Long Marbles Poems
Long Marbles Poems. Below are the most popular long Marbles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Marbles poems by poem length and keyword.
What was missing in my life?
You!
I lived many years without you,
not knowing what I was missing.
One day a surprise came to us
at an unexpected late- in- life date,
it was a baby boy.
He smiled at us with blue eyes
and bald little head,
and we were complete.
I treasured the cuddly feel of you,
fitting into my arms so well,
your weight seemed just right,
to pack you around every day,
even as you grew and grew.
You added an element to my life
that had been missing.
I now learned to slow down,
stop at playgrounds, push your swing
and sit in the one next to yours,
leaning back, looking up into
the crowns of swaying trees.
Taking walks, delighting in gathering fallen
red maple leaves, watching bugs
and birds.
Frogs and crawdads appeared in our bathtub,
I emptied your pockets while doing the wash
of rocks, seashells, dried katidid shells,
sticks and marbles.
I learned that stepping on jacks
at night while going to the bathroom hurts.
On your first fishing trip you accidently hooked a duck
and cried because you thought you hurt it.
I already knew of your compassionate heart.
You and I laughed and cried watching " Free Willy,"
"The fox and the hound" and "Alladin."
You brought joy to my life.
I learned that it is exciting to watch you play soccer,
I cheered and hooted and watched from the bleechers,
while you ran your little heart out,
I watched for signs of your asthma acting up,
but luckily you seem to outrun it.
On the first Halloween you were a little
smiling pumpkin that I pushed in the stroller,
but soon you were running with your buddies,
dragging a pillow case filled with candy,
and I had to scurry to keep up with you.
On your first day of school I was nervous,
I had to leave you with strangers.
Several of us Moms were hanging around the hallway
peeping into the door's little window,
until they made us leave.
Then came field trips, help with homework,
I was "room mother" to be near you and help,
and visited you in the cafeteria at lunchtime
on "Parent's day."
Suddenly, you are taller that me!
The braces came off, and you have a summer job,
and you are very good with it, I am proud of you.
You now have a Highschool Diploma and
are getting your driver's licence,
but you will always be my little boy,
and I will love you forever.
Love, Mom
T
A
TAJ J TAJ
MAHAL MAHAL MAHAL
[W] MAUSOLEUM IN [U]
[O] A MARBLE SPLENDOUR [N]
[N] AN EPIC IN STONE,A MARVEL [E]
[D] FOR HIS BELOVED MUMTAZ MAHAL [S]
[E] T HIS FAVOURITE AND MOST CHERISHED T [C]
[R] A QUEEN, BUILT HE,THIS NOBLE MOGHUL A [O]
J EMPEROR , A MAGNIFICENT MEMORIAL J
[O] MAHAL IN HER FOND MEMORY AFTER SHE LEFT MAHAL [H]
[F] ******* HIM SUNK IN UTTER GRIEF,WHEN SHE ******* [E]
BREATHED HER LAST, GIVING BIRTH TO THEIR FOURTEENTH CHILD [R
[T] IMMENSE WAS HIS LOVE TO IMMORTALIZE, HIS VOW [I]
[H] BEREAVEMENT'S PAIN EXUDED AS LOVE IN STONES OF MONUMENT [T]
[E] IVORY WHITE MARBLES LAPUS LAZULI,TURQUIOSES [A]
PIETRA DURA, ARTISTIC ,BEAUTY PERSONIFIED SANS ANY WONDER [G]
[W] THIS TOKEN OF DEEP LOVE FOR DARLING WIFE [E]
[O] STANDS SYMBOL OF ETERNAL LOVE TODAY RIFE
[R] ADORABLE,MAJESTIC REPOSITORY SO ROMANTIC [S]
[L] THE KING AND QUEEN LEFT BEHIND LOVE LEGACY [I]
[D] HISTORY WILL HUM THIS LOVE STORY FOREVER [T]
[E]
ON MOONLIT NIGHTS ON BOSOM OF YAMUNA RIVER,FROM PLINTH TO DOME MARBLE SHINES LIKE SILVER. IN EVERLASTING SLUMBER LAY IN TOMB THE
QUEEN WITH HER KING BESIDE, THEIR STORY IN LOVER'S HEARTS RESIDE.
