Long Rims Poems
Long Rims Poems. Below are the most popular long Rims by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rims poems by poem length and keyword.
Eternally, eternally all clocks unwind;
To be rewound — a life untethers to be re-bound
Old eyes forget the forewarnings wisdom teaches;
They widen to look anew where experience beseeches
Set sail into the ancient light anew—
Adrift upon a mirrored sea of stars and lulling waves,
Rocking steadily and toward an enlightened litany
Of ideas and shapes that mould us as we wake,
In loving arms and eyes that behold us
And each little breath we take,
One new timid star, shining amongst so many,
Outshine and out-reach the distant rims;
Cast an urging light for our daunted whims
Held in check by the shackled limbs,
The instilled deprecation that dims.
And let my eyes unbind, aglitter—
The horizonal-line—
Trans-destine—
And free.
An iteration—
A fantasy—
Adream midst destiny—
A new you, a new me.
so this is the way the night tastes...
looking back I couldn't tell,
in pencil at the beginning
worn flights of steps, from before the war
smaller, until they were gone
but in the mirror, my hands
gold rims, bare here and there
out of an echo, knowing
not long after
flecked with red, blue in the depths, and polished...
I see clearly all the pieces of the flower
it was late when we started
plates stacked on shelves
next to the questions
one at a time
once there was a horizon
no color except for gray
at a perfect distance from each other
almost a thousand years later
almost in plain sight
in the summer fields waiting
it would climb up as a shadow
we planned to wait
and to whatever is still standing
the eggshell of light before dark
what was there before
remained closed on its own
along the ridge of the barn roof
only she had forgotten her name
a dried branch of bittersweet
lace on drop-leaf tables
I could not remember
part memory, part distance
leading me to the lake shore
invisible under the hood
_______________________________________________________
Inspired By Charlotte's Contest: "Cut-up/Collage Poems"
and randomly "snipped" from a book by W.S. Merwin
2/27/14
Blackbrush -- Coleogyne ramosissima
the dominant understory shrub
in the pinyon-juniper canyons.
Mountain-mahogany -- Cercocarpus montanus and ledifolia.
Single-leaf ash -- Fraxinus anomalus
and possibly a western hophornbeam
by the small birch-like leaves
and the shredding bark
in a moist stretch of joint trail.
The joint-fir, green ephedra
looks like an ocean plant.
Could the wind or white water rivers alone
have shaped these sandstone, red rock forms?
Network of canyons, inverse of mountains.
It had to be ocean
ebbing and flowing, emotionally, like wind,
moving atmosphere, thicker
shaving, scraping, polishing, gouging, digging
fish canyons
then, shallower, dinosaur swamps
now, dry, rock gardens.
Explain the human history with water:
did the Anasazi visit neighbors
along the canyon rims and deep within,
combination caves and red-rock houses
small windows, doorways, just crawlways,
with corn gifts on summer evenings
when the canyon bottoms held permanent, not intermittent,
streams? After them
came the Ute and Navajo, Spanish and English.
Ravens dine on road kill.
A few long red roads connect some canyons.
The unprotected flats are overgrazed, rabbitbrush.
It is interesting
that as I learn the woody and herbaceous plants,
walk the desert foothills, I too could stay.
Blue steel rims with glimmering spokes,
The cogs in his mind began,
He saw the ideas appear from nowhere,
And grew to understand,
His happy, his joy, his radiant self,
Was not just a goal for the end,
But a feeling to fulfil every single day,
Both alone and then with his friends,
So he threw out what he never wanted,
Sold to him with bright lights,
Colourful views from a buffet of sales,
He stepped to his simple advice,
And now he walks with his head soaring high,
He walks with the happiest smile,
Experiencing all that’s real in this world,
Cradling his inner most child.
quatrozain
The year is nineteen hundred eighty-six,
the biggest action, music, plots play through.
Behold the crowds are raving, buying ticks!
Top Gun, the movie’s here and overdue.
While brave Tom Cruise, the hero, rims the sky,
it’s really only stuntmen on those planes.
And to be sure, a romance follows nigh -
the female fans expect that love will reign.
Parental guidance warns some shoddy talk,
which gives the picture young adult appeal.
The sexy scenes are clean as new white chalk;
a final song provides nostalgic feel.
The mix for Top Gun 2, as yet unknown -
they must incorporate a role for drones.
Reason A. Poteet
09 Oct 2014
iambic pentameter for Giorgio's Contest III
Love In The Library
by Edmund Siejka
( East Of Seventh, poems by Edmund Siejka available on Amazon)
He was a scrawny kid
In 1st grade his lunch money
Often disappeared
By the 5th he was street wise.
Mother worked in an office
And Dad assembled radios in a factory on the West Side
On his own most of the day
He had a choice
Of going to the Boy’s Club
Or the library
For some reason
The library became his favorite place
A place of books and knowledge
A place of hushed voices
Bespectacled librarians
Hard wooden chairs
Light maple rectangle wooden desks
Marred by carved initials
Grownups
Reading
Sleeping
Or glancing at their watches
That’s where he met Susan.
She was twelve years old
A year older
A little taller
Red hair and freckled face
Aggressive
Attractive
And smart
She asked if he would walk her home
To a tall apartment house
On 12th Street
Bricks the color of pale mustard
Leaving her by the lobby elevator
He listened to its muffled sound
Gliding effortlessly
To a place he was never invited.
