Long Picnicking Poems
Long Picnicking Poems. Below are the most popular long Picnicking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Picnicking poems by poem length and keyword.
There are so many things to observe
as I sit at the canal trail.
My senses catch it all.
Shirtless runners,
The swish of thier sneakers as they pass.
A family picnicking not far away.
Bike riders side by side chatting to each other.
A man pushing his partner in a wheelchair.
A child running to his daddy.
Leaves fluttering in the wind.
Hawks soaring over thier prey.
Gulls seeking fish.
Sparrows chirping away.
Ducks bobbing on the waves.
Speed walkers pass briskly by.
Seniors walking thier dogs.
Dogs checking out the trees.
People gazing at the scenery.
Girls and guys with hair tied in ponytails.
Shadows dancing across the lands and water.
Roof tops peeking through the trees.
Sun beating against my back.
From where I sit I am just a shadow.
Sitting on the sidelines,
with my butt pressed in this bench,
Wondering...
"Why am I not doing any of these things?"
What more can I do when you are locked in your own shoe, your shoelaces are tied and your vision is floating about in the sky and the morning is bidding you goodbye; it is about to embark on a journey that will make everyone
happy, heaven is smiling in my your face and you have stir the whole human race, the weather is fine and I have nothing on my mind; just follow me to the edge of the sea and I will show you my destiny.
The wonders of the world lie beyond the galaxy and something special is waiting patiently for thee turn your head and penetrate the clouds above you and you will see millions of stars waiting in line and the full moon standing by.
There is magic in the sky only if you could see it with your naked eyes, you have to stay up late and stand in the middle of the gate and wait until the grey cloud has passed before you venture out in the dark .The white clouds will fade in and blend with the blue clouds that is moving around slowly anchor your feet into the ground and gravity will keep your mind steady.
I dream of starry nights when the earth is dry and moisture fills the air and little children are playing everywhere in the moonlight and shadows spreading on the ground telling tales of yesterday and the music sweep their little hearts away.
She learned to play the violin when she was three and her family was picnicking by the sea and the fish in the sea dance to her symphony and the orchestra on the other side lifts up her heart to the skies and her music never dies.
How much longer must we wait for you, come and make our dream come true, the tides are rough but we have conquered it and is ready to take the dive. Come and stand by my side.
Untie my shoelace so that I can take one more step to compete the race we are coming home today.
Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.
We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘ed privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.
She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.
Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.
I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.
Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.
I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.
My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan
“A photograph on the sunny side of the mountain"
There reclines a young pair,
In sepia tin-type tones,
On the sunny side of the mountain
Young and fair; picnicking alone
On the sunny side . . .
Dreaming of days ahead.
Nestled by a wicker basket
Set on a checkered tablecloth
On a meadowed mountainside
Sharing blazing eyes pledged to love
On the sunny side . . .
With no thoughts of the snow-crowned top.
Grandma’s prim raven hair pinned back
Beneath her feather crowned white-brimmed chapeau.
Grandpa wore a broad gleaming smile
Above his strong smooth chin.
O could they still be
On the sunny side . . .
9/23/2019
I take out the old-fashioned dress in my mother’s closet.
It’s a rose-colored fabric that you liked from your 50’s pageant.
And its floral scent underneath reminded me about you for a reason.
I got mad each time I learned you skipped a Christmas season.
The only thing I have is your pretty face in my silver locket.
Your memory is hanging from my neck; I wish not to drop it.
I could still see us picnicking in the small backyard,
There I stand next to you and pretend to be a bodyguard.
Gray was the shade of your hair; I revered it in my sleep.
You look like your favorite actress, you called her Meryl Streep.
I could have touched the way you pinched my hand in the hospital room.
But I can still see you sitting on an empty chair – I assume.
sometimes
misconstrued
in a fluorescent grove
where malachite petals
marry emerald blades
verbose biting chews
too close to the cheek
among a confetti of bees
amid undulating bumps
of raw superfluous air
interdimensional entities
of spectral occurrence
wave with graphic-less suave
to gurgles, to coos, to hehs
seek noodle communication
to a bouncing mistaken few
using the eyebrow medium
of coincidence
a babbling infrasonic tool
of curious happening
sometimes
misunderstood
exhume, with heed
supressed benevolence
they fly shapelessly
in quartered skies
aloof in mocking flight
frilly, frothy entities
divebombing ghettos
exacting urban sprawl
chance upon neonates
and families out picnicking
feeding babies whose
knowing smiles to air
see, or do they?
