Long Leaded Poems
Long Leaded Poems. Below are the most popular long Leaded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Leaded poems by poem length and keyword.
the old days were really good
going through your neighborhood
leaving doors unlocked for neighbors
to walk through if they need favors
or to visit for some fun
when did this whole world become
so scary and out of sync
people need to stop and think
about the way we are living
and realize we should be giving
more love, joy and peace to others
we used to be sisters and brothers
helping out whenever needed
please tell me whatever leaded
to the downfall of these gestures
that were like miracle fixtures
if someone was out and down
a helping hand just came around
to pick you up and hold onto
making sure to see you through
the tough times that made you fall
now there are just hateful walls
being built for us to see
this can't be our destiny
When the parents are gone,
the kids survive by heeding advice and carry on
their wishes by honoring their true intent;
flowers sprout and then bloom,
never living their fragile, little ones to a fateful gloom...
as sunshine nurtures them!
Glimpses may not give us a full image,
but they can reveal their glossary of life and death,
and it depends on us how to put it
into a consequent sentence and give meaning to it;
our parents raised us up to a certain standard,
hoping we'd pick up the slack where they left off!
And will we be elated by parental pride,
by doing all things that are beautiful and honorable...
great things that endow us with exuberance and fortitude,
to conquer every boundary and win every battle?
History can take us there, showing us the ones who fearlessly dared:
Moses who bashed rebellion and Jesus who lashed the whip!
Many will stumbled on life's deception,
others will cautiously follow its trail to wisdom,
to find themselves acclaimed by glory
and flourishing in their endeavors: they will find immortality;
and if anyone was deceived by the notion...
that nothing outlasts us, they are completely wrong!
There's no greater joy than remembering
how our parents leaded a religious life without a spot,
believing that obedience was a reward for longevity; and was
God ever put out of their thoughts...not fortifying
their spirits and making them stand on a solid rock?
Foolish persons shouldn't be pitied for their self-inflicted wounds!
The kids can survive by heeding advice, unfraidly facing their challenges,
alleviating their fears with the words that they received from the elders:
walking on a straight path, avoiding danger and harm, to live a golden youth
and a longer life...when most youngsters lose these to drugs and lust;
and with no gray hair on their heads and no stories to tell their granchildren,
who are the victorious ones that should declare thier well-merited crown?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
the old days were really good
going through your neighborhood
leaving doors unlocked for neighbors
to walk through if they need favors
or to visit for some fun
when did this whole world become
so scary and out of sync
people need to stop and think
about the way we are living
and realize we should be giving
more love, joy and peace to others
we used to be sisters and brothers
helping out whenever needed
please tell me whatever leaded
to the downfall of these gestures
that were like miracle fixtures
if someone was out and down
a helping hand just came around
to pick you up and hold onto
making sure to see you through
the tough times that made you fall
now there are just hateful walls
being built for us to see
this can't be our destiny
With pitchforks and torches they rode through the night,
their goal was Milton Creek, by dawns early light.
A surprise attack was what they had foreseen,
led by the infamous, lollipop queen.
With a group of ringed men, she’d deceived and collected,
they rode for the jail, for the first one she’d infected.
In shackles and chains, her best awaited his trial,
I can’t say his name, so we’ll just call him Kyle.
Old Kyle was arraigned for a snake oil ruse,
he claimed to sell medicine but was just peddling booze.
They stopped just out of town by farmer Bill’s pig pen,
where they all shared a lollipop, and a *Cornish game hen*.
Rested and fed, they all headed for town,
their plan was to free Kyle and turn his frown upside down.
There were many new graves that we helped Mayor Tom to dig,
we could smell them all coming, they were pungent like a pig.
Little did they know how Milton Creek was protected,
we watched each other’s back, and our defense was perfected.
David and Terry, were perched on the roof of the jail,
I stood right out front with my leaded cocktail.
Tania and Jan were on the top of the saloon,
Milton was keeping watch, as he played a catchy tune.
Deb was on the ground, locked and loaded,
Lin had Jenna’s Winchester and some dynamite to be exploded.
*a Cornish game hen is produced from a cross between the Cornish and white Plymouth rock chicken breeds, it is served young and immature weighing no more than two pounds*
My only i love
only one I love.
You are my path.
You are my destination.
Without you, no me.
That is why I seek you, tillseen you.
That is why I followed you over the sea.
That is why I crossed sea by swimming.
And never afraid anything in the sea.
And I never afraid death.
I asked myself that who am I?
I never got true.
Then I asked everyone in this world,
But no one leaded me to the true direction.
That is why I never gave up looking for you.
As I know that you are my true way.
Nothing can scare me to come where you are.
No place can be far to reach where you are.
I can even follow you in the hell.
You are my life and strength as well
poem by munyai ndidzulafhi patric
the causes i have lost
ever think the clouds
are hiding something
unfelt from birth
bounced around by atoms
grounded to beneath the ground
down
beaten like a beg
with no
rested pecs
Hero to nuns
ashamed suns
ending just befor
be
gin in a gin ring
unnoticedly unnotice a
bubble
dying from time
denying the seconds
out
round 2
this er keeps getting up
how
looking right threw me
with a listing lisping lips lubricate lusciously less
than naught
no's brought
the anti existent uneffisent to
cause a fuss
Spitting pity like leaded aero plain
as the knows on your face
ends of the human
race you to the bottom
Stop dare any God
stop my wor
nope no takers
ok demons djinns
here my jutting chin
Nope no one
you belittle me humanity
devolving so i dont belong
hope nature kills you
well thats your natural
state the truth
no fear for me
i dont believe the
now i put the instead of thee
what does the mean how many
dont know the meaning of simple words
watching love sold on revolving
on a crystal shelf
marked priceless
for all to bid on
and on this poem goes
but listen how the lines doth flow
almost hear the whispered wishes of a wave
forever breaking
a storms applause
or throw money
The house came with ghosts.
Not the subtle kind, either—no
wistful sighs or cool drafts,
just full-blown poltergeist tantrums.
Cabinets slamming at 2 a.m.,
spectral remnants of old arguments
rattling the windows, the smell
of burnt toast no matter
how thoroughly they scrubbed.
Still, the buyer had insisted,
"It’s got good bones."
And it was true: the skeletons
were stable in their stasis.
Antique mahogany banisters
curved like ribcages cradling
the heart of the house. Windows
leaded with panes' frames
mettle enough to turn an afternoon
light into prayers. A fireplace
cozy enough to roast the marrow
of an ox into paralysis without
its animal sense even noticing.
But bones have a way of remembering.
She hadn’t counted on the ruinous
creaks of staircases groaning
as if mourning her descent into ruts.
Nor the basement walls whispering
stock tips from the 1920s—sell
steel; buy radium.
She certainly hadn’t considered
the attic, where—let’s just say
she never liked Victorian dolls,
and now she likes them even less.
Why buy? Why outbid?
Pride, mostly. The rollercoaster
of the auction, the plummet
into calamity sweetened by
elbowing the slick realtor
with his laminated grin. The thrill
of the gavel’s fall, the weight
of a binding contract. She didn’t care
about the dangers of yellow wallpaper
or the weeds growing through the parlor floor.
She didn’t even really need shelter.
But sometimes the juiciest deals
aren’t made with forethought,
only with hunger.
And what’s the value of hunger
without a little haunting to shatter
your comfortable sense of status?
Warm yellow stone bricks, a palace to the viewer
Columns and facades in swirling and dazzling designs
Classical architecture, intricate carvings on the front door
A treasure, an exotic fantasy, a dream . . .
Ornate chandeliers of leaded glass crystal
Sparkling fabulously and twinkling in a ballroom
Used for countless costume balls with orchestra's, surely
Some said it was haunted . . .
It stood vacant and alone for years
Gone to waste and ruin and tumbling down
Leaves blowing in under it's ornate front door
A beautiful home forgotten . . .
Walking by, I see a sign "to be demolished. . "
For some reason that made me sad and lonely
What of the families that once lived there, I wonder
For sure they are long dead . . .
___________________________
September 6, 2012
Poetry/Verse/A Home Forgotten
Copyright Protected, ID 09-418-875-06
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Writing Contest: A Home
sponsor, Len Gasun, Judged 05/28/2013
Sixth Place
Mementos Gathering Dust
Small pottery animals and a bowl, a glass etching of a unicorn in a leaded frame and silver chain, drawings of cartoons. Mementos of my sons sit on shelves or hang on my walls gathering dust.
Now my grandchildren’s drawings and love letters hang on the refrigerator or my walls.
Drawings, love letters, letters from my sons when they were at war and so many more little mementos in a box gathering dust, treasures that were given from the heart.
Reminiscence on
bits and pieces life keeping
mundane treasures- trove
2/27/2015
Contest Name: GATHERING DUST
Sponsor: John lawless
The old manor had red stone bricks covered in climbing vines,
and columns and facades in dazzling swirls;
it was classical architecture with intricate lines,
a treasure in the middle of no where, I pondered touching my pearls;
I knocked on the door, so scared my straight hair curls.
It slowly opens, creaking on rusty hinges- and I step inside,
seeing grand chandeliers of leaded glass crystal lights;
sparkling and shimmering, they had been on, right? I lied,
portraits watched me as I walked around looking at the sights;
for sure those portraits were of the long dead- hello, I loudly cried.
Was this place vacant, maybe even haunted, this I could not ignore,
gone to waste and ruin, with no one living here any more;
for leaves had blown in under the ornate front door.
I had seen a sign "Rooms For Rent" nailed to a tree,
just before my car had crashed into a ditch;
driving through the rain had been a big mistake I now see,
but, I needed shelter for day had turned to pitch;
dark and as I walked the road I hoped they had tea.
Now, I stood dripping wet in this room from the past,
hello, I whispered and jumped when a male voice spoke;
from behind me- the man was old with eyes vast;
we have been waiting he said, let me show you to a room, his voice a choke,
it was a horrible night of weeping and creaking and I could not last.
I run down the road from that house- forevermore, forevermore . . .
_________________________
January 6, 2019
Poetry/Rhyme/The Manor House
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1101-590-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, 'One Night In a Haunted Manor'
sponsor, Tania Kitchin
Fifth Place