LONG LIVE ETERNAL LOVE OF KING SHAH JAHAN, LONG LIVE THE TAJ !!!!!!
28th December 2016
~ For Concrete Crush Contest~
Glossary:
Pietra Dura: Inlay technique of using cut and fitted, highly polished colored stones to create images.
12 years ago, after 38 years removed from where I was known, I went back to the area where I was born, to the place where
the basic things of life to me were taught and shown. Not to the actual town, because it was mostly gone.
Not to the actual house, because it too was all gone.
But to the county seat, said to be the home of the blues.
Truth be told, I never felt at home there anyway.
It was a real challenge just finding places to play, Always being told to stay inside the box where we belonged.
As mortals grow, we learn to utilize both thermometers And thermostats so as to not only measure their surroundings
But also to set in place mechanisms to adjust those same surroundings.
So, growing up, I was boxed in, and mine was really just a place to work And stay, where childhood fun was 'shooting marbles' or playing in the hay. But even then, we had no say but still longed for a better day.
Growing up, I was well behaved, never causing trouble, Nor did I make any attempts to burst anyone bubble.
If one had dreams, they had to guard them dearly, prayerfully. Otherwise, they would turn into nightmares or get blown away with the wind.
It's been said that home is where your story begins, which sounds like a God-Send, but I say that home is a place like no other place that you wish would Never end.
In a real sense, over time, I was shielded from the pain of all those things, the good, the bad, and the ugly, that went away, and blessed by God with so many other things with which I have been warmly embraced.
110520PS
Fragments
They will be...
you do these kinds of things
can't be helped
imagination Band Aids some call them
I know
you just do
fingers wrapped ‘round cold steel
it's then
it's now
differences slight
like playing marbles
tripod-cradled taws and steelies
"Bombers" "Pots"
"shooters" all
aim straight
roll in the hole
you wait a long time
you know there's more to touch
you'll cradle other steel
formidable kind
you know
you hope
you're a kid
you'll do your best
find other holes
aim and shoot
some you dig
some dug for you
explosions know indiscretion
hell...
they say beginnings never end
always renewing
like dawn's edge ever changing
reds oranges yellow
lying on your back
knew those once
before the night never ended
smell the smell now
it's all the same
keeping life going
safe
clean
sterilized
that's what they do
amplified speakers seek help
always there's a page
off the wall
in your battlefront ISP
headgear no different
always the call
always the request
imagination tools
battle tools
you know what's coming
you just do
the swoosh of auto-doors
distant sirens
always there's sirens
always there's arrivals
like now
drinking my coffee
another first day of a new year
every year so familiar
pushing through iron air
waiting to be free
to see a sunrise again
to know a candle still glances
but now
just footsteps
coming at me
a walk I've known
Bethesda recall
remembering when sight
remained at the ready
absorbing fetid squalor
half naked Afghan children
barbarous patience
staring wildly as we passed
elder's eyes theirs
we cradling shooters defenseless
smiling
until
too many buried IEDs
I adjust
steps almost here
sitting seems forever
that's wheeled-life for now
robotic legs in the works
back there
back in Bethesda
coming
coming soon
for now
standard issue dark glasses
covering eyes that once were
footsteps stop
standing now
in front of me
me
Taking my hands
"Lt. Baygen...it's a boy."
"Shall we...your wife is waiting"
my hands grip the steel
following todays fragment
forging yesterday's pieces
a doctor
an imagination beyond
rolling my hands atop the chrome and rubber wheels
my imagination Band Aids
how shiny it all is they tell me
this transport
this evidence
today's somewhere
will he let me cradle him
will he look at me with hatred or compassion
will he know we have made him
what he might become
fragments
longing
From Nabob of Junagarh, of Nizam—
Collecting tax on cotton and the kind,
The taxing job having strained of my calm,
I’d stayed at a quiet place, though haunted
And scary, a lovely place no less still,
Deserted now, it was a grand retreat—
River Suista telling in many ways
Babbling tales through every single pebble,
Leaping like a skillful dancing damsel,
What unforgettable and fateful days!
