Long Road(a) Poems
Long Road(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Road(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Road(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
Naked Aggression met Unbridled Greed
on an uncharted forest path
Warily they circled each other, eyes
laser-focused, each on the other's hands...
Up the road a ways trudged Steely Determination
weak and weary from a bout with the flu
Some distance behind him, he heard shouts ring out
felt a pin-prick of fear but pressed on...
Naked Aggression made his move for a thicket
Unbridled Greed pursuing, hot on his heels
Yet just when it seemed Determination was doomed
he ducked into a hard-to-see clearing
Well, Aggression never let up and ran right past him
straight into a solid brick wall -- Splat!
And all that was left of once-mighty Aggression
was a bloody dismembered blue cap...
Determination breathed a deep sigh
fell to one knee and gave thanks
Then he got up and chuckled and said
Thank God this was a fraternity prank
You shall not chase my gloom away!
There's such a charm in melancholy.
(Samuel Rogers, 1814)
I think, I was born under the shadow of melancholy. I was a woebegone girl
since birth. My mother said she never saw anyone with such an aching heart.
To me there was anguish and agony everywhere in my world. At the side of
the road, a dead bird would bring me to tears and with a heavy heart I would
hold a funeral. My parents refused to let me bury squirrels but I prayed quite
mournfully for their souls. When my sister died in childhood, I was overcome
with grief and down-hearted. I became desolate and miserable. In my eyes
there is a sadness still that could shatter glass, it is so sorrowful. As I grew up,
I was a moody girl, taken to reflection and reverie, deep in my innermost
thoughts and morose.
broken bleeding heart
there is such heartache to see-
beautiful sadness
Then, I found poetry writing and my sulkiness found an outlet. Now I have
learned to use my melancholy and weariness and tiredness and even my
forever bitterness to create deep and dark poems. And with each beloved
death I have been crushed yet have used the wretched pain to write my tears
away. I will tell you the truth, I write my very best poems when I am down
and blue. I was once told that a poet must suffer to be good and I believe
that to be true. Sometimes, and don't laugh I force myself to be sad in order
to compose a pensive, broken poem.
deep in thought musing
that is where I find my pen-
sweet melancholy
__________________________________
September 25, 2016
Poetry/Quote/Haibun/Senryu/Melancholy
Copyright Protected, ID 16-833-447-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Melancholy
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron
First Place
I'll tell you about the Traffic Cop
Who stands on the road, a rigid prop.
A whistle in hand, a stern, fixed stare,
A battle with chaos, a daily affair.
His uniform was bright, a badge on his chest,
A symbol of order, put to the test.
He waves his arms, he shouts with might,
Trying to tame the traffic's plight.
He sees the rush, the honks, the speed,
A constant threat, a desperate need.
For patience, for care, for rules obeyed,
But drivers, it seems, are often swayed.
By haste, anger, ego, and pride,
Ignoring the warnings, they swiftly glide.
A world of impatience, a race to be won,
Leaving the officer feeling so undone.
He's seen accidents, tears, and pain,
A constant reminder of life's fragile chain.
He's faced with insults, with threats, with scorn,
A lonely figure, often forlorn.
Yet still he stands, with a steadfast heart,
Protecting lives, playing a vital part.
A guardian of roads, a symbol of law,
Deserving respect, a standing applaud.
So next time you see him, with the whistle in hand,
Remember the danger, the life in his stand.
Show gratitude, patience, and care,
For his service to all, beyond compare.
Partnachklamme
The most beautiful place
Above the Bavarian resort town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen,
There winds a country road which leads to the Partnach gorge.
Hikers are passed by less hearty tourists transported in hay wagons.
On the left side of the road, a river can be spotted through the lindens.
The river water looks like it was drawn with aquamarine pastels,
Having been super-oxygenated from the gorge’s rapids and cascades.
Playful locals built miniature dwellings and piers along the banks.
Loggers used to hike up the dangerous gorge to unblock log jams,
So safer paths were tunneled in and along the walls of the gorge.
So many sight-seers used to sneak up the loggers trails for the views,
That logging ceased and the gorge became a tourist destination.
At the mouth of the gorge, a guest house sells carbonated buttermilk,
Weiswurst, and other Bavarian specialties to fortify or refresh.
