Long Radios Poems
Long Radios Poems. Below are the most popular long Radios by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Radios poems by poem length and keyword.
Colored lights, Santa Claus and his reindeer, holiday music floating in the air…
look around and you’ll see there are signs of Christmas everywhere.
It’s streaming on our TV’s, playing on our radios…it’s on every child’s face.
and this year I discovered a new sign…in the most unlikely place.
After Ollie and Abby (their little ones) awoke from their afternoon nap
Kayla and Joe (our neighbors) took them to see Santa…so they could sit upon his lap.
When Ollie finished with with his list he gave Santa’s beard a tug…
Santa smiled, handed Ollie a candy cane which he licked…
then ran and gave his mom a hug.
It was one of those precious moments upon which future memories will be drawn
but soon after they left Santa they realized Ollie’s candy cane was gone!
They searched high and low even even going back to check the ground…
but the candy cane that Santa gave to Ollie was nowhere to be found.
This family is resilient, however, and they continued on their way
determined not to let one lost candy cane spoil their beautiful day.
And what a beautiful day it was..so many places they visited…so many wonders they did see…
celebrating the Christmas season together as a family.
Hours later when they were home…with music still wafting through the air
Kayla for the first time noticed…there was something in her hair.
She pulled out Ollie’s missing candy cane and thought to herself…this is crazy…
then immediately filled with dread.
All those places she went…all those people she saw and no one…
not even her family…noticed…Ollie’s candy cane sticking to her head?
It’s a story they’ll remember…a memory I’m sure they’ll tap
long after their children are too old to sit on Santa’s lap.
And for me…as Christmas Day’s approaches
when those first notes of Christmas music fill the air…
along with Santa and his reindeer I’ll be keeping track of all the candy canes
I see stuck in Mommy’s hair.
T h e S a l e
Near the end of a lonely road
A home where an old man did reside
Traffic parked all around the house
Contents "For Sale", - the sign implied
"He'd lived there as long as he could, -
Ninety four years", I heard someone say
Immediate family, now passed on
At last, now he has moved away
For decades, this had been his home
How sad, he had to go
Feeble hands, prevented tasks
And steps were getting slow
Furniture, battered, worn and aged
Old radios, fans, and silverware
Used garden tools, and books galore
Some ordinary, but others rare
So many items, inside and out
In their time, each held their place
Now little more than a cast-a-way
His new address, had little space
I'm sure within his memory bank
Many younger days he recalled
A telephone, - - the first TV,
Or when a furnace, was installed
Only a few items, now adorn
The place he now abides
A bed, a chair,and one small table
A few special pictures, are his pride
There to live out his final days
Lonely hours, seem to have no end
A highlight that would mean the most,
Is a visit from family, - or a friend
Colan L Hiatt = 09-24-13
© All Rights Reserved
Hello my love
What a beautiful day
Last night was special
to us, wouldn't you say
What ah beautiful morning
"ooh we auh, ooh we
ooh we auh-auh ooh
Yahtune dootaha, doo we ooh ooh!"
Try my luck
With a kiss
One of those
How about this
Toast and coffee
that's just fine
Get something later
If I have time
What a night
What a beautiful morning
"yahtta doo ooh ah we
auh ooh auh we
yahtta dootah doop;
ooh doop ooh ooh!"
What's up partner
You doing fine
Don't rush around
take your time
we gotta long way
to go
radios on time for
the show
What ah fabulous night
What ah beautiful morning
Saw the game
After the show
Excuse me Didn't know
You wanted to go
It's on next week
Just let me know
What ah beautiful night
What ah beautiful morning
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I traipse along the seashore
where the tide forgets its name,
where the seagulls cry like lost receipts,
where the sand, pale as a sleepless page,
whispers: Look down. Look down.
But I search the horizon instead~
that bluish orange hyphen between here
and whatever comes next.
The ocean licks its lips,
spatting out a shell, half-cracked,
a confession in porcelain.
Is this you? the waves murmur,
rolling their r’s like a drunk god.
I hold it to my ear~
hear the static of a thousand voices
and the hiss of dead radios.
A crab scurries by me, dragging its life
like a piece of baggage with damaged wheels.
You’re overthinking it,
says the wind,
but the wind always says that.
At twilight, my silhouette stretches long,
a black rope thrown toward the sea.
I tug. Nothing tugs back.
And the moon, that cheap spotlight,
clicks on—illuminating
only how far I haven’t gone.
Poem published at creativeramblings.com/writing-prompts/writing-challenge-27/ on February 22, 2026
There was talk about the nuclear bomb
There was a war going on in Vietnam
It was on the news, the drummers were drumming
Look out America, the British are coming
We couldn't wait to turn our radios on
To hear Paul and Ringo, George and John
What could make you feel more alive
Than to rise in the morning to the Dave Clark Five
To be part of it was so much fun
With Eric and "The House of the Rising Sun"
Music sent from heaven above
Peter and Gordon "A World Without Love"
There was Peter Noone and Herman's Hermits sound
While Petula Clark took us all "Downtown"
The country went wild when Donovan hit the stage
Tom Jones and Dusty Springfield were part of the rage
Oh Lord one day please take me back
To hear Marianne Faithful and Cilla Black
The Rolling Stones conquered every city
And Manfred Mann sang "Do Wah Diddy"
The Kinks and Troggs took us for a whirl
The New Seekers sang about "Georgy Girl"
British fashion was everywhere
And the Zombies told us "She's Not There"
Now James bond was doing some super spying
Gerry said, "Don't Let the Sun Catch You Crying"
Freddie and the Dreamers sang "I'm Telling You Now"
The British had conquered America somehow
The Searchers, The Hollies, meaningful words
Chad and Jeremy, don't forget the Yardbirds
If there was a way we could do it again
We'd have another invasion like we did back then.
If you weren't there, it might be hard to understand. The music had meaning
with political statements and social statements written between the lines. the
young were actively involved and the apathy that exists now was hard to find. The
fun music was fun music and the message music set a tone for a generation. It
was a great time to be growing up in spite of the turmoil in the world, a world we
thought we all could change. Times change, sometimes not for the better.
Whenever middle-age recalls youth
with its long, exciting and carefree days:
we remember that we lived them in our own ways;
our parents argued that it wasn't astute...
have they forgotten how they shamelessly lied
to get some romantic kiss before it actually died?
Before the invention of television most folks were moody...
there were only radios and vinyl records to listen to,
so the dreamy heart would sing and not be blue;
amazingly today, everything is digital due to high technology.
Even grandmother admitted of kissing her sweetheart over
a few Strega Liqueur drinks before falling face-down on the lawn;
she didn't get caught and that secret has remained with her
until now and blushing she tries to smile, remembering that frown.
Whenever middle-age recalls youth as being innocent and free of all woes...
it may surprise you how it went hand in hand with progress;
in the sixties, Rock & Roll was considered evil and scandalous,
but our frantic moms adored Elvis for his attire and gentleman's manners.
* Strega is an Italian Herbal Liqueur
Translation: The Witch's Liqueur
The Real Christmas
From Black Friday to Christmas Eve,
presents to purchase and wrap.
Office and family parties, visits to relatives
platters of food and gallons of alcohol.
Trees dressed to the nines in dangling baubles
and twinkling lights.
Continuous Christmas carols blaring from radios
and loud speakers.
Wreaths and decorations to adorn tables,
night stands, credenzas, book shelves.
Lights hung in strings so large that rows
of houses look like runways for planes.
Inflatable Santas, snowmen, reindeer and nutcrackers
compete for space in yards.
Nativities, pageants, plays special music
consume congregations.
Is this the real Christmas?
Or perhaps it is-
A silent night, two thousand years ago
in a dimly lit cave.
A babe wrapped in woolen clothes
lying in a sheep’s feeding trough.
Only shepherds and loving parents
in attendance.
An infant destined to change history.
The future savior of the world.
I refuse to think of these days as melancholy.
The “s” has been missing on my keyboard for about a year now,
and in that year I have felt great pleasure, surmounted
great obstacles, and have wrangled
and tormented over false outcomes;
the delusory greener grass.
