Long Indiana Poems
Long Indiana Poems. Below are the most popular long Indiana by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indiana poems by poem length and keyword.
Dear Folks: Here I am at beautiful Fort Fumble, Louisiana.
I sure wish I was back on the farm in Bean Blossom, Indiana.
Already I've learned the army pastime of "hurry up and wait!"
And that sergeants ain't very nice - they just love to berate.
Sergeants met us at the train depot and herded us on a truck.
They dumped us at what's called a mess for good old army chuck.
I stared in disbelief at the stuff they slopped upon my tray.
It was called chipped beef and gravy - it was all greasy and gray!
They marched us to the supply place and issued our army suits;
A gun, helmet, drawers, socks and couple of pairs of boots.
I struggled with all that stuff packed upon my weary back,
To a lovely new residence, a flimsy tar-papered shack.
I was told how to hang my clothes and fold my boxer drawers;
The proper way to roll my socks and other silly army chores.
They told me how to make up my cot - the blanket must be taut.
A quarter must bounce off of it or your effort is for naught.
Mom, I sure need you to fix my grub and make up my cot.
Pop, I miss plowing corn behind the mules on the forty-acre plot.
I better get to sleep so tomorrow I can earn my meager dough.
Tell Uncle Clyde it ain't like he said it'd be. Your loving son, Roscoe.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Are you a follower of trying to be Sagacious?
(A lone voice whispers)
Here's to you
The readers, writers and poets in whatever field
Always remember
Seeking further knowledge is a gift
It's how we all grow in whatever we do
So never yield and constantly look for more ways to lift
Even if it means entering the long hours into a lone graveyard shift
Keep searching like a metaphorical Indiana Jones or Lara Croft
For a treasure to help those who might be drifting in seas
Where hope seems not to exist
And who might just need something to darkness resist
Title:
Self-Knowledge
Do you believe in absorbing the esoteric linked to living
The supernatural impressions linked to just giving
To help clear your own pathways to find ways to deliver poetic prayers
To those struggling with just living
With any mental or traumatic depression's
To then walk down life's many metaphysical runways
Like a young Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel or an inspired
Paul Poiret
If so
Because I believe
In you
Always be optimistic
For true belief
Lies in all you do
To help transform your soul
Into a sage or mystic
Allowing you to chase rare stars and wild Middle Earth dreams
To bind mistakes
To white feathers
To then throw them into Healing Fires
For their old powers over you
To in rising grey smoke
Retire
As you learn
Which new bridges to
Cross
And which old bridges
To burn
For
Sacred Self Knowledge
Is ubiquitous
A chimera
A conjunction of wild beasts
Roaming wild
Living life through
Nine letters
Like a follower of being sagacious
Which to the child of the Revived
Can never be
Denied
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Sagacious:
Having or showing acute mental discernment and keen practical sense; shrewd:
Socrates, that sagacious Greek philosopher, believed that the easiest way to learn was by asking questions.
Synonyms: perspicacious, keen, sharp, acute, judicious, intelligent, clever, discerning, sage, and wise.
REVIVED:
Refreshed, renewed, reborn, energized, resuscitated, recreated, and regenerated.
There's no mobile internet all day; Ukraine is flying drones
My mother, a sure reincarnation of Caterina Sforza
Who else would be so impeccably dressed in
A crimson jacket and a chic silk blouse when's it's anomalously hot in May?
We saw Romeo and Juliet, a Gérard Presgurvic musical. The verdict?
''Too raunchy, too loud, too much dancing.''
