Long Marshall Poems
Long Marshall Poems. Below are the most popular long Marshall by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Marshall poems by poem length and keyword.
...He turned back to see all four of his gang
staring at him, in anger and shock.
“That boy was worth thousands,”seethed out mad Bret,
his hand shifting towards his rifle stock.
Chester pull his gun in a blur of speed,
sent two slugs into the nearest forehead,
the bandit went down, but the others drew,
the air crackling with muzzle flashes and lead.
Chester hit another, straight in the heart,
then felt something bite deep into his side,
he stumbled backwards, then fired again,
his shot hit home and another man died.
Then Bret’s rifle roared, shattering his shin,
he collapsed down to the group in a heap,
but he still had his Colt, two bullets left,
aimed upwards and let fly with a screech.
Two shots hit Bret right in the sternum,
soon too he collapsed down to the dirt,
both men bleeding heavy, both wounds mortal,
they faced their last minutes on this earth.
Bret choked through blood, croaked out a rough,”Why?
I though this gang meant everything to you?”
Chester coughed,”Yes, that is what I thought,
but that boy you seized was my nephew.”
Bret never said anything ever again,
Chester slumped back, and looked up at cold stars,
praying that Ronald still sprinted away,
that his horse had kept pace long and hard…
A whole day passed, then the Marshall came out,
with a posse, Ronald, and Tim Miller,
they looked at the scene, shook their heads slowly,
said,”A fine final scene for these killers.”
But Tim found his brother, his face at peace,
hoisted the body higher up on his horse,
the other men grumbled, but Tim would not
let his kin be brought in for a reward.
He had heard everything Ronald has told,
and though his brother down dark paths had roamed,
he’d shown he hadn’t lost everything good,
and would rest quietly beneath a stone.
Back on the ranch he carved into granite
so all that who might ride by it would know,
‘Here lies Chester Miller, who lived a rough life,
but in the end managed to die a hero.’
A while ago I read
an article
about the people of the Marshall Islands,
about their language,
their history,
their fragile,
disappearing
home.
I learned about
a word they have,
so versatile,
so complex.
“Iakwe” means
hello,
goodbye,
I love you.
But the most important meaning
(to me at least):
You are a rainbow.
And,
like the rainbow people
in the Marshall Islands,
you are beautiful;
you are worth waiting for
and worth searching for
(so let no one tell you differently).
You have powers inside you
that maybe you can’t see yet
because your light
and your prism
haven’t met.
You have the power
to even brighten someone’s day.
So maybe you might not appear
until after the rain;
no big deal!
You are no less beautiful.
Iawke.
Hello.
Goodbye.
I love you.
You are a rainbow.
I write romantic poems and vignettes, these are leftover lines that were cut from them.
I ran a Perplexity search and all these lines are "No attribution found" - so they're mine!
Sweet talk glitters like fireworks but fades quickly
into regrets that linger like afterglow
Cupid never aims, he enjoys chaos.
Don’t mistake a boy's attention for affection.
Love writes poetry; heartbreak edits it.
Romance begins with laughter and verbs
and ends with self-interest and subjunctives.
“Do you have any hobbies?”
“I collect romantic mistakes,”
In my youth, you’d know I was trying to get lucky
if I was wearing mascara.
Are guys worth the hours of makeup?
I’ll let you know in the morning.
I believe in love and latex.
Nothing interrupts a good fight like sex.
Desire is want without conscience.
When I’m sweet talked properly, like a poet,
I can forget that I’m cynical.
Flattery is incomplete foreplay.
Lust sneaks in like an opportunity
Romance is how we frame sex so it feels civilized.
Never confuse seduction with sincerity.
Pleasure is the first stage of regret.
Passion is mischief in poor lighting.
My mind usually outraces stimulations,
which can leave me alone at the finish.
.
.
Songs for this:
The usual things by Marshall Crenshaw
Paprika by Japanese Breakfast
An institution for the average man and also for the Toff
The gun blasts, the gates fly open. They’re off.
Eight magnificent Steeds already to win the race.
Trampling all before them, galloping at full pace.
Jeremiah takes the lead, closely followed by Your Grace.
Simply Simon at his heels, True Tess is gaining a place.