– beware
Aeriforms
September has just began
And I am composing a new song
I just cannot get the rhythm out of my head
The music is sweet and the message is deep
the autumn wind is blowing everywhere
and the agony has disappeared, everything
happen so soon and something magnificent
will happen at noon
the sun will appear in the middle of the sky
and the asteroid from the east will die
Autumn is here but there is nothing to fear
The leaves are already ripening and
Falling from the tree it is a sign that
Plants are pulling the energy from the sun
and you have to get your seed in the
ground because autumn will soon be done
twenty more days before the real autumn begins
Then all the leaves will be gone with the wind
The Universe will take over and this matter will be over
Pull the curtain open and remove the dust from the edge
and see what’s lurking across the distance
Observe how the leaves ripe and watched the people
going up and down on the street with their bike
They are enjoying the early autumn breeze
while others are picnicking under the trees
I took a stroll up the mountain to breath
Fresh air and watch the leaves on the trees
Leaves of assorted colors make my heart whisper
I lie down and roll in them and watch nature
Burst through the gates of heaven
Autumn is already here so get your winter gear
Stock up all the winter supplies, generators,
battries and snow blower
and put your winter house in order
courage is working from the side
and I will make you my autumn bride
Everything is happening so soon
Autumn will descend from the moon
And greet you with a kiss
And cover you with autumn bliss
Autumn is is already here.
And you have nothing to fear.
Inflection Point
Musicians
want to be poets
And poets
musicians
Jim Morrison
in Paris
Leonard Cohen
Montreal
The grass
shining greener
In shadows
elusive
The muses to
whisper
As temptress
— they call
*****
Birth Mother
Comfort
the enemy
of truth
Prescience
the nemesis
of time
Insight
the jailer
of denial
Freedom
the birth mother
— of dreams
*****
The Crossroad
An ounce
of freedom
Or a ton
of gold
The choice
is yours
Since times
of old
To sell
your soul
Or set
it free
A Frostian
crossroad
By choice
— decreed
*****
Love On View
Walking
through the park
Troubles
disembark
Watching
couples swoon
Picnicking
at noon
Every tree
a refuge
Rowboats
dot the sand
Joy unbridled
love on view
Cupid
— in command
*****
The First Cut
Never complain
never explain
I don’t care if you like it
I only care that you read
Stay undefined
the future unrhymed
The first cut the deepest
— forever to bleed
(The New Room: May, 2026)
We love to listen to the music of the mountains from our cabin…
The wind whistling through the trees…
The buzzing of the hummingbird wings…the birds’ songs floating on the breeze.
So when we took a picnic to our favorite spot on the Parkway
(where we’ve been picnicking for 37 years)
We were excited as we anticipated in this part of the forest
the different kinds of music we might hear.
But when we reached our favorite spot…there was no music… not a sound…
what immediately caught our attention was the silence all around.
Everything was still and quiet…every animal, every mountain…every tree.
There was something captivating…about this silent symphony.
I smiled quietly at Deborah who smiled quietly back at me…
It was as if, for a moment, we were experiencing the world
the way the creators meant for it to be.
For a moment those creators turned the sound off to help us understand…
how much there is to enjoy in the silent beauty of the land.
From the clouds to the sun to the grass to the rocks to the mountains to the trees
we experienced a world of peace…with everything living together…in quiet harmony.
It’s a peacefulness we felt blessed at that moment to have innocently stumbled upon…
and one that stayed within our hearts even when they turned the sound back on.
While we quietly ate our tuna subs…In the cool, silent mountain air…
We reminisced how from the time our children were children
we have been picnicking there.
Which only makes us more determined…to speak up for love and equality
to do are part to help the world live in peace and harmony.
Because every child deserves the chance
to experience the world the way the creators meant for it to be…
every child deserves a chance to have picnics with their family.
A joyful world where we all live in peace and harmony!
It’s an idea that makes many people scoff…
but it was strengthened in us on a picnic just the other day
when the creators turned the music off…
CHERUB'S JUBILEE
When the ninth hour of night is cloaked in velvet
And small star kisses sprinkle the Junie-moon sky
The ambling amber moon glides with Glen Miller rhythms
Entrancing piquant paramours picnicking on Poet's Pie
Crickets crackle crisp serenades like squeaky violins
Fiddling mischievous melodies to delight
Hollow hoots of owls harmonize with wispy gossamer zephyrs
Enchanting the moonbeam lovers on this sighing summer's night
Under weepy willow branches swaying with subtle serpentine synergy
Fluttering wings and dancing hearts conduct a lover's rhapsody
As Cupid's Couple swing and swirl at the Cherub's Jubilee
While the winds over blue ocean chasms blow free