Long Overlooks Poems
Long Overlooks Poems. Below are the most popular long Overlooks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Overlooks poems by poem length and keyword.
I like reminders, so I email my husband every day from work:
Remind me to bring chili tomorrow, wear a silly hat on Tuesday, bring a baby shower card on Thursday.
The dog’s appointment is at 9. Please give the cat his pill at 11.
This amuses me, because it was not always this way.
As a matter of fact, the first few years of marriage,
Actually, the first thirty years of marriage,
He did not even make his own sandwich; I had no idea he could.
Now he’s the only one the grandchildren will allow to let make their omelets.
“No thanks, Grandma,” they’ll say. “We’ll wait for grandpa.”
“He’s in Topeka, it’ll be two hours.” They nod. “That’s okay.”
My husband has become the perfect husband after a few years of me
Figuring out that it was okay to let go and stop doing things I hated doing.
I have stopped dusting, cleaning, and cooking, and we have others do the mowing now.
It’d be easier if I wasn’t perpetually planting trees, bushes, and flower gardens, but
I get a perverted pleasure in seeing how long it takes them to go around all my mazes.
We had a cleaning person, but we let her go because we didn’t think we should pay someone
Twice as much as I make at work, especially when she pretend cleans with one hand, a perpetual cell phone in the other.
What little cleaning I do is angry cleaning, in a furious frenzy, and I have to invite company to spend the night, in order to inspire me to do that.
I invite company two times a year, and I’m in a horrible, mean mood as I’m cleaning for them.
My man overlooks this big, bad, awful side.
He has become the perfect man for me.
In actuality, he always was.
Its sundown, the day’s been reduced to a crack of lavender and fiery pinks along the Massif des Maures mountains. This evening we’re sipping cocktails at “Les Toits,” the Hôtel de Paris’ rooftop restaurant. The French would call this a lounge.
Les toits translates as ‘the roofs’ and its stunning view overlooks the provincial rooftops that slope down the foothills to the gulf of Saint-Tropez and it’s world-famous beaches. The well lit boats are settling down and dropping anchor for the night as we complete our orders and get our second round of drinks.
This has been the best vacation. I think we’ve all reclaimed our calm after a tense freshman year. We’ve been at the beach for 10 days. Leong and Sunny are actually tan, Lisa and my hair are half a tone lighter and Bili’s black skin has taken on gorgeous, purple-ish highlights.
I’ve known Lisa now for ten months, but we share a deep connection that seems older. Lisa’s lovely, brazen, and naturally flashy, without trying. Unfortunately, though, Lisa draws men like a keig-light draws moths - whether she’s looking for them or not - I don’t envy her that. Young men, middle aged men, old men.
Lisa said it started when she was 13. She’d be in a store or restaurant with her mom or dad and a lady would introduce herself, “Hi, I’m with the Ford, or Elite, or IMG, or DNA modeling agency, has your daughter done any modeling?” And another business card would be wasted. Her mom nodded as she recalled this sordid past.
Attention just shifts to her, the party comes to her, she can’t seem to avoid it. About every 30 minutes some man comes over and introduces himself to us (to her). This man owns a local night club, would we (she) be his guest? (He’s looking at her like desert) This guy owns a yacht - “that one, there,” he points it out, in his Russian oligarch voice - he clicks a fob on his keychain and the lights blink. Oh, sure, join a strange foreign man on his yacht, what could go wrong?
There are 8 of us girls at the table with Charles, our escort and confidant. He’s a 50-ish, red headed ex-NYC-cop who just sits there quietly and sips his drink like James Bond. He seldom says anything. I lean in to him and say, “Maybe they think you're her pimp?!” Leong coughs in her drink and Charles gives me the same, serious, “behave yourself” look I’ve gotten since I was 9.
The four-year-old child became excited when the sky turned pink.
She began pointing to the mountain top which made us think.
She was actually seeing the white dragon of whom she spoke.
We were intrigued, but a bit scared, being simple folk.
White conch shell dragon, she said, look at his wings!
How did she know it was a he? Was she not imagining things?
Let’s go talk to him, she suggested, sure of herself of course.
We led her over there on her steed, a small miniature horse.
She spoke at length, and answered for the dragon too.
Telling us his name was Arthur Upright MaCoo.
He overlooks the valley and keeps the cows safe, she said.
Bringing a mystical pink to help look over this homestead.
Why did he choose us? We asked the child, wondering so.
He loves the valley, the farm, and the way you two glow.
We glow? We looked at each other and smiled so big.
And he likes the dog, the cats, the duck and our pig.
We felt cherished now, beloved in a whole new way.
What our child had related simply made our day.
So when the sky turns pink, we say hello to Arthur MaCoo.
We feel cherished, honored and loved. Now, wouldn’t you?
There's still light down this glistening black road,
a path to travel with the moon shining by my side.
Much like my own way, for some time greatly shadowed -
and yet something shows the way for this quiet ride.
The steadfast celestial guardian ever watches me,
even when its face is hidden by time's flow.
'Twould be the only light by which I could see,
if not for the headlights' soft glow.
Pensiveness seems to be the rule of the drive -
sound is muffled, like it's not allowed entry
on these heavy thoughts through which I strive;
that silver disc, as ever, a silent sentry.
That sound tires make on a road that's just seen rain,
the tiny taps of the drizzle dampening the way.
The red lights in the distance, now moving to a new lane,
the dawn coming far off, yet heralding another day.
The weight of the past in the passenger seat,
showing different faces from my history.
I wonder as I see one in particular on repeat -
when you're alone, do you think of me?
This way comes the inexorable march of that dawn,
and still night's orb watches as I'm vexed by she.
A grey sky overlooks, as one query I yet dwell upon -
when you're alone, do you think of me?
