Long New york Poems
Long New york Poems. Below are the most popular long New york by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long New york poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s a romanticized picture
hanging on my dining room wall,
1907 lumberjacks,
one perched atop lumber stacked tall.
It’s winter, and they have a sled
pulled by two horses, looking bored,
twelve-foot pile of logs they pull,
one teamster with long reigns aboard.
It’s somewhere in the wilderness,
the nothing of northern New York,
four men on foot stand alongside,
dressed in wool for cold winter work.
One holds an axe, that one looks young,
all wear bootpacks over their pants,
with hats and mustaches of old,
looks like a job for a real man.
The trees are dyed in sepia,
the colors are gradings of gray,
it’s the type of nostalgia that
just takes a worried mind away.
Compared to typing on a screen
it seems quite appealing to me,
then I stop and remind myself
most of them never reached sixty…
Night falls, and she stood up quickly,
Brushed up swiftly, arranged her
Hair briefly yet attracted, for her
Beauty, and smooth face like the
Surface of her chest...
She walked to the door slowly,
Turned gently, and stirs at herself subtly
From head to toe, then to her mirror
Which she earlier disdained.
Her hand bag contained
Preservatives protecting her horror,
Midnight she is a terror,
Daylight, an innocent beauty,
If you see her you will want her
As your lady, to make you matrimonially busy,
And happy.
But, try her and see, you will
Have yourself to blame after burning you up like flame,
Guys in new york calls her BEACH,
After they tried, but her
Heart they never REACH.
Wall street barons see her and flee, for she stings like a bee,
And her deception, they never
Want to see.
Las Vegas Cassino is also her prey,
To most night lovers, her tentacles
She spray.
If she smile you will think she is shy,
If she talks, you hear a nightingale,
But when you look into her profile,
You will find out she is filthy and guilty,
She is the immoral beauty...
It was from a small town that he came
In fact so small I can’t even remember its name
His mother and father were just regular folks
His younger brother he loved the most.
He had a talent with the guitar
Lots of people said that he’d go far
So he packed up his car and drove for three days
For the first few months he didn’t make much pay.
He went to New York to make it big
Playing for 8 people’s not much of a gig
In a big city so far from home
Surrounded by people but you’re always alone.
The dealers and pimps can pick fresh meat
You don’t even need to get up off your seat
At any time of the night or day
They’ll help you keep the pain at bay.
Then one night it all came to an end
With a little help from his drug dealer friend
He scored something cut with nitazene
And so ended his New York dream.
An Irish paint brush
He's cured
In the mind of eternal angel
The clay wore warm in the knight
Espionage acting defiance before autumns
Panting gasping letter
A man in a fold
Absent Vote in hand
Shane, we are delivering Tara Gendron to
Summers Defiance in New York City
From L.A. Jazz
Santa Barbara Tara Gendron photography
Because Kendall has a news alarm clock
And I'm looking at new York canvas
Man in the mirror
Big lou Adler
?
Copy print
He teaches desire as illusion in anger
Copyright © kevin mathenia | Year Posted 2025
An autumn leaf
Oh autumn trails
Bring pleasant winds
That never trail south
Copyright © kevin mathenia | Year Posted 2025
Oils of mourning upended 1
Cabs crackling surrender
Before settings land
Dawns edge working from eve
Her lasting clay
I'm hear
In class
To paint
And understand
My musing
Tara Gendron
Of Santa Barbara
I was boring first
Then Tara's recital
Now juliard and exhibition New York
A blind reveal
Gaeity Opens
It's Aerosmith crazy meeting
guns n roses don't you cry tonight
The halo program
Saint child in passing
Deliberate New York Paint stations
Dead bourbons walk
Captured and Captures
Calls answering before touching tones
As innocence creates defiled creature
In abandon
Rare entrance of mature isolation exits
Eschers Criteria falls
As fall in season
Abandon aspect of perception is fault
Coercive insertion is natural here
Copyright © kevin mathenia | Year Posted 2025
My Nonna lived to age eighty-six.
I still remember her salt and pepper
hair, so long- but wound up in a bun.
From Italy, she settled in New York,
became a seamstress and as such-
it was she who taught me how to sew.
Dear Nonna did outlive her only son,
who she lost to World War II.
And- she outlived my Mom, who
succumbed to cancer at age fifty-five.
To lose two children, way too young-
a double tragedy for her, it was.
And so, we bonded closer after that.
I still remember her loving arms
around me, soft but very strong,
and the security I always felt within.
I so much miss her still today-
my loving, caring, sweet, Nonna.
