Long Roosters Poems
Long Roosters Poems. Below are the most popular long Roosters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Roosters poems by poem length and keyword.
Dawn a new day is breaking
Open my eyes to the beauty
As the Roosters, Cardinals, and Doves eyes open
Tiny crescent moon relishing in its appearing
Birds sweep across the pale-blue morning sky
To the beat of coo-coo-coo
As the Doves communicate to their love
Striated clouds greet the sun
Sun takes the gray away so there is apricot on the horizon
Gold to decorate the way
Clean slate_new dawn great start for this unique day
Fresh air refreshes lungs
Adds glow to all creatures
Gives life as sun clears the stale dark
Opens doors to opportunities for renewal_forgiveness
The sun rises golden
As if it is the gold of royalty
Without its daily visit all of earth would decease
Become an entirely different sphere
What contingency does the dawn of new day bring to you
Open your eyes to the venture
Contest:Sunrise~~Versus~~Sunset
Sponsor: HGarvey Daniel Esquire
Written by:Sara Kendrick
As the spring sun rises
Revealing wispy clouds
Fog that's settled in hollows
Roosters crow, doves' coo proud
With Easter approaching
Thoughts of thousands years
Ago bubble up in
Memory, some tears flow
A triumphant entry
Upon a donkey new
He had never ridden one
The donkey unridden too
Was it a day like this
Apricot sun in the east
Or were there gray clouds
Did the sheep softly bleat?
The throngs worshipped with
Hosannas, in the name
Of the Lord, but did not
Know he'd be blamed
Blasphemy, blasphemy
Those accusers cried
They could not see
The Son or even tried
They could not see ahead
The future hidden deep
They did not know the cross
Awaited nor of its defeat
But only a short brush with death
Placed in a borrow tomb
On that Sunday long ago
He arose, He can't be exhumed
classy as a diamond ring
razzlng and dazzling throughout the night
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzling and dazzling throughout the night
foghorn leghorn forming
dialed in the farm yard run
roosters my word
strutting with pep
do nothing wrong
in this manure and goo
Sing’n with gusto into morning dew
These sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
Razzling and dazzling throughout the night
Foghorn leghorn forming
Dialed in the farm yard run
Roosters my word
Strutting with pep
Do nothing wrong
In this manure and goo
Sing’n with gusto into morning dew
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzlng and dazzling throughout the night
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzling and dazzling throughout the night
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzlng and dazzling throughout the night
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzling and dazzling throughout the night
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzling and dazzling throughout the night
The mad wind passed swiftly through the city showing mankind no pity, it captivate everything in its path, ripping up the cornfields, throwing down utility poles and opening up closed door. It circles around the creeks scaling sunlit mountains, mixing earth with stones and dressing the heavens with the gowns flying over the throne. It roots up the landfills, and settles beneath the foot of the hill circling, and twirling around for the eye that is set on the throne. It spews out a terrible sound reminding the people that destiny is around. It hisses and lashes, sending wooden planks over the bend and carrying the concrete a hundred meter down the lane.
The people run around the bend, looking for shelter underneath the altar but the mad wind drag them out and cause the entire town to jump and shout. It move ferociously around the pig pen and dances around the chicken coop, and drive the roosters from the roof, the ducks began to run too , wagging their bumpy tails and saying how do you do.
Zinc and pans, bucket and lamps crowd the street and debris flying in the air, landing in the bushes, and the middle of the streets, slowly erupting the town’s heart beat.The mad wind is moving towards the east, and I can finally get some peace. The sun is burning in the west, and I don’t have to fret, the fire is down to the wire and the vision is moving closer and some people are still looking for an answer.
I stand there breathlessly looking at the damages it left behind, overturned house fallen trees dug out road and overturned boats stalled cars in the middle of the street, and a temperature that lit up the street .Dead bodies floating in the rivers and screaming voices are heard from all places .People trapped onto of the roof and widow suck into the chimney with foot shaking up side down and head buried in the ground. The mad wind keeps moving leaving nothing unturned and the grey skies trembling in the sun leaving nothing undone and so the mad wind resides in the east.
Looking for a brand for our growing herd
Nothing fancy nor absurd
Just something to let em know their mine
Rain or shine
Getting them to water.
As days grow hotter
Long lonely nights
Avoiding the lights
Keeping them out of fights
Yep, takes nerve
Feelings held in reserve
To ride heard on any kind of chicken critter
Some seem down right bitter
It takes sand
But back to our brand
Chickens need a tiny branding iron for sure
No cure
I've watched them grow
I want you to know
Ain't easy roping them tiny necks for one.
Waking up before the sun
Crazy roosters trying to claw your eyes out.
No matter how loud I shout
A rooster is a dangerous critter
Grabbed my friend and bit her
Never know when they will start stampeding
There's no impeding
There's no helping you then
Mauled by a lunatic hen
You won't win
They are clucking crazy when riled .
Can go from meek and mild
To totally wild
In nothing flat
They drop the hat
That's right.
No sleep at night
All they do is fight.
Pooping my breakfast what can I say
That's my day.
I used to read my poetry to my husband, oh, it was lovely to sit with him,
his arms wrapped around me and reading my poems. He loved my voice.
Now, I have to travel a long winding road to his tomb. Does he hear my words?
I have a friend who loves me to read her my poems. Closes her eyes to sigh.