Here comes My Hero, a grand, black stallion gaining on the pack.
Flight Steward, Flame and Conroy are positioned at the back.
Stampeding round the bend, bulleting on the outside
True Tess the small grey filly, taking the lead with pride.
Manes flying in the wind here comes Conroy flying round the pack.
Now in second place, the odds thought him to be a hack.
Clumps of turf take flight from the pounding of the hooves.
Horses surging forward at an almighty pace, none wanting to lose.
Jockeys standing upright, leaning forward smashing their whips.
Jeremiah responds to the whip with an almighty lunge and trips.
The horse recovers, but all others pass him by, at least he wasn’t hurt.
Joyful screams from the punters as each horse puts on a spurt.
Simply Simon trapped against the rails pushes his way between a gap.
Racing with the pack, hurtling against the wind the jockey loses his cap.
Its anyone’s race as the galloping group head into the straight
There’s a oneness between each horse and its Jockey mate.
Wails from the crowd are heard, some had bet just on spec.
The crowd are on their feet as two horses are neck and neck.
The thunder of their hooves sending sparks My hero crosses the line.
A whisker in front of Tess. A photo finish sends tingles down my spine.
My ticket says Tess To Win, the track is silent for results of the race
The Marshall makes the announcement. Its my Hero in 1st place.
Sponsor Brian Strand
Contest Name A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE no 1219 -- 23 May2023
Dad gave me my first wood baseball bat
an Eddie Mathews signature model, 28 inches long
when I was 10 or 11 ('66 or '67)
shortly after he got me my first lefty glove
(I still have it, so small! with a bullseye crudely hand inked in the center!)
after a few years, it splintered near the handle
I tried nailing it back together, the hickory
shaft was tough to penetrate, but I kinda got
it done, then wrapped the job in some electrical
tape I found
whenever I tried using it again, hitting a pitch
sent shivers thru my hands and wrist like a
lightning bolt shocking me
before long, I left it in the sports closet Dad built
into the canned goods cabinet in the basement
he made for fall canning
so whenever I opened the cabinet door, the wonderful
smell of wood and leather combined with the
rows of gleaming jars of fruits and vegetables
delighted me!
canned beans, peaches, pickles and more
all lined up to select from when Mom or Dad
would send me downstairs to choose side
dishes for supper
frozen meat was kept in the 8' freezer chest
in Dad's workroom thru the door
being sent for that was a special privilege
my brother and I relished
( my sister, being 3 years younger, didn't get many chances!)
I remember there were honorary sports relics in
the closet on the top shelf
a leather football helmet Dad's Uncle Depot wore
before WW11 along with his old softball, the kind
with the exposed seams (I still have it)
wonderful memories
from a
magical time
I will always treasure
© james marshall goff
When walls crumble down
And dreams lay strewn and scattered
Remember our place
Deep in the mountain forest
Through the sharp-thorn brush
A meadow creek side
Times like this our shelter built
Roof for our gardens
Fresh flowing water near bye
Wildflowers in Spring
Bountiful summer veggies
Fireside in Winter
I'll meet you there my true love
If God parts our path
To look once more in your eyes
Pressing your heart against mine
By: Jim Marshall Goff
ps let us join Jim by bowing our heads and offering a moment of prayer
for those who are dealing with so much right now. War is the worse kind of human battle on earth, and we need to pray that it will cease !
No willows weep along this craggy shore
Winter's unforgiving shock no test for
weaker limbs
Pine trees and the barren Birch remain, their
hearts cold
Steely eyes glimmer with icy stares at Raven's
perch and passing Gulls
Bankers loan a timid step, the endless lake
a promise of frozen dreams
The wind stopped just short of my ears, bitter
news the breeze carried unable to fill my
senses
I left yesterday's newspaper on the table
today's issue unwelcome
All I could think of was what will I be seeing
hearing or smelling when the wind resumes?
The smell of fresh flowers deposits me back
in that church 4 years old as I looked in at my
Grandpa's
frozen face in the coffin at his funeral
roses and lilacs
weren't there
I can
smell them
and
smile...
04/27/15
2am
© james marshall goff
She was Auntie Mame, Cher, Bette, and Liza with a Z to those amongst us.
