Long Ol Poems
Long Ol Poems. Below are the most popular long Ol by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ol poems by poem length and keyword.
Carmena was born in Bolivia
but left that place at seventeen,
after three years of waiting for the chance
to live out an American dream.
When her folks finally got their green cards
they moved up into old Santa Fe,
Carmena finished out her high school years
picking up on all American ways.
She’d known some English before she had come,
but her vocab expanded real quick,
immersed in the tongue every day
her accent softened and became less thick.
This helped a lot in her father’s new shop,
he bought a gas station in a franchise,
Carmena waited on all walks of life,
and the experience opened her eyes.
She’d chat with truckers and travelers
from all over the fifty great states,
lefty Californians, southern good-ol’ boys,
northern Yankees and Texans hauling steaks.
Mid-westerners who were so crazy nice,
New Yorkers who always sounded pissed off,
good-natured rednecks looking for more beer,
even some Yoopers with their funny talk.
Learned more of her new home on that roadside
then she did in any public school,
what would divide and what would unite,
but the one thing that really stuck her as cool
was that Americans, the better ones,
made everything subservient to choice.
Culture and skin, ethnicity and faith,
you had the freedom to ignore and avoid.
These facts struck her as how things should be,
had not every person a claim to these rights?
Here force of law was meant to make free
people to be the driving force in their lives.
And best of all, she heard all sides of things,
good for thought, both the grease and gourmet,
when seven years passed, and she took that oath,
she became American in so many ways.
But then something happened she didn’t expect,
it came about in an election year,
talking with her friend Sue about the vote
she was greeted with anger and fear.
Carmena was confused,"Why the harsh look?
I was just sharing the thoughts on my mind.
I believe in gun rights, and low taxes,
My father’s shop has been having a time—”
Sue interrupted,”Do you hate yourself?!
Don’t you know that you’re a Hispanic?
You’re betraying your own kind, voting this way,
colored people should vote Democratic!”
Carmena was stunned, struggled to reply,
“But I see nothing good in their beliefs.”
Sue just fumed,”You’re a damn race-traitor,
or brain-washed by fascist enemies!”
CONCLUDES IN PART II
I'm not sure how it all began,
When this soothsayer became heroic to some.
As he molded a story of greatness,
Against what our nation has now become.
Those that listened were mesmerized by his fable,
As he wove a tale of conspiracy and doubt.
Then his minions spread the veil of shadows,
To every corner with whispers they could shout.
Almost miraculously, this mirage became a leader,
Beginning a reign that some wish to forget.
But his actions won't be lost to history,
Since the aftermath lives on to regret.
Early on in his term of division, the
Tactics would erode basic trusts once held high.
Such that... we are a nation made up almost entirely of
Non-natives, yet that must stop, & he'll build a wall with lies.
Soon after, attacks were focused on the media,
As 'fake news' ran rampant in the press.
While the mouthpieces, such as, Hannity and Tucker,
Provided his message to the ignorant, more or less.
It wasn't long before this infection on credibility,
Attacked our very own intelligence community next.
Because ol' 45 would disparage the CIA & others,
Preferring Kim Jong and Putin's rhetoric and text.
Now to be fair, he did accomplish something...
A huge tax-cut that the wealthy endorsed.
So while the rich got richer, the melody sang loudly,
While the poverty of others was reinforced.
Throughout this one-term the primary focus,
Seemed to be undoing everything his predecessor had done.
Now while most of these efforts were negated,
The passionate pursuit gave himself, so much fun.
The ongoing hatred towards Obama and Hilary,
Was a constant theme in the Trump-laden White House.
Lending fuel to the fire of partisan politics, while
Staff and contemporaries posed quietly as a mouse.
The end of this pathetic term was filled with failure,
As dual impeachments and the lost election were to blame.
Followed by legal matters that consumed a nation,
As proud followers were jailed in his name.
Yet the MAGA minority spread far & wide to the horizon,
Where vocal women shamelessly sought his favor to gain.
So between Marjorie, Lauren, and Kari...
Their BDE chorus was tuned to deny any pain.
