Long Jacobs Poems
Long Jacobs Poems. Below are the most popular long Jacobs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Jacobs poems by poem length and keyword.
Glide of Falcon broken, channel smoothed
Transmission snap equals idle start
Dysfunctional gypsy destitute
Tricky situation screams for bird to depart
Tear away from failure with a free heart
Feathers propell her across the Caribbean
Flotsam washed up on shore Cottesloe
Beak weapon a compass to onyx oblivion
Binoculars barely detect tiny Como below
Jacobs Well regular fades beside posh Calypso
Ukelele strum seductively ruffles her plumage
Zephyr lift of anonymity instantly relaxes
Foreign terminus lures with image elusive
Sandy sanctum camps where regret collapses
Wigwams woven from Falcon's broken axis
Spit roast sizzles sin, black chunks blown away dust
Foil wrapped worry falls apart, ceases to matter
Scaffold stands bold though basic, vehicle rust
Drives psyche to triumph taut sail regatta
Egg whip pillow sips cocktails in Coolangatta
Gigantuan coast plays host to plumage patched
Bandaged beak hushed satiated dulcet
Fishnet fascination fetched her finest catch
Predator snatches status over physical impulses
Prey clamped in cabaret calibre talons convulses
23rd May
Bird can stay
Circle in the sand could tell a story
of a lost world, where celestials and machines
were one.
A crafty place where symbiosis is tasted
on the tongue.
Chimera epoxies elysian forgeries,
ruins, blistered and urned
by the seasons and the sun.
Cogs turning in the Temple of
Desperidium.
Wraith of translucent heat layers, reeling as film,
screen of video player stealing the image
of vesselic seal.
Black wings covering the eye of the past in-echoed Artisan-
lens cap, loosed, by
gait of prose and print of boot.
But it won't, divulge its secret cache,
of high hand, poker face,
in sign language-of cornerstones plans
laid from.
Jacobs Ladder Inn-hiding,
drone wave form.
A fleeting glimpse of visage,
visitage of what will soon again re-spawn,
kit of kingdom come.
Masking, its schema in paved,
mapping in hum of ley-line amathema,
violet band in tardigrade.
Petrified rainbow relic in the strata,
its soil forgotten in mind shade.
Like black chute of night blooming mushroom,
bubbles up, defiant creation,
pharmakeia l.e.d balloon parabolic ort-asm,
phantifuge,
sailing its wave of rebellion in bloom.
Renaissance reconnaissance recognizance
frequency of insanity of fallen ones
that denies their death row doom.
Tower of Babel has one foot in the grave
and one lit up in stereo- fm,
in the netherealms of CERN/Hades
a portal seeking to pierce the veil,
as a mitochondria drill.
They seek to house themselves in your temple
and corrupt the windows to your soul.
(The Virgin Mary’s Child - Brothers Grimm)
There was an old man with an axe,
Enough food to feed lass, he lacks.
Lass to Virgin Mary,
Heaven keys lass carry,
Lots of snacks, banishment anticlimax.
There was a door of number thirteen,
Forbidden entry with keys, remains unseen,
Teen instead of tot,
Behaved as lass ought,
Lies untold, with family convene.
Or maybe, Mary believed the fib,
Lass gained fat beyond a mere rib,
Felt guilt for the lie,
Did not want to die,
She protected her Heavenly bib.
Perhaps Mary sent her back to be poor,
Disobedience made the Virgin sore.
Lass killed wood prey,
Hard work every day,
She enjoyed it, continued evermore.
(Mr. Fox - English folk tale by Joseph Jacobs)
Lady Mary covets the handsome Fox,
Admittance to his lair harder than entry to Fort Knox,
She does not break in,
The evil groom will win,
Honeymoon, as bride slaughter, is indeed unorthodox.
Perhaps Lady Mary did visit the Fox castle,
Murdered women was not seen as a hassle,
Lady made a list,
Crumpled it in fist,
All the more foes to imprison and space to bedazzle.
(Fairy Mary - Tinker Bell Series)
There was a fairy who kept order and was stout,
She kept her fairy foes working and about,
Not well-liked,
Imagine spiked,
Efficiency useful, but it doesn’t erase doubt.
Maybe there was a beloved fairy instead,
Who hardly ate for all the work in her head,
Toothpick thin,
Fakeful grin,
Her smile only true while passed out in her bed.
(Queen Mary I aka “Bloody Mary” aka Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary)
The Queen punished Protestants fierce,
Each body, another garden plot and pit pierce,
Tombstones are flowers,
Made by monarch powers,
Carriages carry corpses, require no hearse.
Rows of tools fill each station,
Bodies attached from many a nation,
Protestants in droves,
Some missing clothes,
Whatever befits their cause for damnation.
The Holy Mother of Poet would not approve,
Such speak of my mouth, with soap, she would remove,
Beliefs absolute!
Heresy! Refute!
Even a heartfelt apology could not opinion improve.
Many gardens consist of a collection,
Often of things or organisms that elicit affection,
Small changes will appear,
Light, dark, always near,
Owner’s perspective could require dissection.
