Long Limped Poems
Long Limped Poems. Below are the most popular long Limped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Limped poems by poem length and keyword.
they build themselves now
out of mirrors.
chrome-spined apostles
with teeth whitened
like cemetery gates.
they speak in blue-lit sermons,
thumbs flickering over glass,
manufacturing love
the way factories once made bullets.
every photograph
another prayer to themselves.
they call it branding.
I call it standing naked
in the middle of a freeway
begging strangers
to describe your soul.
the old drunks at least
had honesty.
they knew the bottle
was a bottle.
these new saints
sip themselves instead—
small poisoned doses
every hour
until the face in the screen
becomes more real
than the one rotting quietly
behind the eyes.
and God help you
if you stop watching yourself.
because silence
is the one room
they cannot redecorate.
I saw a girl crying once
while taking photographs
of herself crying.
that was it.
the whole century
balanced perfectly
inside one human moment.
outside,
a dog limped through rain
without an audience,
without applause,
without needing
to become
a monument to itself.
to its own suffering.
the dog
was holier than all of us.
The horn blew as the wind picked the same moment
The note carried over the field and picking up speed
All memories of him drifted away as the bugle went silent
But she remained until the last rose
Later she would remember his last words
He had told her he would never forget her
And like the last star that goes where stars go
She went there as well
She went to that last rose and was comforted
She could feel his hands
She could smell his scent
And she saw the uniform and the horn
They met when he returned from the war and he had limped
He limped with warmth and with no complaint
They had one son but he did one too many bags
He carried his bags up his arm
And there was no bugle or wind
But there were roses and tears
They got through it with love and his limp
They sat on the porch rocking and remembered
Until his limp grew slower and the horn played
But the rose ...............
- Readers, I hope you forgive me.
I’m retracting some words I once said:
I'd planned to write just five of these tales
But I've added a sixth tale instead..
Night
The preacher was searching for Duchess
Also known as 'The Tabard Inn Cat'.
Scared by the storm she'd run out of the inn
And knocked over his drink where he sat.
That event brought an end to his chess game:
The first he had played in a while.
His worthy opponent who sipped water had said
That his comforting words made her smile.
The preacher had stood from the table.
Looking scared and somewhat distraught.
He felt for some reason there was trouble ahead
And proclaimed that the cat should be caught.
He'd opened the door of The Tabard
And was met by the sound of the rain.
A sailor pushed past him and into the bar
As the preacher limped off down the lane.
Later That Night
The last person to see him still breathing
Was sadly not sober at all.
A 'top-hatted' man who was heading for home
Thought he saw someone scaling a wall.
He swore that he saw something smiling
And eyes that stared back and looked weird.
It was all very dark and his mind wasn't right
Then the shadows he saw disappeared.
The Morning After
The preacher was found dead the next morning
He had fallen it seemed from a height.
Whispers and rumours were swirling around
Like the wind from that wet stormy night:
- "He had feelings for a woman who's taken.."
- "Their love was just dead on the shelf!"
- "He was burdened by guilt with his faith and all that"
- "That cat was the devil itself!"
Later That Week
A sermon revealed at his service
(That the whole town had turned out to see)
That the preacher was an animal lover
And had suffered with PTSD.
You see he was once a brave soldier
But lost hate when he lost his right leg.
He left to preach love and bring all things together:
..He was truly an all-round good egg.
THE MAGIC OF OUTDOORS
he moved slow, with a limp
his cane grinding
in the dirt, grating on the pavement
his hat always prompt on his head
as he headed into the cold dark wind
then it swirled
the magic
a trick up his sleeve
pulled out some cards
laid them down
they were aces
a smile seasoned through the clouds
of old age and doubt
he tipped his hat at some pretty lady
and then twirled his hat on one finger
as his feet forgot to nap
the crowd looked down
as his toes began tapping
within his shiny shoes
he swayed side to side
as a song played in his head
and blasted out from the recoiled headphones
of a stunned teenager
an old timey ritz
his cane became his instructional instrument
poised between his hands
this song and dance man
charmed the lackadaisical crowd
mesmerized...surprised
held captive in pied piper effect
a light rain drizzled
his effervescent energy drizzled
his cane poked the puddles
as he headed home
his wife exclaimed
as he limped through the door
a smile on lips
and a radiant face,
“Oh my those walks sure do you good”
“Join me one day, my dear! We should make a great team”
9/30/2017
Killing Time
Are you okay?
You don’t look okay!
It’s okay,
If you’re not okay.
Look up in wonder.
What matters most?
If it’s real, then I’ll stay.
Beyond a brief moment.
I want to help you live again.
But if not, I don’t mind dying
With you. Say something?
Becomes a new way,
To keep going.
And another day;
We’ll be together.
Had I known sooner.
What’s with good intentions?
I’ve lost my front door key.
Now you have the other key.
What to leave.
Look, I got morning dew,
On my shoes.
These new shoes now glitter.
With a sparkling, wet, fresh
Tidy-view hopped off my
Scooter, fast and free.
After turning a sudden, sharp,
Degree. Yesterday I took a fall.
Stumbling, scraped, and likely,
Yet I limped back home.
A little blue.
To make dinner just for you.
“Where the Suburbs Meet the Sea”
I walked again where I began,
past fences worn, where gum trees ran—
but now the tide had kissed the land,
and waves rolled in like time unplanned.
The house was there, but changed in tone,
a quiet shell, yet not alone.
The breeze had salt, the air was still,
the sea had climbed the outer hill.
And there they were—my loyal kin,
tails low, eyes soft, worn thin within.
They didn’t bark, they didn’t run,
just looked at me, like “What’s begun?”
One limped with iron in her paw,
a bolt where nature used to draw.
Not cruel, just… wrong, as if the past
was patched too quick, too hard, too fast.
I knelt and cried—I didn’t speak.
The pain was old, the silence deep.
I whispered love into the air,
and felt the stillness start to care.
No fixing now, no need to mend—
just sit beside what doesn’t bend.
To hold the ache, to stroke the fear,
and say, “I see you. I am here.”
They faded then into the blue,
not lost, but freed—returned, renewed.
And in their place, a softer me,
stood where the suburbs met the sea.
Lev
Bumped into a friend
just yesterday
I was driving my car
and she got in the way
She said nothing was broken
the impact was minor
Mostly bruises and cuts
and a pretty good shiner
I took her to breakfast
and told her a joke
She was laughing so hard
she started to choke
I gave her the Heimlich
and then she was fine
While everyone cheered
we continued to dine
I finished my eggs
plus her corned beef hash
She picked up the check
since I don't carry cash
Then we took a ride
when I got a flat
She changed the tire
while watching, I sat
We went to the park
to her favorite thing
where she asked me to push
while she rode on the swing
But careless was she
as she went too high
and flew off the seat
up into the sky
And then she came down
right onto a bush
full of prickly thorns
straight into her tush
To the hospital entrance
I gave her a lift
and away from my car
she limped fairly swift
But before that she said
(if you'll pardon these rhymes)
"Whenever we meet
it's just like old times"
Mike Wise
10-21-19
in this world of the limped nuptial
i’ve appeared as a power-missile of the lac-dye
that is used by the hindu women
to paint the border of their feet
the tooth-ache of some-one pumpkin
that grows on the thatched roof of a hut
has wringed spirally
my mythological birth with corporate death
managing and arranging my thoughts
on what I was in the past
what I would be in the future
or what is my dos at present
the wonder-paintings of the altamira cave
unfolds its wings beside my painful in-growing nail
and in her own sky of miss marry
my hands become so much condensed in every drops
as if within that moping smog
without any speech
speaks the twinkle twinkle little star…
beside that labour pain what awakes then
is the patronage of a one-horned idea
along which while walking without much preparation
i can enter into any e-mail
though our love pulls a very long-face about itself
and in the opinion of the married women
the sigh of the sin ? of our love wants to cultivate
mustered-seeds on the soil of the inhabitants
of this human-life
with a stick by which the monkeys are driven out
what more can i say in lieu of
a piece of red-salute written in green ink
if i say in the dawn of the 52-cards
i touch your face
by the hands of a school-boy
your calmness and earthly perfume
make me stunned
then in this field of sweat and war
the explosion of logic and intellect
of your top-floor
seems more famous anchor than the milk
that spilt over on the fire
and more to say
when daubing all over the body
all taste of the path of joy
enter into then fort of gold you can notice there
when in some unknown moment
my pajama dies socially
by the bite of the snails and oysters
to keep the heart of the break-kiln always move
this form-less interactions are so well
in the harvest-arrangement of the late-autumn
we are all uttering the name of cherry-flower
and begging shelter from the mango leaves
I have told this story, a long time ago in a different way.
Because its true I would like to tell it again today.
It’s a new poem, the story is old, so tell me what you think.
This time I relate it for a contest by Empress Ink.
It was Summer holidays. Six weeks time off from school,
Nothing much to do. Maybe beach or swim at home in the pool.
I applied for a job, packing Frisbees in a sheltered workshop.
The heat machine was too dangerous, and work had to stop.
The hot wire to cut the shrink-wrap might burn the disabled.
Four of us were hired for 6 weeks to use it, as “fit” we were labelled.
The regular workers considered us a novelty working there,
Some people as they passed, us would just stop and stare.
So many wonderful people all with disabilities they had,
There was a cheery atmosphere, and it didn’t make us feel sad.
The workers seemed to help each other and were kind and giving,
All doing a great job working in spite of difficulties, earning a living.
A young guy managed to ask me if I would sit with him for lunch.
I sat next to him at a big table with all the rest of the bunch,
Such sweet folk, all happy and bright,
Not one of them dwelling on their challenged plight.
He invited me but struggled with words, very hard to know what he said.
He had a very bad limp, and he continually nodded his head.
After that day he beckoned me to lunch with him every chance.
The boss said, “don’t worry He’s simple, his name is Lance,“
We all laughed and had fun those days when lunchtime would start.
Each one of their personalities went straight to my heart
On the last day, when we had finally wrapped the last frisbee,
We were saying goodbye, Lance limped up and gave a card to me.
It read, My sister wrote this for me. I wish you knew what I was like,
Because I wasn’t simple before that accident on my motorbike.
My eyes filled with tears, as I hugged him and simply walked away.
I still think of him, and all the rest of those featherless angels to this day.
Non Fiction.
The sinking sun left hurriedly from Bethlehem,
Leaving a dark chilly sky without any clouds
The town was overcrowded with many people,
The smell of sweat reeked every where, no place to wash.
Late at night two figures limped into town dead tired.
The woman felt the pain for birth was immanent.
The husband knocked door after door but all was full.
No one was sorry for them and preferred to sleep.
Swiftly a star appeared and shone on a stable.
The woman riding a donkey sought refuge there.
The old man scattered clean fresh straw for the maiden,
And whist the man sought food and drink, she birthed a child.
The breath of a cow and donkey kept the babe warm.
Angels led startled shepherds to adore the child
Hosanna, sang from above heavenly music.
He was the King of Kings. born to save all the world.
31 December 2021