Long Rooster Poems
Long Rooster Poems. Below are the most popular long Rooster by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rooster poems by poem length and keyword.
With the end of days upon them
Nears the time of final battle
In the halls of high Valhalla
Asgard senses its death rattle
In the forest crows the rooster
In the sky the sun does darken
In the cave the hound is howling
To these signs the Aesir harken
Heimdall blows the Gjallarhorn
Dark the rainbow bridge is turning
Vivid lightning cleaves Yggdrasil
Then the central tree is burning
Aesir watch in fascination
See volcanoes spew like fountains
See the heavens splitting open
See the oceans climb the mountains
See the continents convulsing
See the forests burn to ashes
See the sons of Mim awaken
In the fatal lightning flashes
As the winds consume the wasteland
From the south Surtr advances
With his minions tearing corpses
Bright his sword and sharp his lances
Aesir then prepare their weapons
Eyes are clear and arms are steady
The Midgard serpent Jörmungandr
Upon the battle plain is ready
With his heavy hammer Mjolnir
Strides the mighty god of thunder
To do battle with the serpent
And to rend the world asunder
June 30, 2014
N.B. This poem is an Epyllion, a brief narrative poem with a romantic or mythological theme. It is written in trochaic tetrameter, like some of the ancient Eddas.
Glossary:
Ragnarök - Final battle and death of the Aesir
Aesir - The Norse gods
Asgard - one of the Nine Worlds and home of the Aesir
Valhalla - a majestic, enormous hall located in Asgard, ruled over by the chief Norse god Odin
Heimdall - A Norse god who blows his horn to signal the beginning of Ragnarök
Gjallarhorn - Heimdall's horn
Midgard- Middle Earth, or the world of humans
Bifröst - the burning rainbow bridge between Midgard and Asgard
Yggdrasil - The sacred Norse central tree that holds the Nine Worlds
Mim - an Asian renowned for his knowledge and wisdom who has been beheaded. Odin carries around Mím's preserved head and it recites secret knowledge and counsel to him.
Surtr- a fire troll with a flaming sword who sets the world on fire.
Jörmungandr- The world serpent or ouroboros that surrounds the earth and grasps his own tail. When he lets go, the world will end. Jörmungandr's arch-enemy is the god Thor.
Thor - The Norse god of thunder
Mjolnir - Thor's hammer and principal weapon
3
Pay attention!
Important chicken poetry coming up,
though no binary fantasies shall deconstruct
into raucous biddy enjambment.
4
Grandfatber always kicked Grandmother's chickens away
while he sat whittling under the Oak,
Those ruddy, Cherokee cheeks sweating even in the shade
as sweltering Carolina summers and bifocaled
old women melted him away in his seventies;
(Nothing heard by telephone,
cackling when he put the speaker to his mouth
or laid down to rest from the planting or harvesting,
On the flowered sofa
fussing with him to take off this boots,
putting The Liberty News under his feet);
But watching was Grandma's joy,
Haystack Calhoun and the Nature Boy,
wrestling on Saturday night
on the Philco black and white,
jumping up and jumping down
fists flying with each takedown;
Her fussing when he kicked her chickens--
He was a man of the Land not of the Leghorn;
Course he still cut off their heads for
Sunday dinners
with a whistle of his axe,
quick and clean;
So much better than Grandmother's
Flung blood and feathers,
The live body's flight
After wringing its neck.
(You really
Must take chickens seriously.)
5
Jesus,
my brother and I hated that rooster!
Mean!
I'll give you Mean!
Why that Leghorn from hell,
with the perfidious, featherless rear,
That wily old bastard,
laid for us kids from under the porch
flying at us spurs first
when we snuck out to play.
You had to admire his fierce
Protecting his brood
or just plain crazed for children's blood
maybe.
Therefore, I must insist
That you take chickens seriously.
6
The greatest chicken lit will not be televised,
but written by neurotic poultry
flirting with free verse
or thrown helplessly into concrete idioms,
wallowing in dirt-poor sentience;
Dissertations
on the identity crises of Rhode Island Reds
and the propensity of White Leghorns
to transfer insecurities of undifferentiated
consciousness
as violence enacted on certain small children
will be written but will probably not help chicken poetry endure.
7
Yet,
I pledge allegiance to the celebration of chicken poetry,
And the underappreciated poultry for which it stands,
One species, flightless but enduring,
With free range and corn for all.
' Sir have mercy on me,
please give me a piece of bread,
a glass of water,
I am starving to death,
since the typhoon obliterated our city,
we have eaten nothing,
my father survived the storm surge but died in hunger,
Save me!
I don't want to die like him,
help me bury his dead body.'
A young lad talks to one of the social workers,
every word he speaks tells the pain of abandonment,
the hunger that he has been suffering through could be felt
from the softness of his voice,
he bleeds in tears while wrapping the cadaver of his beloved father with a piece of white linen cloth,
his almond eyes reflect the desperate thoughts within his mind,
behind him,
his home reduced into pieces of broken woods,
he doesn't know where to go,
he doesn't know how to survive a life after the devastation.
'Papa! ,
I still remember so well,
when I was younger,
you promised me before the setting sun,
you would never never leave me alone in a struggle against our poverty till the end of time,
What would I be now without you?
How could I live alone on this world of harsh reality? '
Tears keep rolling down on his angelic face,
while kissing the cold loving hand of his dead father,
upon hearing his voice weakened by a week of tormenting agony,
the social worker could not stand stronger any longer,
she can feel her heart breaking in tears,
she kneels down before the child,
could not utter any word,
but just to hug the boy so tight like her son,
and wipes his tears away by her palm,
tears could not be stopped falling from her eyes.
Beneath the beauty of the kaleidoscopic rainbow,
I knew a man who got nothing,
but a small shack and sweet laughters of his grand children,
he found homily santuaries under their sweet smiles,
they live lives to the fullest without material desires,
yet the greed of Super Typhoon Yolanda is just formidable,
she robbed him of his small shack,
killed his only rooster,
and the worst,
she washed his grand children away into the ocean,
they have been missing for 8 days now.
His sight wanders into the waves of the sea,
with tears falling all day long and eternally,
his life is deep buried in incalculable sadness,
hoping for his grand children to come home,
yet nobody is home but memories of tragedy.
The Florida of My Youth
By Franklin Price
10/12/2019
The Florida of long ago
The one when I was born
Was the one that I remember
And the one for which I mourn
Was a simple life back then
Merritt Island was my home
My youth was spent exploring
Through the orange groves I would roam
My dad worked for the Navy
Soon to be an Air Force Base
My mother was a housewife
Was long before we went to space
My father had converted
A tractor barn into a house
It was the place in which we lived
Sometimes shared it with a mouse
That did not come from Disney
If that's maybe what you thought
There was no magic kingdom
No “E” tickets could be bought
The milkman brought the bottles
With the cream trapped at the top
Had to shake it first to use it
Then remove the cardboard stop
The rooster crowed to wake us up
There were layers in the coop
The eggs were there collected
While avoiding chicken poop
Beside the coop a wash house
Where our clothes were washed and rung
In the yard were lines to dry them
They were pinned and not just flung
The ocean breezes dried them
To provde a smell good sheet
The fresh air not polluted
My childhood days could not be beat
There was no trash collection
No large mountains of discard
We dug some holes to bury waste
That we covered in our yard
Once we dug a large hole
Which we turned into a fort
Made the roof out of a car top
Was a fun place to report
When we were finished with it
It became our newest dump
Did I forget to mention,
Our water came from well and pump
Our waste went to a septic tank
Waste field to cleanse and drain
My sisters preferred to wash their hair
With water captured from the rain
Only one school was available
Had a place for every grade
We rode the bus to get there
To go, I never was afraid
I was the youngest of the children
Four sisters and three guys
Got on the bus together
Even school had family ties
To get there left the Island
Had to cross a wooden bridge
One more thing that I should tell you
We had no ice box, had a fridge
I could go on forever
About my early childhood time
When discipline was rendered
And there was very little crime
You can tell I am digressing
As the past flows through my brain
Maybe next time I will tell you
Of my travels on the train
Tis quite a beast of burden to bear atlas (shrug off not allowed)
Atlas shrugged an impossibility
tantamount to skinny dipping in the lock nest lagoon
Tantamount to shrugging Atlas off mine bony,
ill suited, widower wizened shoulders,
would take naked fat chance in Fountain Head of virgin waters,
eddy fied with huge boulders
which preliminary sketches to maintain pristine
(pure as Snow White's booty) kept in folders
when collaborative effort called, the fore mid able,
trio, sans state of the artists
(within their respective trades as writer
fictional hero, and architect)
Ayn Rand, John Galt, and Howard Roark,
who undertook resplendent measures
affected resilient as omnipotent cable
tub ring plenti kickstarting linkedin gatecrashers
to a snapchatting halt
instagramming, crowdsourcing, crowdfunding,
held at equivalent asper Bay of Pigs
viz Pay of Bigs
(in this context identified as
(vudu trained stalwarts, petsmart outlook,
incorporating literary, metaphorical,
nautical staff comprising fable
sea Crete cure metamorphoses abilities, as failsafe method –
i.e., physically, instantaneously, architecturally rendering
modus operandi capacity asper quick as blazing saddles
(ponied up by young Frankenstein)
kept in fireproof stable,
where at dextrous fingers ala hocus-pocus prestidigitation
which chiefly buoyantly ardently, and hardily drafted imp pier re: hull
rock hull impediment for shore also cast evil spells should
any foolish soul, who dared
to maneuver past the near blinding pier sing redoubt
to access blue lagoon like watery oasis
shielded via reeking poor Island
(where an atomic rooster gargoyle shrouded parapet)
buffeted the crashing waves against
the lock smooth as a glass table
whose wooden sea legs solidly affixed
to hip, hip hooray three chairs
inviting two story book heroes plus the author,
unfurling parchment scriptural roles invited ad lib flairs
since threat of category five hurricane
manifested took writer by surprise,
thus requiring her to utilize cognitive gears
which necessitated modification of original plot,
now bumped credos with religion
vis a vis engendering prayers.
Smooth wood
Worn by water and air
Never polished
Escaped by the hands that touched it
Ropes and tackle attached streaming up towards the sails
All foreign to a land lover.
When tied at bay she seems so tame and easy to control
But set her free among the briny sea and you will see what she can bring
And bring it she will and take it with pride and gusto
For the winds were made for her sails and masts that anchor them to the deck
The seamen go about their business as though in a dance or a jig perhaps
But one not for feint of heart
They cuss and scream and talk about ones mother all in a days work
Unless of course you cross a line then there’s trouble about
In the night of the galley or the berth were there may lay trouble can find a weak man
And leave him there till day.
But it only takes a warning for each man has a job to do
And without him that means more work for the others
And less sleep between call
So they sort out their business and carry on as one must
But don’t think you can sleep the day away and not get a lump on the head
For they are watching you and you them and never in between shall a man lay his head down before his time.
Now the sea’s rolls in and o’er the bow tis time take on ones rest. First call comes early and some men like it the best. I prefer four bells in the wee hours of the morn’
When the rooster crows if you can imagine that at sea and the Southern Cross is high in the sky. I’ll take my chance with the wind and the sea and see what God brings. And I’ll swing her around and head for the China Sea if that what fancies me.
For we have been on this ship for more than five years and yet to make land for a day.
A ghost ship you may call us. Lost at sea and never found. But our wood is smooth and berths are clean and we never lie about love and women. For Captain Peterson was an honest man taught us the books of the Lutherans. But we buried him in an island town about ten years ago. And since then I have sailed this ship to heaven and to hell. It’s time to rest and bring her to shore but now no one wants to leave. Our land legs are gone and the desire to walk with the weak leave us less than desire. So shove off again and head to the seas and I’m sure the wolf of the north wind will find us. And we will laugh and cuss till she brings us under.
