Long Ninety three Poems
Long Ninety three Poems. Below are the most popular long Ninety three by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ninety three poems by poem length and keyword.
...The devil didn’t hide, he strutted right out,
a smile painted on his red face.
“Why my dear sheriff, how in the world
Did you ever find my new place?”
Abner stared on, seething with hate.
“An old friend told me to find you here,”
He explained, glancing up to the sky.
“You know why I’m here, you son-of-a-*****.
You made those poor people die.
And now has come your time!”
The devil he laughed, and shook his head.
“You think that Colt will take me down?
I’m a damned archangel, and well beyond
The people of this backwater town.
Now behave, and toss that on the ground.”
Abner lifted his arm, taking careful aim
at the devil’s broad, muscled, red chest.
The devil just sighed, and started forwards
“You should not put me to the test,”
The devil did smugly confess.
Abner squeezed back on the trigger,
And a shot rang out in the night.
The devil lurched backwards, screaming loud,
his hellish face a mask of fright.
He looked down, shocked at the sight.
A hole their awaited, the flesh dissolving
around where the bullet had hit.
He gasped and looked up at Abner,
saying,”No! No, I don’t believe it!”
Abner just smiled, then on him spit.
“Pride, its goes before a fall,
that you of all folks should know!
I talked to your Pa, and He answered true,
and showed me the best way to go
about laying your carcass low.”
“See into each bullet I carved a cross,
and in holy water I dipped the tips
Then old Priest Frazier blessed each one
Blessed my gun, and then gave lip
to the Big Guy to watch over my trip.”
The devil shrank back, eyes afire,
struggling to say on his feet.
Abner he fired five more times,
what the devil sowed he then reaped,
and fell to the ground in defeat.
His body dissolved into the snow,
His soul went screaming back to Hell.
Abner breathed a sigh, holstered the gun,
and stood their quiet for a spell.
They he walked out, heading down the hill.
Now some folks say the crash of ninety-three
was what drove folks from Aspen’s mines,
And ushered in the beginning
of the town’s long and sleepy times.
But the real story you will find
Is that the dark one roamed and destroyed
until an old cowboy took him apart,
And for decades to come he raged in Hell
about Abner Gidden, that damned upstart
who dared shoot the devil in the heart!
There one was a rich woman back
in eighteen ninety-three,
she was a well-established wife
at the age of forty,
and she had born no children
since she lost one long ago,
her husband blamed himself for that,
but neither of them could know.
They had a big country estate,
went back hundreds of years,
and all of England knew of them,
from commoners to peers,
with some of the finest gardens
that your eyes even could see,
all maintained by a teenager
who could grow up prize lilies.
Now this boy had seen sixteen years,
an orphan with no kin,
and so the lord and the lady did
try to be nice to him.
They let him live in the gatehouse,
ensured he always had food,
made sure he came to their parties
to smooth off the edges rude.
Rumors said they would adopt him
and make the boy their own,
more and more people saw the lad
inside the mighty home.
The woman could be a mother,
and the boy have real parents,
people did see, they all agreed,
that it seemed heaven-sent.
The husband was a business man,
he traveled all the time.
he liked having a protector
that he could leave behind,
believed his wife would be safe with
a strong lad there on the scene,
started spending more time away
to earn piles of the green.
It was when he was far away
that the lad did storm out,
and from the look upon his face
he wouldn’t turn around.
What had happened between the two
bobody could rightly tell,
until three short months later when
her belly began to swell.
It was then that folks realized,
began to understand,
she didn’t want a teenage son,
she’d wanted a young man
that she could use as a father
for the baby that she craved,
and she wouldn’t leave her husband,
so the young man ran away.
Folks though it would be a scandal
when her husband returned,
cuckolded within your own house,
enough to make men burn.
But it soon became clear to all
he thought the child was his,
and went around telling people
of this miraculous gift.
The husband was so jubilant,
soon by all it was known,
he and his wife had so long prayed
for children of their own.
And the man was just so happy,
you could see it in his eyes,
no one had the heart to tell him
that his wife did cheat and lie.
4/22/17
No intentions of being misleading
Could go by bleeding
Is one way of leaving
As the heart stops beating
And the lungs stop breathing
Also could be caused from exsanguination
Across a pagan nation
Could go by strangulation
Which'll cause and make abrasions
With no intentions of making a statement
Pulse rapid then slowing
Could go by overdosing
Knowing
It comes with the risk of choking
Could go
While on the road
Or in your own home
You just never know
The voices calling
On any side of the walling
Could go by falling
The outcome would be appalling
Yet enthralling
Like something never before seen, or only in a drawing
Above the Earth's layers
Could go by the might of Mother Nature
Whether your on land or in a ship as a sailor
The odds just may not go in your favor
Sooner than later
The sight of even greater danger
Among objects that are inanimate
Could go by accident
Tragic and just about as bad as it gets
Near and far from any waters with halibut
Only an earthling
Could go by burning
With zero chance of returning
Might be considered disturbing
But there are technically worse things
No guarantees
Could go by disease
Anywhere, not just by the seas
Or any trees and leaves
Whether your a kid, teen
Or ninety three
Regardless of if it involves being annointed
It's been one heck of a voyage
Could go by poison
Which could be quick or miserable and far from joysome
I'll tell you what it wouldn't taste anything like Hoisin
And like usual fingers would probably get pointed
Due to one too many mistakes
Could go up in space
On a ship or base
At a slow or rapid pace
Whether or not the pulse began to race
All of us are fallible
Could go by getting eaten by a cannibal
Or some kind of animal
Whether or not their claws are retractable
Nobodies laughing
Could go by crashing
Whether or not it's your fault, still come the sirens and lights flashing
Like they say nothing is truly everlasting
Before during or after nine
Could go due to it being my time
Which would be fine
And rather benign
Except that I need to finish this rhyme
By: Dalton Ogletree
You were born in Clermont, Queensland on December, twenty-four,
Away back circa eighteen sevn'ty-two.
Edward Jones now had a fifth child, whom his dear wife Anna bore,
Their second son and both were proud of you.
They'd migrated out from Ireland back in eighteen sixty-three
And sailed upon the good ship Beejapore.
Landing at Rockhampton harbour in the Queensland colony,
Resettling on a strange and foreign shore.
Childhood days behind you Victor you then joined the work force lad,
Assigned to a gold mining company.
In the range town of Mt Morgan you enjoyed the job you had;
A diligent and loyal employee.
You assisted the paymaster, though you left your posting when
You chose to join your countrymen at war.
For you heard the call of duty and you joined Mt Morgan men
To fight for Queen and country 'gainst the Boer.
Volunteering as a member of the gallant Q.M.I.
You proudly donned that feather in your hat.
First Contingent of B Company you waved this land good-bye,
Enrolled as British troops and went to bat.
Rebel Boers embarked on raiding farms of loyal colonists
In Griqualand west district to the north.
Counter measures were then put in place to stop these terrorists
By sending Pilcher and his column forth.
On the last day of December circa eighteen ninety-three
This force would march from Belmont heading west.
Information was forthcoming as to where the Boers could be
And Ricardo led his party which was soon put to the test.
On the first day of that New Year Victor Jones you lost your life;
They buried you at Sunnyside that eve.
Since that day the world's continued to be filled with war and strife,
So many die for what they do believe.
But the nation recognises that the first Australian
To die upon the battle field was you.
So Mt Morgan folk erected to your memory young man
A monument; the least that they could do.
In the not too distant future Victor, nations may yet see,
How precious all their young men really are.
Then refrain from sacrificing them and let the young men be,
Fine fathers to their families, not memories afar.
In eighteen hundred ninety-three,
back in those silver-mining days,
a figure walked into Aspen town,
and it was the devil they say,
come looking for new souls to take.
He didn’t look like you would think,
the first time he appeared.
He was dressed like any old cow-poke,
and spend hours in saloons drinking beer,
a rough figure, but not much to fear.
They say he spoke with some miners,
and stirred up their jealousy.
Got them so mad they burned the house
of their foreman Bud McKenzie.
That night all heard poor Bud scream.
Most folk would’ve written if off
as drunken fools losing their heads.
But in the firelight dozens saw
the devil’s face shift, and grow red,
his sick laugh filling folk with dread.
He vanished that night, and for two days
things seemed to return to form.
But then he appeared as a three-year old
in young Maggie Delgado’s arms,
and she did not seem too alarmed.
She didn’t know her baby lay dead
her body left in the woods for the crows.
The devil took her form and that morning
went everywhere Maggie would go,
‘till ‘she’ jumped down and ran in the road.
Maggie cried out and ran for ‘her,’
when a horse came riding, lickety-split
It slammed into Maggie, trampled her down,
heavy hooves ending her in a lick.
The rider looked down, and was sick.
And then in the street many did see,
Maggie’s daughter grown rather tall.
Transforming into the unknown cowboy
who had lead the foreman to his fall.
He laughed again, having a ball.
Folks started to panic, leaving town,
a few stayed and found the sherriff.
Abner Gidden was his full name
a middle-aged man of quick wits,
would not sit still and put up with this.
He went to a priest of Catholic faith,
who instructed him to God to pray.
He spent a whole day seeking advise,
while many in town fled away,
to be free of the devil’s sick games.
When Abner emerged, he headed up
the slopes of Ajax with his gun.
Spent the day searching abandoned shafts
looking for perdition’s dark son.
Then at nightfall, he found the right one...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Dad, it’s been eight years now
And still, I miss you so,
I remember the last words
You said to me, I cannot let them go.
You were always moody
Especially when you were ill,Dad, it’s been eight years now
And still, I miss you so,
I remember the last words
You said to me, I cannot let them go.
You were always moody
Especially when you were ill,
But those last words
You shouted and haunt me still.
Dearest Daddy, every day
I see your face,
Even at ninety-three,
Only faint lines gave the look of lace.
I miss you so much, Dad
More than you’ll ever know,
Yet every day I hear your voice,
And the words, that hurt me so.
I know you didn’t mean to shout,
That you were afraid of dying,
But Dad, I couldn’t believe
You were leaving, I couldn’t help, crying.
Living fifteen hundred miles away,
Life was difficult, filled with sorrow;
But remember this, my dearest Dad,
You’ll forever be my hero.
You shouted like you did in my youth,
A reminder of days gone by
I understand that moment of pain,
As only a daughter could sigh.
I’ll never forget you, Dad,
I cry myself to sleep,
The nights are so lonely,
And your haunting words, I keep.
But those last words
You shouted and haunt me still.
Dearest Daddy, every day
I see your face,
Even at ninety-three,
Only faint lines gave the look of lace.
I miss you so much, Dad
More than you’ll ever know,
Yet every day I hear your voice,
And the words, hurt me so.
I know you didn’t mean to shout,
That you were afraid of dying,
But Dad, I couldn’t believe
You were leaving, I couldn’t help, crying.
Living fifteen hundred miles away,
Life was difficult, filled with sorrow;
But remember this, my dearest Dad,
You’ll forever be my hero.
You shouted like you did in my youth,
A reminder of days gone by
I understand that moment of pain,
As only a daughter could sigh.
I’ll never forget you, Dad,
I cry myself to sleep,
The nights are so lonely,
And your haunting words, I keep.
The Alphabet Contest
Sponsor: Alfred Vassallo
A Is For Anniversary
Their love story began on April twenty-third, nineteen forty-five,
two young lovers vowed eternity before their family's eyes.
There were hard days ahead living through the Great Depression,
an economic decline, raise in unemployment through recession.
World War II came and he went off to fight for his country,
only communication was through a few letters mailed monthly.
Back home with a baby waiting for him in his lover's arms,
war had ended and he came home to protect his family from harm.
Six children within twelve years, their family was complete,
he was such a hard working white collared man only wearing pleats.
She stayed at home to raise the kids, for that was way back then,
shopping for food and doing laundry, dedicated mother til' the end.
Children grew up and off to college or a marriage of their own,
while the loving couple became grandparents, oh my how they've grown!
Fifty years flew by and they kept the same routine everyday,
ten years later came great grandchildren they were so proud to display.
A decade later we noticed a decline in his health from arthritis and old age,
she also was getting frail very slowly with each passing day.
For now it was the children's turn to take very good care of them,
falling all the time, visits is the ICU, and hospice could never prevent.
He had lived to be ninety eight, while she is now ninety three,
his time on earth had come to an end, and he was finally free.
So many fond memories survived each one thought of with many tears,
this April twenty-third, they would have been married seventy one years.
I speak to the Lord nightly in thanksgiving for their love and His mercy,
I'll whisper to the sky, “I love you Grandpa, happy seventy-first anniversary.”
Date Written: March 20, 2016
Granny’s been a worrying the neighbors, as she drives without delay.
She takes off, in her golf cart, driving one handed, waving all, good day.
Pealing out of the driveway on two wheels begins her trips, come what may.
It would truly be a great thing, if she’d at least try to look, either way!
But this is dear sweet, set in her ways, old granny; she knows she’ll be OK!
As she travels with her petal to the middle, you know to, not get in her way.
Her eyesight’s getting a smidgen dimmer; it’s been fading steadily with time.
Everyone knows to stop, as she cruises right on past, and thru the first stop sign.
By the time she hits the second block, her speed is going past thirty-nine.
That wouldn’t be so bad, if it wasn’t boldly posted, at a stately twenty-five.
She tops out rather quickly, at a little over her usually crazy forty-three.
The repair shop once, secretly put on a governor, so she’d live ninety-three, to be.
Granny loves to tinker, and is a mechanically inclined, determined, old broad.
She’s found a way to change it, to get a bit more horsepower, for her marauds.
The other day the police got right behind her, with siren, lights and all the bling.
She didn’t blink at all, since she really couldn’t see or hear a single blessed thing.
Or at least that’s the story, she gave them, when she finally got to the store.
But she had just passed, to get her new drivers license, only the week before.
Once, they impounded her cart, but to no avail, as she’d bought another by nightfall.
The next one was even quicker, after her touch of granny’s new quick over haul.
They rightly guessed, she was a telling them, she would do it more next time.
And they took away her license, but she still drove it, though it was a crime.
Her son must have been someone important, as she was finally given a daily escort.
We all laughed, as we suspicion, that was what she really wanted, from the very start.
GOD WANTED ANOTHER ANGEL
God wanted another angel in heaven at Christmas time
To sing the blessed story of the Saviour so Divine,
And so He searched the highways, the mountains, and the seas
To find that special angel to sing the song of peace.
It had to be a person who knew what caring meant,
Who knew of love for children, who tiring hours had spent,
Who didn’t have much money but shared of what she had,
And took the time to cheer one when you were feeling sad.
And as He searched, He found one, now aging past her years,
Now robbed of all life’s pleasures, and crying out with tears
That soon the long, long journey would carry her no more,
And she could sing for Jesus up there on heaven’s shore.
He’d seen her there, often suffering, as if to see that home
Where she’d no longer suffer and never more would roam.
She’d waited with such patience as two husbands took your flight
Into that precious city where there is no more night,
And as the Christmas season began to come once more,
She seemed to stare to heaven as in the days of yore
And long to be there with them, and her mom and dad to see;
The time had seemed so endless, and now, at ninety-three,
She longed to be in heaven, so homesick now she seemed
As she heard her daughter singing of the place she often dreamed.
Then quietly one evening the Saviour said, “It’s time--
It’s time to get my angel for my choir so Divine.”
His hand so calm and tender drew out her parting soul
And took her home to heaven where now she’s pure and whole.
She’ll sing in heaven’s choir this Christmas now, I know,
For she was saved and ready for the time that she would go.
I’m glad God found that angel He needed for His song,
And that He chose my grandma to join that heavenly throng.
I’ll surely miss my grandma, but her memories will live on
Until the day I join her and from this earth I’m gone.
Written in memory of my grandmother.
It had been ninety three hankering hours
since we had last spoken.
A little rift had set our bond adrift.
This pacing evening, I heard
a sudden drop in my front door mailbox.
Thinking it was the wind, I didn't respond quickly.
The sound of a shutting car door followed.
It took minutes for curiosity's reach to
cautiously retrieve an unstamped envelope
with only my name inscribed on the front.
With a careful tear of the lick trail and
the crispness of this rare letter unfolding,
my senses delighted in your unique imprint.
I could smell your sloughed skin,
with a whiff of your Old Spice cologne.
I could almost feel
your fingerprint ridges upon the edges.
Your energy weaved
throughout factory bleached fibers,
each intensely pressed midnight line
looping and riding
on a mystery journey waywardly
into my long awaited heart.
Each jagged lift and dip
likened to a pair of doves amidst their mating ritual,
playing a game of tag and chase.
I heard your tenor tone with each soothing syllable.
Your yearning sang a sonnet
of the reasons your heart stirred for me.
Flatteries lifted me on floating wings
and kept me soaring as you recalled
all our pleasant experiences and
apologized for our few misleadings.
You pleaded that we would
withstand misunderstandings
and embrace each other's differences,
connecting our opposing puzzle pieces
to frame a work of art.
I pictured the moment you
passionately placed your pen upon the page.
Perhaps you hovered over every word,
crumbling up rough drafts.
Perhaps your awakened emotions free-handedly led
your whimsical words to perfection.
Your intentions were clear and confident,
certain of what you wanted,
and I was sure,
even before your passionate persuasion,
that I wanted the same.
12-24-19