Long Rockers Poems
Long Rockers Poems. Below are the most popular long Rockers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rockers poems by poem length and keyword.
Sunset Sigh
pretend it was me and not you
in love. Cupid put down his arrows,
they were aimless, anyhow -
he sees that now. still,
there’s a beauty and a cutie
so Cupid decides to shoot
his mouth off. the couple turns,
a miss…what is this…what is this…
each off their rockers, rocking away
from dusk to dusk, wondering why
they can never find love. the moon
drifts, separate beaches sunset-sigh.
Cupid reminisces about the two
who got away…did he save the day…
two fish caught in love’s net
sent back to school, then all alone.
the woman says to no one particular, but
really to Cupid…pretend it was me
the man says the same…was love
really that lame…two arrows,
side by side in glass frames…
the ones that got away.
With the palms of well-worn leathery hands that in younger days guided a Tall Ship round
the globe many times with the help of stars that still twinkled in his eyes, the old man made
a porthole in the frosty forest of swirling ferns that had been painted on the kitchen window
pane by Jack-Frost during the night.
As I sat on his lap, he told me the creaking sound made by the rockers from the rocking
chair we sat in on the hardwood floor - if he closed his eyes, could make him believe he was
back with the wind in his sails, rising and dipping and swaying with the whims of the
waves ‘ore the sea.
Back- and- forth, back-and-forth, we rocked as the porthole on the window pane grew larger,
exposing the winter wonder land outside where trees and roads and roof-tops lie frozen
beneath a layer of fluffy snow that looked like icing on a birthday cake, as the house
softened and swelled in the warmth of the burning kindling wood that snapped and crackled
in the stove.
Rocking back-and-forth, back-and-forth, I asked him, looking into those eyes of green, with
that far away look. “Grandpa, won’t you tell me please, what lies beyond the sea?” He
paused for a moment, blowing silver halos that rose from his pipe in an aroma of sweet
smelling ‘Old Sail’ tobacco, and with the magic of his words, he took me on a journey,
rocking across the sea where he showed me all the places and wondrous things he’d ever
seen.
That was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, where an old man, taught a
little girl, that life is but a dream.
~~~~~
In memory of: Captain James George the Third - My Grandfather
~~~~~
2nd place in 'Anything Goes #2 Contest - sponsered by Constance La France
Author's note:
This is one entry of many that will appear in my next book ' A Journey of Roses and Thorns'.
They are true events that have happened in my life - some where roses, some were
thorns. I have learned valuable lessons from both.
It's judgment day with Henry Smith
He's sick of all your music
You've gotta stop that reggae drop
His radio's polluted
It's judgment day, he's sick of it!
Those Gothic pale faces
Those people think they own themselves!
He'll put them in their places!
And poets with your gangster rap
Reform your tilted hats!
You speak your mind and Henry smith
Has had enough of that!
You punk rockers, he's had ENOUGH!
Change up those things you wear
It isn't right! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!
To smile and spike your hair
But judgment day, it came and went...
Good gracious me! What luck!
Henry Smith, he said his piece,
And no one gave a >>>>
By Kyle Ezra Kriticos
Author's note: This poem isn't about anyone in particular, in fact I only used the name Henry Smith because it's common!
As if a child should understand an adult’s muddle,
putrid oil slick puddle,
the dreadful pain we foist on wide-eyed offspring.
Robotic elders crush with rigid slabs of Portland censure whatever spark remains in those tiny rosebud cheeks before their prime.
Those innocents should never have to wrap their nascent minds around the wanton desecration of intertidal lakeland wetness gradients,
the callous douse of velvet purple algerita berries,
blighted by the stark timbre cloud forms
that recklessly pour bile on every genus.
The rug rats at our feet may never know the joys of sap-addicted sugar gliding nocturnal possums, whose acrobatic tree to tree mirror ball exploits mock Isaac Newton,
or the kinkajou of tail grip fame who flaunt their tan glow wooly fur coat in broad daylight,
or the dawn to dusk fennec fox, that doughty eagle owl and jackal dodger whose kissing cousin dens pockmark terracotta forests. But not alone in wider worlds are children being deprived.
A heartless milieu also asks our clutch and clan to dwell in
alloy girder mousetraps, those pale decor rat infested tumble downs gouged out by scrimp and scrape rust bucket caterpillars.
Beyond belief we tolerate the nick and hoist elevator,
that pressure cooker transit flight abduction of the harried wage slave parent,
those cotton garment dress code senseless
dragonfly stand-ins that hover in mid air.
There’s every chance we’ll leave our nursling’s ire to future bands of mutant stem cell rockers who are duty bound to sculpture rimshots meshed in suckling chimes,
when validating rawhide rattle chainsaw fret board anthems
at crowd mosher mud fests,
where rivers of apocalyptic visions burst the bank.
If only grown ups listened to that inner vocal quiver that we
may not yet have cast into plastic resin folly for the generations weaned in toxic smoke rooms,
we’d pollinate a luscious fairground acorn dotted garden with childhood zest its one and only buzzword.
A sweet treat gift with natural flavour pending,
eternal life for baby planet daisy chains of tender petal linkage,
who‘d finally experience pure clutter free environments,
an eco world that values new born thirst for natural realms
Silently wafting through the night air,
He hovered like the wildest bird,
He breathed the love that massaged our soul,
Seeped through our insanest world,
And it’s not leather jeans, jacket or shirt,
Not the Oxford, Twill or Plain weave,
But rather the way he sang what he sang,
When he wore who he was on his sleeve,
The enigma, a puzzle, a new force of nature,
He sang what the world needed to hear,
Light my…Love her… People are strange,
And, like the words, he’d then disappear,
Jim was the first before thousands of firsts,
Showed the rockers how they should behave,
With Jimi and Janis in the twenty seven club,
In Paris in a beautiful grave.