In the privacy of his room
He dreamed of her
Incessantly
Clutching his pillow tightly
Making believe it was her
Blood flowing
Roaring sounds in his ears
Dreaming that they were always together
Holding hands.
She, wearing a starched white shirt
Carelessly unbuttoned
Looking deeply into his eyes
As he leaned forward to kiss
Her with every passion he could muster
That Spring
His days were inspired
With dreams of her.
One rainy morning
Awakened by familiar kitchen sounds
He wandered in
Yawning
Arms folded
Fighting the morning chill
As a feeble day
Silhouetted the rims of the fire escapes
And the sea of blacktopped tenements.
In the misty light
Among the empty rooftops
She danced in the air
Her body turning
Twisting
Spiraling away from him
A fixed smile on her face
Mocking,
Mocking,
Mocking him.
...The months that followed were not kind,
a recall soon took his post from him,
and the angry eyes of the grieving kin
weighed so heavily upon his mind.
And word had gone out ’cross the land,
that Cyril Flint, he lacked real grit,
and people had died because of it,
nobody would hire such a man.
The next year would not go by fast,
Cyril spent most of his days dunk,
got by doing odd jobs, fit for skunks,
forever haunted by the echoing past.
In his despair he found himself asking
why he’d thought himself fit for the star
when couldn’t boast of a single scar,
was bravery such a hard-earned thing?
It seemed so clear to him in retrospect,
his ego hand hungered for the prestige,
he’d never been much for humility…
so much hubris on which to reflect.
As he puzzled on this one half-drunk morn,
a team of horses on a wagon stout,
jolted and reeled at the sight of a mouse,
and away with the wagon they tore.
They sprinted straight for widow Allandale,
Cyril threw himself hard into her side,
struck by the force, the widow did fly,
in wild circles did her arms flail.
She struggled to stay on her feet,
quit angry until a sickening crack,
Caught her attention, turning her back,
from her lips leapt a panicked shriek.
On the group lay Cyril’s bent shape,
trampled by hooves and iron rims,
half the bones in his body broken,
bloody from his shins to his pate.
Folks rushed up quickly to surround,
made no move to help, it was clear
there was nothing a doctor could do here,
his last moments in agony profound.
As he wavered in that morning’s light,
the very last words that he ever heard
was,”At least he didn’t die a coward,”
then on came that cold, endless night.
How much do I love thee
Let me tabulate all the ways
I bought you a new Mercedes
With gold plated tire rims
I bought you a humongous diamond ring
The size fit for all Royals and King
I bought you a store of the finest lingerie
Secrets still held at the door by decree
I bought you a garden of roses so red
My love was surely in bloom, or so they all said
I bought you a ticket to heavens pearly gates
So that in paradise you’d have not to even wait
I bought you your very own private Lear jet
To see the world through champagne eyes
My love was a vault and you emptied it dry
My heart has now learned to never cry
How much do you love me?
Your lawyer seems to know
You claimed mental duress
Suffering under such stress
The Mercedes was the wrong color so I am told
I should have known, pink, not gold
The diamond ring was too heavy to wear
Your back injuries caused you painful despair
The lingerie didn’t cover you just right
So medical ailments kept you up many a nights
The roses in bloom where not the right flower
Your allergies they caused, thus making you sour
The ticket to heaven you plain out refused
Said it was one way, and that just wouldn’t do!
You had no issues riding my Lear jet
You rode the pilot as well, a mile high kinda bet
My love you tossed into the bin out in back
The divorce lawyer smiles at me, saying she sure is great in the sack
The moral of the Story is this!
If you are sitting at the table, and
You see a few beetles scurrying about
Maybe even whistling a tune or two
Listen carefully to what they say
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wire rims~
thin as a whisper,
holding the weight of every page he turned,
every clockface he squinted at before dawn.
Now they sit,
empty orbits on my desk.
I lift them,
and the world bends~
not as he saw it,
but as I imagine he did:
The morning newsprint smudging into prayer,
the stubborn lawnmower that refused to start,
my childhood face,
always slightly out of focus,
as if love itself were a thing
that needed adjusting.
I wear them like a ghost.
The bridge rests light,
almost apologetic,
as if they knew
they were never meant to be mine.
Through Pop’s lenses,
the light is softer,
the edges kinder.
The coffee stains on the counter
look like continents he never visited.
The crossword puzzle~
half-finished,
pen dropped mid-clue~
becomes a map of all the words
he didn’t have time to say.
I take them off.
The room sharpens
into my own life again,
but for a moment,
I swear,
the air smelled like his aftershave,
and the light was gold,
the way it is
just before it fades.
They stole my brand-new bike from where
I’d left it in the yard.
Since I was only eight years old,
I really took it hard.
I’d only had it for a week
But it fit all my needs –
The brakes were on the handlebars
And wow! It had three speeds!
It was metallic blue and oh,
The other kids would stare;
But one day when I came outside,
It simply wasn’t there.
We searched in vain on every street
Within the neighborhood.
We really thought it would show up,
But it was gone for good.
My parents didn’t have the funds
To purchase a replacement.
Instead, they found a clunker
Rusting in somebody’s basement.
My second bike was old and slow
And really not much fun.
The tires were fat, the rims were scuffed,
The count of speeds was one!
I’ve never owned another bike
But cars I’ve had a few;
And one thing I can tell you is
Each one was spanking new!