June 29, 2020
Contest: In Loving Memory
Sponsor: Regina Riddle
New York City at night,
Is like an upscale carnival filled with lights,
Message boards and fancy advertisements,
Keeps one’s eyes in perpetual excitement,
Call a taxi, you’ll go exceptionally fast,
Like the gravitron that’s spin makes you gasp,
Walk a mile or two,
And the volume of brightness will illuminate your view,
On some blocks you feel like you’re in outer space,
Bridges are the stars, that from a distance, stunt your pace,
The buildings begin to possess Saturn’s rings,
Streets look like the universe drenched in colorful strings,
New York City at night,
A giant meteor shower of visual delight.
By: Sabina Nicole
Written: 1-14-12
Contest: Lights at Night in a City
The me that you see’s just a face that I wear.
You have no idea what’s really on my mind.
The me of my soul regards you over there
As sly and elusive, your intentions undefined.
The me that you see stands a distance apart
From you coyly playing the role of a shrew.
The I of my mind steers a sensible course
By sidestepping driftwood and hazards like you.
You’ve been casting incantations
With your coven of dark ingenues.
I've been busy myself, pounding down my intentions,
Hammering a hard wrought point of view;
I don't need any more you.
As it is, it’s just grist for the mill.
But it leaves me with one thing I know,
We made as fine a couple
As Mr. Miller and Ms. Monroe.
Now take me off your mailing list.
I'll gladly burn your cards and letters, too.
We gave our torrid fling a New York minute.
It’s sad, but I can’t deal with any more you.
THIS SPACE REVERVED FOR
JOLTIN' JOE
The Beauty in a Kiss
A Kiss can be as beautiful, as grand a course
for making passionate love – and more – then that of intercourse.
A Kiss can stimulate the spiritual !
A Kiss can stimulate the biological !
A Kiss can stimulate the psychological !
A Kiss can stimulate the physical !
And your words “ life is far to short ”,
has me wondering ?, what sort
of thoughts - designed to kill !,
moments are denied, let slipped by unfulfilled’
Your beautiful lips come before - these eyes caress
your lips, never to know the passion, you suppress,
except for twice ( so nice ! ) – Montreal and New York State where the only places, my life with you, came to know fate.
Are your lips, the dust of fragile, butterfly wings ?,
kiss them and they loose the ability, no longer sings
of the beauty of flight, no longer able to fly,
just sit upon a flower and cry
as you both – grounded, locked in – wait to die .
Is this the excuse for ?, (or is it hypocrisy ?,
that drives “ life is to short ”) yet moments empty, unfulfilled.
Can it be the fear of being grounded ?,
or are these thoughts - unfounded ?
Is this soul, these lips of mine, reaching out to hers,
a poison that robs those butterfly dusted lips of hers ?
Can she not see the pixie dust that lies upon mine ?,
wants nothing more then to help her sour, know sublime,
to intoxicate the energies of her life’s force
and to be, as one with her, as a matter of our life’s coarse !
B. J. “A” 2
November 11th 2008
Oh Holy Night, all is calm, all is quiet, except for the tv playing to itself, if to keep a lonesome resident company, if to take place of a friend who never came.
Oh Holy Night, thus quiet town of New York Mills Minnesota, these lovely people whom are Gods Children yet they are alone each and every day..
Once were young vibrant sons, daughters, husbands wives who gave of themselves in our society with a friendly smile, hug, handshake, worked amongst us earning a good days wage, now only to sit alone, their once friendly face, now showing their age.
Truly HE taught us to love, His gospel is peace, why then should vitality living be home to these lonely souls, where are our servants of GOD to bring a cup of coffee, a card game, a manly chat about serving our country?
Oh Holy Night, tonight a baby was born, a sweet baby who would live amongst us to love us, bring us HOPE, why can’t we sit and hold their hands, be CHRIST to them if only for one hour?
A sweet Baby Jesus taught us to love one another, His law is love, and HIS Gospel is PEACE.. we too will be in their shoes, yet we are not to be seen next to their bed, Jesus would be with them, we must be HIS hands, FEET, pray with your feet..
What Child Is This who looks upon these lonely souls who took care of us when we were sick, now only have tv to keep them company?
Oh Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining, it is the night of the saviors birth, until He appears, let us Shine His Light upon these Souls, let them Hear The Angels voices..
Remember the story of Pam Am Flight 914?
It took off from New York City in 1955 with 51 passengers.
Disappeared for thirty-seven years then landed n Miami?
This story was printed in the Weekly World News three times
Maybe if they printed it enough times, it became plausible?
it is a false story, but we may have all heard it
This story possibly originated in 1961
when the science fiction TV show Twilight Zone ran a similar story
“The odyssey of Flight 33”
No matter how many times you hear it, it is not true.
It is a fabrication, a tale, a story, alternative “facts”.
Repetition is not a sign of truth.