Long Outing Poems
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We’re on Fall break this week and Peter’s favorite aunt - Lita - is visiting. Lita’s a tall, slim woman (eek! A guess), in her early sixties. She’s nicely weathered and tan. I’m sure she once had Peter’s blue-black hair but now it’s mostly white and styled in a loose braid. I think she rocks the coastal grandma aesthetic with a wardrobe of mostly pale tans, whites and flats.
Peter has all kinds of stories about her - she’s a character. When Peter was 5, on Halloween, Lita pretended to sacrifice a chicken, cackling, like a witch. He was wide-eyed until she admitted she was just making fried chicken for dinner.
Lita lives on property adjacent to Peter’s parents, but hers is larger, more of a farm, where she raises chickens and grows Meyer-lemons and persimmons. This may explain why Peter slices up lemons, dips them in sugar and eats them like oranges (I shiver). Peter told me that Lita always liked fruit, which is why she bought Apple stock in 1997.
From what I’ve learned, talking to Lita, she practically raised Peter’s dad (David). Their parents had a boy before her, an older brother she doesn’t remember meeting because he drowned at a church outing when she was a toddler. Their parents, in their grief, had turned in on themselves, becoming as self-centered as gyroscopes.
They’d left Lita by herself for weeks at a time, to raise herself on a more-or-less trial-and-error basis. So, when David came along 13 years later, he became her responsibility. She started working as an auto mechanic and eventually opened a couple of shops of her own. She describes herself as more well-read than formally educated - as if knowledge had just settled on her, like dust from an old library.
“Teressa (Peter’s mom) is very curious about you,” Lita confides to me as we huddle together over venti pumpkin lattes, “Peter’s very tight-lipped where you’re concerned.”
“He is?” I ask, confused, “maybe he’s ashamed,” I venture, “or maybe he’s planning to dump me?” Lita looks amused, ”uh huh, that’s probably IT,” she agrees.
“Look! I say excitedly, pulling an envelope from my purse, “It’s my first-ever paycheck,” I beam. I make a production of opening the thing, like an Oscar envelope. “$223,” I read, shaking my head in admiration, then adding, with sincere sounding hyperbole, ”he can’t dump me NOW, I’m RICH!”
.
*
He
says
" No! "
But I say
" Let's go! "
It's my favorite
time of year again!
Let's put on our boots
fleeced lined jackets, gloves,
and head to the mountains for our
annual search for the "perfect" tree!
Every year, this one event, a family tradition...
has almost landed us in divorce court! Why, we were
almost featured in the local newspaper with a headline:
"Local Father, Wielding Hatchet, Ends A Family’s Tradition”
It's not that my husband doesn't enjoy the spirit of the season...
Perhaps it's just the memory of the times we got stuck in the
mud, while he's trudged back two miles to find the nearest phone.
Maybe he remembers another time when it slipped out of it's ropes
wiggled from the top of our car, (no place to pull over)… in a storm,….
(he had to squint through branches fanned on the windshield to see the
road..all the while, muttering language not quite jolly, no holiday spirit!)
While backseat drivers, sung "Jingle Bells", while enjoying hot chocolate…
and raving over the beauty of the season!
This year....he declares that we are getting an artificial tree!!
Ain't
Gonna
Happen!
For Paula's Contest: Traditions
Note: (Actually, if truth be known, he is a very good sport, and we usually go into Lassen National Forest, and get a permit to cut our own tree. A wonderful outing, and a fun day!)
« She must suffer to her last breath. (…) They’ll all soon be as Dead as 0-Ren Ishii. »
« That woman deserves her Revenge. And we deserve to die. »
From « Kill Bill Vol. 1 »
I
Two French girls in Paris
one aged thirteen
the other fourteen
together take wing.
The police bring them back home.
Then hand-in-hand they jump
from their seventeenth floor flat.
They leave behind a note :
« This life has nothing to offer.
What are we living for ? »
An Austrian socialist philosopher-journalist in Paris
in perfect physical health
lies down beside his terminally ailing English wife
never to wake again together
after bequeathing their papers and wealth
not to the Socialist Party
but to a Catholic charity.
He leaves behind a long love letter
his very last remember-me book.
Till death does not do us part.
A Stateless poet passes through Paris
with his Spanish putative spouse
and infant boy.
Paris casts a covetous eye on the mother.
She plans the poet’s murder
and maims her son for life.
The People’s protectors pressgang her
and daily pound the poet to pulp.
Vive ! la France ! Viva ! la Francia !
II
A lone coyote trumpets over the sakura strewn snow
A moanful flute tugs at nostalgic heartstrings
Meiko Kaji comes on with her plaintive lilt :
Urami yibushi
We’ve not long to go in this void
The still frozen air gasps through swishing slices
Spurting Strüwel-Peter blood and bones
cherry blossoms on the snow-clad parapet
struck down by the lethally-chilled sheen
of the Hattori Hanzo steel
To kill there need be no will
The will to kill resides in the sill
of the vengeful white of the eye
III
Even if we can’t stand it any longer, Lady
We’d rather not leave just yet in a hurry
Would we see the likes of this world again
Ever know what’s better than this domain
Unknown to us the slow melodious dirge
Tugs at us : stay yet a while, it whispers !
Who knows who’d be there to receive us
Yes, yes, stay yet a while, little lady !
Hum a sentimental ditty
Recall even a fated memory
Revive some moments of levity :
A friend a face an outing
A little tenderness
A tiny moment of harmony
Together in this wilderness
© T. Wignesan – Paris November 14 2007 (Rev. 2012)
From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©: T. Wignesan – Paris November 14, 2007 (Rev. 2012)
As I look out at the streets,
I feel the chains around doesn’t set me free
I don’t realize what is it burning inside,
But that’s something like a fire inside me.
I feel my adrenaline pumping, emotions pouring in
Can’t resist the suffocation around, want to flee;
Somewhere far away where I have fresh air to breathe,
Is this all because I have a fire inside me.
I decide to take some steps in the street,
Checking my skills to sceranate the perjurer, the deceive;
But then I realize, I’m lost in the crowd of chrematist,
And this sudden irritation fuels the fire inside me.
The end of the street brings me to a mall, I enter;
I feel the change of ambience is what I need,
But the sight of mates and spouses pricks me,
I cognize what I can’t share, the loneliness I live in;
Half of me is burning because of the fire inside me.
Slowly the tears of pain accumulate in the throat,
Which fails the pain of starvation to resurface,
Still I want to concentrate on my meal with certain,
But the dried up soul in me is like a furnace,
That has no control over the fire inside me.
I realize that I’m standing in the middle of nowhere,
Just wanna a take a path out of this misery;
I struggle, I suffer, I grave things on paper
Yet I find no peace, no salvation that can
Or has the power to extinguish the fire inside me.
After burning the lamp oil for the whole night,
My eyes open up to see the room filled with sunlight,
I can’t agnize when my suffering took the shape of consopition,
But in all an all I find a feeling of satisfaction has taken over me,
As if something has managed to control the fire inside me.
Now things where becoming clear for me,
As if someone has put me on a path to lead,
I gathered my dear ones and planned an outing in brief,
And left the rest on the situation to seed,
So finally I learnt the art of directing the fire inside me.
On a happy note when things were going on,
I felt the importance to appreciate the rage,
The anger, the suffocation, the demands,
Plus all the things breathing in me,
Which were nourished by patience and tolerance
Had finally taught me the lesson to control the fire inside me...
The fire inside me......... The fire inside me.........
The spouse betook monthly outing
today May 4th, 2022
to 3938B Ridge Pike,
Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426.
No more bare cupboards,
fridge, and deep freezer
since returning with more than
our share of daily bread,
plus other sundry provisions
referring to this mister, who
frightfully squawks like an old geezer,
ruler of roost,
plus the missus – ole hen pecker
nevertheless, neither of us
ain't no spring chicken
being locked within crosshairs
constituting elderly stage,
she doth dread
feeling like a charity case
swallows her pride,
cuz ample carload for us,
alleviating this bum searching
for crumbs to tweezer,
thus raw bits of powdermilk biscuits,
I need not scavenge, scrape, scrounge...
substantial commestibles
allows poet taster to breathe easy
inadequately satiates the missus,
(whose Godzilla appetite) defies
(cole) laws of nature to beef fed
predominantly healthy food,
that weighted our automobile like a led
zeppelin choking, intermittently
kickstarting, sputtering... along,
asper in (faux wheel) drive wheezer
putting utmost pressure
borne by taxing groovy tire tread.
Once mission (not so impossible,
but blessed relief) complete, I did aim
upon returning where we live
to acknowledge gratitude and claim
salvation for charitable deeds,
yours truly doth exclaim,
these volunteers, none I know by name,
nonetheless, a hearty poetic L'Chaim
afforded folks, who commandeer,
confidently coordinate quite efficient process
despite minor lament regarding
heavy toll stressing bulwark
quaking chassis, ripsnorting driveshaft,
shimmying entire automobile frame...,
hence no matter
our exhausted 2009 Hyundai Sonata
puttered along somewhat lame,
kudos to dedicated good samaritans,
worth their weight in gold to tame
hungrily growling, noisily rumbling tummies.
Healthy choices allow, enabled,
and provided us to secure provender
eases glum countenance of this clown
gratuity finds me bowing down
paying metrical obeisance
versus depleting meager monies
engendering botox frown
nipping in bud
forestalling need going
to preferred market such as
Aldi, LIDL, Redner's, Target
or Trader Joe's grocery shopping
to the nearest town.
VIRGIN OF BOIS de BOULOGNE (Monsieur L'Vampyre)
Grace of the son of man, though gone from me
still shines a beacon, far as I can see,
and of the sins for which I pay
all unforgiven, and will stay,
My greatest curse is what should never be.
What good is love if not to have and hold,
to help a soul through never growing old;
Though Jesus set my path aglow
it's just for me to see, and know;
I've made my way, as sure as His was sold.
I'd planned an outing void of common sight,
Bois de Boulogne, my forest of delight,
but lacking in some company
I dressed the manner I should be
if invitation came to spend the night.
I really make no effort that I be
so strayed in conversation, but, you see,
it pains my heart to talk of her
my love was lost, be as it were,
to all she was, once love had set her free.
My world serene, and Paris coming to
an evening light, all deep and dark and blue
I watched the setting of the sun
as daytime came to be undone,
but felt not quite alone in what I do.
Do you know when you get a pleasant thought
that just perhaps there's someone there--you're not
alone in moments you have found
but there must be someone around
who's sharing every joy the minute's brought?
So when I turned, she had a pleasant smile
my thought was to enjoy it for a while,
all dressed in lace and yellow bows
and blue pastel, and heaven knows
the sight of her gave quiver to my style.
Have you not ever seen a mademoiselle
whose beauty's far beyond what words can tell,
who brings the trembling to your chin,
and just to look on her's a sin?
That's who my poor eyes came to know so well!
Epitomizing all virginity,
and begging for the very breath of me;
I knew she'd leave to other ways,
that's how love is, it never stays,
but all she wanted was the man I be!
Anticipation glowed deep in her eyes;
she lent to me her touch, her lips, her thighs,
and though I had the power there,
for stopping time, if I should care,
to keep her safe from time, and how it flies,
I never set my teeth onto her skin,
nor cut her neck, nor pressed them in,
full knowing she would never be,
just as she was, that way for me,
not keeping her that way's my greatest sin.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet.
11/27/2013
There is an important difference
between being accessible
and becoming more engaging,
engaged,
engage-able.
To access support and resources
for health care giving
and wealth care resourceful receiving
is not nutritionally sufficient to resiliently
resonantly engage
As non-violent access
to absence of rage
is not peace enough to fully engage
So too,
access to eternal love,
timeless truths,
polypathic wise ways
and polynomially balancing bilateral means
does not, for most of us,
fully engage with Earth's cooperative interior voices
speaking and listening,
widening and deepening,
outing and in-ing,
outside and inside
Yang and Yin
ego and eco-sourcing
resourcing
pre-sourcing
un-sourcing
anti-sourcing
revolutionary engagement
evolutionary source enabling
health-wealth access
with every day
every body
every thing
every relationship
multi-dependently embracing.
Access to bicameral deductive thought
and inductive feelings of interdependent resourcefulness
and isolating despair,
as outlined by ethologist Julian Jaynes,
and all textures and hues and cries between
Mother's warm wet womb
and YangHere with YinNow
Is not resiliently sufficient
to resonantly engage bilaterally resilient co-investments,
as taught by Edward De Bono.
Just as access to a lover
is not necessarily sufficient
to fully engage those thoughts and feelings yet unknown,
undisclosed
for lack of trust
we will be GoldenRule treated
by healthy wealth of compassioning WinWin care,
Aware
of interdependent relational space,
accessible to sight,
but also inter-related time,
engaged through deep listening
networks of interdependent historical and cultural causes
evolving toward this engaging ego with eco-effect
for healing and toxic causes yet to follow
through future inaccessible regenerations
We actively hope will be at least as health engaged
as is true
and trusted
with and for
and of Earth's interdependent inevitable moments,
YangHere further accessing
YinFlow past through future
engaging Now
Ego EcoSourcing,
CoPassions multi-laterally Here,
personal space ecopolitically engaging
relentless public/private health care time.
In a vehicle, once more this month. Though not going as far as the palm trees, my stomach’s lurching left and right. The baby’s alright! He coos from time to time as we weave through lovely soil and vines. My cousin with his bawdy jokes, his wife with eyes like gears, up to the roof of the party van. The pulley of emotions in full range, the laughter and tunes fogging up the window panes.
We’ve been here before, though time changes the “whos.” Dad’s still with us and enjoying beers and grins with the menfolk. Still, I find I stick by his side. This has been so, since Mom died. There is a rhythm and flow to this.
We head up into the mountains of Georgia. I can’t tell you where we’ve been except for the one sign I see out the window. It says “White County” and “Courthouse Museum.” That two-tone image, a bit scary!
Bumping along, drinking soda; and polka, the choice of my Dyngus Day-relations. Holding onto my tummy, closing my eyes on this first leg.
The sight of vines, pruned and neat. Almost to our first stop. Let me out…let me out. Makes us want to shout. The driver of the vehicle is not a stranger. My brother-in-law’s a limo driver. Picks up some big names, but of that part of his life, we can’t participate…who cares. We hear a few stories. How sweet he is to drive us to wine country. Aren’t we the lucky ones. Bulbs still flash to take numerous pics and yes, many get posted, but the paparazzi cares not to follow us.
The loveliness of the day, like bulbous and sweet grapes, picked and prepared to meet our sips, to toast our happiness. This outside venue takes us away on a mini vacation, a treasure to share with our relations.
Snack trays arrive along with red and white. This mini jar of honey, divine, tastes sweet as sugar. We have crackers, meats, even a green-tinted cheese, could be coniferous…
All those sparkling glasses like a family circle, filled, sipped. Later, we do it again, at another vineyard, sitting in wooden chairs next to a woodpile. It is lovely there, as well. All in all, we were out for nearly twelve hours, and there was more, much more time spent.
Thankfulness for this family outing. A sweet memory that will last.
I hated it at times, it could be so annoying.
It meant we were always waiting dinners
and you hoped when you were out she wouldn’t
see anyone she knew because that was sure to add another
half hour or so to the outing. It meant every where she went she was l a t e.
More than once I had called the hospital worried she had a wreck
However, it also meant that there was always a smile,
a kind word and encouragement ready at all times.
She could be loud and boisterous and enthusiastic about life...she loved people.
It’s different now. I see her in the lobby and go to sit by her,
her head is down, propped by her hand. I sit beside her, nothing.
I rub her back, nothing; I talk to her, nothing.
I jostle harder, talk louder and she comes to life.
Life, do you still call it life when it has evaporated,
slowly faded away into the bare minimum of existence
She used to babble a nonsensical jargon that she herself could not reason.
You had to train yourself not to look away while she was talking because
whether anyone understood the gibberish of irrational thought
that somewhere connected to voice she did understand rudeness
and impatience and you could read the sting in her eyes.
I want words so badly now. Questions that beg answers,
words so scarcely uttered.
Nursery rhymes started by me that she may join in,
mostly wrong words but the rhythm still there.
She loved to have her hair combed so I do it now
but it brings no response of comfort or liking.
I bring something she enjoys eating but she does not reach for it.
I touch it to her hand but she does not grasp.
I put it to her lips and soon she opens and eats.
Does she know what it is? Does it taste good to her.
I cannot read the expression but she will eat if I feed them to her.
I start putting them to her fingers and she eats
Time goes on. When do you leave?
Nothing really changes from beginning to end.
Do you watch the clock and leave after the time allotted.
I don’t know. I still have this need to fix it.
She’s my sister, she’s too young, make it stop, give her back.
I leave her with her strangers as I’ve now become.
She’s always with strangers
January 17th, 2020, a moost memorable outing at Collegeville Diner
A hardy acknowledgement yessiree
to the blessed sister Amelie worthy
of such beloved, devoted,
feted husband Rich truly
bestowed predicated upon
random chain of events
i.e., accidental, biological,
and genealogical happenstance prithee
applauding, apprising, and appraising key
kith and kin flavoring, enlightening,
and charming every
life ye and said spouse...
chance circumstance doth avail
your lucky charms to recipients receive detail
impossible mission to annotate here,
nonetheless with gusto courtesy
gratitude yours truly does exhale
regarding unconditional loving
creatures great and small
unbridled zeal without fail
truevalue analogous, yet exceeding
fine spun gold woolworth paltry holy grail,
nor can infinite wordsworth express hale
low, and brotherly love,
(equals at the least $20.00)
an introspective male
i.e. me, whose recent keen awareness
of vital specialness doth prevail
when a little boy quivering
scared as baby quail
his older sister genuinely
ranked high on importance scale
emotionally caring despite many travail
experienced by prodigal son
of Boyce and Harriet,
who frequently if not always did veil
steaming, roiling, quaking...
blubbering like a whale
Ahab oft times admit floundering chick
hen daring to venture metaphorical
unfamiliar muddy waters
unlike legendary Moby Dick
thrashing restless legs vainly kick
starting how to live think
lost at figurative sea
with nary an iota
abandoning ship lick
kitty split never trying
to overcome self doubt
when chased, teased and easily
trounced by bullies quick
as greased lightning
to cower on all fours
calling out for Ranger Rick
(or other unsung hero),
whose highlighted schtick
nowhere in sight, thus I got treated
analogous as some cheap trick
praying for salvation,
ye thence fended off beastie boys
(poetic liberty I take)
as veritable hooligans
threatened with wick
cud lee to thrash hide of
Matthew Scott imposing arbitrary
eminent domain despite
supposedly safe sanctified bailiwick.