Written for Chantelle Anne Cooke contest "Writers on the Storm", 3rd May 2019
the field is given a name
battles are about where they disappear
the ones that walk away
don't know where the hell they are
after the mayhem
peace continues destroying barns
birds peck at exploded eye sockets
insignia and belt buckles
are hunted to extinction
mists shuffle a daze of time
the rattling roll calls of magpies and jackdaws
echo the click-clacking of jawbones
executing orders and counter orders
the officers that stumbled forward or away
go quietly mad or marry well
shell stumped foot foragers tell their slogging tales
then find newly cracked rockers
to slip away on
between the hour before dawn and midday
the violence died away in smoke
muddle and disorder
no land was lost or won nothing ended or begun
only this smoldering
cannon blasted field surrendering its nowhere acres
eventually milk cows and goats are purchased
to he hell into butter
dead horses are brought back
as glue and sacks of fertilizer
the stubborn ghosts of mules bray on
the unnamed are plowed in or out
framed in visitor centers
the bearded and beardless site-marked and told
by the grave tongued rangers
who speak for the listening gone
and the whole much pounded shebang
grid referenced
as the muzzled earth still heaves up
its lead riddled bones
the blue and grey leave to fight
their own way home
while another day breaks its promise
The old West has porches made of wood
Two rockers creak away with Mom and pop on board
Reclining out their days and ages spent
Dreaming about the prairie days gone by
Tall glasses holding lemonade and ice
Crash quietly as they dose off in Summer
Violence rises in the distance
The canyon can not hold it back
Above the noise dad and mom snore on
Floor boards and porches pull themselves together
Hound dog licks between the cracks
White under shirts hang out on the line
Blow furious kisses then surrender to the wind
Don't mind the storm or tumbleweeds
Tornadoes don't care either deep inside
Sweeping through the West in just an instance
Clearing out the landscape in the blinking of an eye
Leaving dust behind as a reminder
Why mom and dad are not reclining
on their rockers any more
Anybody on this road we're on
Ain't nobody wants to be alone
Everybody's trying to make it home
To somebody
Sunflower, we're not in Kansas now
It's a new life down in Alabama
God gave us a little white house
Baby be right, maybe be wrong
We'll make it up as we go along
Been three years stuck in the viaduct
But now, Baby somehow
We got a little white house
Fix the kitchen, paint it blue-gray sky
Place your pretties in your own design
Get some rockers, maybe we can spy
Hummingbirds stop by
Plant some flowers, decorate with stones
Pink flamingoes, a couple garden gnomes
Make your jewelry, I'll write some country songs
We'll make a happy home
Baby be right, maybe be wrong
We'll make it up as we go along
Been three years stuck in the viaduct
But now, Baby somehow
We got a little white house
Sun's shining, summer's coming on
Dogs barking, fat boys mowing lawns
All the kids out, they're all puddling on
The corners
Sunflower, we're not in Kansas now
It's a new life down in Alabama
God gave us a little white house
Baby be right, maybe be wrong
We'll make it up as we go along
Been three years stuck in the viaduct
But now, Baby somehow
We got a little white house
©2019
Sad news today, February 6th in our year 2011
To "The Great Gig in the Sky" sell out in Heaven
My favourite blues rock guitarist, Mr Irish Gary Moore
Joins the "Midnight Blues, "Too Tired" no more will he tour
At fourteen years of age he received his first guitar
Like many budding rockers aspirations to be a rock star
The Beatles, Elvis Presley and the amazing Albert King
Heavily influenced this left hander, who made his right hand sing
As he grew past his teens, the genre he'd enter would mean
The likes of John Mayall's Bluesbreakers and Hendrix, now he's seen
Blues Rock it was to be, when Peter Green caught his ear
If you grew up with this maestro, you'll know his career
It started way back, way back in 1969
Skid Row, from Dublin he joined, as the music industry would find
This is where his association began, with Lynott, bassist extraordinaire
Many nights sharing the blues, this two Irishmen would share
His solo career just grew and grew, then into Thin Lizzy he would blend
Sharing the Black Rose stage with Phil his Irish friend
The blues became his life, with two Albert's who'd share his stage
Guesting with his 'Midnight Blues Band' many a jam they would engage
I now close my humble tribute, for he'll always be in my heart
On this day in Estepona, Spain, my hero in final depart
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/music-5.php
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trapdoor groans—not ghosts,
but hinges shedding rust like snake skins,
old wood sighs beneath the weight of years,
a dry cough of timber settling into itself.
Sunlight, thick as poured honey,
warms the spines of leather-bound scrapbooks
where ink bleeds into yellowed pages.
Grandad’s trunk yawns open:
Inside, a woolen uniform, stiff as frozen fish,
still guards its stripes.
A cracked leather suitcase spills sepia photos—
a bride squinting in the Missouri sun,
her lace gloves chewed by silverfish.
Under the dormer window sits
a hobbyhorse missing an eye,
its rockers having scarred the floorboards.
In the corner, discarded Easter baskets
melt into wicker tumors filled with
fossilized foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.
The beams hum with termite hymns—
tiny jaws dissolving joists
into sacred dust.
But open the window~
catch the updraft of cut grass
from the yard below.
It wrestles with the gloom,
this breath of living things,
and for a moment,
the attic remembers the world.