Sometimes she reads my poems to me with her beautiful voice ,I am always
staggered that I wrote that. There is something amazing about spoken words.
Recently, I have been doing audio of my poems and find it quite wonderful.
I am able to put the depth and character into my voice and the poem is alive,
and far more interesting, it seems to me. I am crazy about doing kids poems
and changing my voice for different characters. I have done two, so far, one is,
The Boogeyman Who Lived In My Closet ... "Well no, Daddy I never saw the claws
or his face. But trust me Daddy, he is in the closet. Noooooo, don't open it."
Another I did was, The Rooster Who Thought He Was A Dog, and I did grampies
big voice, "NO, no roosters in this house!" Oh, those were so much fun to do.
And I can be sultry, like in, shades of nature, " come fall into the lush depths.
with me, I will take you to a place of utter peace." And I can be sad , as in
my poem, And Angels Wept, "the cemetery seemed to hush, even the birds
were quiet, and then we were standing at my baby's grave, oh the weeping . . "
Audio can make a poem very special. It is an excellent poetic tool if you ask me and I am loving adding audio to my poetry, oh the sweet spoken word.
____________________________
June 13, 2016
Poetry/Narrative/"oh, sweet unspoken word"
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 800-112-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Pastel pink ballgown floats on horizon
Belle of the ball accompanied by gray gents
Dancing into early morn, roosters sing on
Still accented by soft entertainment
So swiftly has the dance floor changed to light
Like life that changes slipping up on us
A mother bird busied herself with bright
Eyes and wide mouths, then gone is little fuss
Cool is the morn, damp the air_ comfortable
Soon the golden sun will warm the air, chase
Away the chill, send me inside unable
To enjoy nature, But God's presence is in place
A few ballgown minutes, time moves onward
Thank you for this time in heart undergird
As the cold spring rain drips from tiny spring green leaves, birds quietly hide
in nest and eaves. The roosters crow encouraging the sun to shine through the
clouds but the depths of the clouds' moisture and gloom reach to the earth's core.
The illusion of sunshine radiates from the Forsythia's brilliant yellow blossoms like
an impressionist's painting radiating through the fog. The windchimes are gently
stirred by the northeasterly cold damp breeze.
a bird warbles
love notes to his mate ...
no answer
A throaty cheer-up, cheer-up, cheer-up or maybe he was sent to entertain
just me..
As the pines drip with fog's waterdroplets and their flowers drip with pollen's stores.
The moisture helps keep it from being blown about to cling to all building, cars, and
shores..
a quietness coats
spring grasses...
crow's caw stirs silence
The time out on the porch enriches the day. Thank you Lord for a few minutes
to pray..
it is one of those placid docile what-do-we-do April days.
I sit outside naked except for my light polyester mumu.
an airplane wakes the cloud with her powerful engine noises.
my wind chimes tingle a mirthful melody.
Sophie, my cocker spaniel sits behind me, she is an inside dog.
Buddy, our husky mix trots a giant six pound bone around in his mouth.
there is a car on Kansas Avenue, we cannot see it, but we hear it.
nothing else is moving until I spy a blue jay landing on a branch.
so light in hue, that he could be an arctic jay, he is the lightest gray.
annoyingly loud muscle car can be heard in the distance, tearing up a street.
roosters behind me begin to crow, even though it is noon.
melodic chimes heighten their melody as today’s breeze picks up.
trilling of birds gives me a reassuring thought of God in the yard.
behind me I hear the purr of our porch refrigerator.
if there has ever been a calmer day, I was not aware of it.
someone revs a car engine far off in the distance.
old man or boy, I think, or old lady in a mumu. This makes me smile.
When the roosters crow at dawn
Trump the clown, the president
Who thinks he's a ser and king, a prophet
Because he always has his fly half open
Surrounded by his entire celestial court of zealots
Well protected by serial killers
What will he say, perched atop his deranged head:
-“I announce to the new day
That today, like yesterday and tomorrow
I will do whatever the hell I want
Because that's how it has to be
For the good of all nations.”
Laughing and dancing like a disabled person
He will repeat:
-“What a mental masturbation of mine is worth
Given on time here in Mar-a-Lago
Soon to the twelve best beaches of Cuba
Which will soon be mine:
Varadero Beach, Paradise Beach
Pilar Beach, Cayo Blanco, East Beaches
Sirena Beach, Fishing Beach
Santa María Beach, Ancón Beach
Coral Beach, Cayo Guillermo
And Guardalavaca Beach.
Don't fall asleep, my Cuba
Don't fall asleep, my beloved
For your Trumpist dawn is coming
Full of life and death.
To your twelve precious beaches
My criminal drones will descend singing:
“This is how it must be
Because this is what this clown
Who thinks he's a seer and king wants
Who, without any bet
Full of rage will pounce on Díaz-Canel
And, in the shadow of his own balls
Will leave him half dead
Making Cuba a great Guantánamo, once
Causing his coastal Guantanamero people
From the municipality of Bauta
In the province of Artemisa
West of Havana
To laugh and be scared on his Baracoa beach
Contemplating that enormous cock of his
Hypocritical cock made drone
Of truly obscene balls
Of a terrible and fierce transsexual
Who employs so much ardor, so much effort
In annihilating, with the Jews
The peoples of the Middle East.”