I still recall that flight of a plenum
Of hundred fifty steps to that river,
A solitary marble palace, plumb
Along the river, and etched as ever
In my mind, ah amid sprawling foothills,
No soul around to whisper of its ills!
The palace, two and half centuries old,
And built by a ruler of Muslim mould,
For private pleasures, luxuries enrolled:
Jets of rose water from fountains spurting
To cool rooms amply made of marbles cold,
Young Persian nymphets there entertaining,
Mohammad the Emperor, too tired, blasé,
Arab maids disheveled before bathing,
Their soft naked feet ‘pon water splashing,
Singing, trying to please him in odd ways,
Whilst wine poured forth as ample as water,
Afar, tears poured forth from a lost daughter.
Fountains no more now found, songs too have ceased,
Nor snow white feet, ever gracefully step
Upon the white marbles that remain cold,
The vast halls filled are with cess collectors,
And men like me oppressed with solitude,
Deprived of warmth o that be womanhood,
My old office clerk had me amply warned,
‘Pass days should you so like, but never nights
if you care', I’d waved him off with a laugh.
Servants agreed to work only till dark,
Which, I ignored, a tusk as a dog's bark.
The house of ill repute spared was by thieves
Like a nightmare, I sneezed at that as well,
And worked hard on long hours till lights grew grey,
Returning at night too jaded and tired,
Sinking deep into bed unto sleep mired.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana,
divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
In the rundown little house where her family currently lives,
the fourteen-year old glances obediently at her glaring daddy,
nodding her head in quiet compliance
to his usual horrible demands of her for the evening.
Not to acquiesce would incur his utter wrath,
and that is something she has learned well by now to avoid.
Things are not like the old days, when she was twelve,
feeling so lost, and he would lavish her with little gifts:
bracelets with charms, cute purses, chocolate candies. . .
With warm aqua eyes, he’d smile his approval
as she whirled around the room, modeling a pretty dress for him.
In those days when her world had fallen apart, he’d taken her in.
His voice would softly soothe her then, chasing away her every fear.
Back to reality. Daddy’s voice now is laced with menace.
And his eyes are ice blue marbles staring through her.
“Do what wifey says,” he instructs her at the door
as she leaves with four other sisters and the one of legal age, her sister-wifey.
Leaning in to her, his breath like chill wind on her nape, he whispers,
“And you better be VERY good with your dates this time.”
The young girl, in high heels, slit skirt, and heavy makeup, has exited the door
when her daddy barks commands to his helper in the living room, and then
Daddy exits too, but through the garage, where a Mercedes Benz is parked.
He drives alone, a short trip across town to his other house -
the one with manicured lawn and garden and a large pool out back -
the large beautiful house where a real wife and a real daughter
await him.
“How was your day?” his beautiful young wife gushes
as he crosses the threshold in his expensive business suit.
“Oh, just another day at the office,” he quips,
leaning in to give her a soft kiss. Then his young daughter
comes bounding down the stairs, broadly grinning.
“Daddy, look at the new dress you bought me!”
She twirls with adolescent glee.
The man, with blue eyes dancing, looks his fourteen-year-old daughter
up and down. “Sweetie, you know I don’t like you wearing lipstick yet.”
“Oh, Daddy,” she teases, “I’ll be dating soon.”
“Afraid not,” he lovingly chides her. “Those boys will just have to wait
at least for two more years. For now, you are Daddy's little girl."
