Long Inches Poems
Long Inches Poems. Below are the most popular long Inches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inches poems by poem length and keyword.
As she was walking to a brand new school,
four strange men walked
with just her.
She didn't
know
why;
but she
had to be
so brave; showing
much courage, with one step after the next.
* The Problem We All Live With is a 1964 painting by Norman Rockwell. It is considered an iconic image of the Civil Rights Movement in the United States.It depicts Ruby Bridges, a six-year-old African-American girl, on her way to William Frantz Elementary School, an all-white public school, on November 14, 1960, during the New Orleans school desegregation crisis. Because of threats of violence against her, she is escorted by four deputy U.S. marshals; the painting is framed so that the marshals' heads are cropped at the shoulders.On the wall behind her are written the racial slur "" and the letters "KKK"; a smashed and splattered tomato thrown against the wall is also visible. The white protesters are not visible, as the viewer is looking at the scene from their point of view. The painting is oil on canvas and measures 36 inches (91 cm) high by 58 inches (150 cm) wide.
02/10/2021
Contest:Double Tetractys 7
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Picture #1
The Walking Dead
It’s said that at the crucifixion, certain events took place.
But nowhere in history do we find this case.
Eclipses, in the ancient world, were important events,
And often believed to be major portents.
But history lacks this event of immanity,
And that’s a big problem for Christianity.
A literary trope and mimesis again,
Showing up with the ancients’ pen.
Again,miracle wise, is the Temple curtain,
(The tearing of it is just not certain.)
Sixty feet by thirty feet by 4 inches thick.
Even magically tearing it would be quite a trick.
This curtain was a huge divider,
Separating God from any outsider.
Beyond the curtain was supposedly God’s presence,
And only the High Priest could stand in God’s essence.
This curtain separated God from man,
And rending it supposedly change this plan.
Now people had direct access,
To the God they wanted to address.
Now we come to the final case.
Dead people walking all over the place.
Many people came out of their graves,
(And they had died before “Jesus saves”.)
But people before, came back from the dead.
Elijah raised one, while Elisha, with bald head,
Raised two people himself, in different ways,
So again it’s mimesis, the same old craze.
And after Jesus, followers raised dead too.
Exactly what you’d expect them to do.
And of all the people who came back from the dead,
Not one word from them was ever said,
About the time after their death,
After they took their very last breath.
But we know the reason for this story.
It’s meant to give their hero more glory.
The irony of men’s life journey.
Man sees first light through the gap between his mother’s legs.
He spend most of his life trying to slip back into a gap.
The baby comes into this world wearing a hoody.
A doctor decides that the hoody must go, snip, snip.
The baby, the boy, the man, the old man’s head exposed
to the elements, except when entering the holy of holy’s.
Over eighty years have passed, time and fate has altered.
Gravity and age has shortened the height of ones stature
and added inches, feet and pounds to man’s girth.
Old age, has shrunk the length of the head of the family.
Old age, and all that that implies, leaves a negative impact.
As man looks down at the head of the family, the family jewels.
All he observes is sagging sacks and the hoody he lost as a baby.
B. J. “A” 2
June 3rd, 2025
I kept no Tutor but the Sky—
No Syllabus but Breeze—
The Pages turned themselves at Dawn—
In rustling Libraries—
The Robin lectured from the Fence—
The Brook revised my Thought—
A Cloud erased my Certainty—
Then softly—left me taught—
No Bell announced my Ignorance—
No Term conferred Degree—
Yet every Silence—held a Truth—
Too vast—for Pedagogy—
I failed—by inches—every Day—
Succeeded—just as small—
Till Knowledge—like a timid Guest—
Began—to know—my Hall—
And though no Scholar claims my Name—
Nor Ink records my Art—
The Mind—unbidden—learned to bloom—
A University—of Heart—
Hi my name is Money
Some call me honey
(But ain't nothing sweet)
I'm kinda cocky cause I know that people want me
I'm what you crave
Work for
Sell your body and soul for
Show just a little bit more for
Only 6 inches long and 2 inches wide
But size don't matter when I can buy you a new life
Make you greedy
Coming back for more
I know you'll love what I give
But you might hate what I take
I'll take your dignity
Create toxic masculinity
Destroy femininity
You think you have my loyalty
But you can't hold me down for long
Not unless you are willing to do more to keep me
You could call me a hoe cause I've been touched by everyone
But you'll touch anyone just to touch me
If I search through old memories, shaking dust from visions long filed away, I can see scenes from my childhood. Whenever I am feeling old, I pull a few out, polish them up, and put them in a frame for a while. A constant rotation of nostalgia. They hang on the walls of my skull, eight by eleven and a half inches of glass reflecting the early morning sunlight that pours through my ears.
The vision that hangs behind my forehead now shows me a scene of green and orange on a field of sandy, shell-shocked earth.