During the holiday season, pilgrims carefully hike the trails
Carrying torches which reflect from the icicles and frozen walls.
Waterfalls, narrows, bridges, and a logger chapel
All add to the charm of Partnach Gorge.
Just down the gravel road a piece is an old-time country store.
On its saggin' shelves are things you won't find much anymore.
Ladies in bright calico barter with Mr. Draper their eggs and butter,
As they visit neighbors on Saturday nights amid the piles of clutter!
Menfolk lounge on benches in front of the store to discuss the price of hogs,
Argue the merits of John Deere tractors and who has the finest huntin' dogs.
The kids were given fifty-cents and shooed off to the movin' pitcher show.
Later they'll meet at Bruce's Deli Shoppe for ice cream and cups o' joe!
Shoppin' carts or computers ain't used in the store owned by Mr. Draper.
He grabs things off the shelf and totes the bill on scraps of butcher's paper.
Snoozin' nigh the glowin' potbelly stove is Spooks, Mr. Draper's hound.
His inscrutable cat, Wilbur, sprawls upon a barrel of pickles a-sleepin' sound!
Ah, the variety of interestin' stuff available in his store is so replete.
Fels Naptha, Oxydol and Lifebuoy soaps as well as pickled pigs feet,
Wrigley's, Black Jack, Beamans and Clove chewin' gums are on the shelf,
Plus Clark, Power House and Walnetto candies to satisfy yourself!
Farmers keep his bins stocked with fresh roastin' ears and sweet potaters,
Rutabagas, green onions, rhubarb and luscious beefsteak tomaters.
If you can tolerate squeaky floors and Mr. Draper's old-fashioned ways,
Drop by and savor the nostalgic ambience of his store one of these days!
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Entry for Kelly Deschler's "Just Down The Road" Contest
The night is vast, a velvet tide,
Soft breath of stars that will not hide.
The moon lies low, a molten flame,
And every leaf whispers your name.
No mirrored haze, no city glare,
Just silence hung in midnight air.
The trees extend their thick shadowed limbs,
Their touch as warm as "biblical" hymns.
The bushes lean, their blossoms spread,
A secret path where we are led.
Green leaves embrace with tender sweep,
The earth awakes, it does not sleep.
Above us spills a sugared stream,
Cotton candy stars that gleam.
The Milky Way—our bridal veil,
A shining road, a comets siver tail.
Your hand in mine, so dark and sweet,
Our pulses rise, our shadows meet.
The hush is deep, the moment stays,
Entwined beneath the milky way.
I taste the salty night upon your skin,
The universe stirs, we beg the night.
With every spark the heavens say:
We are the fire,
are each atoms dancing, In your Milky Way.
Without doubt a small isle but one of natural beauty
Such a tranquil emerald place, the Isle of Innisfree
Set in Irelands Lough Gill in the County of Sligo
And holds for me fond memories of so long ago.
I met my first love at the loughs shore, a pretty colleen
Grace Ann was her name and she was just sixteen
And that first long hot summer that we spent together
Still plays on my mind and the love we had for each other.
We'd row across to the Isle often and stay all day long
And spent many hours talking and singing our song
A pact we both made, that we'd be together for life
I as her loving husband and she as my loving wife.
We'd dream of building a house there, just her and me
And later we'd have children, our very own family
We would have a laugh about that, it was just fantasy
But I knew that we'd be happy wherever we'd be.
We finished school in September and were waiting to see
If we'd been successful in our application, for Dublin Uni
Sadly, some of our friends, had their application's rejected
But Grace and I'd been lucky because we'd been accepted.
The week before our departure , she went with some friends to town
And as they crossed a busy road, a drunk driver mowed them down
Two of her friends were slightly injured but Grace died at the scene
Her young life taken from her; she'd just turned seventeen.
I became very withdrawn and just wished it'd been me
And lost interest in everything and even a place at uni
I went to the funeral home to see, one last time her pretty face
And there in a white coffin lay an angel; my beautiful Grace.
I blamed myself for her death; she'd wanted to stay in with me
But I said "Go out with your friends and have a farewell party"
After her funeral I left for England and joined the merchant navy
In the hope I'd leave behind memories of that awful tragedy.
