Long Park Poems
Long Park Poems. Below are the most popular long Park by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Park poems by poem length and keyword.
crowded streets
moving among the
years
wretched faces
a sleeping snake
curled between the
eggs—
layers of leaves
a yellow spider
crouching in a
corner
invisible webs
lying listless
on withered creeper
a golden bird
a lone sparrow
atop the naked
branch
viewing sunset
a frog
bullied into the
hedge:
snake’s breakfast
on the road
an injured toad—
onlookers
parents pelt stones
at the mating street
dogs—
nosey children
potholes:
spots of sunshine
wobble
sudden downpour
noisy trucks at
midnight
crowded footbridge
sipping coffee
at a wayside stall
cockroaches too
watching dogs
frolicking in the
park—
jaded couples
dusky backyard
crowded parrots’
shrieks
autumn onset
chasing each other
in the by lane
two birds
a teenager
glides past me on
roller blades
her long hair flows
FELINES
She enters into the bedroom in the dark,
After a secret take-out in the park,
Was it a mouse, a bird a lizard or a rat,
One of these she caught and ate,
That’s a fact!
She sleeps all day and hunts at night,
And what a pleasure when the moon
Is bright!
Our kitty cat silently preens,
And thoroughly cleans,
The tale-tale bright red blood
From her lips,
As she looks forward to her
Human mummy, feeding
Her cat nips!
She creeps up and onto
The duvet with silent paws,
And kneads a comfortable place
With her half retracted claws!
These cute furry cats have captured
Our hearts and our homes,
Cute, delicate, cuddly cats,
Who have small but strong bones!
Like to leap and bound
And do us astound
As for sure, they will land on
All fours with such flair
I do declare!
And if they occasionally don’t,
And lose one life out of nine,
Who cares, not them, all they do
Is think on what they
Will tonight dine!
All cats like to climb,
But coming back down takes skill,
And quite some time,
Many a fireman has broken a limb,
That’s re-known,
Trying to get our treasured
Kitty cat down,
From a tree,
And the service is free!
Anthropologists have dug reported and
Found,
That our furry family’s origin has been
Around,
For millions of years.
And these domestic cats which we uphold
As such dears,
Belong to the wild as much as to us.
They have a majestic look of grace,
Whether wild or domestic have a
Look alike face,
Which is part of their charm,
But believe you me, if cornered,
Will cause harm!
If there were no humans left alive,
Cats would certainly still survive,
They are independent and although
They enjoy eating our food,
It is understood,
That they could live in a post-apocalyptic
World,
That might sound a little macabre and
Somewhat absurd,
We don’t have to be here,
Forever, year after year,
So all cats might live one day in a
Complete new civilization,
As generation after generation,
We pollute our atmosphere
And face extermination!
The trees are beginning
to turn inward towards sleep
and are letting go of leaves
dressed in their funereal finery
of yellow, orange and red.
They fall like severed wings.
The heavy shade
that for months has kept
the avenue cool in the heat,
is slowly dissolving into light.
Something in me is struggling
to hold onto what is slipping
away. The green vibrancy
that canopied my way,
flowers in their lush spill,
the warmth that lingered
on the breath of evenings
as you would find
in the soft whispered air
resting on the lips of lovers.
Soon, all will pass.
The night is coming on.
It's growing colder.
The last excited yells from children
are being pulled away by parents
from the darkening reaches
of the park.
Birds are becoming quiet.
I don't want to leave just yet
but will wait to see
the last light of the sun
say goodbye to the tops
of the trees. Then,
it will be time for me
to go.
vroom…vroom
Toot-toot
near miss
stay tuned
I say
highways are not
not hard
takes a Bard
to park this poem
vroom…vroom
make room
I’m here to stay
not ruin
someone else’s poem
near miss
stay tuned
takes a Bard
to take a part
in this traffic
easy go
when it’s light
but when it’s heavy
write…right…write…left
crossing lines
make sure they’re not double
seeing reality
toot-toot
vroom-vroom
have to cross the line
so I don’t hit
the accident
don’t do a bang up job
back at it
write right
write left
beep beep
back home
lay back
pop up
watch show
It was a hot day, I was on my way back from Spar, carrying a bag of groceries. I walked past the lilac bushes in bloom, past the annex to the medical centre with its small car park, rounding my house. From the side of the old red-brick typography building I heard an incomprehensible sound, like a tuba from underwater, the sound was muffled, even and deep. I immediately identified a C minor chord. Prolonged, devoid of modulation, the sound lingered in space as I walked across the ramp past the lilac bushes. It was impossible to make out exactly what it sounded like. As if from behind, there was some tenor sound in the background, but it was so faint that I could barely hear it. No one sat on the benches at the entrance to the house. The sun-drenched ramp area, the faded walls of the house, the bright blue sky. I went up to my flat, and went out onto the balcony. From the balcony I could hear nothing, there was the dead silence of a summer day. It's evening now, I'm writing this worthless story, but I can't get over the fact that I couldn't identify the source of the sound or its purpose. The only thing I could make out was an evenly sustained, deep C minor chord.
Have you ever lived in a tall building? Dawn strikes suddenly and irradiates these glass-walled, high-rise rooms. Lisa showed me how quickly the thick windows - if you press your face against them - go from cold to warm in the morning's stark glare.
On the streets below, beneath the horizon, darkness remains
as if there were, briefly, two worlds separate but side by side -
one, a night place and the other bleached in fierce sunbeams.
The rooms have no curtains, just motorized shades that go up and down as needed - but in reality, they’re always up. Central Park is the only thing across the street and we’re so high up (50th floor) no one can see in. It’s odd, dressing in uncurtained, glass lined rooms or bathing in curtain-less bathrooms - there’s a titillating freedom to it.
I find myself imagining that we’re angels floating in the clouds,
looking down upon man and his creations - but then I’m reminded,
by vertigo or by digging a charger out of my luggage, that I’m just
a mortal, sporting a temporary visa to this high-rise heaven.
.
.
ps
In proofing this before posting it, I had to smirk at how,
of all the qualities of high-rise life, I wrote about the
curtain-less feature and I wonder if that paints me either
a p3rv or a prude. I even debated deleting it, but *shrug*
Goals.
Who needs them?
I can coast along
Getting by without any.
Goals.
Silly for someone like me.
I am too young, I am fine.
I am too busy. I do not have time.
Coasting from couch to couch.
Delighting relatives the first two nights with stories.
Asked to leave by night three.
Gladly go, resolving to never come back.
Using friends, eating their food, making them mad.
Dumped from their couches also.
On a park bench now, my bench.
Watching busy people wearing matching clothes.
Matching shoes, matching hats, matching winter coats.
Everyone in black except for a couple of girls.
Walking to jobs. I feel sorry for them.
They had goals.
Where did it get them?
Was their goal to work all day?
Was their goal to dress like thousands of others?
Did they realize they were trading their time for their goal?
Goals!
Who needs them?
Not me.
Of the places of wonder, to travel and wander
I would return once again to the chasms of time
Banff National Park is the jewel in the crown
On the rim of the world where pure silence is found
and the edge of a glacier where white peaks have climbed
Where eyes are astonished and cloistered we'll find
a lake, named Louise, ringed with forest and trees.
The beauty is cradled beyond one's belief
Where centuries seep through the cracks in the ice
and monuments melt much faster than light
Enlightened are those who will come to respect
each breath-taking view, every chance to reflect.
Gaunt pines have climbed, on ridges that sigh
with spokes of long fingers that reach to the sky
It seems that their branches are stars we can't find
With reverence, unspoken, while throats swell in pain
In gratitude, for magnitudes of nature's refrain
My breath is unable to shape a weak voice
or rejoice in the miracle mere mortals will find
I will stare out and marvel at the bright early morn
as I hear my heart beating, and my soul is re-born
______________________________________
2/18/16 For "Take A Vacation" Contest
Sponsor: Lin Lane
A POND’S-EYE MORNING VIEW
Right of the center
of the cosmic stage,
the rising sun disrobes
its horizon and announces
the arrival of another bright day.
Wading towards a pond,
a family of cute ducks,
Stretch and wiggle
their yawning wings.
The chloroplast bodies
of fueling algae around the pond,
capture the shining rays of the sun;
energizing the multi-life community:-
In the pond’s park of lily pads
and varied shapes of rocks,
aroused young frogs hopscotch
from one landing to another
Barking and running the pond’s banks,
a swaggering beagle chases a thirsty squirrel
back up the trunk of its tall sage resident-tree:-
Up on the street atop the pond’s hill,
car horns blast as rushing drivers
pass by—chatting on cell phones—
using front windshield mirrors,
getting their faces ready for the day:-
Thus, our morning view,
as my dog and I continue
our ramble around the pond :-
You want to know the downside of Aquarius?
Just ask the folks who weren’t in Noah’s Ark,
or check out Jethro Tull and Linkin Park.
The paths we tread are manifold and various,
as Lewis learned by teaming up with Clark –
and now the Eightfold Way reveals the quark.
Is ‘humorous’ the equal of ‘hilarious’?
Is ‘mini-skirt’ the same as ‘cutty sark’?
About as similar as ‘bite’ and ‘bark’.
We take from this that language is precarious,
quite unreliable (if not nefarious):
don’t trust a man who says he’s made his mark.
Instead of “it is written”, “it is dark”:
for I have felt the sinews of the shark.