Long Load Poems
Long Load Poems. Below are the most popular long Load by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Load poems by poem length and keyword.
They spoke in a singular language
A language none but they could know
She with the moonlight in her eye
He with the hush of fallen snow
They moved with a slow beginning
By the light of the rising moon
In the night on the white of the snow
To the sound of an ancient tune
They hummed alone – And they carried
About themselves a certain weight
That some might possibly dismiss
As being neither small nor great
And yet to them, these two, on the move
With unstated purpose pressing
Upon their steps, each weary step
A symbol of their load un-lessened
Bore witness to their anxious plight –
And wherefore did they travel, and what from
That required they steal silently
Across the tundra on the run?
Was it a secret they alone
Could share, and with none other
But the moon and the shifting snow
And the misty night for cover?
Of this they spoke in muted silence
In a language only they could know
She with the moonlight in her eye
He with the hush of fallen snow
Moving.
She packs away her memories and smiles as she recalls
The images of happy times that once hung upon her walls
Looks at all the packing crates, neatly labelled and filled.
Takes one last glance at her photos, before the box is sealed.
The big day has arrived, and removers start to load
She checks the house just one last time, before she hits the road
Bids goodbye to the home she loved, now empty, cold, and clear
She’s looking forward to the future yet still sheds a little tear.
The front door closes one last time as she gives a cheery wave
Her friends all wish her well, and ask if she’s okay
They say, “don’t be a stranger” and promise to stay in touch
Encouraged by their best wishes, which always mean so much.
Amongst a sea of packing crates, she finally has some time
Searches for some glasses and opens a bottle of wine.
Dreaming of what lies ahead, she thinks of friends and fun
One chapter may have ended, but a new one’s just begun.
Once there was a TALL tale
of a young "bluesman" who didn't play very well
Robert was his name
and playing the "Blues" was his game
Hazel Hurst, Mississippi is where he is from
A legend, one day he would soon become
But meanwhile, he would play and sing tirelessly throughout the day and night
The juke joint was his home and his aim was to get his music right
But despite his efforts, his music was not well received
Some said he was too young, others said he just couldn't play, but either way, this made his heart bleed
But he continued as he tried and tried and even cried
Albeit dismayed, he continued to play and bide and bide
And then one day he decided to just disappear
Poof! Gone just like that into obscurity for about a year
To the "Crossroads"
To get light away from his abode
To the "Crossroads"
To discard a heavy load
Yes! To the "Crossroads"
To receive the big goad
Stripped down, naked and vulnerable
Getting downright uncomfortable to get comfortable
He left with six and returned with seven
Many said he cheated and others said it was a gift from heaven
Many still speculate about Robert and the "crossroads."
How could he disappear and return 'great' with musical gifts stowed?
Of all the little boys and girls
For whom you travel ‘cross the world
I’m certain I’m the best.
I didn’t shout, I never pout
Behaved myself, there is no doubt
I passed your every test.
Just check your list, now look and see
I’m certain that you will agree
I’ve done all that I should.
I’ve mended all my little flaws
So, come on, Mister Santa Claus,
You know that I’ve been good!
Santa Claus! Won’t you bring me toys
And all those things that I enjoy
I know you hear me, don’t be coy
It should be understood.
Santa Claus! I‘ve done all you said
Now sugarplums dance in my head
Oh, Santa please load up your sled
You know that I’ve been good!
Of all the little girls and boys
Whom you’ll be bringing Christmas toys
I deserve the most.
I didn’t cry, and this is why:
To keep that twinkle in your eye.
Now I don’t mean to boast.
You’ve watched me sleeping and awake
So you should know, for goodness sake,
I’ve done all that I could.
Now, I’ll admit that you’re the boss
But come on, Mister Santa Claus,
You know I’ve been good!
Santa Claus! Look and you will see
And then I'm sure you will agree.
I'm begging you on bended knee
O Saint of Childhood!
Santa Claus! I‘ve been unsurpassed
In doing all that you have asked.
Now the time has come at last!
You know that I’ve been good!
The way, in which I lived, so shall I die?
The sea salt washes up against rocks
and bleach the stones white
Like a genuine pearly stone. That when I knew
Someone was mourning a death.
The party was going strong
The doorbell rang. In that moment
Everything changes.
Speak low, lean low
Turn down the tempo
A sudden death; another wealthy mortal man
Took his last breathe.
Did he pass the test?
Bending over and sniffing the coke
By the mountain load;
Cocaine scattered all over the desk. Money burnt
How you lived, so shall you die?
Why cry. That was your life.
He became the cocaine and
His mind became retarded
The salty breeze massages my scalp
As they soul jump into to the sea
longing to be cleanses
Speaking low, leaning low their noses
Are on fire: another lost soul
Bolivian marching powder
Drip, drip drops of blood
Vanish out to sea.
a different kind of philosophy
The Devil philosophy
“Tired I am, ”
You told me the other day my friend,
“for many good deeds have I been doing for so long
but
recognition for my contribution I haven’t received
any. Why?”
Here is my reply, to you gentle friend of mine,
Written with the tenderness your kind heart has come
So very well to know,
Tell me:
Does the sun care to be appreciated for the affection it
Embraces the earth
Or
For the caresses, its rays so abundantly dispense to
Each mountaintop?
Does the cloud request a reward for the load it carries
In its bosom
Or
For the drops of rain that so kindly bestows onto the
Arid ground?
Does the earth seek payment from the seed when into
Its soil is planted
Or
For the fruits, the trees so bigheartedly distribute, rebellious
Stomachs to appease?
Does the bee demand compensation for pollinating
The flowers
Or
For producing its divine honey that even the immortals so
Much enjoy?
