Long Pumpkins Poems
Long Pumpkins Poems. Below are the most popular long Pumpkins by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pumpkins poems by poem length and keyword.
Home is a bright pink crepe myrtle blowing in the wind.
His giggles and laughter while placing his feet in the sand.
Christmas lights wrapped around their hands, full of wonder and delight.
A mighty father making a roar, with all of his might.
A grin so big with that first bicycle tour down the road.
Training wheels coming off for the first time, and everything bold.
His gregarious smile while playing the drums.
A planter of bougainvillea with a bit of a green thumb.
Carving pumpkins with creative flare.
Watching Ginger Rodgers and Fred Astaire.
Home is a safety net where one sleeps tight.
When you lose it, nothing feels right.
Home was a haven where I once felt safe.
Nothing has been right ever since, all out of place.
There once was a teak wood table where Thanksgiving was served.
Full of magical smiles and prayers that were heard.
Home has been lost for quite some time now.
I attempt to move on, but there is nowhere to go.
I’d rather bury my head in ten feet of snow.
Home was where love once shined on bright.
Full of grace, and kindness and magical delight.
Happy little family with little footsteps running about.
I’ve lived on the streets wondering where to find my home.
But it was stripped away from me and now I have darkness to roam.
Home was full of baby Einstein and Alan Jackson too.
With sweet summer days, and country songs blues.
Through shadows, and memories I try to go back.
To find a safe place with family in tact.
High atop his branch he clings,
a fretful, fidgety fellow~
September’s here (allegedly),
but Texas still screams yellow.
He peers down at the dusty ground,
no pumpkins, no autumnal spice, nor chill;
no brisk breeze swirling through the oaks,
just heat that just sits still.
“Oh fall, wherefore art thou?” the acorn cries,
dramatic as can be~
“I’m meant to drop with dignity,
not roast upon this tree!”
He wiggles, scoots, and shimmies,
but the branch won’t let him go.
“I’m ready for my autumn arc~
this summer’s just for show.”
So there he waits, impatient,
a tiny acorn with dramatic flair,
dreaming of the day he falls
into cool, crisp autumn air.
It’s time to party
Like no tomorrow
At the Haunted Halloween House
It’s time to party
With the ghosts
And shout with all your might
BOO
It’s time to party
With the Wicked Witches
And fly around on broomsticks
It’s Halloween
The spookiest and creepiest time of the year
So lets all let loose and party all night long
It’s time to party
Like no tomorrow
At the Haunted Halloween House
It’s time to party
With the party pumpkins
And play pranks
It’s time to party
With the skillful scarecrow
And act all sneaky
It’s Halloween
The spookiest and creepiest time of the year
So lets all let loose and party all night long
It’s time to party
Like no tomorrow
At the Haunted Halloween House
It’s Halloween
So lets have a creepy and spooky Halloween
That we will never ever forget
Dennis Cummings
1844-1920
To my friends of the 41st Infantry!
My men, my brave brothers from Wisconsin, are invited!
Invited RSVP to my domesticated, but dignified digs
On south Milton Street in Whittier town,
There, above the tracks of the Southern Pacific
There, surrounded by my better half’s tulips and pumpkins
There, surrounded by unequivocal respect and love
Of my loyal and nagging better half, Ellen, and
Of my dutiful and loyal son, Lee Roy.
There is a window upstairs facing north,
North to the rising green hills of Whittier town,
North even to the Stars and Stripes
Of my Wisconsin brothers
Of my fellow Wisconsin freedom fighters!
Nightly there, I light a candle for my friends.
My intrepid men, my brave brothers!
Those charging advancing storming souls
Those rampaging, death-staring warriors of the 41st!
Like the fiercely flowing rapids of the Tennessee
There in Chattanooga, and thereabouts,
My brothers and my friends braved the bullets,
Faced the fusillade of fire, the unspeakable violence, and
Even found glorious sacrifice,
Found glorious death in battle,
In the suffocating smoke and sulfur
Of fifty thousand muskets.
Yes, you are invited my brothers! My friends!
Come to my humble home here on South Milton Street
And look to the upstairs window.
There is a candle burning there for you.
Burning with respectful gratitude.
Burning with a proud silence
For my brave brothers,
The storming rampaging men of the 41st.
