Long Locales Poems
Long Locales Poems. Below are the most popular long Locales by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Locales poems by poem length and keyword.
Ada McDonald
1873-1906
This is a mistake!
A huge contretemps indeed!
A foul up of the most egregious kind!
You see, it wasn’t my time yet,
This death thing; I had things to do still.
I had places yet to visit I had never seen before.
I had strangers from distant locales to meet still,
I had a multitude of tomorrows yet,
or so I thought, having no doubt.
But now, here I am, dead as a doorstop,
At last with all the minions and the predecessors,
At last, all reconciled and made equal.
But you see, I was fine that day.
Thinking nothing tragic would happen to me.
Expecting another evening at home, with
Yet another morning to come, and waking up.
I tell you, I have been wronged!
This is the cruelest of mistakes!
Dear God almighty!
You took away my dream that day!
Robbed me of my perfumed interlude in the shadows,
It was all I ever wanted; just ten groping minutes,
Naked with my dream lover,
One Roscoe Settle, late of this citrus parish.
But the lights went out, instantly!
Inside my parents old house on North Pickering,
When my brain sprung a leak that day,
And I dropped dead at age 33.
A huge contretemps indeed!
A foul up of the most egregious kind!
One by one they left the nest
Daughters and sons
Their time at home done
Let the old man rest
They all started their lives
In brand-new locales
Called him once a week
Vowed to stay pals
But the calls became fewer
They had jobs and kids too
No time to reminisce
Their lives were exciting and new
He had his interests, they figured
His own circle of friends
So they forgot all about him
Blatantly -- didn't even pretend
To care that he missed them so much
That all he asked for was to just keep in touch
That he was pining away, becoming depressed
A forgotten man, no longer blessed...
So late in the evening of his final birthday
Sitting by the phone, to hope and to pray
He put a gun to his temple, for no one had called
This forgotten man, for whom was felt nothing at all
Misplaced peg squirms to fit locales unfamiliar
Illformed tumbleweed pauses then departs
Traits assessed on somewhere else's charts
Easily establishes enemies, little gypsy peculiar
Streets of secrecy, social strategy a stranger
Rolls from Rockdale, Rockingham, Rockhampton
Unaided operation sketches a champion
Bulging solo aptitude, high tolerance to danger
Drifting past family structures, clutches chances
Data disposed of overflows in memory shredder
Fresh beginnings fail friendships, bewilder her
New girl novel melts before meaningful advances
Perpetually caught in premature adulthood
Intake span of someone far her senior
Gypsy next city glee denies daddy anemia
Escape keeps temptation stability should
Mystique of psychic crystal ball rub predicts
Bored people thrown on her path, until overawed
They resume stock standard sequence, abhorred
At how she moves undeterred, her hasty skips
Deliver Duke Travel, a compulsory companion
Collar stiff against any threatening storm
Gaping heart swaps masks, instant reform
Road ahead bound in belonging she imagines
23rd May
Bird flown away
Mein kampf synonymous as a blooper
Writer of these words,
a former Lower Providence inhabitant,
who dwelled within darkest depths
of Dante Alighieri's inferno
for most of his outlandish, impish,
and devilish growing up years
witnessed microscopic scrimmage,
where spermatozoan with most forcefulness
muscled itself handedly,
magnificently, and splendidly
envision unicellular olympic competition,
yours truly swimmingly
begot during the heat
of parents being passionately fruitful
courtesy diploid erogenous frisson
between my then searingly
robust virile father and fecund mother
~ late March/early April 1958
ushered seminal moment
post ova fertilization realization
courtesy male gamete
penetrating zona pellucida
a glycoprotein layer surrounding the oocyte
triggering cell bait multiplication
subsequently yielding male
gendered offspring and sole son
hashtagged as uber twittering, snapchatting,
shutterflying super duper
cute little boy with short strawberry blond hair,
whose solitudinarian nature
became quite evident when he displayed
acute social withdrawal
upon off fish shill commencement
getting schooled as a grouper
by mister Hooper,
who made his debut
appearance on Sesame Street
November 10, 1969
as storied and staple long time resident
on above named television show
until March 18, 1983,
beloved by adults and children alike
within make believe community
(a conglomerate of real and imaginary locales)
peopled with proprietary named characters
for any of a number of humorously grotesque
glove or rod puppets and marionettes,
chiefly representing animals,
first popularized, idolized,
dramatized, capitalized, and actualized
by the children's television programme
Sesame Street (1969-) and more recently
in The Muppet Show (1976-80).
