Long Recounts Poems
Long Recounts Poems. Below are the most popular long Recounts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Recounts poems by poem length and keyword.
The Biblical book of Genesis poetically recounts the undetermined time of creation as happening in a week of seven days. As I look back upon life, which has gone by so quickly, it seems that eighty-six plus years have been
accomplished in a week of years, i.e., a long life in earth terms, yet seems it began only seven weeks ago. I’ve entitled the following poem “My Life: A Week of Years.” It summarizes a long life and measures it as only seven weeks in time.
During the first week of years of life
I looked in the mirror for the first time
There gawking back was a seven-year-old lad
Full of energy and the grin of a playground champion
On the second week of years of life
In the mirror was a naïve, immature, lanky teenager
Neither a child nor an adult, just a rack of emotions
Thinking he knew it all, but knew nothing at all
On the third week of years of life
A young adult fixed upon the image in the mirror
Trying to discover who he was and who he might be
Anxious about today and wondering about tomorrow
On the fourth week of years of life
The mirror revealed a husband and father
Shoulders loaded with responsibilities and expectations
Struggling in a world of work, unrest, fear, and war
On the fifth week of years of life
The mirror was full of a middle-aged man
Children grown, educated, employed, and gone
Empty nest, much debt, and baskets full of memories
On the sixth week of years of life
The mirror showed a grey-haired man
Who had accomplished much, yet not enough
Facing retirement and its uncertainties
On the seventh week of years of life
The mirror reflected a foggy view of an old man
One that had traveled and experienced so much
Standing side by side with Father Time
The last hours of that seventh week
Are ticking away in double time
As the hour hand nears the number twelve
A vision of that energetic boy appears
I’m like, “Yo!”,
and he’s like, “Woh!”,
and I’m like, “Good to meet,”
and he’s like, “Yeah, real neat,”
and I’m like, “Jungle sucks,”
and he’s like, “It’s big bucks,”
and I’m like, “It’s the pits,”
and he’s like, “What a ditz!”,
and I’m like, “Where’s the beer?”,
and he’s like, “Why you here?”,
and I’m like, “I got sent,”
and he’s like, “Excellent!”,
and I’m like, “Let’s shoot pool,”
and he’s like, “That’s way cool,”
and he’s like, “You from Alaska?”,
and I’m like, “Nah – Nebraska”,
and he’s like, “Go Huskers!”,
and I’m like, “No tuskers?”
and he’s like, “Had a cull, for food”,
and I’m like, “Radical, dude
WALDERE: MODERN ENGLISH TRANSLATION
“Waldere” is an ancient Old English (i.e., Anglo-Saxon) poem that recounts the exploits of Walter of Aquitaine, a legendary king of the Visigoths. In the poem Waldere and Hildeguth or Hildegyth flee the court of Attila the Hun, where they were being held hostage, for Aquitaine. The poem mentions names that appear in “Deor’s Lament,” such as Theodric, Widia and Beadohild. Unfortunately, only 63 lines of “Waldere” survived, in two fragments of around 30 lines each.
Waldere Excerpt
Old English poem circa 1000 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Thus Hildeguth spoke, heartening him:
“Surely the work of Wayland shall never fail,
the savage sword Mimming, when held by a man
who bolsters its blade. Felled, the fiercest fighters
lie broken, bleeding profusely from terrible wounds,
lords and aethelings laid low on the battlefield,
heirs of grim war-graves.
Son of Aelfhere, right hand of Attila,
best and boldest of his warlords,
don’t let your heart faint, nor your courage wilt.
The time has come to summon all your daring,
to gain glory or give up living for a long doom.”
…
Keywords/Tags: Waldere, translation, Hildeguth, Wayland, sword Mimming, man, men, fighters, war, battle, battlefield, grave, graves, Attila the Hun, heart, courage, time, glory, life, living, death, doom
(In Paris in 1904, Lily - deserted wife
of composer Claude Debussy - recounts
her suicide attempt among the statues.)
What do you do?
I couldn't bring myself
to write a "you're untrue"
type letter. It wouldn't do.
They're coming
back from Jersey now,
he and his fat old woman.
What did I do?
How did I let him down?
I would take him back
in a heartbeat,
despite this indiscreet
and ugly business,
the talk of the town.
What did I lack?
Next Wednesday marks five.
If I'm still alive,
I'll pass it alone.
He's got his old crone.
How did it come to this?
How did I miss?
He begged me
to be his wife.
If not, he'd take his life.
What does anything mean?
I didn't have a plan.
Just insupportable pain.
I wandered about in the rain,
nursing the revolver in my purse.
I passed the Madeleine
and Strasbourg, in black,
and knew I wasn't going back.
Between the Obelisk and Brest
I held the damn thing
to my chest.
The rest's a blur.
I woke up here in the Hotel Dieu.
They said it's lodged,
the lump of lead,
behind my heart.
It has to stay there.
Far too near
a vertebra to operate.
At any rate,
I'll wear his souvenir
until I'm dead.
HIS UNFORGIVABLE SIN
“unforgivable”
she said, when he broke his vows,
then he arched his back.
she was repelled by his act.
a lover’s smile kissed his lips.
“unbelievable”
she spoke, as she grabbed an ax
and approached the bed.
two cockroaches leapt from sheets,
rustling into the darkness.