In Honor of Milt - An Un-contest Poetry Contest
I love the way Milton’s poem begins. It draws my attention immediately. Line 10 jolts me with Jacobs and Jacob-ites.I’m still quite interested! Line 3 of verse 2 gains my attention and then flowers bloom. I love the setting of the Applachians and West Virginia.
What I said: A fave for me! So many wonderful things mentioned here! Congratulations on POTD!
Milton’s reply: Thank you, Kim, for reading my poem and expressing your thoughts. I'm so happy you made it a FAVE, for I do think it is a worthy poem to be read many, many times, and I hope everyone who reads it will. It is one of my own personal favorites.
No pretense at humility (too funny). I like that it was one of his personal favorites!! Though Milton was keen to correct, he helped me and others become better poets.
Yearning for Reunion
Ancient, rugged hills worn down by time
I miss the lush green hills of my home
Leaning away from the peaceful valley,
Mountains forged from eons long forgotten
During those prehistoric periods before
Earliest settlers found the Appalachians,
Already old, tired, and wrinkled, awaiting
The laughter of young children discovering,
Holding the secrets of ancestors denied
Their birthright by Jacobs and Jacob-ites
Where old waters flow down into new,
New River old, maybe older, than the Nile.
I miss the lush green hills of my home
Leaning away from the peaceful valley
Where John Deere still breaks the ground
In the springtime after a long, hard winter,
And where flowers bloom into October
Especially if Mother Nature allows them.
And she does, for that is her mountain way,
Creating an everlasting yearning for reunion
Back home in those West Virginia hills.
By L. Milton Hankins
POEM OF THE DAY, December 2, 2021
Poetry Soup
written November 30, 2021
#49 on the Best New Poems List on Poetry Soup
December 8, 2021
"Tsundoku Tower"
Bluebird windowsill
peers in, strange terrain
“Rain Rain Go Away”,
mysterious singing
eerie refrain.
Ghost Girl sitting still
tears falling
she is haunting
Tsundoku Tower
laying vacant
on Treeless Hill.
Looks up
her glow attracts
all the Tiger Moths,
are gathering ‘round
holds out her hands to them
She’s no longer bound -
so she gently kisses them
they are her new friends
In this, her newest ghost town.
Bluebird looks
While she builds
her tower full of
unused books.
Pages and Pages
of unread tomes
Are the walls
of her new home
she builds them extra high
around her like a womb
to keeps the Others out -
This is not their tomb.
Strong spines on their side
top one on top the other
to the Ceiling neat
so dark, so black noire
Jacobs Ladder for her
ascension climb
to her empty silent boudouir.
Wrips out the hearts
of useless books
all those blank white pages
all that wasted time
wallpaper to cover with colour
all her empty stages
with enraptured rhyme.
An antique fountain pen
dipped in pure ghost blood
so crimson dripping wet
from the cuts upon her wrists
she begins to scrawl
her new story, First Chapter
and it begins with this -
“I AM NOT DEAD YET”.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2017 Dec)
1. Ghost Girl - XavieRinato
https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=1&v=rkGeq65ejMA
Lefty Jacobs pushed through the doors,
he wanted a drink, nothing more,
after long days out on the trail,
a ride so hard his horse had failed.
He’d had to get out of Roystown,
to many lawmen going ’round,
he had a name that brought such things,
but he was long beyond caring.
As he moved up to get a drink,
across the bar a small man slinked,
wanted more, but was at a loss,
out of coin, the barkeep just scoffed.
Lefty took pit, slid come coin,
said, “Two drinks, so my friend can join.”
The whiskey came, he took his shot,
felt the burn, felt his stomach rot.
The small man drank and then looked up,
right into the eyes of the tough,
said, “I know you…and you should run,
bounty hunters are here…not for fun.”
Lefty just laughed, said, “I don’t care.
let them come for me, if they dare.
I’m the quickest, alive or dead,
I’ll put a fast round in their head!
“Many hunters have tried before,
I’ve took them all, and even score!
I’ve wandered far across the land,
and never met a better man.”
The small man slumped and said, “Well then,
I just thought I might help a friend.”
He downed the rest, and turned away,
perched at the bar, where he would stay.
Lefty looked on, and felt disgust,
how could a man become so lost?
No flesh on bone, no life in eyes,
as if he were about to die.
It almost around his pity,
but he bit back the sympathy,
the man had warned of hunters here,
so Left would induce some fear…
To show these townspeople there place,
he’d make the hunters meet their fate,
and buy time as the town’s top dog,
at least until there came real law.
Most people saw him and walked off,
townsfolk, not hunters, Lefty scoffed,
then a heeled man left the café,
and confidently walked his way...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Who are you and who am I
and could it be we’re kindred spirits
deep inside?
And I wonder if this life’s a dream, the matrix
of an endless scheme
begotten long ago,
when time was not
and the only thought
was how long until they know?