Also: a toy made to resemble one of these
ingenious brainchild of Jim Maury Henson
an American puppeteer, animator, actor,
and filmmaker who achieved worldwide
notability as the creator of the Muppets
which series originated as two pilot episodes
produced by Henson for ABC in 1974 and 1975.
Henson's shocking, sudden death occurred on May 16, 1990 of organ failure resulting from streptococcal toxic shock syndrome. An emotional memorial service was held five days later at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City.
I was a successful, fashionable florist, in mild green days of elegant gardens,
When an orange sun beamed its pleasure, like locales where lavender begins.
I formed arrangements for many occasions, drawing beauty lovers from afar,
As pretty planets arrange for a meeting, after wild rumors of the newest star.
And crowded hours were filled with summer, like pearly dews crowd morning,
Until ruby butterflies are playing tag, and gemmed damselflies are swarming.
Friends felt I might always be found, in some area of flush bloom fragrancies,
Like raven midnight's march to daybreak, with its warm, varicolored agencies.
Fond family held festive feasts, in fading hours of sparkly, fuchsia sun falling,
As whippoorwill songs clashed with red robin's, midst magenta stars gawking.
I lived in the house of tangy, saturated noon, when flowers were in full glory,
Like the most beautiful day of a woman's life, when a bride she's come to be.
Scarlet, saffron and other hues glittered, within the soulful sector of summer,
As starlings sang songs along my street, and sun rose and retired, a stunner!
Neighbors were nomadized at times, as honeydew moon nestles in new night,
When visiting me on eves of silk and satin, when fresh June was at its height.
Silver clouds were saddled with summer sun, in suddenly days of sweet rose,
Like grey encumbering smoke from autumn fires, when in plum mists it flows.
Raven noon was in green treetops, as the inarticulate ravens were squawking,
And fading time seemed to stand still, but ephemeral moments kept walking.
One day I woke to a gorgeous view from my window, daisies pink and yellow,
In the wide field right next to my house, glowing in the rich, sunshine mellow!
It put such a smile on my face, oh my! Like flocks of pretty blue jays going by,
And I kept seeing daisies everywhere I went, like a pearlescent moon on high!
I beheld African daisies and shasta, and pom pom-like chrysanthemum ones;
Along with fine lustrous gerberas, in all colors found, in wild green kingdoms.
I wondered at my strange, good fortune, in seeing beloved blooms anywhere;
Like the young, butterscotch days when Mother said, 'We're going to the fair!'
For awhile, I saw sweet daisies by day, and it seems I dreamt daisies at night;
Like a brief mystic spell of rapture, when hidden beauty's freed from its plight.
To the ancient Norse he was Kraken
With a mean inclination,
And the Greeks called him Gorgon
With the same reputation.
But as monster of myths
He's been wrongly miscast,
So I'm here to shed new light
On this poor creature, at last.
An exemplary example
Of his cephalopod race,
With a blob of a body,
The merest trace of a face.
He has eight arms, or legs,
But no fingers or toes,
No waistline or shoulders,
No eyebrows or nose.
He can fly through the water
With the greatest of ease,
And accomplishes it sans
Catapult or trapeze.
When danger confronts him,
He's off in a blink,
And disappears in a cloud
Of stinky black ink.
Octobabies leave home
When the mother gives birth
To be part of the food chain,
Which is no cause for mirth.
Octodads show affection
With indifferent tugs,
But at mealtime they can be
Overly generous with hugs.
The octopus likes his comfort
And prefers to make his home
In more exotically aquatic locales.
It's not unheard of for some,
Who want to see more of the world,
To drift away from their natural venue,
Only sadly to get caught in a fisherman's net
And end up on a sushi bar menu.
At Christmas he's resigned
To passing out gifts,
Though as helper elf his head's too big
To put a hat upon.