Me, Countess of black cats and Lady of possums —
I feel like a prehistoric curio pet in a cloud of Shalimar
And the music swims back to me
By God, it all just grabs me most violently
And I know I want to dress real nice, I'll be a funny Anne Boleyn
And I know those dead rascal Persian children will forever play with undead children
Amongst endless Indiana cornfields
And I know I am Sarah and you're Mohammed
And I know Russia and America won't always be circling each other
And I know I am from Izmir and you're from Cyprus
And I know everyone young and beautiful will just be dancing with
Their silly yellow stars on
They'll just dance, dance, dance until this strange sin is no more
They'll just dance, dance, dance light into being
And I know I'll go see that play about a Russian winemaker and a Polish musician
And I know I'll light a candle to St Jadwiga to bring my South African lover back
And I know we'll go to Uruguay and do 101 sun salutations
And I know we are Dodi and Camilla and we'll be sipping
Chilled white wine and gingerly nibbling on little vegan cakes
In pretty Bergen-Belsen
And I know we're going to become marvelously angelic somehow, some day
And I know it'll be all Belgian candies, sexytimes and Omar Khayyam poems
And I know all sensitive and non-violent males
Will be awfully useful during a crisis
And I know all hyphenated persons won't be different people in different languages
On my way home I see a stern fisherman by the Fontanka —
My blackfella heart instantly senses something, a falling black cockatoo feather perhaps
I watch a dying fish flail around fornlornly as if it was a sacrifice to some dark Reptilian god
Under the sliver of a young waxing moon
The fisherman knows the Moon Man is bad
As high priest to the Moon Man, the fisherman guards every piglet tragedy
And I know I love my hyphenated blackfella alien heart
And I know I am quite enough
And I know I am quite enough
Nigh on sixty years ago this Yankee from the State of Indiana,
Wed a lovely Confederate lass from the State of Louisiana!
I thought I knew her pretty well by the time our vows were read,
But there was a New Years Day secret that she had left unsaid!
Seems there's an old southern tradition that I'd never heard of before.
By eatin' black-eyed peas on New Years Day you'd have good luck, she swore!
That lowly, bland legume is rather tasteless but a hambone spices it up.
And my spouse adds this and that to the mix, usin' her measurin' cup.
With the black-eyed peas is served cornpone (as it's called in Dixie land),
From a recipe handed down by generations and it must be made by hand!
Since I was introduced to that humble pea known for its great good luck,
'Tis our chuck on New Years Day with a generous decanter of Cold Duck!
Now, in Hoosier Land on New Years Day we ate sausage and sauerkraut.
Whether is helps to eat peas or kraut for a year's good luck, I somewhat doubt,
But, I must confess with my spouse at my side, life has mostly been a breeze.
Do you reckon it has somethin' to do with eatin' 'pone and black-eyed peas!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 3 in Russell Sivey's "Good Luck Meal" Contest - Jan 2012
Pitter Patter, pitter patter, pitter patter; I heard the sound of tiny feet
I turned around only to see the biggest spider you ever want to meet
If things couldn't be worse than to meet a spider that was that grand
With three pairs of gaited shoes and a black walking stick in his hand
I really don't want to trouble you Sir, but I seem to have lost my way
I have a good friend General Beatle, he's asked me to come and stay
He sent me a letter with his address; but I seem to have gone astray
On seeing the letter, I pointed South, then sent the spider on his way
Never in my life have I seen such a spider that stood over six feet tall
Who is off to visit General Beatle; down yonder, at the Fox Manor Hall
I found a bench where I sat awhile, whilst digesting this very thought
Then ran to the nearest public house, where a large whiskey I sought
When again did I not hear the sound of pitter patter of some tiny feet
With arms wide open; General Beatle and that spider did on me greet
Now, all of you may think, that this story is rather more than strange
But, when you are just an ant, I am far from thought of, as deranged
Indiana Shaw . . . ; )
The Statue is located on the Court House Lawn, New Castle, Indiana
A bronzed statue of a soldier standing tall with weapon drawn,
Has stood for generations on the Henry County Court House lawn.
'Tis representative of gallant men and the sacrifices they have made,
To defend The Constitution and from that cause they never strayed!
It embodies the national character of men who suffered horrible strife,
Alas, many losing sight and limb, others forfeiting precious life.
