Long Redheaded Poems
Long Redheaded Poems. Below are the most popular long Redheaded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Redheaded poems by poem length and keyword.
Kneeling in the median, crying, crying, what have I done?
Oh the pain, the pain wishing the past was undone.
I have no hope for my wretched life, now that I am alone.
The horror of a dying man reverberates in my bones..
That look sinks into my soul with his plea of, WHY!
His pleas of why, I cannot live, why must I die?
As his eyes of his soul fade away into lifelessness.
I feel the authority gently pull my arms and cuff both my wrists.
I wanted no representation at my hearing the following day.
The Judge took pity on me for I was trying to keep my crying at bay.
He sentenced me to five years for DUI and 10 for vehicle manslaughter.
Now I sit in solitude, withering away and not living, why bother.
I usually keep my cell door closed, I want no company
But in my melancholy of self-pity, I left it open this day.
A joyful youth of red hair came bounding in with a beautiful smile.
His noble intentions startled me for a while.
He offered me his ration of delicious smelling bread.
I was distraught over this death with deep sorrow and dread.
I gently refused his kind offer and told him I want no life.
He warmly smiled at me which put a pause in my strife.
You have me transfixed and wanting to know more.
“I see the pain in your eyes, do you want release?” he implore.
I told him that it hurts so much that I do not want to Live.
He said, “Have you considered an alternative that I am willing to give?”
What is it? I stated, what do you have for I know I am condemned.
Let me tell you about our brother that he wants you to mend.
I am an only child and I have no brother, you speak of him, who’s he?
He is Jesus, our brother who extends a welcoming hand and want you to see.
See what? I asked as my heart started to warm as if he’s there.
Suddenly our brother appeared in radiant light and sat in a chair.
I fell to my knees and bowed to him crying, why me brother?
I feel your pain of a contrite heart for you are my child like no other.
Please listen to me for I and one who has died forgive you for what you have done.
Now, child, please forgive yourself, when you do your life will shine like the sun.
Still kneeling at my brother's feet and I forgave myself over and over again.
Thanks to my redheaded friend and brother, my new life began.
“SQUAWK, Squawk, squawk” ,the Bald Eagle’s song of Freedom, Liberty and Serenity
bird Houses, in my backyard are filled with baby Chickadees , Whining , is their Song
If they Knew by the end of Summer, in stillness before the Rain: Phoebe - Tranquility
the clouds Thicken and Blacken : the Chickadee puffs her chest, sings Phoebe song
The rain softly Crying a Phoebe’s resounding echoes , Chickadees, duel Ability
the sky is blue: the wind is calm: a single Phoebe "warning" believe in Her Validity
His Bright Red Plumage
He can not hide from my Eyes
Tapping and rapping, His song
There’s no Special beat
A Redheaded Woodpecker
Tap, Tap, Tap, Rap, Raps his Song
So close sits this Robin beside me
No Songs, just the Promise of Spring
Inspired by the Contest : " For(Four) Beautiful Birds"
Sponsored by CONSTANCE~~A Rambling POET~~
Written : May 1st - 2nd, 2011 By HGarvey Daniel Esquire
5th Place
Tomorrow I’m eating fries, Marion,
It gives me full of pep,
Yellows, walleye, salty,
I will eat hot fries.
Tomorrow I’m eating fries, Marion,
Belgians, sweet flamingos,
Walloon girls, redheaded girls,
Out of the oven, all hot.
Eating fries is not stupid
English, golden, or Norwegian,
The fries it gives a hell of a peach
Tomorrow, Marion, give me the fries.
Demain, je mange des frites, Marion,
Ça me donne voyons, une sacrée frite,
Des jaunes, des dorées, des salées,
Je mangerai des frites chaudes, moi.
Demain, je mange des frites, Marion,
Des belges, des flamandes douces,
Des wallonnes, des filles rousses,
Sorties du four, toutes chaudes.
Manger des frites, ce n’est pas bête
Anglaises, dorées, ou norvégiennes,
Les frites ça donne une sacrée pêche
Demain, Marion, tu me donnes la frite.
I’m a ‘bar-back’, I stack,
I pull up the crates, unpack and rack.
I hump boxes of glasses in,
then I hump them out again.
I roll barrels into a hand-cranked elevator,
then roll the empties into the club cellar
where they now lay stinking.
The dude who’s supposed to hose them out,
has skipped. In this town
a citizen was chopped up,
and left in a bar beer barrel;
folks are naturally a little sensitive.
I’m fired.