And like the squid and the manta,
He can never play Santa
'cause he has no lap
To be sat upon.
She's the enemy to whom I've yet to be
Formally introduced --
Her sites set on my
Tennis bracelet or clutch...
She glowers.
There's something off about her hair
It's color strange and unreasonable.
She dons a skirt too short
And tight for one her age --
My age.
Her colors loud and far too bold
For this town.
She stares me down like I would flinch,
As though intimidating me would be an
Easy job.
Here's what we can't tell:
She's a child of the Bronx.
A survivor.
It will take much more than
Undivided attention
To cause cowering.
Don't force it.
She despises on principle
Though of which one I'm uncertain...
Probably doesn't like that
We are of the same stage in life
Relatively
And unusually surrounded on
This subway
By a majority who happen
To be of approximately
The same range, age-wise.
Not the usual youth of Beantown
Who seem to own this city
(Or think they do)
Transplants from other locales
Here for educations
Or jobs, or beer,
Or whatever opportunities come their way
To seize upon and take from us.
Why are we not on the same side?
These rides serve no
Purpose other than
Perhaps to bear witness to still lives
And words set upon portable devices --
Commutes and communions
Of little consequence
Other than the fact that
Moving through space and time
Reminds us that we're still
Alive.
Form:
The guru knows people,
and through that knowing
understands none can be generalized.
All is never a word you can use when describing them.
Each is more accurate.
Sure we may have similar ideas, but even people of the same sect
or religion or family will each have their own outlook and ways of doing
The guru gives each leeway
Sends all skin and hair color love
Does not generalize locales or customs.
Understanding we are each unique
Identical twins are not the same.
Not exactly.
Pete and repeat have diverse ideas.
They are each individual with their own thinking mind.
The guru understands nature.
Appreciates the seasons, the elements, the cycles.
The guru tries to change no one.
Inspires, uplifts, and sends love.
To each.
That is what the guru does.
Younger people have no clue
That many things they like to do
Will, one day, prove to be too much,
By slipping from an aging clutch.
The rah-rah-rah and go-go-go
Of constant moving starts to slow.
The parties lasting through the night
No longer whet your appetite.
The dinners that begin at 8,
With drinks you’d once appreciate,
Give way to early-bird-type meals
With much less food, which now appeals.
The traveling to cool locales
To ski or hike with groups of pals
May be the trip you once would choose,
But now, you’d pick a river cruise.
You never think when you are young
That you would ever be among
The people who have reached the age
Where life is at a different stage.
John B. Jackson
1880-1911
Norma knew.
Norma, my erstwhile friend of a thousand hunts;
Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb,
As we sought out promising locales, and
Our clever quarry, from points near and far.
From the salty marshes by the Pio Pico adobe,
To the broad summit of Sycamore Canyon,
We left tracks only the night ‘coons could find.
So, did we learn anything in life, me and Norma?
I once spied a tern furrowing in a breach.
Norma was ready and loaded for the kill,
As I drew a long bead,
Held my breath, and pulled the trigger.
She, my Winchester 1895, lever-action,
Reduced that tern to feathers in an instant of smoke,
With white pillow plumage in complete upheaval,
Flying all about, and interspersed asunder!
That single memory was on my mind,
Before slipping eternally through the veil.
I remember closing my eyes, and there she was!
Appearing before me as a haunting ghost,
As she was, on the day she saw me kill the tern,
My disappointed mother, telling me I was cruel,
Cruel and heartless and mean,
For destroying “God’s creature.”
So, it was on that same day I put Norma away,
Lock, stock and barrel; stowed in silence,
Under the rafters of my humble bed;
I said a final goodbye and adios amiga,
To my once ballistic sweetheart,
And the love of my wild, youthful days.
Never again did I kill any living creature,
And found an inner wisdom I could never explain.
But, truth be known,
I wish I had Norma now.
Here in this dark cold grave.
I miss the tender touch of her cold trigger.
The gentle pull of her icy hammer.
And mostly, I miss the intoxicating power,
Of her fiery, exploding steel.
For together we traversed the canyons of Turnbull,
And the rolling vernal pastures of Workman Mill,
Tasting many a delicious quarry.
It’s true, my friends,
Norma knew.
Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb.