Long Roofed Poems
Long Roofed Poems. Below are the most popular long Roofed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Roofed poems by poem length and keyword.
Carolina Blue and White
By Franklin Price
1/7/2016
Carolina blue and white,
It's such a sight to see,
Fresh fallen snow and cloudless sky,
God sent for you and me,
Tall snow covered evergreens
Above the tinned roofed house,
Where two retired seniors live,
This poet and his spouse.
Born and raised in Florida,
Not too much to seasons there.
Retired To North Carolina,
For a little mountain air.
Our house is in the foothills
Not far from Chimney Rock.
Left the hustle and the bustle,
And the cruise ships at the dock.
Acclimated to a slower life,
And the people of hills,
Who believe in God and country;
Take care of family and their bills
That's just the way we like it
'Cause that is where we're at
Don't have a huntin' dog just yet
To chase the neighbor's cat
As I turn now from my keyboard
And look out the window pane
The blue and white of Carolina
Says that's all for this refrain
Nature's beauty is exclusive
Rivers flowing water somewhere
Is there a booming sea
So is that the calm lake somewhere
Nature's unique ever
Ever moving shadows
Then sometimes silence
Nature is exclusive
Sometimes sky turns blue, red, yellow
Sometimes it's clouded by black and white clouds,
Nature is exclusive
Sometimes the sunshine illuminates the sun
So sometimes within the dark night, the moon stars twinkle
Nature's love is exclusive
Ever dry dust blows
So sometimes a sheet of greenery is roofed
Nature's love is exclusive
Somewhere the sun hides during acorner,
So it comes out of the opposite corner startling,
Nature's love is exclusive
So often up the hill we trod this path,
A simple thatch-roofed croft our goal,
Our shared safe haven, now so long ago.
Little we cared about the wintry blasts
That tested every sinew to the core.
Steadfast, our own four walls withstood
The ofttimes howling stormforce all around.
This was our forever place, our mutual pleasure,
On which again I gaze, now bent with age.
Our carefree youthful footsteps I've retraced.
Can the mind's eye so soon diffuse
And fade a face so well defined and loved ?
Perhaps, in sleep, a soft-edged memory appears,
A resurrection in some distant place,
Then gone again in morning light.
Twin-barbed, remembrance is both sweet and sour,
Joy and sadness intertwined, as were we.
Sad for things that are no more, our perfect harmony,
Kind thoughts exchanged, yet joyful still
In equal measure.The passing years will not diminish
Or erase the loving heartfelt words you penned
For me in sweetest rhyme. Held ever close
Within my heart, they are forever you,
A dear and lasting treasure, as our love lives on.
The value of books
Late afternoon, the sun has left the terrace and is in the back throwing up dust before reluctantly slinking west and sinking
into the sea beyond the seas.
The townscape is charming red-roofed dwellings among the many trees that are deep green this time of the year.
Near the sea are two big edifices, One has luxury flats on top for the people called the “jet-set” It is where scrawny women live
on lettuce a day and Valium.
Next to that house, a white elephant, a skeletal hotel that
was abandoned when the would-be owner went broke.
In the calm bay two small cargo ships of uncertain age riding
the anchorage waiting for the morning, it baffles me how these old ship makes money, two bags of rice here and a barrel of wine there; perhaps they fish and live healthily
but I do hope they have books, if not the lacuna of empty time must be heavy on the mind.
When I was a seaman, I read hundreds of books to pass the time
some rubbed off so the time became useful, like automatic learning.
Wanting to get Away...
Needing to get Home.
Are they all dead?
Fantasticals, Fantasy, Phantasms?
Fantastic Rascals.
Masters. Hmmpphhh.
Tin-roofed.
Straw-sided.
Dirt-floored.
Mundane.
Arcane.
Insane?
(Them. Or, I?)
I’m on a meadow
lark.
I’m on a mountain
pass.
I’m at a crossroads;
one lone road stretched out ahead -
stretched out behind -
, if I care to look,
into and through each and every
Eternity.
The tea is thin.
The ember, black.
The robe unment.
The cane unsupporting.
The larder full...
of rot;
vouchsafed against the coming
nothing-more-coming.
The inkquill dry, the pages full.
The air silent and gifted me some
somberity.
The birds nest now in
as well as out.
The rains quiet and pool now in
as well as out.
The empty deepens now in
as well as in
me.
The Master, oh so great, is
Gone.
Now.
The Master, her formative ages forming formless, is
Gone.
Now.
The Master, let his name sweeten my lips, is
Gone.
Again.
Empty, Silent.
Voidhome.
The peak, a valley.
Songbirds sing.
Leaves rustle.
Breezes whisper.
Geese squonk.
Empty; perhaps though
never emptied.
Silent; perhaps though
never silenced.
The Master, the Indubitable Inscrutable, is
Gone.
and or maybe if perhaps could likely or somehow somewhat say
was was never was.
Is, still, somehow or of course,
Gone.
Echoes dwell.
Lessons linger.
Songbirds sing.
The tea is weak;
mine (nay, ours) to
sip.
While it was raining heavily outside,
Two children in shabby, tattered dress
Stormed into our glass roofed patio
And at the door, for mercy did pause
They said they were out to buy empty cans
To make a living and support their family
The only work they could do at their age
And it was not their intent to dilly dally
I was in no mood to entertain them
As my hands with pending works were tight
A week’s laundry and some shopping to do
But was rather indisposed to send them outright
As I looked onto their starved faces
I felt a hard tug deep from within
After a moment’s thought, when I invited them in
In innocent mirth, their eyes did spin
When I brewed for them two cups of coffee
And gave some homemade snacks to munch
Their little faces bloomed in joy
As if savoring a favorite fruit punch.