I shake my head as if to dislodge these thoughts,
eager to continue this drive's long quest.
If that's to outrun, or untie, these kind of knots,
I still as of yet cannot truly attest.
Near my home, small town West Virginia,
beside the roadside marked by historical sign,
is a simple nature area, Raven Park,
an Edgar Allan Poe memorial shrine.
Uphill, a stately mansion, overlooks the valley;
estate boundaries used to touch the river,
home of early, wealthy town settlers,
before times changed, divided into slivers
all the large, gracious property tracts.
Here, it is said, Poe visited years before the war,
and spent time visiting the family,
heard the raven quoting, "Nevermore."
In an upstairs bedroom, dark of night,
Poe had his famous poetic vision,
dark raven visitation, prophetic dissertation,
and realized with blackened reason
that from the spell and darkened shadow
there would never be freedom from beautiful Lenore.
Still today, we quote his song of passion
and tell the legendary love forevermore.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, September 22, 2014
If I suffer from an affliction
If I stutter
If my grammar is gutteral
If the words I utter
Failed English at School
Sorry I am not cool
Pity me or the fool
Who uses education as tool
To dismiss what I write
Because it is not spelt or gramatically correct
As you supersede the common collective
Consciousness up for discussion
My feeble poem tried to address
Your disregarding says it best
Speaks volumes
Look at me
Mother Superior
Administrator of the Interior
Sub Editor for closed book's
That overlooks
And overseas
Conservative committees
In self righteous sicophantic indignation
No correlation can unearth
Or has no worth
For the meek
Who seek
To interject
Blazers and Ties
Ivy institutions for fear of exclusion
Poison classes wood trenches
Desks protect from xenophobic zeitgeists
That conform to questioning
God starts to pour words into the mind
Which is the start of inspiration, I find
And in the mix things start to grind
The intentions, inspiration in our mind's God-lined
And the turning into all that's combined
Then God pours into the batter freewill
Every nuance, introspection, subtlety and thrill
All whisked together, the grist for the mill
And it all mixes rapidly and yet still
There's no machinery, no A.I. to ink out our quill
[Non sequitur]
So what happened to all the notebooks
The fragments and familiar phrases, lines and hooks?
And why wasn't credit given when someone overlooks
Where the black and white is found? not in babbling brooks
But in obscurity you'll find hiding the crooks
A woman gives birth to a new life.
She is not just a 'woman'
But also a mother, a companion, a spouse,
A sister and, a survivor to the end.
We never value her, respect her
Ask her concerns and care for her
We never wipe away her tears,
As they are imperceptible as air.
She works, cooks and cleans
She chuckles, helps comfort,
Yet, she never complains
And shrouds her agony.
At the point when you battle in your life
She helps to get you through
This is HER and what do we do?
Grumble and make a wreck
Give her pressure,
And leave her feeling discouraged.
We push her away
And overlook her exhortation
Reveal to her she isn't anything
Without a man
She was assaulted, tormented
And mishandled by the world
Told her she is nothing
And would be continuously utilized
Only for joy and pleasure
She bites the bullet, puts her sentiments aside
Does as you need altogether for you to be free
Overlooks your obliviousness
And endures your blemishes
You call her a scraper and vagrant
You call her with slang names
But she answers with satisfaction and pride
With a total loss of self
You call her nothing
But I call her solid, keen, erotic, mindful
Yet giving, enduring, lenient and amazing
And I call her WOMAN!
I have been a member of The Soup for over 10yrs now and have seen poets the I have come to love and respect disappear one by one, for reasons I do not know. I know there are many reasons of us losing our great poets, But I find it sad just the same. So I decided to make songs from some of their poems in Honor and Appreciation of having them as friends and fellow Poets.
The First Tribute is to the very talented
Robert Andrew Lyle
In The Poem titled:
Homesick
From the Faughan river valley
To Binevenaghs mighty brow
I love these roads to travel
Wish I could tread them now
To in an instant be propelled
Landing on that grassy slope
That overlooks Magilligan strand
Would be my greatest hope
To take the road to Donnybrewer
And walk down by the Foyle
To see the fields of Kerrs Pinks
Where my father used to toil
To listen to the Corncrake call
As it hides in the long hay
How many happy times were spent
Trying to glimpse her on my way
When you’ve walked up Kilnappy brae
You’ll hear your legs complain
Saying don’t you ever try to
Bring us up this way again
The walking up can wear us out
But when we turn around
The view that lays before us
Will never fail to us astound
The beauty of the patchwork quilt
Of fields enclosed with stone
The distant hills of Donegal
That was my parents’ home
I miss not just the countryside
My family I miss dear
Many times I’ve spent just wishing
I was there or they were here
Copyright © Robert Andrew Lyle | Year Posted 2014
The crescent moon overlooks
The pink taffy sky as it melds
With the grey mist that rises
From the creeks and gently rolling hills
I read a long time ago
To avoid criticism one should
Say nothing, do nothing, be nothing
But even in doing that one gets criticised
Many politicians say a lot
Buttering everyones' toast
But when it comes down
To doing anything worthwhile
They are like a phantom, ghost, or apparition
That disappears at first light or close observation
They have to hide in shadows
So that their half-truths, lies, straddling of the fence is not found out
So how can we learn from this
What can we do with our lives
What can we be, say, write
If we say, be, write then can we
Follow through with action
Moon is getting fainter just a bare
Silver almost hair
Against the very gray-blue sky that mixed
With the mist of the earth two have combined
Seemingly forming one body
Duty has called me from the carefree moments
That exist out on the porch as the roosters begin
Their crowing, the crickets have quietened,
And the birds have begun their morning chirping
And life calls me away to do the responsibilities of day