Long Oldest Poems
Long Oldest Poems. Below are the most popular long Oldest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Oldest poems by poem length and keyword.
Soft spoken like Charmin
The earth is down to you
You'd sacrifice the clothes off your body
in a winter storm
Forever putting yourself out of the photo
Loyal to snakes
Spearhead in your spine
future bright as a lit billboard at 2 a.m.
all for $2000
Now you live among rapists, murderers
talking only within
Came out of the closet to me
and strictly me
Regret fills lungs like butterflies
My oldest friend
Dreamt of being a pioneer
We sucked ideas from each others brain
World conquerors together
Helped Mrs. Stalworth with 1000 groceries
Taught the slow boy to double knot
This is not your destiny
You befriended me when I was fresh meat
Orchestrating fundraisers in our minuscule community
Catching game winning TD’s
Unstoppable on the field
Nicknamed sticky hands on the gridiron
Now off it too
What changed, pal?
Times get rocky
you taught me that
Why can’t you take your own advice?
Frustration boils like magma
Secrets deteriorate a person
like battery acid
Why didn't you confide in me?
Heroin destroys like tornados
My heart full of glass and impotence
I could have helped you, brother
I'm sorry I let you fall
off that never ending cliff
The correlation between the bull and its southern identity,
most likely gives significance to its “calf land” description.
The labour room where renaissance was born
and historically grown through Michelangelo, Donatello, Da Vinci and others.
Finds great contentment in the treasury of the family.
Its empire once hitting heights way beyond the white mountains,
from Portugal to Syria and from Britain to the North African deserts;
while in possession of a language with more Latin words than any other.
It is a bird in constant carriage of two small chicks
while one is distant in the oldest continuous constitution,
the other stands apart in locking its city Gates at night.
The contributions of two major pillars out of so many
in the awesome support of the eighteenth century enlightenment
arguably equates the international influence of its “Three fountains”.
It has great command in the language of music
as the first global operas were composed in its sitting room.
From the Sardinian islands to the spectacle of the leaning tower of prisa,
this world nation with a significant portion
of its economic power rested on the dealings of mafias
is home to ‘A’ grade designers and highly rated sport automobiles.
The birth place of Galileo Galilei and Carlo Collodi,
engaging in unsaid romance with its own wolf;
making leisure a charismatic ritual through the evening stroll
and enjoying the biggest holiday in Christmas to Epiphany
is this land with more masterpieces than any other in the planet
and having the largest tertiary institution in its continent.
The Highland Princess
Sails again
Its captain and dove
To the Mediterranean
Now so much in love
To an island they go
To celebrate their engagement
For their love truly flows
This archipelago of seven
In this sea of blue
Aboard our babe
As we enjoy the views
Marina we berth
Settle in for the night
For tomorrow, our interests
Its historic sights
Early start
To the blue lagoon
For in the evening
We will love in tune
History surrounds
Every where we go
In its harbours and towns
Evidence shows
This island of class
With it's World Heritage sights
The Megalithic Temples
Still stand upright
These icons of age
To this island their worth
They are the oldest free standing structures
On this planet Earth
As the evening draws in
We head back to our yacht
To absorb our day
And what Malta has taught
Dinner and drinks
As we settle down
In comfy pose
Naked, but gowned
I take the hand
Of my golden dove
As we know in our eyes
Our evening of love
To our cabin we go
As our gowns are thrown
This captain and dove
Whose love keeps growing
Naked we fall
On our heavenly bed
Spooned together
To be sexually fed
Our bodies merge
As i grow inside
This gyrating two
Flowing with the tide
As i caress my dove
Her body and breasts
Nibbling her nape
In wanting zest
Our souls release
Potion so pure
Our bonding engagement
For future, sure
In the morning we awake
To the sounds of life
On our next voyage
She will be my wife
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love2.php
The Old Rusty Gate
Old rusty gate stands as guard without fear,
sightly slant at the back of my garden.
Blue bell creeper leans on as iits barden.
But it serves faithful since long thirty years.
Great watchman dutiful not yet broken.
Through day and night it acts as sentinel.
Perch for bird: Path for running squirrel.
It raises harsh cracking sound when opened.
Otherwise no complaint: Perfect watchman
I feel nostalgic and can't change the gate,
though visitors to garden get upset.
My oldest companion: I'm lts fan.
Old gate has captured thick reddish brown rust.
But it is still robust sturdy and strong
serving me sincere since thirty years long.
Struggling with time looses lustre, draws dust.
I am calling mason this afternoon
The gate will be repaired with new fresh look,
standing proud guarding garden at back nook.
To be painted and polished very soon.
07/10/22
Fourth place
Choose one of five
Contest by Joseph May
Title chosen The Old Rusty Gate
A Brian Strand Premier Choice
Contest by Brian Strand.
A cacophony of cats in my life.
Not one or two, but fifteen!
Each,who along with joy,
brought sadness and strife!
All shapes and sizes with grand
and most loving personalities.
The Maine Koone was the smallest
of all.
Maxine was pedigreed and came
home as a present for my daughter
as a surprise, one fall.
My oldest cat,Luvey,lived to be
a sprightly twenty years old!
A tortoiseshell petite cat,fun and
a loving, furry,cloud to hold.
Kelly came next, a handsome red tabby.
A happy, mellow fellow who pranced
with such grace!
He really was happy and snazzy.
Lucey came later, a Ragdoll prize of a cat,
about to be put down!
I fought and won to stop her date with an
imminent death showdown!
I have 15 wooden boxes that have their
cremains..
Each box carved, beloved,and my
housecoat with lost cat tear stains.
I fed them fluids by IV,medications food,
on a special stand.
And countless nights in emergency vet
rooms, wringing my hopeless hands.
My last cat, Luvey lost her ability to see
and walk.
I placed her in a wheelchair and moved
her about.
For I am not one when faced with a challenge,
to balk!
I can't list all their names of how
fun and charming they were.
Just know, that I think of myself as a cat..
Minus the fur!
.........................................
* I do know how to spell the correct name of the
word after breed. It comes out as Maine ****.
Sorry I was unable to use the correct spelling.
She was a regal cat, deserving of her correct
breed name and feline heritage.
October 7,2019
9:30am PST
Animal: cat
A Rhyme About Your Favorite Pet
Regina Riddle
J-ust wait for a new dawn,
O-n October seventh day;
A-llow the morn to break,
N-ightfall will fade away.
L-et's wait for a new dawn,
A-llow the dusk to pass;
C-oldest chill will be over,
A-s the twilight won't last.
S-o wait for a new dawn
T-o welcome the morrow;
E-ventide will walk out,
S-ee the loss of the shadow.
A-s you wait for a new dawn,
N-egative thoughts are gone;
T-housand thrill is brought,
O-pen sky shares the
S-un.
C-ome and wait for a new dawn,
A-nother birthday will shine;
L-et the light up above
I-llumine your life to be fine.
N-ever close both your eyes, expecting not to be alone;
G-ray clouds will disappear, just wait for a new dawn.
With Bated Breath
Walking up the winding path
inside the cemetery where my family is buried;
the path leads me through the oldest parts, and I recall
haunted stories of childhood.
Breathless, I walk faster and whisper a prayer;
another turn, then another, oh am I lost!
Turning around in circles- I see through trees the sun;
even the hushed angels sigh for me as quickly I walk
down a path familiar- finding my family tomb.
Butterflies dance and twirl, and
reaching branches of willows drape the stone;
everything is still and quiet, even though birds sing, oh
a red rose in my hand is now wilted dead;
the words engraved I now read with bated breath, I remember
happy blissful memories and sadly, too soon deaths.
___________________________
August 21, 2019
Poetry/Acrostic/With Bated Breath
Copyright Protected ID, 19-1199-040-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to FGI Blog Series 6 - Acrostic
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
I’m busy as a bus.
Ten hours on the telephone, research resources,
school staff, counsel clients.
Some sleep.
Then invite Lorraine downtown, the lovely loyal
secretary, to hear jammin jazz crew. By taxi tonight,
sans subway.
I’ve never been to this joint before
but admire the women in their dresses and makeup.
In New York, they smell wild. Elsewhere
women are ranchers and gardeners.
We find a small table in the crowd,
order drinks. The band is four young black men.
Lorraine is black too, by the by.
We get up to dance and I leave my cowboy boots
under the table. I’ve always enjoyed
the way Lorraine puts her arms around me.
I’m the oldest cat in the club
which is frightening
since just fifteen years ago I was the youngest.
I wink at the trumpet player with my fairly abandoned mien
who comes over to our table between sets.
He likes Lorraine. They jukebox it.
She falls in love.
Growing up, they said that she was our 'half' sister. They also said that our father was not her 'real' father.
Somehow, I never saw anything 'step' about him toward her. No matter how hard I tried, I could see nothing 'half' about her.
She was the oldest of 8 sisters and four brothers. Our father, her 'step' father, married our mother when our 'half' sister was just a toddler. Moreover, he also took in our grandmother. In addition to the 12 of us, there was also our dog name Jack. There was mother and grandma who was our mother's mother. And then, there was our father, the man they called 'her step father'.
As I was growing up, I always thought that there was something really wrong about our father. He was very hard and angry. I had little appreciation for him. That is, until some of my 'whole' sisters shared some great things about him that I had not considered. Even before that eye-opening experience, those years that I had bad feelings about him, his love toward our 'half' sister was never in question. I never saw him as a 'step' father to our oldest sister, because I never saw him treat her any different.
When I do the math and add it all up, I guess what I'm saying is that my father was far more than 'a step' to my 'half' sister, and my 'half' sister was more than 'a half' to me. It takes two pints to make a quart; four quarts to make a gallon; two 'halves' to make a whole. I shall never understand how one 'half' of a sister was never 'half' but always a whole to me.
093020PS
Before the looms of humankind were strung,
July had learnt the tincturing of light:
She steeped the dawn where amber thrushes sung,
Then wrung the west with mulberry at night;
The heavens, twisted in her verdant hand,
Unfurled like banners no two winds had planned.
She coaxed the rain to bruise the lilies blue,
Persuaded clover into greener vows,
And bade the scarlet poppy wander through
The sober linen of the meadow's brows;
Even the brook came home with colours caught
From secret blossoms no eye ever sought.
The butterflies wore garments yet still warm
From Nature's silent vat of bloom and breeze;
Each dragonfly rehearsed a brighter form,
As though the sunlight flowered into bees;
No hue was idle: every shade had grown
By patient covenants the roots had known.
Children, laughing, knotted cotton white
With fingers stained by happiness alone,
Believing they invented such delight—
While July smiled, content to leave unknown
That every spiral blooming on their sleeves
Had first been practised by the summer leaves.
Then evening loosed one final length of sky,
Still damp with saffron, indigo and flame;
The stars emerged where deeper pigments lie,
Each one remembering its forgotten name;
And I perceived all colour, wild and free,
Was Heaven's oldest form of memory.