How long until they know I’m “We”
and learn eventually to see
that most of what they read and learned
was nothing more than food for worms
squirming ‘round inside their heads
distracting from themselves instead.
So much to understand it’s true
but simple as the sky is blue
all tangled up like string in glue
like who was Jesus in the flesh
and was he really, truly Blessed?
(I hear it now: “That man’s a mess.”)
But not the first to question thus
as truth is written in the dust
by the winners, spinners, sinners deep
luring others fast asleep.
(Now I lay me down to rest
and pray my soul wakes up progressed
up Jacobs ladder to the gates
opened wide to celebrate.)
Even while we wander ‘round
in this mysterious dreamscape land
missing countless miracles
of each moment of life at hand.
Through pages of the ages of
every breath of birth, death,
love and living we extol
through consciousness of the cosmos,
the Holy Grail to our One Great Soul.
Don’t we perceive the universe the same:
Earth, moon, stars, cold, heat and flames?
Connected, yet disconnected,
separate and still One:
seeing the world through different eyes
like separate rays of the Sun.
Inescapable as planets are to stars
while never even knowing that
is who we are.
While sleeping and awakening repeatedly
as we do from day to day,
perhaps to do so endlessly
isn’t so far away.
And if dreams mean anything
beyond awakening at dawn,
perhaps it’s time to reimagine
where life begins and ends
while sitting still
and moving on.
© Terrell Martin, 02/06/2025
It is a Wednesday afternoon during the school year.
That means sixth-grader Sallee Jacobs will be walking home today.
Sallee's mother works in the emergency room on Wednesdays,
Otherwise she picks Sallee up at the school that is one mile from their home.
On this particular Wednesday, it is pouring down rain.
As Sallee reaches the half-way point,
an empty stretch of road between two housing developments,
a red sedan pulls up next to her and the driver rolls down his window.
"Hi," shouts the man over the sound of the pouring rain beating down on the roof of his car, "your mother asked me to pick you up - come get in out of the rain."
Sallee simply stares at this stranger and quietly says, "No thank you", even though she is miserably soaking wet, cold and angry at her mother for working Wednesdays.
"It's okay," reassures the fully-bearded man, "my name is Mr. Thomas, and I am a friend of your mother."
Sallee studies his face, thinking, you don't look like any of my mom's friends. "No thank you," she repeats as she starts backing away from the car.
Then, out of nowhere, another man appears at Sallee's side. He is wearing a rain coat and flashes a reassuring smile. He looks at Sallee and asks, "Is everything all right here?"
Sallee, simply looks at the man in the car.
"Everything is fine," says the man in the car, "Her mother asked me to pick her up out of the rain."
"Do you know this man?", the rain coat asks Sallee.
"No."
"Do you want to get into his car?"
"No."
"How far away do you live from here?"
"Just up the hill and across Madison."
"Are you okay walking there by yourself?"
"Yes."
There are now four cars lined up behind the red sedan. They start honking their horns at the car in their way.
"I don't know, Mister," says the rain coated man, "I think you just best move along before I call the police."
The bearded man asks Sallee one more time, "Are you sure you don't want a ride?"
With water dripping down her face, Sallee shakes her head, yes.
The red sedan moves on.
*****
It is 10:00 Wednesday night. The red sedan is parked in front of Sallee's house. Mr. Thomas holds Sallee's mother's hand while trying to describe to the police what the man in the raincoat looked like. Sallee is never seen again.
Pennine Chain
by Bob Moore © 2021
I’ve camped in the hills of the Pennine Chain
in the cold, and the snow, and the pouring rain
and if I was young I would do it again
but the days of my youth are behind me
Beyond Hayfield, at Kinder Scout
each weekend I would be, out and about
tramping and camping, and seeing the sights
free as the birds all around me.
Follow the road, the Pennine Way
built by the Romans, back in the day
Climb the downfall, and Jacobs Ladder
enjoy all the peace travels with me
Now back home to reality, the week is new
money to earn, and work to do
back to my life, and daily toil
with friends and family around me.
Bob Moore.
Dinner with old friends:
salmon with red cabbage, asparagus, Caesar's salad, penne with
broccoli, two white wines.
Jane Jacobs could analyze how it all got to our table
or even how their daughter came to us from Cambodia.
The economy or market bringing a thing of beauty, the farms, the trucks,
such comfort. The ancients knew this too
yet we are anxious about famine, genocide and nuclear war.
How can we organize (govern) ourselves to end self-imposed suffering?
That Quebec and Puerto Rico may secede peacefully at any time a
majority chooses is a source of pride. Why not Kurds, Chechyns,
Tibetans and Armenians?
Difficult to write a poem about it. At table, candlelight, we debate
or whine about the other side winning and making a mess
of our lives. The election could be stolen, tampering with voting
machines,
what policy question does that possibility raise? War in Iraq,
school testing, prison population. Religion, the abyss surrounding the
little promontory life.
It'll all work out in the end. Go to your daily practice, be a good citizen.
Another failed effort to write what I mean. Such confusion, yet
two white wines.