All the while their curious eyes went
Flashing from nook to nook and every corner
On my well stacked shelves of china pottery
And the costly gadgets and the gas burner
When they were about to leave
They simply said- “Oh! You are rich!”
Of course a new revelation, it was to me
Something I had never thought over much
Yes, with a roof overhead
With enough means to feed my kids
And with a steady income every month
How rich I am compared to those hapless lads
Now, though many months have slipped by
I reiterate to myself what those children said
‘Oh! You are rich’ lest I shall ever forget again,
How rich I am and this thought keeps me ahead!
From that day onwards, never have I failed
To offer profuse words of thanks and prayer
To Him who has blessed me thus
With riches galore and a bounty to share!
Thanksgiving Blessings Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
OLD AND NEW 1 : CIRCUS
Giraffe on anxious heels
bought in Sandton, toddle
along with intense haste
a dream point unheard
lipstick smudges, mascara
leaks of AK47 dust she rifled
Bullfrog madly croaks
vying for a place in a stagnant
pool, scoffing brandied chocolate
pinched nerves, heart infested
throat on a tightrope
Is the net below safe ?
Doe dark-eyed, hips to sink
into, marbled beauty stuck
in corner stage believing that
the circle offered freedom, unable
to move for want of a thatched
roofed house, chrysanthemumed
Lions and lionesses rounded pillars
new regal maned performers
late for debate, entrance timed
for a precise shapely attack
on buck across the atrium who
practiced prances early morning
In the middle stood Pharaoh
with invisible crook and flail
a sleek panther serpent eyed
veils of disinterest, ears on end
at plebs in the arena, acts like
phantoms danced along a
smooth mental screen
Fidget they would on
maroon re-upholstered
benches over which not
even Bach could flow
mints popping pockets
On the horizon they
disappeared into an African
circus becoming marula trees
on our border
©GhairoDanielsPoetry1996
Schools ring out with the sighs of freedom lost,
empty hearts break as a summer love moves along.
Bright wildflowers fade under the burden of frost,
birds fill the air with the tunes of migrating songs.
Night grows longer as it steals away the hours,
of warmth and sunlight from another struggling day.
The sun becomes weaker as darkness devours,
and frozen tears cover a world that’s old and gray.
Pastures now grieve from the silence of missing hooves,
as stock was sacrificed for winter’s survival.
Anticipated food fills empty mason jars,
with gardens plucked clean before first snow’s arrival.
Out past the trees roofed in kaleidoscope colors,
harvested fields are transformed to carpets of gold.
Children are tucked in under heavy warm covers,
because stars come early when a north wind blows cold.
Beset with uncertainties of the future
hurling “what-ifs” intensifying gloomy woes…
…tortured minds grieve in affliction’s turmoil
fearing tomorrow’s insecurity-despair
longing to be shielded
inside God’s fortress of truth's assurance
against invading skepticism and doubt.
Besieged by enigmas of life’s realities…
…apprehended souls struggle, confronted wearily
against survival crises while seeking for assuaging answers
to combat fears and miseries’ distress
seeking to be enclosed around Christ’s care
away from sham's projection, hypocrisy-roofed
pegged upon deceits’ stakes.
Beseeching the Sovereign Lord
Who welcomes everyone with bliss
in His fellowship’s haven…
…we who trust Him are offered ready refuge
upholding our faith toward faithful stewardship
as we, by His assured protection, conquer desolation’s attacks
lurking under the shade of agonizing solitude.
Blessed to reach-out
with the spirit of servanthood...
…we who are graciously pardoned by the mercy* of the Saviour
verily acquitted from sin-condemnation’s verdict
likewise grateful that He draws us nigh His heart
can now reach out to the needy, thirsty for His jubilant compassion
and help them be extricated from pale shelter of apathy fetters.
*Psalm 86:5 For thou, Lord, art good, and ready to forgive; and plenteous in mercy unto all them that call upon thee.
November 13, 2019
2nd place, "Pale Shelter" Free Verse Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton; judged on 12/7/2019.
We knaves had orders both explicit and dumb:
Scare the blazes out of a management bum.
Thunderstorm weather rocked wide Prince William Sound,
Feisty gales pouring rain all around.
My partner and I took our overseer
In a tiny smoker craft quite rough to steer.
Motoring south, mighty gusts drove us to shore
We staved off sandstone rocks with long wooden oars.
Back to the channel against gusts we did plow.
Our passenger sat white-knuckled in the bow.
We rounded the curve of our wind whipped north shore
To enter Danger Island Strait's tidal bore.
Roller coaster billows rose twenty feet high
Then dropped into wallows roofed only by sky
At bottom our boat swirled among kelp and rocks
Our passenger appeared as a stunned ox.
Through the passage stood our island’s south cliff face
Pacific waves raged, clawing cliffs to deface.
Our passenger’s eyes set to leap into space,
My partner asked about a smooth landing place.
Sad faced I said, “High tide is still hours away
No place for our boat above the surf today.”
Our passengers’ face seemed as if borax bleached
Praying our tiny craft was soon to be beached.
We rocked and rolled daring Danger Island’s sway
Then motored up our channel, heading camp’s way
We fought the frenzied wind and staved off the rocks
Our management friend quietly clutched his socks.
Nodding, we grinned sideways as if to gloat
As we bailed our boat simply to stay afloat.
But when ornery orcas bumped our frail boat
One gave us the eye; we croaked cries from tight throats.
Our urban client raced to the cook tent door.
While we pulled our craft above the tidal bore.
When we got to the tent for our rum and tea
Our client had downed high proof rums one, two, three.