I couldn't face going back home and its now been thirty years
Just the thought of going back there would fill my eyes with tears
In my free time I'd go up on deck and just stare out to sea
And my mind would drift back to that summer, with Grace and Innisfree.
Written 11th December 2020.
Inspired by The Lake Isle Of Innisfree by Irish Poet W. B. Yeats
I suppose you think it's a gooseberry patch to which I allude.
Well, in a sense it is, but this has to do with scrumptious food!
'Tis a diner named The Gooseberry Patch, down the road a spell.
It ain't a fancy place, but I declare in country cookin' they do excel!
The genial cook is a laid-back, home-grown Colorado chap,
Wearin' a Bronco T-shirt and a Rockies baseball cap.
The waitress leans on the counter a-starin' dreamily into space,
As country and western from station KKCS wafts about the place!
The green chili is zesty hot and will set yer ears aglow!
Yer face'll light up with hues akin to a paintin' by van Gogh!
The pork and beef barbeque is so spicy it'll sting yer eye.
All this can be topped off with a tangy slice of gooseberry pie!
It ain't owned by some far-away impersonal organization.
For generations it's been a family-owned operation.
They don't boast a five-star ratin' - for that they don't aspire,
Nor nation-wide Gooseberry Patch franchises will they require!
Yer plate is overflowin' and the price is certainly right.
Classier places skimp on food and the cost is just a fright!
I've dined at five-star establishments but they'll never match,
The good ol' country fare served at the rustic Gooseberry patch!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
In city streets, where concrete's might
Reigns supreme, I wander, lost in night
A stranger in this urban maze and pain
Searching for a refuge from life's driving rain
The drivers' skills, a mystery to share
A riddle wrapped in chaos, with no one to care
They drive with passion's fire, yet senseless and blind
Their horns, a cacophony, that pierces the mind
A symphony of chaos, that echoes through the night
I search for solace, in the silence, a peaceful sight
The stars above, a twinkling sea
A reminder of the infinite's mystery
Oh, city of gold, where hearts are sold
And love's a distant, fading light, to grow old
I yearn for peace, for a refuge from the fray
A place to call my own, where love will find its way
So I write, to win the bread, and make ends meet
A means to sustain, to survive, and find my feet
The job applications, a never-ending test
The rejections, a familiar tune, that I've learned to rest
"We'll move forward, with another applicant," they say
A phrase, that's lost its sting, as I've weathered many a day
But still I hold on to hope, a glimmer of light
A trust, that God has something better, in store for my plight
Perhaps, I'm being refined, like silver in the fire
A temporary punishment, for my deeds, that will soon retire
For when God opens doors of blessings, no one can shut them tight
I'll walk through them, with gratitude, and a heart full of delight
So I'll keep on writing, through the noise, the chaos, the strife
For in the words, I find my strength, my voice, my life.
I'm in the house all alone.
(She is no where near alone in this house.)
I hear the ringing of the phone.
(And believe me its not just a mere mouse.)
I answer, but oddly there is no one there.
(Not even a dial tone, will she hear on the line.)
I think this is more than the average scare.
(When this is over, not even her body, they'll find.)
I hang up and turn around, eyes open wide.
(My decaying corpse I shall let her see.)
I realize suddenly I'm trapped inside.
(Tell whomever you want, but no one will believe.)
Even though I'm locked inside, I still try to flee.
(I slam the door, there is no escape here!)
Oh why, oh why won't this ghost let me free?
(Oh how I love the smell of her fear!)
Oh Lord I wish I could take back that night.
(She should never have been drinking.)
When I ran her down in drunken delight.
(What was wrong with her, what was she thinking?)
I got out of the car to see what I had hit.
(I lay on the road a crumpled heap.)
In my stupor I pick her up so I can take her to a fresh dug pit.
(She throws me carelessly in the back of her Jeep.)
I now see for the wrong I've done I MUST make amend.
(Breathing hard with sweat beading on her forehead.)
I grab my chest as my life suddenly comes to an end.
(Eye for an eye we're even now that she too, is dead.)
For the Duo's Game, Thanks John Loving III for tapping us!!! Sandra Hudson & Sami
Al-Khahili, You both are next!