Long Iowa Poems
Long Iowa Poems. Below are the most popular long Iowa by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Iowa poems by poem length and keyword.
"I look at Uncle Roger as a blessing to our family, for he taught our family to view all people with more humanity." (loosely quoted, paraphrasing what my cousin Sylvia said to me at my dad's funeral this summer)
Here is a picture of my father, Roger Miller.
See how brightly he smiles; how sweet his eyes are.
My mom met him in the Navy before he left for Korea.
She tells us he was Valedictorian and star athlete in his high school.
When she met him, he was very personable, but the man in this photo. . .
I hardly knew him.
This is the best picture I have of him because I have so few!
I hardly knew him.
When he returned from war, mental illness followed; it consumed him.
In those days there was no decent treatment for schizophrenia.
My dad grew sicker and my mom was forced to leave him,
taking her four daughters back with her, far away, to Iowa.
Responsible and kind, my dad sent money monthly for his daughters.
He corresponded with us by mail and drove out a few times to see us.
However, I felt detached from him; I had so many questions for him.
I visited him as he lay dying this year in a hospital, hoping for answers.
He said little. His eyes - so much like mine – were still beautiful, but
I hardly knew him.
Sept. 21, 2019
For Writing Challenge 2, September 2019 - The Photograph - Poetry Contest
Sponsor, Wiishkobi Ode
In 1894, Annie climbed on a bike
Told the doubters to take a hike
Planned to cycle cross the planet, found sponsors, took a gun
Though she died 50 years after, her legend had begun.
How much is embellished, it's hard to say,
She used steamships to bridge gaps along the way.
But thousands of miles she rode alone,
While today's rebels seldom leave their phone.
She was an unlikely athlete, she weighed just 100 pounds
Her orthodox Jewish Husband didn't keep her in bounds
She hadn't ridden a bike until a few days before her trip
But she ignored those details and let adventure rip.
A sponsor, Londonderry water, gave her her name
And as Annie Londonderry, she won her fame.
From Paris to Marseille, a hurt foot rested on a handlebar
Still made it in two weeks, gave skeptics their first jar.
She reached Yokohama, took a boat to Frisco
Rode to L.A. Arizona, on a roll to El Paso
She rode beside tracks, a horse accident drew blood
But she hopped trains in Nebraska, because the roads were mud
In Iowa she hit a group of pigs, and broke her wrist
But she wasn't stopping now, no fading in the mist
She wore a cast until she made the goal and won the prize
Fourteen days before deadline, with triumph in her eyes.
You may never have heard of Mrs. Londonderry
She told lots of tall tales - roguish and merry
But still she was a pioneer, a racer and tough
An adventuress made mostly of the right stuff.
She had children, a business, yet we can agree
She showed the 1890's; how bold a spirit could be.
She didn't have money; she earned money along the way
with talks and ads, could you do that today?
Could you cycle through North Africa, Yemen, Saigon?
Or would ideologues stop you, from continuing on?
So for those who remember, let's give a Hurrah
For those who have moxie, and a dose of Chutzpah.
Forest fires in Canada
leave a haze in Iowa
and I can’t help but think
of how they have consumed
the land.
As I go for a Sunday drive
a wall cloud of smoke
in the sky before me
hides the sun
but the river
is at my side
rippling reflections
of sky.
A voice inside says
we must embrace
before it's lost
as I count the miles.
I round a curve
and for a moment I see
the face of someone
I loved as she smiled,
a memory unveiled.
Yet I know
fires are burning
out west
a story played out
every year.
I look into my self
and feel assured
as the sun emerges
and opens the skies.
for every charred trunk
that falls a seed
left in its wake
The nineteen fifties were an innocent time.
We could buy a comic book with a nickel and dime.
Our dances were lively, but girls wore shorts under a dress.
Being tossed by the boys, who never went around shirtless.
Malt shops were on corners, and we could have a cherry coke.
We were protective of each other. Friendly, we always spoke.
Maybe it is because I grew up in a small Iowa farming town.