While conducting this orchestra of disaster,
A nation held hostage, sought truth in the wake.
To the point where regardless of convictions or pardons,
Our Constitution and democracy, will not be proven fake.
“i’m only happy when it rains,”
moans shirley manson when she’s backed by
butch vig & an orchestra of overdubbed
distorted guitars enhanced by sythensizers
a la trent reznor
the genius who is credited in garbage’s first album---
one doesn’t have to be a meteorologist to
think that she & her crew may be on to
something---
for the rain washes all the dirt away
the rain replenishes the earth so that it can sustain another day
when damaged endlessly by the
cruel
sun
scorching its surface & all the living things upon it
(during the spring and summer months especially, when all the idiots are
running round with nothing on & with no sunscreen, etc. to fend off
melanoma)---
the rain is what those unconventional people who
dwell in the shadows
feast on---
and who are these people?
they are the ones that choose not to smile when
everyone else does---
they are the ones that are not easily
amused---
they/we
are the ones that run out in the rainstorm &
dance naked in the cold wetness---
whipping our hair around in a rhythmic gesture
a middle finger in the air to any kind of
“creator”
that would shine its face down upon us all and
communicate
destruction with the poker face of
peace---
give us the rain when it comes
give us the floods
the hurricanes
the torrential downpour that accompanies it all
so that on the days that we aren’t struggling to swim
& struggling to float amidst the chaos
we understand how fortunate we are
to even be breathing---
so that our ever-complaining selves
die with the remnants of the wash-away
& you & i can wave goodbye to the old
selves
who thrived only for sun &
smiles
not understanding that in this pubic hair of a moment in which each of us
spend
together
on this beautiful planet
avec all the other plants & creatures who dwell with us,
that
we must savor every second
be it in sun or rain
and let it be known that the rain does so much for us
and yet is always pelted with insults & “evil” metaphor---
rain,
my friends,
is getting the bad rap---
and i don’t think i stand alone on the sideline campaigning---
there are thousands, albeit it
millions
marching for the rain to come
and keep our civilization
quenched---
news flash: without good ol’ h20 we are all dead as
doornails---
so stop worshipping the sun
&
give it up for the
rain.
I used to be an archaeologist,
and minored in paleontology,
had a job at a college and tenure,
Dr. Bascomb was what students called me.
I specialized much in the early years,
the emergence of civilization,
in summer I’d go and oversee digs,
usually at work in foreign nations.
But the strongest dig I even went on
was right here in the good ol’ USA,
we were working in South Indiana,
the repercussions echo to this day.
They’d found something buried deep in the ground,
and it had been there for millions of years,
what shocked the world, it was made of metal,
all sorts of theories ran, all sorts of weird.
It seemed to be a bunker of some sort,
with big rooms twice as tall as they should be,
and strangers still, based on the soil depth
it had been built just before the K-T!
Who was building things in the Cretaceous?
This was the question that boggled our minds,
but this way only the beginning of
the weirdness, yes, so much more did we find.
On the walls we saw strange, claw-like markings,
in a vertical pattern that was clear,
all figured it was a form or writing,
deciphering it took us two whole years.
And when people could read what was written,
the authorities clamped down rather fast,
they threatened our jobs, all our livelihoods,
but I will speak the truth of this, at last.
You see some Dinosaurs were sentients,
born of the Deinonychus family,
the ones mistakenly called ‘raptors,’
because of that damn blockbuster movie!
Anyway, if this was all that we’d found,
we would’ve said so and it would be great,
the type of find that could make a career,
something to explore and investigate.
But the real world isn’t that simple,
amidst the claw-mark writing we’d find
how advanced these dinosaurs truly were,
that they had developed a real A.I.!
In fact the writing was only up there
because the A.I. had written the words,
to make sure the truth of things would live on
despite the hellish K-T disaster.
We thought they might have seen it coming then,
that great asteroid that slammed into Earth,
maybe they had tried to hide in this place,
Tt make sure some dinos escaped the hurt.
But things got stranger as we kept reading,
see the dinos had used biology,
instead of circuits, they used DNA,
engineered organic thinking machines...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Breaking into abandoned psychiactric centers isn’t as fun as it seems.