Does the wind ever insist on any fee when through the
Leaves whispers
Or
For when the murmur of brooks and the melody of singing birds
Transmit?
Shouldn’t we, my loving friend, be inspired by nature’s unselfish
Examples
And
Share our soul’s wealth, expecting nothing in return, from our
Fellow humans?
And finally
Is there anything we could ever think, that is nobler and holier than
Doing our Lord’s will?
If there isn't,
Then
Don't you ever complain, my friend, because good deeds are never wasted
Since
They are always noticed by the watchful eye of our heavenly father, who
Is delighted to see you contribute to the maintenance of his creation!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
09 July 2021
Enter Poet, clutching a sonnet: ‘The checker says I’m guilty. See, it flagged my rhyme as machine!!’
Podcaster nods sagely: ‘It is not your imagination; it is proof the robots haunt our dreams.’
Audience gasps: 'That’s NOTHing. SHAKEspeare ALso ONCE acCUSED – / preDICTable Iambs, GROSS susPIcious RUSE!'
Poet protests: ‘I swear it’s quill and ink, not silicon and code …’
Checker blinks, statistical gears grinding: ‘Patterns resemble algorithmic load.’
While phubbing, critic whispers: ‘False positives thrive where meter marches tight.’
Podcaster grins: ’Ignorance sells—truth is dull, paranoia bites.’
Poet sighs: ‘Convenient shield, this oracle of error—‘
Exasperated, Curtain falls: ‘Disinformation thrives when denial meets terror.’
From the wings, Thomas Gray’s quietly haunting voice: ‘Where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise.’*
______________________________________________________________________________________________
*From the final stanza of Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College, by Thomas Gray (1716–71).
While I was stumbling through the garden,
on one drunken night this last week past.
I came upon a shimmering path,
that I didn’t see when I was there last.
Just where it would lead, I wasn’t quite sure,
but I heard music adrift the wind.
So I stepped upon its golden stones,
and I followed it around the bend.
There before an archway stood Jesus,
feeling ashamed, I dropped to my knee.
He told me to stand and walk with him,
for he had some words to say to me.
He said son, your day is nearly done,
Heed these words, before it finds the end.
The only way to get to heaven,
is for you to repent all your sins.
Do away with your pain and anger,
all the hatred for your fellow men.
For each one of them is your brother,
no matter the color of their skin.
If you would not judge another man,
just by the circumstance of his birth.
But let the goodness that he shows you,
be the truest measure of his worth.
If you would only take the time to,
listen to the heart that beats inside.
Because it can tell us right from wrong,
and the difference in truth and lies.
God can still the darkest of waters,
and lift you over the highest wall.
Hold you steady if you might stumble,
he’ll pick you back up if you should fall.
He can show you the way to heaven,
and remove the bourdons of your load.
He will give you the direction signs,
it is up to you to walk the road.
I awoke sitting on the park bench,
I’d fallen asleep so it would seem.
I left there and went straight to the bar,
and I drank away that crazy dream.
Let’s go on the mother load road trip across continents skip
Even the hip can’t snip or pip the lip fillip of each sip or dip
A sybaritic not a critic’s tour to explore why more is more
Streets of beats galore & locavore treats an epicurean drip
In the Argentine bravado larder of course the empanada
From their mercado source with fine wine could try harder
Top of the poll Asado's charcoal soul to the song of cicada
Austrian fold in the past caught for foodies some sort of sport
They’ve fought over which Sacher torte does bewitch hold court
Or flattered the dish that mattered plattered crumbed & battered
Viennese wheeze a subpoena tease for a leaner schnitzel wiener
Lazing ease & grazing please on amazing spice isles in pyjamas
Laid back smiles made crack conch rice & peas in the Bahamas
Don’t give a damn about Claude Van Dam give me real mussels
Garlic specked not muscle flecked fraud whenever in Brussels
Snaffle waffles abroad should be crisp gooey as Belgians know
Elite frites oh and their stonker bonkers Wonka flair cocoa show
Brazil’s fill me to the gills thrill is still & always will be Feijoada
Even those in a posh off roader chose this nosh meat's Pagoda
Top of the steeple of food of the people a homegrown Skoda
Adore for any course a tour de Force encore honed toned Yoda
Canadian hardy foie gras machine a mardi gras that’s Arcadian
In the stirrup chirrup quaffing absurd maple syrup is Palladian
Nerds with their curds scoffing mean poutine almost Circadian
For rookies ducks pluck shells shuck bones suck cookies for luck
Opiner cuisine not in history stuck a mean memory mystery miner
Hymn of whim cough overcome by swim in broth Szechuan numb
Yummy unctuous darlings scrumptious diddly umptious dim sum
Ho hum no scrum finer all day diner always did come from China
A Jar of Summer
Snow lies thick on the yard
Outside my window.
I lift the jar from the shelf
And carry it to my breakfast table.
Sunlight glows purple through the glass.
I pry open the lid.
And the winey aroma
Fills my soul with summer.
I see the grass by the fence.
The air is heavy with
The musky smell of wild grapes
That hang in beckoning clusters
From vines among the trees.
I clamber over the fence,
My hip complaining
About that last leg over!
I scramble among the grasses -
Never mind the thorny creepers
Clutching at my legs and clothes -
And load my bag with purple jewels.
The jam kettle waits,
And I hurry home to fill
The neighborhood with the
Thick, sweet aroma of cooking grapes.
This little jar of jam I open
At my winter breakfast table
Holds all the memories of summer.
I close my eyes and let
The tart-sweet taste
Fill my all my senses with
The sun and smells and tastes
Of summer past and summers yet to come.