When I was young
Life on the farm was difficult to understand at seven
The rooster flogged me
Dad in vengeance chopped the heads of everyone of his mates
numbering a hundred
as he watched in the coop
Perhaps I didn't understand the reality that since I ate at the table
that I had to pluck the feathers off too
It was one of the hardest things to do
As a young lady he taught me manners and I served
his gentleman guests
as they looked upon me, the youngest daughter
Perhaps God had greater plans
for I wanted to see some of the world outside the farm
When Dad got sick, he left a hundred sheep for me to tend
It was the happiest and peaceful I've ever been despite the pain in my life
Perhaps God had greater plans for me when my mother sold the stock
and I was left to work a waitress job at fourteen
and I liked serving the people
they were much different than the farmers I had met
I had my chance to leave home with my mothers permission at the age of sixteen and moved to Georgia
and I knew God had other plans for me
Its been thirty two years now
when will I learn that society isn't too good for me
I find myself on my land looking and feeling the breeze on my cheek
steel tears from my soul
for I've never been loved by a man at all
I thought about throwing in the towel, and becoming a hermit
Perhaps God has greater plans for me
He spoke to me the other day
I know the voice of my Lord
He wondered why I do that..
pretty much, sell myself short
he said there is such beauty and wonderment
and I blinked as a fawn
Perhaps I do not know how to communicate well in public,
in fact, even people in the small towns nearby say I am the nicest lady but odd
Life is harsh as we search for acceptance
my inner child trembles and I am so very hurt
for who could love me?
As the old folk sing an old folk song
(get along home Cindy, Cindy)
(get along home Cindy, Cindy)
Perhaps God has other plans
Life is difficult,
no doubt about it
My over poured soul flows
and I lack comfort that I need
harsh words are more than I can bear these days
and I find many blessings knowing I don't have to stay on this earth for all time
Perhaps I could show the world my inner self so kind
but I'm shy
to get hurt again
I've never given that to any man
but Dear ole Dad
Form:
"Camptown Races sing this song, Do Dah! Do Dah!"
( sung incessantly by a certain, unique rooster.)
Henry Hawke: ( Sung to Holly Jolly Christmas:)
" I'll be there and back by sunset.
There's a chicken there for me!
Mom and Dad will be proud, you bet!
when a chicken, they'll see!"
Henry: ( Sung to Arkansas Traveler:)
" I think that there's a chicken, yes, indeed!
No need to check, that's a chicken, yes, siree!
I know that that's a chicken , yes, indeed!
Even though he has a snout for pecking at the seed!"
POW! ( cue woozy music.)
Barnyard Dog:
Hey, wait a minute, kid!
Have you flipped your lid!"
Henry:
" I hit you a good one and I'm the winner!
Now come along with me! You're what's for dinner!"
Barnyard Dog:
" Eh, kid.. I'm a dog, don't you get it!
Now, scram! Before I make you regret it!"
" Camptown races, sing this song..
I say , I say.. it's not the words,
son, it's the song
It kind of.. eh, moves me along, err.."
Henry:
" Oh, the shame!
The family name!
Life for me will never be the same!"
Barnyard Dog:
" Someone's given you the bum steer!"
He looks at Henry crying.
" Kind of gets you right here..
Tell ya, what, kid!
I'll give you a real clucker with all the feathers!
Now listen to me, the sooner the better.." Pss. psst. pss..
"Camptown Races, Uhh, oh, I say, I say..
What do we have here?!
An unholy alli, alli alli, joining together.
and the word is ..Beware!"
I say, son!
What are, what are you doing here
in my little slice of paradise?!"
Henry:
"Ehh, Mister Cock-a-Doodle Doo..
I'd turn around if I were you!"
"Heh, heh heh..
Obviously, this boy believes
that I was born yesterday
if not the day before!
Let me lead him on a little more.."
"Just what am I supposed to see, there, ehh, son?
The rising moon? The setting sun? Heh, Heh, Heh.."
BAM!
"I, I, I think I've been way layed.
I, I, better look for some shade.."
PLOP!
"That boy's got more nerve than a bum tooth!
ehh, that's a joke, son!
Miss Prissy! My my time has come too soon!"
Eeee, THUD!
Henry and Barnyard Dog( together.):
"Geez, What a maroon!"
Cue the Looney Tunes end music.
(" Eer.. That's your cue, son!")
" Can't find no good cartoon help these days!" THUD!
THAT'S ALL FOLKS!
" Sir have mercy on me,
please give me a piece of bread,
a glass of water,
I am starving to death,
since the typhoon obliterated our city,
we have eaten nothing,
my father survived the storm surge but died in hunger,
Save me!
I don't want to die like him,
help me bury his dead body."
A young lad talks to one of the social workers,
every word he speaks tells the pain of abandonment,
the hunger that he has been suffering through could be felt
from the softness of his voice,
he bleeds in tears while wrapping the cadaver of his beloved father with a piece of white linen cloth,
his almond eyes reflect the desperate thoughts within his mind,
behind him,
his home reduced into pieces of broken woods,
he doesn't know where to go,
he doesn't know how to survive a life after the devastation.
"Papa!,
I still remember so well,
when I was younger,
you promised me before the setting sun,
you would never never leave me alone in a struggle against our poverty till the end of time,
What would I be now without you?
How could I live alone on this world of harsh reality?"
Tears keep rolling down on his angelic face,
while kissing the cold loving hand of his dead father,
upon hearing his voice weakened by a week of tormenting agony,
the social worker could not stand stronger any longer,
she can feel her heart breaking in tears,
she kneels down before the child,
could not utter any word,
but just to hug the boy so tight like her son,
and wipes his tears away by her palm,
tears could not be stopped falling from her eyes.
Beneath the beauty of the kaleidoscopic rainbow,
I knew a man who got nothing,
but a small shack and sweet laughters of his grand children,
he found homily santuaries under their sweet smiles,
they live lives to the fullest without material desires,
yet the greed of Super Typhoon Yolanda is just formidable,
she robbed him of his small shack,
killed his only rooster,
and the worst,
she washed his grand children away into the ocean,
they have been missing for 8 days now.
His sight wanders into the waves of the sea,
with tears falling all day long and eternally,
his life is deep buried in incalculable sadness,
hoping for his grand children to come home,
yet nobody is home but memories of tragedy
Dry Facts Can Perform Juicy Acts
In the EFL community
all around the world
it’s an undeniable
and unpleasant reality that
no matter how well-motivated
you and your students are
no matter how real and acute
the need for learning
a language may be
no matter how well-equipped
the language center is
no matter how well-trained
your instructors might be
still, teaching a language
as a foreign tongue
in a foreign country
in a classroom environment
within four walls
is an artificial endeavor,
pure and simple.
Moreover, the minute the students
step out of the classroom
the little language environment
created in the room
is left behind,
lost and forgotten
until the next class.
Minds boggle at how lively,
how attractive,
how delightful and entertaining,
how effective and powerful
languages can be
at the hands of skillful comedians,
orators, actors, poets and authors
while they all become
utter bores, dry and irrelevant,
with chalk-and-talk-addicted
unimaginative, ordinary instructors
in the language classrooms.
Though language itself is dry
and teaching it mostly boring
the way you introduce it
may engage even the cynical students
if only you yourself believe
that teaching is acting.
Instructors must act
to attract and impact
never mind if students
react without tact
each act will surely get
a few shells cracked
“teaching is the art of changing the brain”
that’s a well-known
neurological fact.
Acting will deliver
student participation
a recipe for motivation
a remedy for alienation.
The target is communication
and retention, not full accuracy
nor perfection, and, please,
leave aside incessant correction,
which definitely leads to
disenchantment and rejection.
Value student participation
and production
encourage interaction
feed vocabulary in collocation
grammar, like medicine,
in the right dosage and proportion
and for God’s sake,
keep your chalk-and-talk
at a minimum fraction.
Remember, an ELT instructor is
a confidence booster
not an error-seeker
or hand-pecking rooster.
Who said ELT was
an educational roller coaster?
Nope. It’s more like a bread toaster,
which takes care of all on the roster.
Idris Esen, February, 2016, Istanbul