Days later I’m washing dishes
at the Canton Buffet,
the perpetually angry manager
starts yelling at me in Cantonese.
There’s a phone call from the guy
who is supposed to be hosing down
the aluminum beer barrels.
He’s in a motel
shacked up with the redhead bartender
from the ‘Gentleman’s Club.’
She’s a skank,
but I see where he might have been tempted.
The buffet manager is standing next to me
by the wall-phone,
his arms are folded.
He's impatiently tapping his toes,
while this guy (who I hardly knew),
is yapping to me like we are best buds.
I can hear the ‘skank’ giggling loudly in the
background, the ‘hose guy’ is snickering also,
he’s obviously jacked-up on snow.
I'm fired.
I decide to get a real job,
and maybe write a little poetry -
should have known that was bull.
I find a job,
another gig that pays for my sweat.
I’m still hunched over a splatter of words
that should have first been hosed down,
and despite the choices I could have made,
I'm stuck with that redheaded skank
I call my Muse.
It’s nice to have some holiday downtime and not be all go-go-go. I’ve even gotten in some Animal Crossing play. After 40 minutes of picking up weeds, Bianca, one of my villagers, told me she’d heard I was dead.
Later, we’re in Lisa’s living room taking turns playing songs from Spotify.
Lisa just played “Woo”, by Rihanna. When the song ends, fading out, Leeza deadpan said, “That song is pure evil.”
“You guys, I forgot to mention it but that is my energy song, it makes me feel so HOT.” Lisa adds with a chuckle.
“It has an evil vibe,” I admit. “An evil vibe,” Leeza confirms.
“Don’t be judging,” Lisa reminds us.
“Your next,” Lisa said, nodding to Leeza, “What’ve you got for us,” she speculates, “some mental health rock?”
Leeza’s had this girl-punk-rock group called “Vancougar” playing on a loop in her room. At first, I wasn’t enthusiastic but now I think they slay. Her mom’s even gotten on board, dancing “the twist” to “Philadelphia” when it rolls around. Leeza has great taste in music although she leans a bit EMO (emotionally hard core) for me. She makes me feel old by introducing us to all these new bands like “Youngest and only,” “Calling all Captains” and “Beatrice Dear.”
“I’ve got one song to play,” Leeza says, “Paparazzi, by Lady Gaga.”
“I’ve been listening to that song all WEEK!” I gasp, “I love that song, it may be her best - that’s so random,” I finish saying as the song starts.
As Paparazzi ends Lisa says, “That song has major Gwen Stefani vibes.”
“It DOES,” I agree, “It could be “Cool” or “Sweet Escape.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Leeza agreed, “shoutout to No Doubt.”
Leeza says, “I have a conversation topic: What’s something we all acknowledge is cheugy but we still do anyway?”
“Being blonde,” I say, which gets stitches of laughter because it’s true and Lisa and I are.
“That’s true, that’s fair,” redheaded Leeza laughs. “Anyone blonde is dead to me,” which gets her a pillow in the face.
“Ok, I’m going to come for a lot of people,” Lisa says, “but yogurt, yogurt is cheugy.”
Leeza gasps, “You think yogurt.. It’s not cheugy!” she practically yells, “It gives MOM.”
.
.
slang..
cheugy = something off-trend, or behind in an awkward way - millennial, but not fully vintage.
gives mom = a comfort activity
A spaceship called Hope... made from the future's grand mist,
is perched upon a launch pad of manic chemicals and loss.
With stun-gun emotion, Mother Earth regurgitates.
5-4-3-2-1
Her metal finger meets the button...
She releases her ballast...
Blast off!
My brain engulfing G forces.
Soon to become a mustard seed
in a speed-of-light garden.
Filled with gravid redheaded planets,
giving birth to fat-headed moons.
The stars are cheering, like starving mad islanders.
Light years have passed.
Ground control has lost contact.
(by choice or by accident).
The rations are depleting,
but I'm serene in a starry tranquility...
I've blown by a million past lives.
Apologized half-heartedly to an alien God.
Who wished me well, pointed toward a giant black hole.
Then disappeared into the vapor trail
of lost potential and cachexic hope.
It's eerily over.
There's no more virgin oxygen.
Only the stale argon of saints and tyrants,
casting shadows of black hallucinations
chanting:
"Little seed...little seed...Didn't you know this was a one-way flight?"
I gaze out a stained-glass window for the last time.
Church bells are ringing from the parched throat of time.
Four golden letters peel from the side of the star-dusted ship.
Satiating the madness of stars...
"Little seed...little seed."
I’m a ‘bar-back’, I stack,
I pull up the crates, unpack and rack.
I hump boxes of glasses in,
then I hump them out again.
I roll barrels into a hand-cranked elevator,
then roll the empties into the club cellar
where they now lay stinking.
The dude who’s supposed to hose them out,
has skipped. In this town
a citizen was chopped up,
and left in a pub barrel;
folks are naturally a bit sensitive
to beer related cleanliness. I’m fired.
Hours later I’m washing dishes
at the Canton Buffet…
the perpetually angry manager
starts yelling at me in Cantonese.
There’s a phone call from the guy
who is supposed to be hosing down
the aluminum beer barrels.
He’s in a motel
shacked up with the redhead bartender
from the ‘Gentleman’s Club.’
She’s a skank,
but I see where he might have been tempted.
The buffet manager is standing next to me
by the wall-phone,
his arms are folded, he’s
impatiently tapping his toes,
while this guy (who I hardly knew),
is yapping to me like we are best buds.
I can hear the ‘skank’ giggling loudly in the
background, the ‘hose guy’ is snickering also,
he’s obviously jacked-up on snow.
Later, I am fired by the manager
of the ‘Cantonese Buffett’.
It’s then that I decide to get a real job,
and maybe write a little poetry -
should have known that was B.S.
I find a job,
but I’m still hunched over a splatter of words
that should have first been hosed down,
and despite the choices I could have made,
I’ve got to move on to
the next unpredictable shift
with that redheaded skank
I call my Muse.
Meaningful girl redheaded.
Daughter of John and Elaine Grey.
Mind situated
Thoughts, tensions. Mind breaks
Revelations
Tell a communications.
Kinesis
Mind reeling reading
Telekinesis
Student of Charles Xavier
Original X man.
Red headed Marvel Girl
Member of Uncanny X-MEN
Reading your mind
Powerful, Psych blasts
Showcasing immense omega-level
Telepathic and telekinetic abilities
Powerhouse mutant capable of flight,
Energy manipulation, and mental control
Psionic abilities to protect mutant kind associated
With the cosmic "Phoenix Force".
Spirit of the Phoenix
Jean Grey MARVEL GIRL Phoenix
4/19/26
Written by James Edward Lee Sr 2026
By the side of the loch some boys at play,
when into their midst there came
A beautiful white and riderless horse
with a long and flowing mane
A redheaded boy jumped up on its back,
a daring young sprite was he
And the other bold lads, as lads often do,
followed in his lee
The boys they ranged from the head to the tail,
and more clung to the side
And the pure white horse cantered along,
with the boys enjoying the ride
But one boy recalled an ancient tale,
and wished he had paid more heed,
How the slimy Kelpie could change its shape
and become a shining steed
Then the Kelpie, in this fine disguise,
would trot by the loch or mere
And the humans foolish enough to ride,
would be doomed to disappear
This unhappy boy had a grip on the tail
and he was running last
But when he tried to let it go,
he found his hand stuck fast
He twisted and turned, he tossed and thrashed,
but all to no avail
‘til he pulled out a knife, from the top of his boot,
and slashed the creature’s tail
And in that instant the Kelpie reared up,
and flew with brimstone and fire
Out over the loch and down in the deep
of the boggy marsh and mire
The boy left behind stood on the sand
and gazed where his friends been
And though the men searched for many a night,
they never again were seen
And the mothers came to sit by the loch,
to keen, to moan and cry
And in their grief they failed to see,
a pale horse trotting by.
Margaret Foster 29th August 2011
‘each uisge’ Gaelic—Water horse—Kelpie
mere—archaic, dialect. a lake or marsh.
I fell asleep outside,
on Lisa’s windy, 50th floor terrace.
It was indulgent, sensual
and lethargic - it crushed.
I forgot the time.
The sunset was intense,
a violent shock of color,
like an existential smack in the face.
I felt a lot of joy.
I’m feeling optimistic.
We leave for New Haven tomorrow.
I believe in the future.
Leeza popped her head out of the glass doors,
she was wearing a small, pale, skin bikini,
“Wanna go to the (indoor basement) pool?”
I stretched like a cat, “Sure,” I purred.
.
.
a song for this:
Hit My Heart by BOY
Relax by Vacations
.
.
Our cast:
Leeza, my roommate Lisa’s 14-year-old skinny, redheaded beauty of a little sister.
Lisa, one of my Yale roommates whose parents live in a Central Park South, Manhattan Highrise