Long Ponies Poems
Long Ponies Poems. Below are the most popular long Ponies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ponies poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh, I turned seventeen
burning my dreams into a smoke-stained hue.
I miss that life without screams,
a life made only of soft, gentle dreams.
Once, colourful ponies wandered and flew,
kissing the moon with sparkles beneath them.
How I ache for that world to return
but time does not remould,
it only burns bridges.
Now the dreams are black,
colours and joy misplaced somewhere
in the endless search for “something better.”
The ponies have turned into bears,
and laughter has dissolved into silent tears.
Yet still, I would choose that bear,
draped in a sparkly dress to shield my skin,
guarding myself from demons
that once looked like angels
the ones I once invited into my dreams.
Now the dreams lie buried somewhere
under piles of books.
The writers have lost their words,
the dancers their movement,
the guitarists their strings,
the singers have swallowed their voices.
They tell us to stay numb
because we dream too much.
Then they tell us to dream more.
But who will tell them—
it’s not that we stopped dreaming,
it’s that the dreams
have turned into nightmares.
In our wigwams we hear tom-toms
Like hearts beating out a greeting;
Seasons in tune with thirteen moons.
In the moon of red grass.
Let the white man come.
There is room enough for all.
In the moon of green grass.
Let the white man come.
There is grass enough for all.
In the moon when ponies shed.
Let the white man come.
There are ponies enough for all.
In the moon of strawberries.
Let the white man come.
There are berries enough for all.
In the moon when lilies bloom.
Let the white man come.
There are blooms enough for all.
In the hot moon, we will sweat.
Let the white man come.
There is heat enough for all.
In the moon of wild rice.
Let the white man come.
There are bowls enough for all.
In the moon of falling leaves.
Let the white man come.
There are leaves enough for all.
In the moon of rutting deer.
Let the white man come.
There are deer enough for all.
In the moon when deer shed horns.
Let the white man come.
There are horns enough for all.
It is the hard moon of strong cold.
Let the white man come.
There are lodges enough for all.
In the moon when wolf packs run.
Let the white man come.
There are more than enough for all.
In the moon of sore eyes.
Let the white man come.
There will be enough for all.
The prairie wind is blowing chill,
Wildly waving through the grass,
Erasing signs of Indian trails.
In the moons of the white man,
Strong hearts seek Indians return.
Is there room enough for all?
Will our wigwams hear the tom-toms
Like hearts beating out a greeting;
Seasons in tune with thirteen moons?
Walking on the sandy yard…
Protected from the burning sun by the shelter of the Bo leaves…rustling:
Dancing in the wind.
Stray dogs walk about; in this place like heaven.
Ponies graze under the thick trees.
Breathtaking; each sight to fill your heart with love,
Fragrant…flowers and incense sticks fill lungs with happiness…
The little oil lamps… giving light to guide through life.
And the sound of prayers, chanted by endless pilgrims…
Heard across the temple grounds.
Statues of heroes, warriors, kings…, and a princess –
Walls… speaking out the history through endless pictures from the tiles to roof.
Each piece of wood, elegantly carved, tells the elegant craftings once built.
The yard, all rocks and sand, burns hot in mid-day.
Little children run, but the Thero in their calm, steady pace –
Teaching, yet again a lesson of patience.
And the Stupa itself, tells yet another lesson as it stands high:
To stand high as one nation.
12/26/2018
*inspired during a visit to the Kelaniya Rajamaha Temple, situated in Kelaniya, Sri Lanka.
She wasn’t crazy about the insipid
platinum blondes she was asked
to play, sop to buffoons,
goddess too merciful to see
she could turn them to ashes,
or orangutans with a murmured spell.
Her last film was The Misfits:
written by her husband: a woman
in pigtails and jeans, frank
and naive, blind to the effect
she has on cowboys as lost
as she. She finds them trapping
defiant mustangs, and fights
them off, before they can break
another soul. In The Seven Year Itch
she straddles a subway grate, steam
lifting her skirt like the hot breath
of a Minotaur or drooling neighbor.
In Some Like it Hot she plays ukulele
in a women’s band, crossing paths
with two musicians, disguised
as ladies. She’s done with guys
who squander her money
on the ponies, and other girls.
Sleeping that first night
on the train, the bass player climbs
into the upper bunk, drunk
on enchantment. He wishes her
goodnight. Goodnight, Honey,
she replies, in that whispery
way, softer than moonlight.
For that moment, this
orphan of the world
splurges without caution,
warmth impossible
to find. In that astonishing
instant, gone before we know,
actual care brushes
our cheek. But lingers
as long as we let it.
Caverns, caves, and mystery
Along the Cornish coast
Pungent smell of misery
Did I see smugglers ghost?
Black Jack guarded his domain
Cutlass drawn and fighting stance
Willing to inflict bloody pain, guarding
Brandy wine from far off France.
The barrels roll in on stormy ocean
Heaved on shoulders, stashed in cave
Like zombies working, no emotion
Dead they lie in unmarked grave.
Excise-men men have been sighted
Black Jack urges, language profane
It seems the night has been blighted
Signal lit, all aflame.