“unforgivable”
she laughs, “you’re not welcome back”
nudists race down road,
their shame uncovered by dawn.
they’re grateful to see the light.
“unbelievable”
she recounts to the jury
“i’ll take my divorce
and all of his assets too.
i need to reset my eyes”
~ unsustainable ~
her marriage to this leacher.
her bucket poured out,
this saltwater fish thrown back.
she’d waste no more tears on him.
~ unbelievable ~
heaven sent a faithful man
stitched her broken heart.
first, quilted kisses hurt, but
his blanket of love protects.
~ unforgivable ~
a word not heard in her home.
she trusts her husband.
the sun shines on her children.
God’s blessed her with forbearance.
9/16/2017
Broken Wings contest Form U - U Pick The Form - Poetry Contest
Chosen Form: Tanka
Chosen word: Unforgivable
Exiting beauty’s cradle her grasp spans what destiny holds pale.
She has yearned, gained and lost what was fused to her core, yet still she traverses beneath a southern sky that haemorrhages numerical promise and nighttime bridge wishes.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.
Etched sunflowers bloom and shimmer from her wrist to elbow.
She recounts stories, memories and hopes that glide from Columbia to San Francisco and carefully guides me through intricate explorations of heart and landscape.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.
Above this endless river we sit and stare through mottled sunlight.
I am trapped, smothered in sable eyes and hair that are as rich and sublime as an oncoming tropical storm that threatens to transport me into certain oblivion.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.
I lay small gifts at her feet and pray that they aren’t too much to take.
Her laughter breaks me in two as summer traffic speeds over an emerald bridge that gleams in the night like jewels lost in a dust storm.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.
She leads me downstream and walks me through evening gardens.
City lights envelop us, and I wish I could hold her hand, but I can’t put that weight on her shoulders, I won’t put that weight on her shoulders.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.
She has crossed my path for mere seconds and left me dazed, static.
She’s in my world now where once she wasn’t, so I will remember, smile and hold my heart in my hand whilst I say her name to the sky below me.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.
From a quaint chalet, one young mother breaks into solace glancing at doves wheel across a teal skyscape. Like intermittent flashes, her lucid memory recounts the giggles of her son rising near a hill... a pleasant outburst for a boy wagging and tugging his paper kite.
Mid-autumn is a season of murky trails on pastoral ledges. As sunset dips its crown, a loud holler bangs among slime of marbles. The woman’s vision smears... feet race with an icy wind. ‘My child, my child!’, she fumbles. Down the curve lies her offspring trapped under rubbles, motionless. The kite, nowhere to be found... until
cherub birds sway low
wrapping youngster in gold light--
bleak autumn defied
8/2/2019
Angels Danced Contest of Lu Loo
She leaned on her stick like the Tower of Pisa
Her bones, porous and brittle, might break any day
She’s all alone, her husband dead and gone
Her only son, years before, shot down by a gun
Sombre shadows now darken her path
Still there is a rare glow in her eyes
When young lovers’ clasp and their fingers twine
She happily recalls the time she was with him
She lived a life of love, coloured in enduring tints
Looking back, she has no cause for remorse!
Her spine’s bent, unable to straighten itself
Still there is a rare glow in her eyes
She oft recounts her youth’s glitter and glow
That takes her back to life’s bygone splendour
She lived content, her tasks as wife and mother, fulfilled
Now she is a garment no longer fit to wear
Will soon be reaped by the scythe of fate
Still there is a rare glow in her eyes
Now that her days are numbered,
Before her, the sole image of a beauteous form
The loving hands of God waiting to embrace her
This aged pilgrim focuses only on that goal in view
To the grave she quickly treads, never to return
And there is a rare glow in her eyes!
Placed First in the poetry Contest
Strand's (1054) Poetry Contest
Do you think I can save all ships in distress?
How wrong you are! Times when I sorely pressed,
Times when my beacon was snuffed out of its glory.
Oh, I can tell you many an adventurous story,
Exciting exploits on the tumultuous and stormy seas
High waves span all around me, ugly with a heavy breeze.
Still, there’s one I would sincerely like to show,
Although it happened a long time ago.
The Greyhound had a young master, rich and mean,
And he dared cross the sea, oh what a scene.
The winds were high and the sky was overcast
Waves were high and terrible. The ship could not last.
Aboard the vessel, I saw the master of the merchant ship,
Carrying slaves and other goods, was a doomed deplorable trip.
Above the dim of wicked waves, clangs of iron I heard,
And screams intermixed with every offensive word.
The man drenched held to the mast, knelt and prayed
Let them be saved, he would renounce his trade.
Years passed and the man gladly his faith he did embrace.
He vowed he’d fight slavery with his “Amazing Grace”.
absence of sound is the deepest void,
where silence reigns farthest spots,
in that silence is heart beat of thought,
swirling colours of hope, mist of dreams
the din of noise like a turbulent gale,
sweeps away benevolence of such purity,
seedlings of truth germinate in quiet,
when eyes are closed and mind at rest,
when breath recounts the value of life,
mind remembers the time that is lost,
time that only clocks the material,
because in the void there is no time,
so void it was when it all began,
void it will be when it all shall end,
between the voids is myth of presence,
absolute reality is total absence of all!
find that void that binds us all together,
in that void is silence and voice of God!
Premier contest winner (6)
written 8/08/2021
The Void poetry contest
free verse
Unseeking Seeker sponsored