Long Legs Poems
Long Legs Poems. Below are the most popular long Legs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Legs poems by poem length and keyword.
In the swaying middle of a dangerous voyage
To climes of far sunnier look and ripening age,
I often fight the doubts of a death-daring wreck;
Questioning the exact wisdom of my lonely trek.
Not that I midway could my courses amend,
Nor make room for ruings and ebbing hopes;
Or dreading harsher shores first wishes trim,
To cry in sync with sad martyrs' effete tropes.
Verily there’s a shadow where clear roads stood,
And tripping blocks where defter legs easily trod;
There slashing ogres their charging scrolls shout,
To put to rout the wearied walker's untiring mode.
Yes dispiriting detriment picked routes obscures,
With every unthinkable wall and slowing mounds;
Forcing fatigued legs into impromptuous detours,
Which bite with blighting pain and chilling sounds.
The labouring voyager shall move on in truth,
To the dream-born Idylls of his unshorn youth.
In the streets he roamed, a tiny black kitten,
With three paws, but four legs, his spirit unwritten.
Found by kiddos concerned, their hearts touched by fate,
They scooped him up gently, his rescue innate.
With eyes full of wonder, a soul pure and bright,
This little feline brought hope, like a guiding light.
A new home he found, amidst love and grace,
A family embraced him, his heart found its place.
Phoenix, they named him, a symbol reborn,
A testament of strength, through darkness he'd worn.
His ebony fur shimmered, like a midnight's delight,
His presence enchanting, a mystical sight.
His purrs filled the air, a soft lullaby,
As he curled up content, under starry sky.
His three paws didn't hinder, his playful endeavors,
He leapt with such grace, as if wings he'd discovered.
From lap to lap, he'd prance, a bundle of joy,
Bringing laughter and warmth, no sadness could destroy.
In this newfound haven, his spirit thrived,
He taught them to cherish, to truly feel alive.
And so, little Phoenix, the tiny black kitten,
With his mismatched limbs, he'd continue to brighten.
His journey, a tale, of resilience and love,
A reminder to rise, like the sun above.
Is there an artist inside each of us? Of this I have no doubt.
It’s just a matter of reaching down… and pulling that artist out….
“Mom…I have something to show you!” Christi said.
Her mom came right away
Christi handed her a piece of paper…”Look what I drew today!”
“Mrs. Smith said draw what we want so I drew a polar bear.”
Her mom intently studied the drawing…scanning it with care.
“Oh, Christi” Her mom said smiling. “I didn’t know how talented you were.
I can honestly say I’ve never seen a bear more beautiful than her.”
“Why she’s not just standing still…you have her moving too.
I love the way you’ve drawn her legs.
and how’d you make the water look so blue?”
“I’ve heard polar bears can be mean but you’ve made yours look nice.
and look how you used little bits of paper and made it look like ice!”
“I love the emotion in her face…why she looks hungry too
and look in the corner you signed you name just like artists do!!
“I can’t believe how beautiful this is…and you were its creator.”
and that picture found a cherished spot on their refrigerator.
Years went by…Christi grew up into a woman proud and tall
and visiting Mom one day she saw her picture framed upon the wall.
It immediately brought back a memory and with it a few tears
“Mom.” she said, “I can’t believe you’ve kept this all these years.”
“Of course I’ve kept it.” Mom smiled “Because I have no doubt…
the day you drew that polar bear
Is the day your artist first came out.”
An old Tramp wandered around locally
When I was young man in my early teens
I used to see him daily wandering around in a daze
Dressed in an old dirty jacket and well worn out jeans
But what made him so memorable, I still think about him to day
Was what was with him was a Badger on an old black lead
With its short legs and Weasel like black and white stripped head
On a seat near an old railway bridge they would often stop to feed
Eating any scraps they found checking out local litter bins
Whatever they found would be their meal of the day
Sometimes they would sit there till night time came
Then they get up and go on their merry way
Where they would spend the night nobody knows
But they were always up bright and early and out on their round
Always walking along cheerfully Cyril whistling a tune
But Bertie his Badger making nary a sound
Passer’s by would just nod and wish them good day
Walk by with smile and a look of surprise and an inquisitive look
Occasionally giving a few pennies as they went passing by
With Cyril and Bertie heading for the old brook
Where they could both par take a drink from the freshwater steam
Eat what morsels of food they to help them through the day
Sitting there silently admiring the view
Enjoying life in their own indomitable way
A more stranger couple it would be hard to find
But they never bothered anyone in their indomitable way
It was strange to see these two stalwarts of the road
One Human one Animal a strange combination to meet at any time of day
They got together on a dark late evening in December
Cyril wandering through the local woods on this winter’s night
Looking for shelter, just a place to lay his weary head,
When he heard this loud noise which gave him a fright
Investigating, he found Bertie caught in an old trap
He freed him immediately and used an old rag to bandage his wound
Then they spent the night together sheltering from the wind and the rain
From that time onward their relationship just bloomed
They have been together now for many a year
I see them quite often out and about on their walk
And always say hello with a smile and give Cyril a ten bob note
I wonder what Bertie would say if only he could talk
Chestnut curls
Bouncing in a six-year-old way
Long fat ones
May Day Maypole magic
Frocks of many colours
Lavenders, blues, with frothy stiff petticoats
Tall white socks to knees
Crisp against flesh legs
Shiny black patent leather shoes
Innocence in a faerie's mind
Each young maid wearing a garland of flowers, mostly daisies
Some violets, holding spring softly in their palms
First grade boys rolling their eyes,
Tired of their bow ties, thinking this all silly
Forced by their mothers and a strict nun of a teacher to participate.
Written: 4-28-2019
Contest: A Garland
Sponsor: Julia Ward
The Legend of Gusty Brown
This is the legend of Gusty Brown
And all the beans that he could down
He and his steed ate beans by the pail
Together they issued an odorous gale
A Wild West crack-shot of world renown
A pungent aroma would follow him ’round
He won all his duels against gunslinger foes
Who couldn't quick draw while holding their nose
Beans for breakfast, beans for lunch
Supper time? More beans to munch
And everybody wore a frown
When Gusty Brown came to town
But this fateful day, things went askew
He left the hotel without using the loo
His belly well swollen and legs crossed tight
He waddled outside for this latest gunfight
Now so afraid that his guts might burst
He couldn't hold on so he drew first
And then though he won, to the other man’s cost
The lawmen took Gusty to ‘Old Gallows Cross’
Beans for breakfast, beans for lunch
Supper time? More beans to munch
And everybody wore a frown
When Gusty Brown came to town
Legs crossed on the scaffold, he wasn't complaining
Gusty Brown grinned because soon he’d stop straining
The lever was pulled, he succumbed to the noose
His legs uncrossed, kicking, his bowels became loose
Beans for breakfast, beans for lunch
Supper time? More beans to munch
And the undertaker wore a frown
When Gusty Brown at last went down
Epilogue:
’neath sun lit skies and autumn mists
A ghostly odour yet persists
Though Gusty leaves no ghost of course
Just no one thought to shoot his horse
He could feel his breath bounce back from the door
How many nights he had turned the handle
The cool orange glow of their bedroom
She always smiled at him when he came in the room
But tonight his chest was ripping apart as he held the handle
It had been all over tv
13 I remembered thinking hope they catch him
Unlucky 13
Just the number scrawled in blood upon the bedroom
He took too deep a breath
Screaming inside please not her please
She can’t be..my mind refusing to say the word
The familiar click as I turned the handle
I notice a trickle of blood from behind our door
A gruff voice from downstairs Police call out
The voice in my head don’t go in
I had to know
Her perfect arms and legs serrated from her body
we’re placed in a pile
Her torso up right placed on top
Her head atop like some macabre pyramid
Her dead doll eyes filled with terror
looking at me
Screaming where were you
Why didn’t you save me
My legs buckled
Her cold blood seeping through the soft cotton of my trousers
I heard a scream looking around the room for its source
The shadowed mirror answering it is you
Her thin white legs are sweet.
She crouches down,
takes a small brush,
sweeps dirt off my partly exposed skull.
I am extinct, the way some pachyderms are
while others are not.
Ice fields turn to desert.
Wind-straws evolve into sun hats.
An archaeologist discovers.
I like her hands,
they cup and measure,
they feel the weight of dispersed things.
The flesh over her knees
gentles the earth. She spreads herself –
an eclipse of her.
She tugs my skull from the earth,
uncouples my emptiness.
An era passes an age.
I am a footprint in an Alzheimer’s ward,
yet I recall her fingers
how once they brought sight to my eye-sockets,
how she placed me under the green-vine
of her life, cared for my hollowness,
planted the scent of her youth in it.
Questions like:
who-what-where,
and how
do not arise.
The Lost Souls Saloon
The oil lamp was dimmed
as the light defined her face
and it made the room a fire
silhouetting our embrace
With her arms around my neck
and her legs around my waist
Her lips became more supple
while her eyes drew more debased
I was somewhere, caught between
A place called heaven, and one called hell
And somewhere in the distance
I heard an erie sounding bell
We rolled around the mattress
Like a thunder cloud in spring
Making love like no tomorrow
"Till I couldn't feel a thing
I was falling to perdition
In a never ending well
never to escape
Not, as far as I could tell
But I had to gain my senses
Had to stand up on my feet
Had to fight for my existence
Had to make for my retreat
Don't stray
Page 6 is on its way............Yeeehaww
I am sitting under the old oak old tree whose roots and branches have withstood the test of time. I am sitting under the old oak tree with hard woody roots descend in into the deep and spirally arranged leaves, with lobed edges, and a nut that looked like an acorn, borne within a cup, reminiscing the passion of time and the species that live through the ages is divided into old world and new world clades crossing legs between time and destiny.
Here I am sitting under the old oak tree watching the traffic moving swiftly in the street and impatient motorist honking their horns and the handyman across the road is cutting my neighbor bushy lawn, and singing a woeful ballad perhaps Mozart or lyrics composed by Beethoven and I am absorbing it all.
Here I am sitting under the old oak trees where endurance and strengths are born and the new age begins, it has spiral around its roots and melody in the trunks that speak the truth and ignite power in mind of the youth.
The power of ancient wisdom lives in the old oak tree with twisted elongated roots that turns across the stream and anchored deeply in the ground, and thick trunk parachuting in the air and glory springing up everywhere and new boots on a journey to the east take a rest underneath the old oak tree.
If you listen carefully to the roots, you will hear the voices of truth as they surround the pinnacle of your soul. The branches are spreading and the leaves are in harmony with the breeze everything you need is underneath the old oak tree.