Long Rode Poems
Long Rode Poems. Below are the most popular long Rode by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rode poems by poem length and keyword.
Merry Christmas to all
and to all a good day.
May you prosper and share
the gift of God’s grace.
If he humbled himself
to give salvation to all,
should we not hear, when
to mankind he calls?
He sung from shepherd’s hills
of angelic delight. He called
from a feeding trough to all
of us. He called from the star
so bright. We wonder at the sight.
Wise men rode for days to find
a humble child. Won’t we search
our hearts to find the King of all?
We celebrate his worth of gold,
frankincense and myrrh; and more.
Won’t we take a moment to explore
the eyes of baby Jesus, adore?
something cheery and light...
JUST ME AND YOU
two wheels spinning, hearts beating as one,
a bicycle built for two*, just me and you.
our laughter echoing, the world a blur
the wind in our hair, the sun on our face
through winding roads and sun-kissed skies
together we pedaled forward, side by side.
we chased the wind, with adventurous hearts
sharing love, laughter, and tears as the miles grew.
we rode through rain and shine, through night and day,
through heartache and pain, through every up and down, we rode as one.
with every turn, memories were made
of trials we faced, of triumphs we won.
the memories we made are like a treasure chest
of moments lived, of lessons learned, of wisdom begun.
the world has slowed as we ride side by side
yet we pedal forward with the wind at our backs.
hand in hand, a sense of peace abides
the rhythm of the pedals and our hearts still beat as one.
* Bicycle Built for Two is a popular song, written in 1892 by British songwriter Harry Dacre
©2025 Sara Etgen-Baker
I lived through the '60s, when peace and love were in the air. The scene had this incredible feeling, but it didn't last, like the government had it killed. Yet there were leftovers, and we rode the nightlife times. Then more diversions and more ups and downs, and those plastic fantastic lovers! I remember learning from sages and from fools, taking the rap for the deals gone bad, caught between the past and the future. Until I realized that I was in charge and I had what
it takes! Then reality has to conform to you. For life can't be second-guessed; it knows even if you don't. Take your turn, don't hesitate, for one must strike with pure resolve. One night, I looked up, and the stars looked back, saying, Soon you too will shine! Where is that hope that strikes in a person's face? The look in the eye that says, these are my stories, all the unforgettable ones, those lifetime highlights we hold dearly in our hearts. Contemplating whether we shall see them again someday, maybe in another dimension. And those times will look bright, so too will the faces of the youth, lucky enough to find some of that peaceful energy, and with love, on a sultry summer day!
In the Bible I have pressed
a photograph of her
and on its back the words she wrote
said she'd always remember me
on a Greyhound bus I rode
down roads that endless seemed
through a countryside that never changed
and every small town there could be
every town had a school
or it had a church
where we would stop for the night
and another show to do
endless crowds of people full
the halls were always full
for there was nothing else to do
on a Midwest small-town night
on the stage I would sing
song so carefully learned
trying hard passion to show
so my words weren't empty things
after the show the people would
always want to meet me
tell me how much they enjoyed the show
and how they'd remember me
and in a town there was a girl
who in the crowd I did see
and her eyes did see me
and I knew together we be
we did meet and we did talk
and went out together to eat
a small town diner where we ate
I don't remember what
and that night I went to her house
and the night there did spend
and in the morning she did give
her photograph to me
and the bus it did wait
my bags to be loaded in
and to say goodbye to her
and onto the bus climb
out the window I saw her wave
as the bus pulled away
and we drove down the road
and I left her behind
so many years has it been
so many shows I've done
so many people have I met
and too many have left behind
looking at her photograph
and wondering if still she
does remember that we met
and once together were
As the bus rode
through the molting pine forest and
the crumbling ochre rock formations;
bits of colorful cellophane litter brought the only relief to the eye.
Inside, behind a profusion of people,
boxes, backpacks and assorted baggage
babies slept.
The bus creaked, shook and groaned
its way down the serpentine,
asphalt, mountain track.
Passengers chattered away in Indian, Nepalese, Danish and English,
abrasively punctuating
a Universal discourse;
As the vehicle draped from roof to bumper,
careened from rock walls
to sheer ledges, beeping.
Stray pets and wayward cyclist dodged its downward flight
Into the valleys maw.
Brave are the knights and their mounts,
to face hates abominations,
many of them were falling,
under the weight of Hell, they fell.
Still, we see many standing,
they fight on with such angry power,
It seemed they would not stand for long,
honour kept them in the fight.
The knights did surely need rest,
some began to sway under enemy strength,
the heavy armour was sapping them,
Only power of spirit held them aloft.
Many fell within their armour,
without heads, arms, legs and heads,
Still, look how their weapons bite home,
the enemy are falling.
Behind the main units of foot,
some men stood, not seeming in the battle,
these warriors ran to the right,
they formed into a unit as they ran.
These, those souls who had run from the field, earlier,
fear seemed to have left them now,
they formed on the right flank,
fully formed they looked a sorry site.
Forward they did march,
pride swelling within them again,
they marched straight up the right,
look at them now and wonder,
someone yelled, "Forward,"
this rag-tag unit was off,
the unit ran towards the enemy,
each man ready to die for Alahsar.
Now, all the first knights were in the battle,
they thought like the red,
once more they fought for the life of Alahsar,
they thought with love's desire.
As they did run into battle,
can we see the golden gates open?
Yes, the great golden gates do open.
A golden warrior is seen.
it is the golden king,
from gold rode gold,
with the golden king rode the royal guard,
out they came at a charge.
200 of Alahsar's best followed the king,
this was the last card played,
they rode onto Badicha,
the earth thundered below them.
Now Badicha was filled with knights,
enemies, warriors and spiritual beings,
this was the final fight for existence,
No more forces could be called on.