Yet these are the days I am to discover all of this.
I am to walk out of the cage and stand back, turning around to gaze
at the various compartments of my Blue Ribbon Wrangle Box:
The hinges, pulleys, ropes, splices,
bevels, strapping, horns, buzzers, clocks, and radios
that have encumbered and ran its chaotic push towards
A function built and conceived by man.
I am outside of it now
And I dare threaten to call these days
melancholy just because I miss all my meaningless gauges.
At yet I still stand at the doorstep,
in the silent light where Luminosity begins,
the saddest place of all. It's here
that I find attainment in one direction and attachment in the other.
My Blue Ribbon Wrangle Box haloes
from the white glow of a hidden crescent moon.
Ice cream and ices, ice cream and ices
Get your fudgywugies here is screamed
Heard clear emerging from the tunnels
Under the boardwalks promenade shadows
Loud and clear come good humor men in white
Ridiculous in their black shoes heavy like iron
Trudging through hot sand like mad men
Hunched over with the weight of Summer
Ready to huckster the kiddies for money
Already waiting with quarters in hand
Radios dial up Beatles for transistor sisters souls
Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band plays on
Over sounds of ocean spray and cozy blankets
The surface of the sun smiles on happy afternoons
Cones melt chocolate droplets on wet bathing suits
Blue lips of children, their bodies shiver, after a dip
They toss peanuts at pigeons who leave droppings
As presents after target practice then continue cooing
Colorful kites fly with the seagulls and dollars
Waved to entice those who come out from the shadows
Sun lotions and potions of peace and love sold at a price
Not always a bargain
Pretty tan girls in stunning string things
Left to the imagination as clothing
Dotted bikinis in yellows and pinks on parade
Follow life guards into the surf for protection
Held together by muscles and love
Not only tides wave good-bye to Summer
Mobsters wear concrete shoes for a dip
Smoke their last cigarette before “falling in”
Go for a swim with the fishies
Sink to the depths of the city
It was late August the "summer of ’69."
Mike and I were "going on sixteen, "
"daydream believers."
chasing "Puff the Magic Dragon"
and "ice cream castles in the air."
We tied our transistor radios
to our bicycle handlebars.
The little speaker crackling
between bursts of static,
pulling melodies from unseen places.
Mike rode beside me,
his laughter keeping time
with the clicking spokes;
our pedals did "turn, turn, turn"
through our idyllic hometown,
our very own "land of Honah Lee."
We were living on "cloud nine" that "summer of '69."
At night, we kissed beneath
"moons and Junes and Ferris wheels,
feather canyons everywhere."
October arrived, and
"we frolicked in the autumn mist
in the land we called Honah Lee."
December came, "the leaves are brown
and the sky is a hazy shade of winter."
But in March, "here comes the sun;"
"April, come she will"
with her "new moon bright above and
cherry pink and apple blossoms white. "
It's the "time of the season
when love run high."
May afternoons stretched forever;
with our transistor radios,
we pedaled beneath elm trees,
certain every road curved
toward something wonderful.
The radio knew every shortcut
through the kingdom of sixteen
and the "land of Honah Lee."
"Monday, Monday" drifted from the speaker,
followed by "Do You Believe in Magic,"
and then "Daydream Believer,"
as if the air itself
had memorized the charts.
At sixteen, we never questioned the future.
Why would we?
"All you need is love"
seemed reasonable enough.
With very passing hour we wore
our "Groovy Kind of Love"
like a lucky charm.
We rode past porches,
baseball diamonds, and
fresh-cut lawns,
while somewhere beyond the water tower
there were always "Good Vibrations,"
The radio traveled everywhere with us~
through long twilights,
through summer thunderstorms,
through first kisses
and our almost goodbyes.
Songs spilled from that little box
like bright confetti:
"Bus Stop," "Mrs. Robinson,"
"Build Me Up Buttercup,"
while "The Sound of Silence"
arrived as the evening sky turned lavender above the rooftops.
We didn't know enough to recognize nostalgia
while we lived inside it.
We only knew the thrill
of hearing a favorite song
float from that little box,
as dependable as summer.