Long Lumbers Poems
Long Lumbers Poems. Below are the most popular long Lumbers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lumbers poems by poem length and keyword.
My body is too big
My bones loom over me
and my flesh wraps around them
Heavy like the bricks of a lighthouse tower
The waterfall of my tears posted proudly on a magazine cover
Eighth wonder of the natural world
A thousand miles before it reaches the pillowy ground
My skin stretches over my frame like a canvas
painted with freckles and scars
Enough paint to cover the world twice over is needed to cover it’s expanse
My body lumbers around like I giant when I move
Collapsing in on itself under it’s own weight when I stumble
My souls feels like an ant trapped in the body of a lion
The pins that hold me together are silk needles trying to hold wool
I am a pebble in the body of a mountain, unsure if the wind will whisk me away or if I was ever supposed to move in the first place
I feel bulky and gangly
Shaky and frozen
Filling a room like water fills a cup, cold and loud when all i want is to disappear quietly
Because I feel like my soul could walk through the eye of a sewing needle like a grand palace gate
And whenever my soul feels small
My body is too big
Looking for adventure and escape,
a young girl's thinking of skipping school.
And a case of spring-fever finds her
skirting the edge of town, acting cool.
Sharp as a whip, she heads for a curve
in the tracks where the train must slow down.
And with her spot well-chosen, she waits
behind some bushes outside of town.
Suddenly, she hears the train coming,
with its high-pitched squeal of steel on steel.
And her heart begins beating wildly,
each clinking clank fueling her zeal.
With its wheels screeching and sparks flying,
a humongous engine lumbers by.
And she looks for an open boxcar,
aware, with one wrong step, she could die.
Racing alongside gives her a thrill,
for the train is still moving quite fast.
And matching its speed, she pumps her legs,
with bravado not felt in the past.
Fighting fatigue, she pushes onward,
not letting her pain get in the way.
And chugging along, picking up speed,
a train full of dreams whisks her away.
(Quatrain)
7/29/2015
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The sky is an ancient map,
drawn by hands that forgot their names~
figures named and strung together
by the thin thread of human need.
Here, a hunter forever chasing
what his arrow will never pierce.
There, a bear that never tires,
never lumbers down to earth.
We point and say Look~
as if the stars agreed to this arrangement,
as if they whispered their shapes
into the ears of shepherds and sailors.
But the universe is careless with its light.
These are only accidents,
burning debris caught in the dark,
and we are only creatures
desperate to make patterns
from the scattering.
I am a cold, flat, black and white rectangle, rounded corners, no frills or curls.
No one could revere me more that thirteen-year-old higher thinking boys and girls,
Illustrious readers of U.F.O.’s, the paranormals, and E.S.P.
Ones who question their clari-normal selves, always seek out proof of life from me.
The absolute best environment ambiance for my most effective use is set up gypsy-like, cushy, and cozy.
Soft pillows, wavering candle making spooky shadows, smelling of lilac or equally wonderful well-loved posey.
The room should be relatively unlit, but you have to see my alphabet and numbers.
The hidden entities can make themselves known through whispers, or smells, not loudness or lumbers.
My beige heart-window pointer messages are often disjointed or a hundred percent totally misread.
Uh-oh. Here comes your mom. Everybody, move! Blow out the candle, and hide me quickly under the bed.
I may be a big deal at your pre-teen’s life’s point, but in your neck of the woods, parents see me and go immediately red.
I’m contraband, against their religion; except for Lazareth, they never want to know about the eager to be heard undead.
Hunters in the Snow
Slowly, the hunters break stride through the snow,
Hunched over in failure, their heads hanging low.
Below the hill where villagers at play
Will soon be sad with no food on the way.
The meagre kill slung across one’s shoulders
'Tis barely enough, let alone for others.
But there at the inn a boar on the spit,
Pork and ale for them who can pay for it.
A band of crows meets the depressed procession,
As a magpie flies by in food exploration,
While those perched in the trees caw incessantly,
As if to mock the returning party.
Yonder mountains rise with icy-capped peaks,
Where at the cliff’s base a castle is seen.
Across the dam an ox-drawn cart lumbers,
While men on ladders douse a chimney fire.
Off in the distance, a tranquil scene reveals
A village with its clock and a church steeple.
All around the town are fields covered with snow,
And below the troop, the millpond froze over.
Everything looks cold ‘neath a green-tinged sky
That signals a storm gathering be nigh.
There on the bridge, a hag totes afaggot,
Fuel for the stove to keep herself toasty.
The hounds look unnaturally thin and worn
And, like their masters, hopelessly forlorn.
Back from the hunt and home from the forest,
Hunters and dogs are badly in need of rest.
***
Note:
“Hunters in the Snow” is an ekphrastic poem describing the painting “The Hunters in the Snow” (1565) by Pieter Brueghel the Elder (c.1525/1530–1569).
Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.
Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.
House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.
Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.
Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.
Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.
Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted rum,
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.
Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.
Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.