During a thunderstorm at the midnight hour
I wrote you a letter that I'll never send
I wrote it when I was alone
so unless I give it to you
those words will always be mine
I might not keep them
but they are valuable
because I thought them
I wrote them and said them and read them
I said that I've see you around town
and I hope things are looking up for you
I said that I hope you're getting the help that you need
and I said nice things about your family
because they are such lovely people
and I said that you are too, really
I tried to keep it nice
but then I got brutal and blunt
and said that you can't heal on your own
because you keep your addiction so close
I said that you keep your addiction in first place
which keeps you from handling reality
because it throws off your perspective and light of life
and in my letter I told you how I waited on a guitar player at the cafe today
and he said that his favorite audience has become the young and the old
because of the way they take interest and inquire
and I didn't say this in my letter, but I wish that you would enjoy an audience like that
because that is a wholesome audience
I said that your thoughts, mistakes, and feelings are worth acknowledging
because they are honest and real
and they provide perspective and help you prosper
I was very frank when I said that you've been blessed
with talents and charm
and it was really harsh when I said that it's selfish
to keep them all to yourself
because you have a gift to connect with people and help them grow
and I said that you have so much potential
but you're trashing it
and good things aren't supposed to go to waste
I'm thinking that the thunder storm will fuel my poem
because the wind blows my curtains around
like I saw on Mickey Mouse once when I was little
while the rain hits my deck like a hundreds of marbles
dumped from an economy sized coffee can
and the lightning stabs and cracks flashes in the black humid breeze
several seconds before the thunder barrels at the silence I like for writing
but my lyrics are so raw that they don't need fuel
because I have the ruthless heart of an objective friend
who believes in you
because good things
aren't
supposed
to go
to waste
Far from the madding crowd
I treasure the myths you gone through
Once I walk down the streets of legends
Even the weeping dusts reminds me of
Bloods, who immolated their lives to you.
Oh Calcutta! You live with a pride
For ages you are loved
They valued glory above life itself
When they speak of valiance
And guns are still fired in the air
Withal due respect of those souls
Who deserved their nascence
In the realm of your freedom.
Oh Calcutta! You live with an honesty
Not because of the madding crowd
Because you are blessed with eternity
As she flows with her gentle ripples
That streams the ambit of almighty purity
When I voyage down the river
I breathe the air of immortality.
Far from the madding crowd
I travel down the busy streets of the city,
The antique edifices still provides me with
The evidence of such superiority,
Walls still fends against the political conspiracy.
Oh Calcutta! You live with prosperity
Though affected by the madding political crowd
Once you were ruled by the dwellers
Now your sanity being destroyed immensely
By your own posterity
Living in the land of divinity
Of goddesses Durga and Kali
And they still feigned that they are native.
Oh Calcutta! You live with heritages
Not beacuse of the busy primal edifices
But you have the world known aged cantilever bridge
And over a century living the tramways.
Your marbles are still gloried by the dwellers
And they still wonder the hand pulled rickshaws
And admire for the age old alleys.
Far from the madding crowd
I still come across the pavements by the busy roads
Coins dropping with bimetallic sounds in the beggar's bowl
The vendors hallooing with prices on a rhythmical prose
And as I step ahead, I find my foot stuck in the crud mid of the road.
Oh Calcutta! You still live with diversity
Not beacuse of the poor and rich
But you still have few people left helping you in needs
You still have one culture you were born with
Hindu-Muslims celebrating together both Id and Autumn fests
Joining their hands with the christians when December ends.
Oh Calcutta! You still live with your beauty
Not only beacuse you have the beautiful bengali adorned brides
But you still have the chapters of noetic minds
You still exist with love and peace
Only when I find you far from the madding crowded streets.