Oh, some nights have I had.
I don’t feel too well.
I just need to let everything pour out. To come out onto the screen and paper and wall and floor and everywhere I
can transfer it to.
Once again I am sitting here alone while my roommates have all gone out to drink. Drink. Drink. College. College.
Are my children going to be disappointed to hear I wasn’t the party girl? Will they be sad that I don’t have repulsive
stories of vomiting and one night stands? Why do we do this?
Is that it? To tell our kids - to create a person - to create a personality - to construct a mask.These masks are not
colourful or flashy or expensive. These masks are plain white plaster. Whitewashed wisdom. Everyone wears this
mask. No defining characteristics. You can’t really tell if the person next to you is your closest friend or a complete
stranger
Here I sit with my eyes closed. This entire time. I did all those things and pushed myself further and further into a
sedated state that I can hardly remember.
Suffering is the best thing for an artist. Every artist was an addict. An addict of some sort. Some sort. Some sort of an
addict. Maybe that’s what I need - maybe that’s why I still do this - maybe that’s why I stay home when everyone isout
having a “good ol’ college time.”
Not a recluse. I swear.
He can’t hear me but I can hear the sludge of sounds though the telephone. I’m sitting up so as not to let my thoughts
become sluggish although they do such a thing on their own. My entire body has been injected with a cloud. It is
floating through every extremity, every vein, every cell. I lay limp and wonder how it’s possible to even do this. To
function at all.
My stomach feels empty but I know what it holds. The imagine in my mind of my insides housing some bodily fluid
and a plethora of dissolving pills. Plethora may be an understatement. Dissolving and fizzing and melting and the
thought of that the thought of that the thought of that... that makes me sick.
Dissolving in cold stagnant water. Sitting sedating. Satisfied, thouhg? I don’t know how I got here. I’ve been sitting
here the entire time but what happened between when I first took seat and this very moment.
All of you. Take off your masks.
We constantly deal with poetry which puts us in a soporific state,
we sit here apathetic to the cause of studying this beautiful art-
but Poetry’s breath Ad Nauseum about love and laments is bad for a date,
oblivious to the images, while attempting to turn the key we begin to depart.
Yet the door haunts us, novels, plays, yet poetry is the apex,
of this ethereal mystery within the maelstrom that is our mind,
alas this frustration is focused upon the conundrum of poetry being complex,
is it just a condensed novel, this Herculean Task of understanding the undefined.
There are many who deem poetry obsolete but tis rather far from its nadir,
now begins the unequivocally splendid power of the imagination-
hidden by poetry from the vituperative invader,
who’ve made an egregious mistake in deeming poetry a partial differential equation.
Imagination, oh what a beauty long forgotten in the age of reason-
we’ve been given Hobson’s choice, force fed Occam’s razor, given epitome-
yet good ol’ imagination persist like an excretion,
from the eyes of the true daughter of time, Science’s proficiency.
People assume poetry is the modern day Gordian’s Knot-
well- let us assume this is Utopia, were Imagination runs wild-
as she watches her forest, a black cat surreptitiously passes a man in thought,
startled because it is Friday the thirteenth his Triskaidekaphobia- this is all rather mild-
Just the tip of the iceberg was touched upon, just the tip-
Poetry and humanity is an oleaginous affair we mix but do not blend,
Or should we, poems are nothing more than what we put in, as if to dip-
just our toes, before we plunge head first into poems so as to apprehend.
Poetry is the Sun, as you are the flowers shined upon,
given warmth of knowledge and power if you are to just reach.
Not to let Poetry in as if to catch on-
give it back in your own form of speech.
Through your own imagination feed poetry,
It hungers for your reality, though not reality-
procrastinate not- hopefully,
for your conceptions are your sanity.
Or rather is fancy your sanity- decide,
it will affect your observation of poetry forevermore.
It will excite-
whether you believe it to or not- you will love or abhor.
Poetry is not arduous -
just do not assume there is a secret door.
In fact poetry is quite virtuous-
Seek only what you can give poetry, I do implore.
