts to
fade me
When reality invades me and the ideal becomes the real
Words supporting ghetto life are slicker than a banana peel
I can't raise babies here, fighting against roaches and rats
I am slaving, hand picking this modern day cotton, and
Wearing all these hats
At the same time being called a hoodrat
Such a thought is unheard
I don't want to live in the burbs
I don’t want to be nobody’s pawn
I don’t want crosses burning on my lawn
For me, it's a mainstream between multimillion- dollar dreams
Laced with lima beans
Maybe, the mountains, maybe the country
So go ahead and be proud my GHETTO QUEENS!
If the slum is where you are from
Believe there is a better world out there than what it seems....
What's new with me...Matthew?
Well for starters Nationwide
road service emergency
one man cutting crew
with battery charger in tow knew
exactly why no juice (think electricity),
his hunch found trunk light kept lit,
an innocent looking (to me or you)
lady's handbag accouterment,
fifty shades of blue
stuck out just enough did cue
automotive technician, who
witnessed yours truly flapping
imaginary wings (think) cuckoo
unwittingly, irretrievably, and
admirably lost me scant sanity true
"fake" news I trumpet as a gentile Jew...
Just in time for men
rhythmically singing, melodiously
acapella harmonizing huzzah olé
in white coats besotted and
bespattered with vegetable puree
to take me away
ho-ho hee-hee ha-haaa
hip...hip... hooray
to the funny farm yea,
where life beautiful every day
and skies fifty shades of gray...
Thus, the reason I type pell mell
(think hunt and peck),
an inner madness to quell,
while hermetically locked in padded cell
shut airtight like... a citadel
which soundproof environment hell
lava hot improvement versus dwell
ling with volcanic spouse, and well
equipped to nurture solitude, ah... nobody,
but me and Matty mattel
both of us undergoing re education
initiated courtesy crack atop
noggin tinnitus subsequently
experiencing ringing like liberty bell
afterwards undergoing gender reassignment
clearly yours truly exuded effeminate spell
not recognizing only muttering to himself
fancifully dolled up
as debutante mademoiselle,
and appearing sitting pretty I willingly tell.
Twas glorious occasion regarding
miracles of modern medicine to sing
namely routine engineered
sex change, bitty bing
bitty bang minus one
minor glitch really... nothing
but doggone veteran (aery) surgeon
pulled off bone huff eyed gracefully amazing
stunt at my expense unwittingly injecting
canine female hormonal secretions,
hence I find myself barking, ing
and strong desire burning
to frequent fire hydrants.
it sure ain't the south but it sure was hot
all the children danced in middle of the street
just cooling off in the fire hydrants
sirens could be heard miles away the streets were
all blocked off as civil rights leaders
waved flags of freedom while protestors shouted
no blacks allowed thee empty logos read
colored only others announced white only
my grandmother was Irish my grandfather
African American I was brown i felt distant
and rather bored with only one crayon
to color my famous drawing on this very hot day
i'd finally completed my famous masterpiece
a sheer work of art and what a sight to see
that all of the faces were brown just like me
suddenly my grandmother sighed again
it sure ain't the south but it sure is hot
The humidity of July makes sweat drip,
the unbearable heat frustrates everyone,
they stay cool and avoid the scorching sun.
The fire hydrants are open and kids
love the cold water splashing on their bodies;
grandmother sits in the shade of the ember tree
and wipes her wrinkled forehead and nags...
her wish might be realized as stormy clouds arrive.
" My roses are dying, and the grass
is turning yellow!" she complains...
" If it only rained steady for an hour! "
is her wish and it that might be realized.
Arounf four o' clock, a whirlwind wind
blows off her straw hat, grandma realises
a storm is coming soon and warning
her grandchildren, " Get out of the water! "
The playful kids hesitate to leave but obeying
they go inside, jim shouted," It's getting awfully dark! "
a loud thunder shakes the entire house, kids
get closr to grandma fearing the fury of the storm.
Written on 9/2/2017
The tweet on the pipe called the muster fall-in
The cadets all fell in with nary a din
For now they’d be grouped for “Hands to Cleanship”
To dress up the ship afore the Old Man's pip-pip
Well-trained, the cadets set to their work
The Bo ‘suns and POGIs made sure they didn’t shirk.
The awnings were tautened with the Shark's Mouth agape
The ropes in the grommets brought all into shape
The hydrants and fittings were brassoed and shined
The scuppers were cleaned where muck was confined
Running rigging was secured with belaying pins
All loose gear were neatly stacked in their bins
Hawsers and towropes were carefully coiled
Wire ropes ‘spiked, unkinked and oiled.
The decks were all cleaned with the broom and the brush
Fenders and pontoons secured so sides wouldn’t crush
With hammers the cable was chipped off of rust
The shackles were oiled after cleaning the dust.
The bitters on the bits were tethered on tight
With the bitter ends belayed and tucked out of sight.
The QD was holystoned with water and sand
(All set for the do with the Naval Band)
The Old Lady was painted in her customary gray
Her waists all shaped up for the rest of the day
The guns were all covered for the incoming squall
Even before the “cover guns” call
The Inglefields were mustered, the pennants and flags
Strung for’ard to stern without any sags
And thus was the ship all dressed to the tee
As shipshape and dandy as she rightly ought to be.
Their tasks all done, the cadets did secure
But the day was not done, there was more to endure!