Orphaned Slab
by Odin Roark
They call me a foundation
once supporting siding and stone
wire
plumbing
shingles
Through the doors of my house
trailed family and friends
across kitchen floor
slanted slightly
letting Benny’s agate marbles
migrate to the corner
Atop my shoulders
a house of character once stood
usual middle class floor plan
even allowing spidery webs
their solace in pantry corners
squirrels their roof
foraging to cottonwood trees
shading the three second-story bedrooms
kept perfect for home visits
from children away at college
Downstairs
Everett’s TV room rocker
always moving back and forth
massaged my back
well
it was a mild massage through the flooring
mostly my imagination
coming as it did
through layered rugs and cat hair
Yeah
used to hear mother’s complaints
“That old vacuum is useless. We need a Kirby, damn it”
He’d usually stop his rocking for a second or two
then let her know “Just lean in more. All it needs.”
and back to his rocking “Kirby. Out of her mind.”
But
Come spring break
Sara’s boombox
was rocking of another kind
no imagination needed there
reminded me how secure
this old foundation was
until the afternoon when…
Felt like a distant train
but the clackety-clack of rail cars
was out of sync
out of control
Wind moved in
then rain
then wind and rain
then that God-awful train again
had to be from Hell
or someplace worse
thundering through…
It was a long night
Been a long couple of weeks
Weeds and spider webs now connect
through cracks in my body
A squirrel or two survived
peeking about once in a while
still clinging to their downed cottonwood
wishing the foraging path was still there
wishing there was something to forage
Me?
Well
I’m just a surviving foundation
awaiting tomorrow’s sunrise
hoping for just the right temperature
early in the morning
before the sun adds its bleaching effect
and I start to remember again
Perhaps I’ll have earned
some afternoon showers
some nourishment for the weeds
some droplet sparkles
for my spidery friend’s web
and who knows…
We’re regretful of so much loss
the other slabs and me
but a foundation is a foundation
that’s what we’re built for
The start-ups
The start-overs
Orphan today
adopted tomorrow
So goes the life of a slab
A life some might say
is a thankless existence
Not so
Compared with us, the kids today
Too little play and too much weigh.
Alone indoors they snack and sit
And buttons hit, while we stayed fit.
We'd quickly chores and homework do,
Then dash through doors to fun pursue,
To basketballs and arrows shoot,
To jump with ropes, and footballs boot.
We'd earthworms dig for fishing bait,
On scooters glide, and roller skate.
We'd hopscotch, seesaw, chase. and swing
And boomerangs and frisbees fling.
We'd tackle, dribble, leap, and throw.
We'd tunnel through and shovel snow.
In haystacks dive and wagons ride,
On ice and into bases slide.
We'd whittle wood and baskets weave
And pennies pitch and horseshoes heave.
We'd yank the strings so tops would spin,
When wrestling, try to shoulders pin.
We'd kindling fetch and firewood chop,
Inflate balloons to later pop,
Sink numbered balls in billiard halls,
And topple pins with bowling balls.
We'd weekly swim at downtown Y,
Our kites and model airplanes fly,
We'd darts and putts and marbles aim,
With lens or flint set twigs aflame.
We'd sneak beneath the sideshow tents,
Climb ropes and poles and chain link fence.
We'd hike and camp with scouting troops,
Rotate our hips in hula hoops.
We garden weeded, hosed, and tilled,
We'd soap box car and treehouse build,
At picnics joined the tug-of-war,
And barefoot romp when rain would pour.
We raced on stilts and pogo sticks,
Made pies of mud, our pets taught tricks,
Were paper, pin, and altar boys,
Ignored complaints of too much noise.
For caddie tips, we'd golf bags lug;
To jukebox records, jitterbug.
We'd carpets beat, played kick-the-can,
Collected rocks, and errands ran.
To school and back on foot we tread,
Down steepest hills and alleys sled,
Played pitch-and-catch in yard with Dad,
Pushed mower that no motor had.
We'd rake the leaves and chestnuts crack
And toddlers carry piggyback.
With feather pillows fight in bed,
Our cap guns fire, and fall down dead.
We'd wildly flail at punching bag
And batted balls and passes snag.
We'd zig and zag, avoiding tag,
Till tuckered out, we'd homeward drag.
No trophies or applause we'd get.
Our play was real, not internet.
To kids today, I this advise:
Get off your butts and exercise!