Two brothers salmon in the deep blue sea
Got the urge one day to seek some revelry.
So off they both went into the early dawn
With naught on their minds but to swim and spawn.
Up the big river with its mouth so wide,
It must be a mile from side to side.
For days and days those two fish swam
‘Til they ran smack-dab into a concrete dam!
Round and round that great grey wall
They swam, but found no help at all.
Relief came, not from heaven sent,
But sure enough from the government!
A big fish ladder with its lifts and falls
Helped those boys to skirt that wall
Into a lake with its shores so green
The two fish entered on another scene!
As if decreed by constabulary
The lake was fed by five tributaries!
“Which one to take?”, was their question then,
The answer came to the first brother Sven.
“I know where to go”, you could hear him say,
“I’ve been here before! I can find the way!”
So off Sven went, and his brother, Pete, too;
Guided by nothing but Deja Vu!
The stream they chose was swift and clean
But the rocks therein were hard and mean!
Bruised and battered Ol’ Pete said, “ENOUGH!”
“This swim-and-spawn life is just too rough!”
“Swimming all day against the stream?”
“This might be for you Sven, but it ain’t my dream!”
So he turned with the current and went with the flow,
Against his true nature, to the blue sea below.
He passed other salmon, in their eyes was a gleam,
All turning red as they struggled upstream.
Pete was red too from his tail to his face.
When he reached the blue sea, he seemed out of place.
The swimming was easy, with no current to fight,
But Pete couldn’t know of his fate nor his plight.
A flashy red Pete in the bright blue dawn
A sea lion spied him and SNAP! Pete was gone!
In the mean time, Sven kept on swimming for days;
His back out of water in the warm summer rays.
He made his way to a cool sandy brook
And spied a coy babe-fish with a cute little look.
And there on the edge of a loose gravel shoal,
They frolicked and played and fulfilled their role:
They had both done their best; standing out in a crowd.
Sven also died, but his maker is proud!
This tale has a moral, as all good tales do.
A metaphor of life, it is tried and true:
“Swimming through life is no simple feat,
Endure to the end, or end up like Pete!”
Another Tale Of Musical Madness...
It was in the early seventies...
My friend and rhythm guitar man,
Mark Trotiner, worked in a well
known musician store in NYC...
Another one of those so rare
"light up the room types"-
He played great rhythm guitar,
Couldn't play a lick of lead,
Sang proudly with an awful voice,
Was the arch-typical Hippie of the 70's,
Knew all about music and bands,
Was friend to Frank Zappa,
Blues Project men, had met Jimmy Page
and countless others, the first
of the Greenwich Village Super Hippies
All the bands knew him...
He could charm your socks off...
Swore till the day he dies,
He inspired Mark Knaufler"s
"Money For Nothing"..
And I'd long learned how
to catch a bullshooter in crap...
Listen to his story....
Wait a good amount of time,
Ask him again about it...
See what has changed...
Repeat this process about
Three times,
You're sure to expose the lie,
I did this to him repeatedly
Over the course of years,
And he passed every test...
(that story itself worthy of
a great work...someday soon...)
However, he was the core figure
In the Grateful Dead Cover Band
I was in...with his guitar player friend,
Mark "Bone" Diaz- 6 foot three,
80 pounds, curly red hair tied back...
Greatest musician I ever played with...
And another anxious singer
with no voice...
Well Mark was always meeting
musicians of various levels...
And so charming, so unassuming
he appeared to be...
He had that aura, like cousin Bill
In all my life, those two still..
Stand out with this gift...
Oh, give me a spoonful of that gift...
And what a boost in my life it would lift
Anyway, (and this happened twice...)
Hope I don't get mixed up...
It's like tossin' them ol' dice...
This band, named "Koala"
Early 70's recording band...
Invited us down, based on Mark's word,
To open a set for them..
At their Bond Street Loft...
We wound up there twice...
Were told to bring naught
but our guitars...
Their equiptment world class...
Now I'll compact these 2 stories
To make my point...
We didn't know what we had
stepped into...