We watched out for each other, and we helped up who was down.
The nineteen fifties weddings were simple and quite sweet.
We served cake, punch, mints and nuts, it was a lovely treat.
The bride and groom were thrilled with each gift, showing appreciation.
We knew how to uplift each other and enjoy each cherished celebration.
I thought it was oh so nice that Lady Florence Artifice lived in her house with goats.
She dressed in overalls of a man, with layers of bibbed overalls, dresses and coats
There was no other livestock in our neighborhood, but I thought inside was really good.
She was an oddity to others in town, but my twin and I loved it when she was around.
Her stories were terrifyingly thrilling, about hangings and people who tarred others.
We kids kept these tales to ourselves, not wanting to be censored by our mothers.
We followed her and Kneely, her head goat, up and down the block when she came by.
She would not talk to the grownups; they had no time for her; I always wondered why.
Strange, odd, weird, I heard them whisper sometimes about Lady Florence Artifice.
These small town Iowa women on my block were cliquish and clannish, and not very nice.
My mother thought it was hilarious that the kids loved this old crazy woman so much.
She allowed us leeway to run up to her garden and help her clean her rabbit hutch.
Florence knew the name of every flower, bush, vine, plant, mushroom, seed and tree.
She kept up a constant chatter that always amazed and delighted nine-year-old me.
She told us about killing cobras, rattlesnakes, lions, tigers, and one time a grizzly bear.
It was a sad day in the lives of us children when Lady Florence and Kneely were no longer there.
I grew up in the fifties and sixties.
Gender roles were almost absolute
Back in small town Iowa.
Daddies worked. Mommies didn’t.
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Dad’s escaped from the drudgery of housework,
homework, cleaning, cooking, laundry, dusting,
gardening, painting, sewing, knitting.
My mother was constantly busy from five a.m.
Until midnight when she went to bed.
I watched my father go to work all dressed up
In shirts and ties she pressed and clothes she cleaned.
I watched him come home at six, eat his supper,
Lie on the floor, and watch TV until he fell asleep.
Gender roles were easy to understand as a child.
Moms worked constantly. Dad’s worked from eight to six.
I bought my parents’ ideas of gender roles immediately and completely.
Made it exceedingly easy for husband to move our family thirty times.
I could pack an entire house, three kids and six pets in three days.
When my husband returned from work the moving truck was filled up.
For thirty-five years my husband did not make his own sandwich,
Wash a sock, or dust a counter. Then one day I snapped.
I decided I was not going to cook, clean or dust another thing.
For the past twelve years my husband has washed the clothes.
He has made our meal about sixty percent of the time since 2008.
He has done all of the grocery shopping; and he seems to love it.
I have always despised grocery shopping, so I love it too.
Gender roles were established and absolute at our house - by me.
My daughters and their husbands take turns cleaning, cooking, dusting.
Their life is totally better than mine, but no one’s fault but my own.
I learned from the best of the absolutists - a mommy who worked nonstop, and a daddy who slept most of the time he was home,
I am sad it took me so long to figure out there was another way to live.
I truly was resentful and angry most of my life because I hate cleaning.
Cooking is my third less favorite thing to do, and grocery shopping....
Let's not even go there, okay?
~Glenn Miller~
(acrostic)
G-lenn Miller, his music is so wonderfully sublime, enchanting.
L-istening to his "Moonlight Serenade" makes me think of love so tender.
E-ndless joy, in my heart,his music always brings to me. His given
N-ame was,Alton Glenn Miller.He was born in Clarinda, Iowa, U.S.
N-otoriously,performed the trombone.His Glenn Miller Orchestra is divine
M-usician arranger,composer,and great band leader in the swing era.
I-n The Mood",is onother one of my favorite music pieces of his to this day.
L-ittle Brown Jug" "American Patrol" "Tuxedo Junction" and so many more, his
L-egacy is filled of of so much dancing and romance under a moonlit and stars.
E-ntertaining the troops was something very close to his heart.Glenn Miller,
R-emains one of the most famous and recognizable names of the big band era.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2015
March.12.2017
Author's notes:
My humble poem tribute to one of the greatest and most
unique bandleaders of the big band era,Glenn Miller.
One of my very favorite band leader I personally
love and enjoy hearing the most.I listen to his music
for many years now.And I believe that theres no one like him,
his music can never be duplicated by anyone.
His beautiful music just transcends time and space,forever.
(Born March 1, 1904- Missing December 15,1944)
Years active 1923-1944
In 2003 Miller, received a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award.
His plane dissapeared while flying over the English Channel.
His remains and that of his crew has never been found.
Miller's status is missing in action up to this date.
Long live the King of Swing!
- “Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
- Mark Twain
When I was around 14, I attended a church youth conference that summer,
sleeping in a dorm at a college campus and attending fun events with kids of my
same religion. The group I was with one day was strolling along a green shady path
when ahead of me I spied a young man, very tall, slender, and blonde. He had a
Justin Bieber kind of face but with cool piercing eyes, to put almost any young girl’s
heart aflutter. I immediately began to think of a way to meet him, and to my
surprise, I noticed that he was also noticing me!
Meanwhile, another boy, also with a strikingly cute looking face, appeared at my
side and began walking with me. He introduced himself as John Spencer. I would
compare him to an elf because his features were so delicate. His ears were elflike
and his doll face reminded me of the face of an angel. His body was extremely thin
and later I learned that he worried so much for his family and friends that he had
given himself ulcers before the age of 14! As we talked, I kept looking ahead at the
blonde boy, whose name I later learned was Chris. Upon seeing me with John, the
incredibly gorgeous Chris gave me a disapproving look and vanished into the crowd.
After that, I soon realized that John and I were turning into a “couple” and the rest
of my waking moments at the conference I would have my “Johnny Angel”
constantly by my side.
It was young love, first love, fresh, and sweet, and holding hands with John I felt
electrifying chemistry as we intertwined our fingers, playing “handsies,” my favorite
new activity! We ate together and attended together all the activities planned for
our group, and so my first time with a boyfriend was like an extended date, lasting
from the beginning of the week until the end when we rode home together
snuggling on the bus and planning when we would see each other again.
John lived one town away from mine, in the same city where Chris, the blonde
boy, lived too. At future monthly church dances in their city, Davenport, Iowa, I
would see them both and learn more about both boys. They became a big part of
my newly blossoming adolescent life and the romantic way I was feeling about boys,
but that is saved for chapter two of my story!
For Carol Brown's "My First Date" Contest
I was raised by a volunteer who taught Sunday School for sixty years.
She baked cookies and made homemade pies and took them to the sick.
She brought groceries to those who did not have food.
She taught children how to read.
I can never hope to be the volunteer my mother was.
She was invited to a volunteer luncheon once.
She did not go.
She said “none of the volunteers went”.
She said “That is not why we volunteer. We do not want to be recognized.”
I learned from my mother.
How to treat people.
I am the first person to give someone a ride.
To teach an extra class, to bring someone groceries.
It is what a small town Iowa girl with my mother must do.
Some poems are lively like Macarena, fast hokey-pokey or watusi.
Others make you laugh like the Texas two-step, or hokey pokey, so cutesy.
Detailed poets can creative a missive that cha-cha-chas or jitterbugs.
Big rule followers maybe cringe when they read some that mugs.
Many seem as familiar to this Iowa girl as a barn, line, or square dance.
Others are hot as mambo, rumba, taking an unexpected heart-leaping chance.
Some are as proper as a minuet or fox trot, maybe even a prissy stuck-up waltz.
Hiding true feelings, honesty, and the writer’s variety of unshared, secret faults.
Yes, poetry is like any other kind of art, when you get it alone, and to yourself.
Some delight our souls, and make us dance, others sit forever high upon a shelf.
Many times I think “I wish I had thought of that!” when I read a wonderful poem.
To me, poetry has a rhythm, a cadence, and always, and forever a unique dance of her own.