The Lost Bird In The Sky
Somewhere there sits a lone man
at a bar filled with lowlifes
lost in his thoughts
mad at the world
and at her
it's eight in the morning
and dawn is long past
and its eve's seat he'll now nurse
across the bar room
through the blinds, some sun peeks in
over the seedy rug
the sun drying the last cleansing
of a patron's puke
the musky smell the last of his worries
his eyes take in the bar
he intimates a hand gesture to other patrons
and a meaningless nod
indifferent to being friendly
matching the terrain
of the other lowlifes at the bar
all on crutches, it seems
on the wall
hangs pictures of storm clouds
black and ominous as his life
the first of his worries
him and his head always drooping
or were those pictures in his imagination
the music box plays a sad song
smoke gets in your eye
followed by lies
another sad song
stories of his life
accentuated
grabbing at him
his worries
her effect
how poetic, he smiles
him in effigy
through the smoke in his eyes
and more beer
he can clearly see her
with a voodoo doll in hand
sticking needles in him
maybe deservingly
if only he could tell her a story
he thinks better of his thoughts
and a pending epilogue
thirsting for sunshine instead
his eyes glance up at the women bartender
plain, plump, playful, pierced
sunshine for the moment
his lips, and tongue curl
his feet touch earth, seeing if it's still there
as she lumbers back and forth serving drinks
her backside sticking up like a beehive
and for a moment he wants to be a bee
he plays with his beer bottle
running his hands past it's neck
caressing, taking a sip
thinking of his past love
the softness of her neck
erect
her essence
of how pleasing it would be to touch her
her nest
if only he could be a bird for a moment
fly and be in flight with her
together in the sky
making baby birds
their innocence and first tweets
that would have been nice
now ... landed at a hole in a wall
his eyes and thoughts keep soring
he grabs more beer
more beer
pausing to grab some honey with his eyes
he keeps playing with his loose change
spinning a quarter
like watching her pirouette
again and again
she had that effect on him
connie pachecho
11/15/17
In my town and only 90 feet
from my house run a pair of old tracks,
railroad tracks older than my house,
even older than me, and I am
become old, very, very old,
like a tree whose branches betray it
with every strong gust of wind
as they fall to the ground,
leaving less and less of the old tree....
I used to walk in between
those carefully laid iron rails,
stepping lightly on the worn wood
of the old ties as though
they were made of glass....
I walked the length of my small town,
I walked the world: I walked where
passenger trains carried vibrant lives
and their once warm, now cooling dreams,
and I felt part of each life,
now gone to ether and mist--
so too shall my lonely soul
ride those rails one bright day....
Still, a freight train comes by once
or even twice a week, and I thrill to hear
its wailing horn as it cries out
for a forgotten glory, and the ground shakes
a bit as the old train lumbers slowly
by my house and I wait a holy wait
for the music of its rumbling and
the cry of its old heart as a young
engineer pulls the whistle and
sees not that he is driving Eternity.
[n/a in Brian's 'Completely your choice, #6 contest, judged 9/9/20]
Brutus, my slavering Rottweiler, growls
He knows he's tougher than pooches with tails
The long pointed studs on his black leather collar
Are matched by his canines which make poodles holler
The drooling saliva that trails from his jaws
As he lumbers about on his four massive paws
Is soaking the ground and his talon like claws
Encouraging folk to keep children indoors
Devil Dog, Satan’s mutt, hellhound and more
All labels my beast has been nick-named before
I feed him on red meat and shin bones of cattle
It’s said he eats tigers but that’s tittle tattle
The park is all ours because other folk run
But wait, there’s a kitten, now this could be fun
Brutus will rip him apart for a lark
And splatter its blood and guts over the park
Hey, kitty kitty, come over to me
Play with my dog, what good friends you could be
But kitten was clever, too clever for me
He hissed and now Brutus is stuck up a tree
What's a simple man like me
Doing in this part of town
Especially at a time like this
When the sun is going down
I crank my Barry Manilow
Up on my cassette deck radio
Letting all the boys round here know
That I'm down with the sound and flow
That's when this old rusty Ford
Creaks up to the light
His girlfriend turns and gives a wink
And a great big green teeth smile
I get the notion then and there
That he's the jealous type
As he spits a wade of tobacco juice
All over my Pintos driver side
Steps down from his conglomerate
Lumbers over to me
The kids in school are sure to hear of this
As I'll soon be history
Roughly pulls me out the window
Shaking me off like a bad habit
Saw my life flash before my eyes
Luckily I had enough sense to reach out and grab it
Just then he catches the music
That's now playing loud and clear
Turns with a look plastered to his face
Asking who is that he hears
I tell him Barry Manilow
He's the one who writes the songs
Just then he starts a-humming
If he knew the words he'd sing along
His girlfriend calls up all their friends
Who quickly show up to the scene
Looks like we got us a Copacabana
With the lights flashing from red to yellow to green
It all came to a climax
As Barry, Mandy sang
There wasn't a dry eye on the street that night
As I quickly saddled my Pinto and drove away
I let out a huge sigh of relief
As I sped through all the lights
With "Looks Like We Made It" blasting through the stereo
Thanking Barry Manilow, once again for saving my life