Should'a never entered the joint...
First gig, just like the "Big Day Gig",
All other musicians crapped out
on us at the last minute...
And I wound up doing this job
With Billy, Mark T., a drummer,
and me..
I remember Buster outside the old post office.
He was selling newspapers but mostly just giving you a smile.
Ol Felix's tamales
Were the best ones round for miles.
And I got my first bluejeans at Bob Turner's Western Wear.
And I remember that homecoming queen, she never even knew I was there.
And Coach Childress always made me feel
Like I could someday be a man
He is a rock hewn out of granite
Always a helping hand
There wasn't a thing there that I wanted,
Not a thing that I could see,
But every thing I'd ever need in life,
Was right in front of me.
And the place I thought would bring a curse to my future hopes and dreams?
Has only been a blessing, to all my memories.
I can't go home again
I can't go back in time.
But as long as I can still remember,
I can go there in my mind
.
Walking down that dusty Coleman road I sure never thought I'd live to get this old.
Dreams in my head and a pocket full of nothing, 12 and thinking I was grown.
Never dreamed I'd miss the things that made me want to leave.
I blinked once, or maybe twice
Bluecats and Friday nights,
And then time slipped by so suddenly.
One thing is for certain,
I can't go back in time.
But as long as I can remember.
I can still go back there in my mind
.
And even if I wanted to.
I can never go back home.
Because everyone I've ever loved there is long since dead and gone.
There's just no one left to find.
Even tho my memory suffers slippage,
I can still go there in my mind.
.
And it was just the other day
I thought I heard my father call my name.
I'm afraid....
I'll forget how he sounded.
Like tracing shadows in a rain.
It's been so long but now I only hear him in my dreams.
And no matter where I've been,
And no matter where I go.
I can't go home again
It's too late to pay the toll.
Looking backward to my future
I'm running out of time
I close my eyes and dream
And go there in my mind
There wasn't a thing there that I wanted
Not a thing that I could see
But every thing I'd ever need in life
Was right in front of me
And the place I thought would bring a curse to my future hopes and dreams
Has only been a blessing, to all my memories
.
I can't go home again
I can't go back in time
But as long as I can still remember
I can go there in my mind.
There Winter Lonely Fallows Deeply Dream
Long after that ripe golden sunset gleam
Cool silvery tones, wavering light;
Then winter lonely fallows deeply dream
Into the grayish ghostliness of night.
Far off, yet looming bold and strangely near,
Within starry heavens they are aureoled,
Forested mountain-ranges far westward rear
Their high guardian towers as of old.
And lo! above their ancient stormy deeps,
In pensive grandeur, icy frozen browed,
One glorious forest summit there keeps
Transcendent vigil alone, pure and proud.
And we who see that shining symbol turn
A moment's while from its lone transient mood;
From that brief moment we clearly discern
Our lost souls within Nature's solitude.
Robert J. Lindley
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables: 160
Total # Lines: 19 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 103
https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=fallows+meaning
fal·low1
'falo/
noun
plural noun: fallows
1.
a piece of fallow or uncultivated land.
verb
3rd person present: fallows
1.
leave (land) fallow.
Origin
Old English fealgian ‘to break up land for sowing,’ of Germanic origin; related to Low German falgen .
fal·low2
'falo/
noun
plural noun: fallows
a pale brown or reddish yellow color.
Origin
Old English falu, fealu .
Translate fallows to
Use over time for: fallows
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/aureole
Aureole
noun au·re·ole \'o?r-e-?ol\
Popularity: Bottom 40% of words
Definition of aureole
1
a : a radiant light around the head or body of a representation of a sacred personage b : something resembling an aureole UNSUPPORTED CODE
2
: radiance, aura UNSUPPORTED CODE
3
: the luminous area surrounding the sun or other bright light when seen through thin cloud or mist : corona
4
: a ring-shaped zone around an igneous intrusion
aureole transitive verb
----------------------
Note- Sorry my friend- I know I promised you a sonnet on winter and Nature written today but my muse insisted on two more verses.
I learned long ago. my muse is a very vindictive beast when disobeyed.