It was truly to the end,
the fate of the world in one monumental moment,
the right flank might soon crack,
terror was in many eyes.
The wolves were indeed a terror,
they had no fear,
their mouths ever ready to rend,
blood and saliva dripping from their mouths.
Their claws ever ready to tear,
they could rip through armour,
the wolves could give forth a terrible death,
yet this death had to be faced.
To Be Continued..........
Massive castles laying in ruins
on barren,steep hills
where fierce battles were fought,
and the dwellers were fraught
as the armies began to advance;
those are the places
that still tell a story when stillness
is able to take us back...
Meadows swarmed by fragrant daisies,
extending themselves to infinity
were the intimate and secretive spots
of the prince and his lovely princess;
a tranquil place where the young poet's hand
wrote those passionate lyrics incessantly
on parchment to perserve his thoughts
in places that still tell a story...
Narrow streets paved with stones
overlooked by flowery verandas
where lovers whispered their secrets
to the stimulant and silent moon;
words never stifled by unpleasant noises,
the perfect place to emanete
their dream,in penumbra,to be gone soon...
without the perceptual illumination so complete:
to remind us of plain people indulging in sensuality
in places that still tell a story....
Celestine sea bringing home weary ships
that discharge the agile bodies of sailors
welcomed by an anxious crowd
at the illuminated and breezy dock;
sailors who rode the tempestous waves
sometimes fearing for their lives in turbulent time,
fusing together to confront the outcome courageously
in places that still tell a story...
Verdant hills and mountains
hiding remanents of ancient temples,
decaying columns without a roof
emitting an indignant mood:
a nostalgia for their glorious past...
still in the delusion of thier grandeur;
who can still hear the hymns sung gleefully
in places that still tell a story?
They walked around the pond
speaking of the beautiful lotes
she told a story of someone From her youth
about the legend of "Apache Tears"
a man who cried when someone
spoke his name.
She said he cried for them that they
were then cursed. He believed his name meant
" he who divides"
They said her would hold aa sacred stone
to the sunset to repent for those who cursed
him by speaking his name.
She said he believed the mention of his
name would cause the speaker
to be divided from there spouse or lover
either by health or the lack of compromising.
He said the pronunciation of his name as a word
weirded the truth of there existence. Those who lacked
the knowledge of belief in a God any God
would Speak him as a word
and not a man. Women would use him
to lift and move things: but never to love
and some found there selves cursed for doing so.
They asked for fortune, but wished
not him: they often found themselves cursed.
One day he found a woman who had
insight on how to be loved: she was kind and caring
and often she would hug and kiss him.
He gave her his treasures
and she gave him love.
On day he became someone else,
a husband and then a father, and it seemed
that his name
meant more to him
and his beleif in placing curses on people
faded. With this in mind people
spoke of the beautiful stone he would
use to remove the curses from the cursed. And one man wanted it.
So the man rode his horse out where the man and woman lived.
And he asked if he could buy the precious stone.
The Fellow told him
I cry for a world where loneness
causes those to speak the words of people
as theres. So do I cry for the people who hear
the tales of the Lonely.
But I am know longer lonely and you wish to
take from me that which has made me
unlonely: how do I see thee, then
that ye might made me foolish and unloved again that I might curse
thee, which I have-not done before.
the man told him: no I'm lonely and wish to be as lucky as you are. He sold him the stone!
In the middle of a Thai hot summer, we ventured
into the high hills of North Thailand.
We were medics, a small out-reach team
serving the scattered rural villages
of that remote area.
Klauss, a dour civic engineer, by his side,
his wife, a pretty Chinese nurse.
As it happened, Klauss brought along
a visiting acquaintance, an avuncular German.
On the way home to the leprosy institute,
we pulled the Land Rover into a wayside village shop
to eat sticky rice, chilies, and salted fish.
I disremember how the conversation turned
to the second world war,
I think the talkative German instigated that subject,
declaring how the allies had propagandized the facts.
I spoke coldly of how my father (a Hurricane fighter pilot),
had died in the Battle of Britain, and how I had seen
all the disgustingly savage films of the concentration
camp victims. The kraut just glared red faced at his feet
while soft spoken, kindly Klauss struggled to change
the conversation.
That was many years ago, now I feel compelled
to confess that I had blatantly lied!
Dad was an air-raid warden who rode a peddle bike,
and never left London during the war.
Yet strangely, that was the first time
I thought I could be, should be a poet.
© 2011 (by Jim Sularz)
(The true story of Frank Eaton – AKA “Pistol Pete”)
At nearly twenty-one, Pete knew he may have out-run,
his luck as the fastest gun.
This would be the ultimate test of his shootin’ finesse,
only a fool would stay to be outgunned.
But Pistol Pete weren’t no liver lilly,
and he loaded up his 45’s.
He rode into town with steely nerves,
maybe no one, would come out alive!
Pete knocked through that swingin’ bar-room door,
Wiley stood there with a possum eating grin.
He said, “Hey there kid, who the Hell are you?”
and Pete shouted, “Frank Eaton! You killed my kin!”
All four men drew quick, with guns a’ blazing,
Wiley got plugged first from two 45’s.
The bar-room crowd dispersed in a wild stampede,
everywhere, ricochetin’ slugs whizzed by!
When the shootin’ had stopped, there was just one man standin’
all four men got plugged, includin’ Pete.
But only a shot-up boy rode out of town that day,
and a Father’s curse, that played out complete – was a bitter mistress to bury….
At the headwaters of the Red Woods Branch,
near a gentle slope on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of morning glories flail.
In a grave, still deep, is a father’s heart,
that lays quiet in a peaceful sleep.
And six men dead, who now burn instead,
compliments of Pistol Pete!