Long Rakes Poems
Long Rakes Poems. Below are the most popular long Rakes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rakes poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s been a day, brother, it’s been a day.
I’m ridiculous for lack of content,
All my plot holes are on display.
Am I doing OK? Am I having a day?
I can’t get a call back. I sat on a thumb tack.
It woke up my skinny white ass.
I’m mad in the morning. I’m angry afternoons.
I’m ornery as hell. I’m bloody pissed, as well,
And sick of the puddler’s stupid drama:
“We’re down by the bow and headed for the bottom.
There’s gonna be a ruckus, boys, so smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”
Good lord, it’s just clinker and slag.
All the king’s horses are slovenly nags.
Nothing but losers and misfits
Posing as rakes and roues.
Like red beans in chili con carne
Causing gas bending over the blarney.
I re-organize the hectic and recognize the stone.
And yet, because my truss work was contrived
Of wrought iron, rather than steel,
It resisted corrosion while exposed to the storm.
Though I’ve been ghosted and gas-lit,
Led around like a halfwit,
I still miss Jenny Wren’s chrysanthemum smile,
And I'll always have a thing for Amber Rose.
So, I’m mailing my love to Azerbaijan.
Baka, Baku, it isn’t Shikoku,
But it sometimes makes me smile.
And I thank my clerestory windows,
They let in the light and vent out the heat,
Affording me the grace to do my job.
Written: November 26, 2025
*****************
She cares for the pedigree cattle,
their fleece brushed into luster,
domesticated dogs prowling the yard,
obedient to her behest.
She is a good mother—
her hands sow carrots,
her voice a catchphrase of sanctity,
her smile a tiara of sky foam.
However, while holding a feather…
she teaches me to wring its neck.
While holding a feather...
she shows me how love can writhe.
While holding a feather...
she whispers that mercy is moribund.
The cloudscape of her face shifts,
dusky shadows grate against the light.
Her gregarious laughter,
threadbare and spasmodically sharp,
becomes a panegyric to discipline.
She is a good mother—
who rakes the soil with staunchness,
who rescues the stray,
who feeds the wilted wisteria?
Yet she is also the provost of violence,
who teaches catharsis through hecatomb,
who makes me smear myself to hubris,
who shows me that sanctity can evanesce.
Her lessons are sacrosanct,
her love ubiquitous,
her burden ossified in my bones.
And still, she is a good mother—
with a bird in my hand,
with a bird in my hand,
with a bird in my hand…
The marooned mind gets confused
by the maddening ways things happen,
lies hidden somewhere in the depth of perception,
maybe in the undefined gene of reason,
forming the motif of indoctrinated norms of normalcy.
Someone standing up against the tide of tradition,
refuses to submerge within docile submission,
discovers the mind born disoriented,
asks questions on life's rationale,
but finds no answer,
tears the attire of conventional psychic trait,
rakes up the mind disposed in disarray,
paves the pathway to travel alone
to the fragile forlorn home
in the world made out of madness,
where the wind of frustration
can't upset the stronghold of mental balance,
designed with deranged sense of equilibrium that upholds
the tenet that madness is the balanced state of mind.
¦¦¦ night-flood rakes ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ shore;
Along ¦¦¦ rugged cliffs ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ caves
Mourns the ¦¦¦¦¦¦ Ocean, ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ to deplore
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ restless waves—
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ corrosive tides, ¦¦¦ hollow rock
Falls ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ rushing from its turfy height,
Shakes the ¦¦¦¦¦ beach ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ shock,
Loud thundering on the ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ sullen Night;
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ desolate ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ deep,
Gleams the ¦¦¦ Moon, ¦¦¦ floating mist ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ untroubled rest,
"Nature's ¦¦¦¦ nurse," deserts ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ the eyes, that only wake ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
(Blackout of Sonnet LXVI: The Night-Flood Rakes by Charlotte Turner Smith)
‘twas the night before Christmas at this North Carolina farm,
The chickens were cackling, so the roosters, they’d charm.
Never had I discerned how the stars could reflect such calm,
It almost seemed like God was writing His Christmas psalm.
As I lay down in my bed to rest my thoughts and take a nap,
I heard the roosters crowing because of the bright giftwrap.
Though I was certain that their mates would still lay an egg,
Memories of dinner haunted with thoughts of the last chicken leg.
Finally, I tumbled out of my bed and went to the kitchen,
I decided to leave Santa eggs so the hens could all pitch in.
Scrambled and boiled, they were a pretty sight on that dish,
And it wouldn’t be long before I was making a Christmas wish.
Hoping old Saint Nick would leave me some tractor fuel,
So I might work through dawn with that handy jewel.
I headed to my Christmas list, to write down oil and gas,
But was left with a heavy pen when I saw that empty milk glass.
Santa had already been to the farm, and left me some tools,
But these shovels and rakes were more fit for strong mules.
I couldn’t possibly make it another year without some petroleum,
Therefore, I made my way across the kitchen linoleum.
Chickens and roosters, cows and mules, all the farmer’s friends
Remember that Christmas when Santa left so many odds and ends.
There was no doubt, Christmas was bringing out the best in him,
Because as I fell into a deep sleep, I heard him singing a hymn.
Christmas psalms would last forever here on this farm,
We need not worry, there is always hope and no need for alarm
The God of love, came down from above, to remind Santa Clause…
Jesus is the reason for the season – Christmas’ true cause!
We were careful as we entered the dark barn.
There are always hoes, rakes, and scythes lying around.
You do not want to step on something that means stitches.
I had done that before.
What is grandpa keeping in here? I wondered.
My cousin said “there is something alive. Maybe a goat?”
Our goal was the hay mow. We love playing up there.
We reached it before day break
We heard a clunk, and there was a ladder next to the mow.
My cousin looked as startled as I felt.
Someone was in here with us. Someone who could move a ladder.
A few minutes later an alpaca in sunglasses appeared.
Apparently, he was standing on the ladder.
“Is that an alpaca?” My cousin whispered.
“Sure is,” the alpaca whispered back.
Wang dang dang guh ditty, wang: wanga ooh!
wang:dang;ah ditty
wang danga ditty
wanga dang ah eh-ooh!
Womanizers and rakes!
wanga danga dity do woop ohh!
dang dang do!
-----------------------------------
-----------------------------------
I stand to speak the Do-den-ah's
ah- ooh we
skit danttin do-woop-do-wah
skit dat-ditin we
ah she gally I do!
ah she gally ooh!
skit dattin dolly ooh!
ooh we ah
ooh we ah
ah we ooh!
---------------------------------
-----laid back------------------
woogie boogie
clap yeah yeah
ah that's the stuff!
ooh we ah ooh ah
Baby baby I can't get enuff!
Love your grind
makes me do the morning grin
kissey kissey
do your thang
Thats the kinda love
I'm in!
-------------------------------
A "sleazy" big band sound is
often characterized by
slow-to-mid-tempo swing
, heavy, muted brass,
and a dark, gritty atmosphere
---------------------------------
Where is the love you promised us always? Eternal love is
cast out of heaven for the angelic it seems—Quote by poet
It burns deeply knowing our ways of love aren’t angelic
Love’s awe emerges then torn apart as old as a Christian relic
It seems true that blessed love can only abide in its
eternal among the angels above and only in the purest spirits
We mortals find the gift of love can be difficult at best
Echoing passions of no forevers with no peace or rest
Awaiting parting and its end with such sweet sorrows
Pink coral sunsets no longer signs of golden tomorrows
To paraphrase Shakespeare’s sonnet, love which burns
brightest tends to dim the quickest—coal rakes and it churns
inside informing me that our ways of love are not angelic
Just to discover true love is as rare as a lost and sacred relic
Tell me a story about a person's adventure
where they went and what they what they did
tell me who they interacted with and what was crazy.
Tell me what mistakes they made,
and the lessons they learned.
Tell me a story that makes me feel good,
but some stories make me really mad.
Tell me a story about an animal,
crawl inside the mind of the beast.
Let me know if the animal interacted with a human
in ways good or in ways really bad.
Was the animal in your story a hero
or just a sidekick?
Maybe you have a story about a fictional character
who floats on the clouds up above.
Or maybe the fictional character
rakes the embers of the underworld below
after all your fictional charter was the villain of the show.
But when you tell me a story of any kind
the time we are together will be quality time.
Why do we aim hot hate at each other
causing further cracks and craters in dried-up deserted Earthers,
when we could choose to heal and recreate
formerly fertile forested and grassland soils
to reform and rejuvenate subclimates of therapy?
ReCreating springs and filters of and for clean rich waters,
together restoring healthy air
to breath more deeply together
as we plan Earth's further fun and happier rejuvenation,
yet another pronoia year, and season,
decade and win/win millennium.
We retain polyculturing subclimates
of good cooperative potential
so urgently needed.
We have no sacred time left for anti-organic guns and missiles.
We have so much labor-neglected waste and inhumane depreciation
for labor-intensive machetes and rakes and shovels.
No time left for any isms short of multiculturally rich Earthism.
For this we bicamerally emerged
and to this co-empathic center we each return
happier together,
more peace prosperous,
co-mentoring ecopolitical therapy.
Those who choose revenge and terror
do not believe they have been given a healthy choice;
that they have been born into a trauma triggering mess
out of which they can only compete to explode first and best.
And, who among us
has never known this victim of Earth's vast apathetic despair
darkly smoldering for protagonistic revenge?
Who are those most worthy of catching this compelling vision?
for co-redemptive healing nursing landscapes and nurturing rivers,
within as without,
purifying our formerly chaste seas and skies
all perpetually
polyculturally
polypathically
revolving around and with one another
in hope of further resonant resolutions,
resilient fertile regeneration.
Pathologies of paranoid win/lose eviL
less than more
than healthy pronoia Live
as spelled-out
swelled-up
in win/win regeneration
reverse of lose/lose degeneration.