The fox lived in that great floral house long before we moved in. From our deck, its joints creaking with each small step I took, I watched him check off things from his to-do list–grocery shopping, security checks, singing lullabies and other sweet songs to his children. We weren’t friendly neighbors per se, I never learned his name, but we coexisted well enough. From certain angles, he would look up through slatted wood and chitter an amicable ‘hello’ as he walked off in search of breakfast.
summer sunset
behind evergreen curtains–
the fox
I enter a cave of somber gray
feeling despondent and in dire straits.
For in this cavern night swallows day
and in its bowels my fate awaits.
Ravenous shadows consume color
giving black a sense of completeness.
And darkness pours forth like molasses
a syrup of ebony sweetness.
Stumbling blind I approach an abyss
oblivion's just inches away.
Yet fear’s subordinate and silent
a mere observer, voiceless today.
A bright light flashes before my eyes
and hesitation backs me away.
For although I can't see anything
some phenomenon caused that display.
Doubt relentlessly tests my resolve
explaining the reasons I seek death.
Yet light pierced the walls of this cave
and a feeling of hope steals my breath.
Faith penetrates my fog of despair
guiding me to recognize God’s sign.
And I cling to His loving embrace
feeling in my heart, all will be fine.
I try not to think about it, my friend.
It's so horrible, and yet,
I'm on beer ten, and I won't see you again -
So, I'll tell you a secret.
No, it's not what happened in Vietnam.
I still see it in stop-action -
If you measured it in inches and seconds,
That moment was a fraction.
A youth soccer game, my dad in the crowd,
It was nineteen sixty-two
When we lost the championship game
As I let the winning goal go through.
As a boy, I never hurt anyone,
Was a friend when needed.
I always helped my mother with her chores.
Mom and Dad, I heeded.
I studied hard, did all my homework,
Followed every rule.
Upon college graduation, I was rewarded,
Accepted to med school.
Today, I am a successful surgeon
Using scalpels and knives.
I make so many people feel better -
Sometimes, I even save lives.
Yet, deep down, I don't have what it takes.
I let everybody down.
What you see before you is a failure.
I should be buried in the ground.
I see it as we speak. My dad was in the crowd.
It was nineteen sixty-two.
We lost the championship game.
I let the winning goal go through.
You see, there's nothing now that I can do -
But wait, I have a little son.
He plays goalie on his youth soccer team,
A great boy who likes to have fun.
When the rival striker takes his final shot,
There's one thing my son won't do.
Well, I hope he doesn't, no, he better not,
Let the winning goal go through.
*Image of Smallest Dog by Bio.
The Small Dog from Shansi
There was a scholar from Shansi City,
Miffed by folks he stayed in an priory,
Peaceful, but bothered by its many bugs,
So he bundled like a baby in hugs.
One night, two little knights with plumed helmets,
No more than two inches high with gauntlets
Hands, topped horses the size of grasshoppers,
Held falcons sized-like flies for the slaughters.
They raced crossed my floor at the greatest speed,
Another of them ontop his own steed,
Held a bow and arrow, instead, with him,
A small dog sized-like an ant filled with vim.
Behind him came a great army of men,
They held falcons with dogs just like him,
The bugs rose to flee but the falcons slain them,
Dogs sniffed out fleas ate them with no problem.
All cracks and crannies, the vermins were dead,
Scholar still pretending to sleep instead,
Then one rode clad in yellow and a crown,
He climbed the couch and he looked all around.
The men gathered neath him and paid homage,
They spoke a strange tongue, he had no knowledge,
The king climbed on a chariot and his
Guardsmen joined him with the greatest of ease.
Then off they went in a blink of an eye,
His men pursues with a victory cry,
Sounds like someone just scattered lots of beans,
The scholar rose, astonished to the scenes.
But then he looked at a brick by the wall,
A forgotten small dog not scared at all,
Scholar saw that the small dog was quite tame,
Leaps to bed, eats bugs, returned whence he came.
He feared the next day it be gone but no,
Stands on the brick leapt to the bed, it know
Its hungry, eats, then leaps back to the brick,
For days and nights, the small dog did the trick.
Until one day the scholar took a nap,
The small dog leaped by him and also slept,
The scholar had awaken, then he saw,
Flat dog like paper, as if one had draw.
2019 June 11
Winter Bound
Hindered by depth and breadth of winter
Blocked doors and windows on the cabin cliff remote
Imprisoned by three feet of snow and all those inches
Piling up outside, no where to go
Pines cling to memory of icicles below the tundra line
Like all good trees they freeze but never die
Over sleeping kept me from hunting deer
The realization of how quickly drifts can rise
Shear numbers of snow flakes conspiring
Cruel nature with wind and sky to hold me in
Now stuck inside the simple shelter fixed
Riffle and ammo sitting useless by the common fire place
No chasing prey this season, no reason to shoot the snow
It would only blow around and settle somewhere else
Winter bound, oats are my only sustenance, companion
Along with tea and lemon, not exactly the best of company
But will see me through, till things turn about
Closed in times advance
I become a captive audience of one
The only show in town watched now in wonder
On snowy mountain counting down the hours