Children clamored for her attention, twirling and whirling in her presence.
She was happy, joy, enthusiasm, personified, if you got to know her, you were delighted.
She was the most upbeat, positive person I had ever met, and I had no idea how damned depressed she was.
No one knew that she felt hated by her own mother, who resented everything she said, did or wore.
No one knew how sad she felt every second of her childhood, convinced she was too fat to love.
No one knew how much rage she was holding bottled inside, hidden away deep in the recesses of her heart,
Enraged that other children’s mothers hugged and kissed them, and said, “I love you.”
At school she was the epitome of happiness. Everyone knew when Mrs. T. came into a room, the party began.
I loved her in kindergarten, and kept loving her throughout my entire childhood and adult life.
She was music, she was marching, she was sunshine, she was joy, she was always volunteer of the year,
And she did not believe in volunteering.
which I always thought was curious.
She was the grand marshall of the parades, the head of every committee that helped children.
One time when she wanted a particular teaching job, she called every member of the school board, and told them to give it to her,
And they did,
Because they all loved her
Because she had been their favorite teacher,
Because she was puppy spice, and cinnamon kitten, and bunny love.
So they gave it to her,
But she did not take it
Because she could not believe in herself,
Because no one had ever believed in her,
Until they did,
But by then,
She did not see it.
She was a child herself, having never having a real childhood.
And no one knew.
A diesel generator
drowns out the rusted Marshall stack
Six years we owned
the Billboard charts;
the DJ who crowned us
every summer
for five straight years—
this week, a county fair;
tonight, the Music Pier.
The drummer tapes two split fingers
closes his hand once
hard—
then rests the sticks
by Mick’s ashes
in a Folgers Black Silk can behind the kit
Tommy’s gold sequins
snag on his dialysis catheter
as he sits
Johnnie the P-bassist drags a stool onstage
to ease his neuropathy
We are crushed elderberries
hawking CDs from a card table,
bleeding a dark, tart stain
onto ninety aluminum chairs
No teenagers weep;
a man wipes funnel-cake grease
from his chin
As I tune the cherry-red '57 Stratocaster
down a minor third,
hoarse from pushing air
through a throat scraped thick
with scar tissue
We were a dense, golden field
beneath the studio lights
on Midnight Special
Now plucked dandelion crowns
scatter over Ferris wheel blacktop,
leaving white ghost-tufts
snagged in the Music Pier’s
boardwalk planks
Where just three bald stems
plug into the seaside damp—
and the seeds drift past the shoreline,
washed up,
vanishing into the deep
we used to call home
Carolyn's imagination could soar like no one I have ever read, bringing the reader along on a magical journey! I firmly conclude, she sits, even now, upon her White Stallion, visiting all the wonders she imagined, bestowing us all with her love, as she always signed off her comments with.
****
** **
** **
** **
Furious with Zeus, a vengeful Hera searched the world
Until she discovered the most amazing young girl
~~A Native American with hair dark as the night
Atop a white steed she traversed mountains snowy white~~
“Let there be stardust,” the Goddess proclaimed with force
And the woman was stunned, soaring on a flying horse
“Let there be rain,” Hera chose to give her power
The girl rode above clouds, below her rain did shower
Forever Rain on Stardust would travel through the sky
With the powers of a Goddess as she rode on high
To shower blessings of rain on villages so dry
Rain sees the past and future, though she does not know why
The outcome surely not as Hera had intended
Zeus became enamored of Rain’s presence so splendid
He kissed the sky beneath her with bright rainbow arches
Today you still see them wherever Stardust marches
A Goddess rides now, but sweet Rain was once just human
And she remains bewildered by her own acumen
Olympian rulers outdone by their creation
For Rain and Stardust yet win human acclamation
~~%%%%%% _,_,
~~%%%%%% -"/./
~~%%%%%-' / `.
~~%%%%%%' . ,__;
~~%%%%%%' : \O\
~~%%%%%%' : `.
~~%%%%%%' `. _, '
~~%%%%%%' .'`-._ `.
~~%%%%%%%' : `-. (,;
~~%%%%%%' : `._\_.'
~~%%%'
Carolyn's poem submitted by James Marshall Goff
Form: