Long Noontime Poems
Long Noontime Poems. Below are the most popular long Noontime by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Noontime poems by poem length and keyword.
Laying my head back, eyes closing,
reminiscing, the years falling away into decades ago
to the 1950s at my grandparents' grand home
for Christmas.
It was a gracious dining room.
Noontime sun streaming in.
Chair rail with deep red wallpaper, white trim.
Decorating the lace clothed "Big Table"
was a tallish 1870s porcelain Meissen fruit centerpiece
with lovers circling the stem.
Even the adults had to look around it.
Grandmother "Lil" and "Mister B"
were at their nouveau best.
All their progeny seated in good form
awaiting the traditional invocation by "Mister B".
Also seated were the ones that were to be
"seen but not heard" at our side table, the "Kids' Table."
Draped card tables for the dozen of us -
me, my brother and sisters and cousins.
Everyone all scrubbed in dresses and ties.
Mine was a clip on.
As expected, a milk glass got tipped. Spilt milk.
Besides that, we kids had great fun and
became friends again as we did each year.
The thing of it was, none of us liked
being at the "Kids' Table."
We felt lesser, unworthy, subtly so.
Even when I was ten, I knew there were
only two ways to get to the big one:
marriage or go in the army.
We all wondered what it was like to be adult.
After all, most of them smoked.
They all had drinks.
The women had figures, swishy swirls.
The men wore suits like they knew how.
At the "Big Table" they all talked like experts
about stuff we didn't understand
and they laughed loudly at Uncle Bob's jokes.
As the years moved on, things would change,
always do.
I saw virtually all my cousins
disassemble their lives too early -
marriages, divorces, addictions, lost jobs, left school -
beleaguered into inevitable submission.
My family miraculously unscathed.
But they're all gone now,
"Big Table" and little table too.
All that's left from the 50s
is my brother, sister and me.
For years, I was at the "Big Table" since my brood and I
took over the Christmas tradition.
The "Big Table" conversation was
superficial and posing was prevalent.
So one year, I put myself at the "Kids' Table." Just for fun.
Yes, milk got tipped.
But oh, the wonderment and hope. A meal that truly was
food for the soul.
Now that I'm old and looking back,
with a quiet smile, mulling it,
I kinda liked the "Kids' Table" better.
Colored pencil illustration by G.Gaul
Armadilly Billy the Sling Shot Kidster, was the Sheriff of our town.
When mangy rustlers went into action, he was wont to hunt them down.
‘The Buzzard’ and his surly gang of rustlers of epically, bad renown…
Had picked Texas and other states clean, and were on the move, NOW!
A terrible dust storm, dumped them smack dab, into our piece of territory.
The evil buzzard leader sat, now contemplating, upon the hangman’s tree.
His gang was ready to rustle, as he sat scoping out, many a nefarious deed.
Their base camp was an Old Box canyon, not far, and full of tumbleweeds.
Now, snail rustling’s a crime, so word got out, of where they’d be found.
As they’d gleaned, every single snail, grazing in all the creeks, all around.
The outlaws were expecting soon, to get away quite clean, with them all.
But the sheriff of our town, Billy was steamed, and he was standing tall.
Billy went on the move, and he meant business, if you know, what I mean.
Yep! He’s tough! He’s mean! He’s focused! His eyes were hard and lean!
While ‘The Buzzard’s’ head was bald, eyes cruel, his stance was cold as ice.
In the box canyon they’d be snail kabobs, by sundown, if Billy didn’t strike.
The snails were easy to follow, just had to follow their trail of yucky slime.
With Billy’s trusty stead Jalopy, they were at the boxed canyon by noontime.
Now, No One, and I mean NO ONE, steals, while Billy’s Sheriff in any town.
That no good, low down, Buzzard better watch out, for he’d now been found.
When Billy arrived they were loading snails into a boxcar to ship for Escargot.
The French black market in Quebec would offer a price, beyond compare so…
To bring them buzzards down, Billy’s slingshot clipped each wing and tail.
Without their feathers they couldn’t fly so they couldn’t remotely prevail.
But not without looking each one in the eye, for he was the good guy, after all.
There was neigh a feather left, as they were buzzard bait, way before nightfall.
But who can tell on a buzzard, for they don’t have much to start with, anyway.
Now they were the one’s loaded on a train set to Yuma, to prison all the way.
The moral to my story is that: Crime never EVER pays. Besides…
Snail rustling is just plain dumb! They’re so slow, that it's a pain!
To the music: The Good The Bad and the Ugly.
~
There are legends I've heard, old songs in the dark
of the old folklore tales, and the old gypsy trails,
where traveling caravans of rugged old wagons
still echo, with longing, in valleys below...
Where each treasured belonging,
was packed in a hurry
all the stories, all the worry, all the heartache would travel
all the sunshine, and the sorrow, celebrations to marvel
and dreams of tomorrow, were kept on the road....
The trail was a friend, and the loam was their home
Their needs were quite small,
They didn't expect, to be wealthy or rich.
All the riches they had, were scarce and so few...but they knew
that happiness could be the sun on your back, or a sky, wide and blue...
Not much to expect, and not even respect...
would be theirs to be owned.
As the twilight would come, under a red setting sun,
with the fragrance of loam, and the tired walk done...
they would bed under trees where the heather was strewn
they would burn a small fire, and prepare a warm meal,
with smoke in the breeze, while the whippoorwill's song
and accordion tunes, would drift by the face of the moon
On their heels was the dust, in the noontime sun
They rose with the dawn, and the gold of the past,
wearing the colorful hope of tomorrow's new task
Working wherever a meal, and dollar would come
Then moving again with their band until dusk
over, and over and over again...
Some called them tramps, or small petty thieves
But the heart of the matter, was the love of the sun,
the love of the life that came from the moon,
from the stars, and the grass, and the rust of the leaves
For those who encountered, and who gave them a chance
could learn many things by watching them dance,
and learn many things by hearing them sing,
and pay close attention to how much they knew
that fortune is something that comes from inside
It comes with the pride, of knowing what matters
The tattered, lost life of the old gypsy tribes ....
might be the saddest of stories, or loneliest song...
a song that has faded,
that has dwindled and died....
_______________________________________
5/18/12
101 in a ROW contest - 12
Sponsored by PD
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
At high noontime, the tires are burning in the streets
The sound of barking dogs is everywhere; the cats of hell smell
Like never showered rats who are locked up in death row cells
Where the air does not go through sealed windows
No, my friends, I'm not dreaming; it’s a nightmare. The sun
Is warming the pavement and the worms are coming out
En masse. The ravines are crowded with small children
That I could never imagined or seen with clear and open eyes
From such a bizarre, awkward, frantic and satanic scene
They’re talking about revolution, that sounds spooky and crazy
Because we must talk about kindness, evolution, education
Before contemplating such a magical or drastic motion
Everything is aflame. The palace is on fire and the buildings
Are red, inflamed. Oh! Yes, it is a total and capital fiasco
All of this is to show the wickedness of the vile jackals
The wild beasts which enjoy killing daughters and sons
At noon, in daylight, the malefactors have no shame to hate
Loot and burn everything they could neither imagined, nor created
And built. These werewolves come from nowhere, from the wars
Of hell, we wonder. We only know that we can't afford to live where
Vile and wild animals can easily seize the streets manu militari
For any new extenuating excuses, pretexts or fabricated reasons
Where are the technocrats and the intellectuals of the past?
A thin and weak voice coming from nowhere replied cowardly:
They are all hidden or incarcerated in coffers infested with lice
This explains why the werewolves are waltzing in the dusty streets
In mid-afternoon where high priests and high pastors walk on bridges
In ruins and normal toddlers no longer go to church. How awful, the pigs
Are well dressed, during the rainstorm, where the contaminated air
Escapes and embalms the disconcertedly distressed firmament
What misery for a group of goons who are equally surly and jubilant!
Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
This is a translation of the poem 'La Valse Des Loups-Garous'
by Hébert Logerie
He walks along the river's edge, he's kicking pebbles through the sand,
Wondering if the time has come to return to his land.
Knows not where he's going to and the past is close behind,
Can't say what he's been looking for or what he's meant to find.
Now the nighttime sky is sparkling,
There's a new day 'bout to come,
But he just prays he'll be okay
When it's all said and done.
There's mountains in the distance dressed in a morning haze,
Each step takes him closer and further from yesterdays.
He's got mem'ries in his pockets, kept from his treasure chest,
He'll go through them one by one when he gets a chance to rest.
An' the morning sky is shining
Underneath the rising sun,
But he just prays he'll be okay
When it's all said and done.
He came out from the Midwest, from a long rolling plain,
Where he once hunted buffalo in both the snow and falling rain.
He saw the country crumbling right before his very eyes,
With changes upon changes underneath the big blue sky.
An' the noontime air's now burning
Under the big yellow sun,
But he still prays he'll be okay
When it's all said and done.
He left all of his family buried in an unmarked grave,
Has wondered for many years why it was that he been saved.
They came out from the east coast in great numbers and in haste,
Took whatever they wanted to and laid it all to waste.
There's echoes on the afternoon
Of the mighty gattling gun,
Again he prays he’ll be okay
When it’s all said and done.
He looks up at a million stars, his pillow is a slab of stone,
Swears he hears his mother say “You never have walked alone”.
Through the ev’ning’s darkness he can feel the outstretched hands,
Lifting him upon the steed that’ll carry him to his land.
And it seems the final battle
Has at last been fought and won,
He’s glad he prayed he’d be okay
For it’s all said and done.
I'm a flower fairy,
And my name is Carrie,
My best friend is Barry;
All flowers, we do tend,
Sunrays, on them we send,
Make sure petals opened;
Treasure hunt when we're free,
Found silver coins shiny,
A button, lace rosy;
We heard barking one day,
A huge dog came to play,
We hid ourselves away;
A great Dane, huge he was,
'Neath our tree, he did pause,
And bared his teeth and jaws;
We hid till he was gone,
Then rushed to flowers drawn;
Tired, they stifled a yawn;
No treasure did we find,
Only an old bone shined,
We left it there resigned;
On flower beds, we slept,
Till the morning sun crept;
To our duties, we left;
Sometime around noontime,
We heard the barking chime,
And on our tree, we climbed;
Huge Hugo came running,
Sat there with eyes cunning,
We, the dog, we're shunning;
His master, Samson came,
Calling out Hugo's name,
When he went, we exclaimed!
The sun already set,
We closed flowers, upset,
All covered up in sweat!
We had to do something,
This dog was upsetting,
And flowers were dying;
Barry said, "Tie him up",
I asked, "How?" He shut up,
"We could distract him, yup";
"How long can we do that?"
So there we thought and sat,
How to make Hugo scat?
"I have an idea,
Let's make him our friend, yeah,
Our bone panacea";
Next day, we tried it out,
He came to our hideout,
We placed the bone, did shout,
"We want to be your friend,
Don't chase us, we can spend
Time playing, let's amend."
He replied with a "Woof",
Licked Barry to the roof,
No more he stayed aloof;
Thus began our friendship,
Lasting relationship,
Unending partnership;
No troubles thereafter,
Air booms with our laughter,
Happy ever after.
5th April 2023
"Write a sweet fairytale for children with a good outcome ending, i.e., nobody gets hurt" Contest
Sponsor: BJ Legros Kelley
Matsuo Basho: English translations of haiku about summer, trees, firefly, fireflies, cuckoos, rice fields, rice paddies, bush-clover, Iris, Irises, temple, temples, Japanese culture, light, daylight, lit, boat, boats.
Fireflies
turn our trees
into well-lit lodges.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A noontime firefly,
dim by daylight,
hides behind a pillar.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Firefly watching,
the tipsy boatman
rocks the boat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rising above fields of rice and barley,
the cry of the summer cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tedious life!
Plowing the rice field
back and forth...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lying in the summer grass,
discarded like a king’s robe,
the snakeskin.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The shrubby bush-clover?
How impudent
her appearance!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Glistening dew
sways without spilling
from the bush-clover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I bow low
to the venerable
rabbit-eared Iris.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rabbit-eared Iris,
pausing to chit-chat,
one joy of my journey.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rabbit-eared iris
inspires
another hokku.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rabbit-eared Iris,
admiring your reflection?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Inside Uchiyama,
unknown to outsiders,
blossoms full-bloom.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Uchiyama was a temple little-known to the outside world. In fact, uchi means “inside.”
The grass, a glossy emerald green
beneath an azure sky;
the breeze was blowing to and fro,
a noontime in July.
The birds were singing melodies
of flying in the wind;
they didn't want to go alone,
so they sought out a friend.
A little girl with flowing hair
was dancing 'round the tree;
her dress reflected rays of light
that shone among the leaves.
She clapped her hands; she clapped them twice;
she clapped her hands three times;
she then began to spin around
and jump just like the chimes.
And then two birds atop the tree
began to plummet down;
they swirled together as they traveled
toward the emerald ground.
The little girl had stopped her spin,
her arms were at her side,
until she stretched them out to let
the birds give up their glide.
They landed on her little hands,
their wings extended still;
the girl began to run to find
a place atop the hill.
As she ran up to the top,
a bird began to follow;
then all the birds soon did the same
and left their wooden hollow.
The girl, still running, birds in hand,
finally found her stop;
she slowed her feet and caught her breath
while on the mountain top.
The birds, still flying, followed suit
and tried to slow the flight,
but when they got to where she stopped,
they couldn't stop their plight.
So 'round and 'round and 'round they flew
around the little girl;
she felt a breeze begin to blow,
then she began to twirl.
She twirled and twirled and twirled until
her feet were off the ground;
she felt herself move toward the sky,
and then she looked around.
She saw the tree beneath her feet,
The oak, so far away;
she was flying with the birds,
what driving disarray!
Summer's eve is not yet here;
The time is now or none;
So fly as high as you can see,
Or else your summer's done.
She stood, staff in hand ...
Staring down at the man kneeling before her
Strands of her hair danced on the breeze like a stallion's tail
Cinnamon skin, a stunning contrast to her brilliant white riding robes
Sandals strapped in crisscross up to her knees
Toes and fingers painted to match the jewel to be given her
And a wide purple sash, marked with her family crest
A crest that many of her kin had died protecting
This ... was her moment, true
A moment she had been preparing for her entire life
Tireless hours and countless trials endured
Spent in the grooming and educational endeavors
A lifetime of the artistic, physical, and intellectual disciplines required
The extraordinary skills needed to lead a country
And she had taken it as seriously as any that had come before
It was her way ... to be the best, at everything
Now, that conviction to excellence had brought her here
And due to her father's untimely passing, much sooner than expected.
His prayer done, the priest looked up for her winking approval, then stood
Holding the simple crown in both hands, he tenderly placed it
A single wide, plain gold band, with one large Tanzanite pear, dangling
The exquisite violet-blue gem, dancing on her forehead
Shimmering like the Merelani Hills, in the bright noontime sun
The shining, resplendent symbol to all the land
Of the binding promise she thus made
To be an oasis of prosperity, benevolence, and peace for all
The fierce but compassionate ruler of the desert sands
River unto her people ...
Queen ... of the Sahara.
(The Merelani Hills are near the very small area of Tanzania where Tanzanite is found ... it has never been discovered anywhere else, and in a mining area only 7 km long and 2 km wide).