A feast of eye-catching hues swirl midair,
stoic fragile leaf a chill whisper,
overt orange, deep vein red,
pallid yellow, scaly amber,
jumble upon bright clad jumble,
earthbound mattress on a grey mud plot,
bald cypress, Norway maple,
crepe myrtle, pin oak,
shed their raw-hewn splintered twig,
amid the waning sun in bleak morph,
late August and September tread,
damp weather bashful pilgrimage,
acorn mulch stuck between the grooves,
of rugged footwear on limp moss,
along harvest ripened pastures,
hardy toilers lay their white ash scythe,
they reap, gather and proudly stack,
turnips, pumpkins, squash, beet, zucchini,
lifeblood to thriving market square,
rustic idyl diet, whetstone oven backdrop,
whiffs of healthful soup simmering,
bowls scraped, hunger sated,
red ember coal fire glows,
aromatic haze taunt the frozen nose,
symbolic fall eon meter pending,
still a buoyant risen spirit
When I was a child I carved pumpkins in silly ways.
I enjoyed adding pointed teeth and hair in gobs of frays.
I always made the eyes oval, and the nose a triangle.
The light of the pumpkin amazed me; I loved her pretty glow.
As I got older my pumpkins should have evolved a bit.
Instead I did not want to carve them; I threw a little fit.
It was not my idea to have a brother eight years younger.
So, my mother helped him carve one, while I died of hunger.
When I went to college I met three tiny women from Japan.
They wanted to go trick-or-treating, and I lied and said “I am.”
We also carved out pumpkins; theirs were delicate like origami.
I was embarrassed by mine, wishing it would be taken by a tsunami.
When I became a mother, my children carved a pumpkin one day.
I hate this! They said, all prissy. It was stressful in every way.
So, we agreed to paint them, and that has been fun for all of us since.
Wouldn't want to carve another pumpkin to rot and throw over a fence.
Let's take this chance to relish color
Embrace the autumn while it's here
for soon, we'll need turn the corner
and find Jack Frost is waiting there
His frosty face will nip the air,
His slick rain coat will steal the show
He'll blow a wind to bring the snow
and trees will shed the golden glow
Let's count the stars upon the night
Before he snaps his fingers, twice
Let's bask in harvest moon's delight
before he turns the world to white
Relax among the fragrant grass
Pick pumpkins and an apple red
Throw frisbees high above your head
Let red and rust adorn your bed
Around the corner here he comes
He whistles winds, and likes his rum
He'll offer you a icy cone
But do beware, he schemes to own
He brings along a holiday
And loves to watch our children play
Let's run around the nearest corner
To see how long that he will stay
A snap of fingers, a snap of cold
Will stop us in our tracks, be warned
He calls the shots, and though he's old
He'll last until the sun is warm
Let's take this chance to soak the sun
before he spoils all the fun
The world will never be the same
until we wave goodbye again
_________________________________________________
10/18/14 For Francine Robert's Contest: "Around The Corner"
Lollipops for good little boys and girls
melt like tricks onto rotting teeth;
Full of intense flavor and colored swirls;
Nightmares freeze into all that spun sugar,
cotton candy pinwheels on pumpkins;
The wigged Jack O Lantern’s such a looker;
There is such a buzz hanging in the veil,
candied spiders pick up the scent;
To their nostrils it will never go stale;
You can almost capture the bands of air
that permeate raw fear through treats;
Still they walk wanting to collect their fare;
Specters and witches partner with a clown
to lay waste to this hoggish pile;
Sugar drunk they harbor a busted frown.
Fresh spots of violet creak through the sky
Silently, violently assaulting the eye
Lavenders blush in the sweetest of hue
Spring has arrived with the calmness of blue
Soft summer rain dapples the floor
Raindrops like diamonds on the old barnyard door
The orange of sunset, as the dragonflies glow
And the mesmerised sounds, as the young cattle low
Warm autumn apples fall from the bough
To be sprinkled with honey for the fattening sow
Pumpkins erupt in shimmering gold
As the sheep return leisurely to the warmth of the fold
Crisp winter cold is dark and succinct
Foreboding clouds all around, as the sun is extinct
The jingle of sleigh bells can be heard up ahead
As the enveloping stillness leads you to bed
Just yesterday,
there was only a subtle hint
of autumn color.
Today, the single tree fades
into yellows, oranges and reds
no longer a solitary hued figure.
A cluster of distant trees
flow south to north
in a mix of fading paled rainbows.
Dark greens once ebony emeralds
slip into yellowing mustards
regular, bold and spicy.
Reds burgundy wined flow to rosier blends
of umber brittle and browning
free floating on the air stream.
Today, summer is finally done
bowing low in the cool winds
of autumn’s entrance.
Tomorrow lay in quiet hold
sullen, somber and stiff cold
waiting on the melancholic white of winter,
For the moment though,
fall harvests the pumpkins and yellow maize
a bounty for the cribs and sculptors.
Winter bids time, waiting turn
listening for the call
imparting Indian Summer goodbyes.