Long Lead up Poems
Long Lead up Poems. Below are the most popular long Lead up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lead up poems by poem length and keyword.
Footsteps.
She sits there all alone at home and turns down her TV.
To listen to his footsteps walking through her memory.
She hears him as he climbs the steps that lead up to his room.
It's fifty some years later, still the child of her womb.
She can almost count the steps as he moves across the floor.
So real she can't imagine, that he's not there no more.
Through troubled times he wrote the rhymes he used to call his own.
Sitting in his room upstairs where he stayed all alone.
She offers up just one more prayer for peace he'll never find.
Asking God to help him through and ease his broken mind.
She watched him in his early years, she saw right from the start.
This child she once carried, born with a broken heart.
There's not a doctor anywhere, no pill that you can take.
When the heart you hide inside is made so it will break.
Stacks of poems and rhymes he wrote all clutter up the shelf.
Now he's out helping others, he can't seem to help himself.
So she sits there all alone at home and turns down her TV.
To listen to his footsteps walking through her memory.
Times she watched him struggle, he tripped and then he fell.
Times she tried to save him as his life played out in hell.
Times he felt there's no one there. That's when he turned to rhyme.
He couldn't hear or see her there. She was right there all the time.
Sitting there at home alone she turned down her TV.
Waiting for the footsteps that are now a memory.
Edwin C Hofert
Isn't it getting harder by the day
To supposedly know or try to figure out
Exactly who or what to believe
To the point it's just as easy now to say
Genie
Meany
Curly
Mo
So many choices but which 1 exactly
should I take or make , in order for me
then to follow
The Rule's
The Guidelines
Or
The Example being Set
All 3 are a gamble the only
difference is the odds they give
And whether or not you are prepared
at the end of the day
To suffer and live with the eventual
consequences of the bad choices you
make lead up to
Even be that debt to be repaid spelled
out in no uncertain terms spell's this
R
E
G
R
E
T
I love Christmas Day with the giving of gifts, and the miracle of make-believe
but I also love the days that lead up to it…most notably Christmas Eve.
The gifts sit unopened under the tree, they’re wrapped and the bows are all tied.
Christmas Eve is the last night to dream about the presents concealed inside.
I love the anticipation, you feel it as you walk down the street
You see it in the smiles of children and faces of the people you meet.
I guess I shouldn’t be astonished by feeling this way anymore
because I carry with me a history of enjoying the night before.
I remember the night before my first date, I was filled with excitement and awe
I remember that night as affectionately as I remember the movie we saw.
I remember the night before my driver’s test…It’s one I can’t easily dismiss
I remember the night before my first dance and the night before my first kiss.
I remember the night before I was married, my face was in a perpetual grin.
wondering what the future held and waiting for that future to begin.
I remember the nights before my children were born as much as the days of their births.
I imagine if you looked you wouldn’t have found a happier person on Earth.
Yes, Christmas morning is special with the power to enchant and beguile
but Christmas Eve is another example of how it’s the journey that makes life worthwhile.
So as much as I enjoy Christmas Day there are many more reasons I believe
to wish all of you who are reading this a joyous and grand Christmas Eve.
Andy is a wheelchair racer from Stockport,
Born a 1993 kid on the 6th day of January,
Who has serious nerve damage to report,
Which affects him neurologically, physically.
He went to Brine Leas School in Nantwich,
Which sits in Cheshire in good old England,
He studied at S Cheshire College to hitch,
But took to athletes after the London hand.
In 2014 he competed in the IPC Grand Prix,
In Switzerland, sprint and middle distance,
But in Rio he secured a bronze very elegantly,
For the 100m, a PB in the short time of 17.96.
Along with two of his team mates and fellows,
Dan Bramall and Carly Tait, Andy received,
A grant to buy a new wheelchair - perfectos,
From the Manchester Airport fund, relieved.
Richard Hoskins, head coach in Andy’s club,
Said “The purchase of the racing wheelchair
enabled…members to train intensely [hub],
…in the lead up to various competitions,” [fare].
Violets dance next to path that needs weeding
Fuchsia flox in hot pink is grown there from seedling
My red brick pathway needs plenty of attention
Purple lilac tree practically too beautiful to mention.
Steps lead up to my three bushes, Rose of Sharon.
The mums are all dried up, not loved by me, Caren.
Sunny yellow daffodils along my garden gate
And a pink tulip tree that is truly first rate.
The scent of lilacs is overwhelming,
A movie crew should actually be filming.
Along the edge are verdant soldier ferns
Prancing next to my crimson tulips, taking tiny turns.
I love my yard from beginning to end.
I feel so proud when I bring home a friend.
A place where raccoons come to spend the night.
Attract deer too with their hooves so light.
I cannot say enough about my back yard.
I have worked diligently, planting extra hard.
The sun and God have done their fair share too.
It is a paradise for me, and the rabbits too.
Let me tell you about my fear . . .
I keep having the same horrible, fearful dream each night-
It is snowing and I am driving my old car;
and I have miles to go,
when my car slides and crashes . . .
I see a house not far, dim against the sky,
reaching it, I knock on the door then I open it;
it is pitch black inside and seems to be abandoned,
(I groan in my sleep) . . .