Pandemonium breaking out
One by one roughly chained
Excise men enjoyed a rout
Victory is now proclaimed.
Ah! but wait, where is Black Jack?
He's paddling like crazy out to sea
The Hawk is waiting for its captain
He's down but not out, wait and see.
Image
by
Matyze
Pixabay
I thought you might like to read this small piece written by
Rudyard Kipling
1865-1936
"The Smugglers Song"
If you wake at midnight and hear a horse’s feet
Don't go drawing back the blinds, or looking in the street
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie
Watch the wall my darling when the gentlemen go by.
Chorus:
Five and twenty ponies trotting through the dark
Brandy for the parson, baccy for the clerk
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy
And watch the wall my darling, while the gentlemen go by.
Look at me in the eyes
I'm larger than life
A towering monolith
Surrounded by phonies
And plastic ponies
It's a shame I'm the only
One standing tall
But he who stands tall
Must inevitably fall
At least that's what they say
But they say
So many things
So in one ear
And out the other
Look me in the eyes
Tell me when I'm tellin' lies
Each day is a new chapter
And sure
Maybe I cut some pages out
But I've still got a novel
Built from numerous experiences
And those dark days
Those really dark days
Are like drifting storm clouds
But at the very end
Is a pot of gold
And if I may be bold
Look at me now
I'm larger than life
Yeah, I'm larger than life
A Frenchmen’s Hell Nothing More
David J Walker
No father
Please I pled
It was only a dream
Nothing more
About mesquit trees
Turning themselves into mustang ponies
Nothing more
Running wild and free on a drunkards horizon
A prairie’s floor
The fences strengthened
The three gates tightened
hanging
post to post to post
Nothing more
Now
About the horse’s corral
a few paces from the barn
You could see
It was only me
Painting curses in Spanish because I knew
The obscene verses Could be far worse
Because the Mustangs could read them
And laugh at my bad Spanish grammar
Still
They got the picture
Nothing more
to the story except
It’s why I stayed awake past midnight
And snapped the bullwhip ever so often
Cracking a warning into a southwest wind
Blowing warm its warning in naked numbness
Nothing more
Except, father
The mustangs might win the fight and send
The souls of our stallions into a Frenchmen’s Hell
falsely claiming the birthright of the foal
A bleak sight
In starlight
The dark night before
The next daylight slowly begins
Folding into a new beginning
Hiding the various meanings of freedom
demanding variant forms to consider
as if daybreak was the dawn
of another committee meeting
But father
In the dream, I become the thief in the night
Steeling a Mustang away from its herd
Calling it my own
He hates me and I know
he always will
He loves the way I ride like no other
as if in stride
With the wind and then
steal the will of the condemned
Sending us both to a Frenchmen’s hell
Just as well
Father
Just as well
We care for our loved ones,
to allay their darkest fears.
The harsh realities,
and the ever-welling tears.
Time passes in minutes,
and the eons forgotten.
The great skills are practiced,
the steel bar under cotton.
The heart's strength is softness,
its fleshy target in red.
The night too plunges deep,
the secret words have been said.
The fielty of kings,
in the keeping of true gold.
The star that falls burning,
its treasure cannot be sold.
On their mountain ponies,
braves in their paint of war.
riding into battle,
and on legends they will soar.
The fallen hope they'll wake,
in the place where they find us
the money that they use,
will be measured in kindness.
The material world,
and through its greatest ages.
We have learned many things,
both from fools and from sages.
The wisdom of the deep,
and the treasures that it holds.
We will mine its secrets,
on this great journey of souls.
A trickling and discharging of these economic systems does weigh me.
A dribbling, and dropping of these little small paper colored green-backs.
A congress full of life-time professionals and political hacks,
and with a moral decline a tooth-decay black.
It does not matter if you have the highest of noted degrees.
The system is always on the verge of a catastrophe or a cold freeze.
You could know everything from A to Z.
Yet, only still to be tightly wrung through and squeezed.
A Corporate Cast system is the only thing that is real.
A theater casting calls of the first, then the last that's the deal.
The elites, and their enclosed franchise masked.
Is this fair or unfair or is it too hard to see.
This, to view, a carousel of toy ponies that are in a circle and phony.
It, an allusion like Fair; to be seen and this you will feel.
"Our only hope is in the Bible; its Truths and its highest Creeds."
"If and only when you truly do see it as a most highly sought of zeal."
"A one percent Fair; now in this world is seen; a pyramid slim scheme."
Such small wonders this autumn yields...
watch the squirrel busily collecting nuts
stashing them away for winter's depths
let's hope he remembers where they are
The apple trees heavily laden, branches sag
ponies happily munching at the wind falls
tractors hard at work bringing in the crops
piling it up in the barns, ready for winter
Lazy smoke drifting from the chimney pots
carrying heavenly smells of roasting meats
cattle lowing, announcing it is milking time
I drink these wonders in, happy to be alive
written 08/13/2013 by Shadow Hamilton
contest Pick a line any line
Autumn's Breath by Barbara Gorelick
the first line of this poem is the line I used