They've heard the thunderous roar of cannon and the muskets' rattle
And have seen the mighty clash of steel and the gruesome gore of battle!
It symbolizes the fortitude to press on with undaunted determination
To preserve the precious liberties we enjoy in this magnificent nation!
They fought to ensure that The Grand Old Flag yet remains unfurled,
As a beacon of hope for humankind throughout this troubled world!
It reminds us that old men steer affairs and tend to dream and scheme;
Alas, young men must carry out their follies, forfeiting life supreme.
Courageous men fought at Gettysburg and on alien soil at great expense.
To set peoples free from the yoke of tyranny, they took a noble stance.
It captures the soldiers' fervent pleas to abide by The Golden Rule,
That humankind in brotherhood would strive to be less cruel.
To ensure our precious freedoms, they bore hardships we'll never know;
So much, so very much to each of these brave souls we owe!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
*DayZoning, and Poetwriter are the Offical names I use when gaming, the one MMORPG I do play.
DayZoning
Curious, dares to ask hard questions, playful, dreamer
Sister of a teacher
Lover of sunsets, sunrises, and my hot husband
Who feels empathy, nurturing, chaotic
Who fears loneliness, growling/barking dogs, getting bit, and getting attacked by geese
Who would like to see Grand Canyon, Australia, a beach sunrise
Resident of South Bend Indiana
Poetwriter
My husband is my provider for real
makes me feel safe and loved each moment with zeal
he is a faster thinker than I will ever be
it would be messed up if he thought just like me.
THE CLEANER . . .
When I was younger, I just wanted to be a cleaner
After watching all the espionage films, I did gleaner
But, saying this all they did, was hand me a brush
Thinking to myself, you have got it all wrong mush
I swept the floors, thought this isn’t getting me far
When I said cleaner, I meant cleaner & not the char
I grew to regret my remarks, as more brooms I got
Until one day I thought, I’ve just had my flipping lot
Did 007 or Charles Bronson - start at the same level
If so, did they have the pleasure of a auto dust devil
Sucking in all the bad guys into their strong vacuums
While alas I’m still stood here holding all the brooms
So I thought just maybe, there is not a real difference
Just a different way in the art - of the hit deliverance
Sweeping away the cob webs, as if they are bad guys
As each bit of dust hit the dust, one of bad guys dies
Power of thought, is quite amazing, all said and done
But hiding in the bushes, sounds a little bit, more fun
Indiana Shaw . . . : )
author's note: We don't have covered bridges in Texas. I can still remember seeing my first one while living and working in Indiana. I was awestruck, in love with the nostagia associated with these historic structure.
It arches like memory~
wood darkened by rain,
each plank carrying
some half-forgotten syllable
from a century
that didn’t hurry.
Step inside
and the air changes.
Light slips through the slats
in uneven stripes,
and your footsteps answer back
as though the bridge
has been waiting
to hear them again.
Outside, the river keeps moving,
unimpressed by nostalgia.
But within the span,
something lingers~
a quiet craft,
a kind of shelter
that feels borrowed
from another life.
Every covered bridge
is a held breath,
a pause between
where you were
and where you think
you’re going~
a place where history
doesn’t mind
being crossed slowly.
A POET’S MUSE LOST
The poet ponders upon, his lost muse
But with his pen, on her, he did abuse
As he looks upon the pen, with forlorn
And at the door of his muse long gone
Why did he afflict, such so cruel words
That slashed her heart with such hurts
Whilst expecting her love to still stand
That kitchen bare, now left unmanned
Your bed empty, it now lies in disarray
In her mind, your words still do weigh
One moment’s anger his words let slip
You un-knowledgeable, least equipped
Where the forlorn pen, prepares to ink
It reminds you, before you write, think
A life time left now, in which to repent
Writing of a lost love your time’s spent
A pain upon her, only yourself afflicted
As that this pain, was wholly predicted
So, we can read the sorrow, you as felt
That pain you deliberately, on her dealt
Indiana Shaw . . . -_-