Ahead are stairs that lead up,
at the top are dark hallways;
with faded wallpaper and no windows but doors,
and each door I try opening- is locked;
(were there not windows on the outside?)
I am scared of the darkness and quiet,
soon, I am lost in a maze of dark hallways.
Running down halls that go nowhere- each a dead end;
no door opens, and the hallways just go on and on . . .
I am lost in this house,
and I am so tired- tired;
I fall on a dirty, threadbare rug and I sleep,
waking in the morn' in my bed with the lights on.
_____________________
September 16, 2017
Narrative/PHOBIA: Fear Of Old Houses
Copyright Protected, ID 940165
Written for the contest, Fear II
sponsor, Debbie Guzzi
Sixth Place
Behind caution tape, I stand in the shade
watching a wrecking ball, tethered to sway
And soon with a gasp from the crowd standing by
A piece of the past is ready to die
I am seeing a lifetime, as it falls to the ground
the old tenement house, on Avery Street
For years it was home, to folks across town
Rarely do people now straddle it's shores
Where the root-buckled sidewalks lead up to the doors
And feet skipped over the cracks, with swift daily chores
All the chalked hopscotch lines have since washed away
along with laughter and the gold of the day
Summertime colors have withered and fled
Into bruised, battered bricks, of memories bled
Now, forsaken, this dethroned queen
With broken limbs and shattered eyes
of shards of glass, and broken lives
Still haunt the northwest wing
Thick layers of dust, cover the limpid leaves
of an old silk rose, within a vase
and reminds the gloom of dime store trips
when the passing lives, that used to be
were alive with simple certainty
A curtain, torn, hangs by a thread
and shivers, laced within the wind
A haven, built, of brick and clay
Defaced, disgraced, red-brick decay
Each story told, each life it held
Now crumbles with each stone, once laid
There were some who still remember, well
The ones who lived above the rim
By whom you could set the clock
By footsteps walked on wooden stairs
Who made this place a home
Now far away, the gossips say
"Their health had failed, such hell to pay
For now it seems to live each day
Someone has to tell them...
When to eat, when to dress and when to bathe"
People had watched them come and go
It was always with hand in hand...
Their music was heard between the cracks
Mozart, Bach, Glenn Miller bands
They had lived here forty years or more
Or so the legend goes....
No one really knows for sure, but know it was for years...
But now a flower in a vase
Is covered dust to dust
The lights turned off, no sigh, no trace...
with windows black, and lyrics lost
The wave that came, went back to sea
Like the hopes that fade away
Tomorrow's dreams have come and gone
to leave a winter's song
And is the only thing that holds the years
From waning into none....
___________________________________
The leaden pulse of her heart seems to suppress mine
In the quiet times when we had no words to share
Just the beating of our hearts
Those magical moments no one but us shared
It is like she knew it was time
She wanted to be sure
We would be okay before she left
Because in all the days that lead up to “that day”
The words: “I am tired” was her refrain.
My heart at times are torn
But I can deal with that
It’s better than seeing her
In a space of constant pain
Where nothing I could do;
Would ease or take it away
So yes I am sad at times
My poetry reflects that
But I am more blessed
Because of those magical moments we could share
Dedicated to my mom, Magda Neels... miss you
A man whose eyes seem distant and cold
takes me on a journey through history
with thoughts of wonder and interest
leaving me with more questions than answers
about his life, his dreams
there's a profound sadness in his picture
and a sense of pride
he's dressed in his Civil War uniform
from the Massachusetts 13th infantry
standing in front of a cabin with a porch
and a couple of rocking chairs
off to his right is a well with its bucket
a hound dog lays at his feet
stones in the ground placed like a sidewalk
lead up to his boots
below the picture sits a creaky old rocking chair
where I sit to rock back and forth
while thinking about my great-grandfather
who survived Gettysburg, Antietam, Fredericksburg
and other battles is why I am here
My mother thinks I'm a doctor
I just don't have the guts
To tell her I spent all my college doe
On beer, wine, women and such
So after I faked my graduation
Said I was moving to the South
To help the less fortunate among us
Another lie I let slip out
I'm now in the south of Florida
Where some may call me a bum
Living in a citrus grove along the coast
Not answering to anyone
It's really not such a bad life
This do nothing life I've made
I hear my Moms proud of me at afternoon tea
Telling the girls of all the lives I save
I do my share of dumpster diving
That's where I got the idea
Behind a real doctors office one day
With some of their stationary I nabbed
I did a little doctoring
After all I do play one in Moms mind
Doesn't look to lame where I inserted my name
Then wrote my Mom about the kids and the wife
I've created such an elaborate charade
It's now gotten all out of hand
As I panhandle my way up and down
The Sunshine states surf and sand
Mom now says she wants to visit
Can't wait to meet the wife and kids
Don't know how I let it get this crazy
And how it all lead up to this
Now I'm scrambling to find a vacant house and a woman
With a couple of kids that look just like me
That can go along with a ruse for a week in mid-June
Since I told her that's when I'd be free
I'm thinking I should of studied in college
Instead of being this mind numbing huckster
Telling lie after deepening lie
Just so my Mother would think I'm a doctor