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.
Out on the cold frozen porch in midafternoon..Ice is dripping pitter pat from the
trees and off the roof..That north easterly wind roughly crackles the few leaves left
hanging on the oak..Ice sickles hang releasing one drop at a time..Those wind
chimes clank a frozen sound..Roosters crow across the creek as if the sun was
coming up and it is a warm spring morn..A little confused somehow..As the breeze
moves the frozen fingers of trees there is a snap crackle pop as of one who has
suffered from arthritis for many years..Just listening to the distressed sounds of
nature is chilling to my bones..Those few minutes out on the porch was refreshing
and chilling all at the same minute..
.
Reverberations of roosters' crows
through the hollow of opposing hills
The cymbal section of nature's band
Singing male Mockingbird such varied notes
Answer by a female but her tune is always the same
Noooooooooo!!
He answers cu-----te, pur___ty, come Here~~er~er
The same answer from her nooooooo!!!
Another female flys up and lands on the fence
nesting material in her mouth
She was lured away by someone's call____
This foggy morn, nice, cool, a few minutes on the porch
Then responsibility to complete today's work since I answered someone's call_____
Sponsor: Frank H
Contest: Sounds
May 09, 2013
If one could tour my place of birth,
They would notice a place where time stood still.
Then, they would see a place of humble SIMPLICITY.
If one could spend one night in the house where I was born;
No hot water or bathroom, but cold night visits to the outhouse.
Then, they would be more grateful, and acquire a taste for more HUMILITY.
If one could roam the village where I grew up;
A place where lightning bugs enjoyed the nights.
Then, they would walk on dusty grounds of STABILITY.
If one could only observe where I had to play,
They would see no parks or play grounds for the poor.
Then, they would pause and share in their kids’ ACTIVITY.
If one could hear the soothing sounds that I heard by day and by night;
The melody of crickets late at night, and the harmony of roosters crowing early mornings;
Then, they would experience far less stress, and have a chance with LONGEVITY.
If one could get to know the neighbors I knew,
The dear people I honored, trusted, and respected;
Then, they would understand the true meaning of CIVILITY.
If one could care nearly as much as they;
People who took the time to love and share.
Then, they too would love with all their ABILITY.
04232007PS
Listening to the roosters crow brings thoughts
Memories of when I was very young
There was a rooster who wasn't store-bought
He had strong masculine traits and strong lungs
He would loudly crow, strut, and fight the best
The day he flew at me and tried to spur
Was the day his name became the fowl pest
On Christmas Eve he met his fate_ yes, sir
'Pon that fated day he crowed his last crow
His fancy strutt in the pot mom did stir
The feet, the neck, tips of wings she did throw
When those were done, dumplings she did transfer
The meal was done and all sat down to eat
Mom passed the dumplings around and served me
In the dumplings on my plate landed his feet
Laughter around the table showed our esprit
Sponsor: Francine Roberts
Contest: Christmas Dinner With Humor
Completed 12/17/12
Minimum 12 lines
Christmas day the rest was boiled and dressing made...
Rhyme
"...all that vulgar beauty of iridescence...", "Roosters", by Elizabeth Bishop
"It is used in nature
to recognize organisms
of the same species, choose mates,
confuse and evade predators --
a useful adaptation --
a shimmer of glittering and
changeable colors --
the phenomenon of certain surfaces
that appear to gradually change color
as the angle of view or angle of illumination changes --
(ex: soap bubbles, feathers, butterfly wings,
seashell nacre, as well as certain minerals) --
an inventive optical trick."
Any difference between pearlescent and iridescent?
Pearlescent objects have a luster resembling
that of mother-of-pearl. Iridescent objects
have a lustrous, rainbow-like play of colors
caused by differential refraction of light waves --
as in "the object seems to change color
as you shift your perspective" -- a shimmer
of glittering and changeable colors --
an "inventive optical trick" indeed!
Could there not be some among us, who --
perhaps even if for their own purposes,
are almost -- almost -- almost truly iridescent?
Suddenly over the sudden years
I have felt an encumbrance; I sense an albatross -
the weight of sundry uncharted days.
Times I chronicle today as if I were a wax cylinder
and not the broken spool in a cassette tape.
A subfuse goose whispers: Record the sky for me.
I must write ‘sky’ ten times a day
so that the abated will not be forgotten.
Yet how to keep a goose-gray sky fresh
when the days are so metallically shiny and blue?
None recall the monochrome stories
we once told our color-blind children?
They have grown beyond such things.
I have so little time, yet must set down
the legend of little boy gray,
his history has almost passed away,
now eyes have no corners to see.
I knew him well, alas the roads to that tale
are backhoed by cartoon rainbows.
History calls me out into the park
where a lineage of dog leads the nose
to a yesteryear, a brawling time
free from the wow and weight of newness.
we lived then as historians leading other historians
upon trails of immemorial sensations.
Meadow larks meant something once,
but now look at them, they strut like roosters
over the journals of the dead!
History cannot now be cured; it is far gone,
its prone, hump-backed form encumbers
like a speed bump.
Wordsworth and his damn golden daffodils -
as if we did not know already.
I hover over histories sickbed
my impedimenta droop like the dewlaps
of a prodigal deity.
Only a moment ago history ran through hill and dale
as naked as an infant,
its fields were alive with love, war, and kapok -
a stuffed, full metal jacket;
a saucily heraldic Kevlar.
I breathe into histories colorless lungs,
there are flocks of moribund geese tucked into each
alveoli and bronchi,
they have plucked themselves naked,
they long for the ten sky’s
named in my cinereal histories.
I shoulder this burden of faded things,
this molting albatross,
all the trappings of then and thereupon,
these I place now in an ash lined
and crumbling
vault.
Written by Gail R DeBole
on July 19, 2021
Updated September 4, 2021
A baby who lived on a farm
Would coo and gurgle with charm.
She completely amazed
Her family each day
With all of her sweet, lovely sounds.
She would hear chickens, cows, and sheep
As she fell into a very sound sleep.
Then she would awake
To the noise roosters make
And would listen to chicks as they peeped.
She heard many oinks, moos, and neighs.
The animals talked lots each day.
Chickens cluck-cluck-clucked.
She heard quacks from each duck.
The animal sounds never waned.
When she made her talking debut.
Her parents didn’t know what to do.
You might think it absurd
As to what her parents heard -
She sang out a melodious moo!
Next was a loud cluck-cluck-cluck!
Then she skillfully quaked like a duck!
She then gave a neigh
As she giggled and played.
Her parents were completely awe-struck.
She saved her best vocals for last.
Giving her parents a proud vocal blast.
She called her father “Papa”
And her mother “Mama”
And that was her first baby rap.
The Snow Camelia hedge row is in full bloom. Lovely white as newly fallen snow against waxy dark emerald green. The sun broke the horizon in a pastel pink but very swiftly turned to a clear horizon. The area where the sun ball rises is a golden glow. Thank you God for a chance to live another day and another Thanksgiving. Now surrounded by sounds_crows, roosters, and a bird sound that is just chir-rup really mimics a cricket but not. The cold is penetrating saying go inside escape the cold go to a warm place. Once again God thanks for a warm place to go and its comfort. The ambrosia needs to be made, getting breakfast, and four people need to get ready. The sun is touching the top of the trees and duty calls come..
Alone, there I stood by the bench in the park.
On a leash by my side, my protective young hound.
In the distance I heard the echo of whispers;
As a dark hooded figure approached in a cloak.
She stopped and looked at me this beautiful maiden.
Rose like lips smiled gently, against skin bright and fair.
She took down her hood, released hair long and fair;
I offered my hand and on bench did we park.
We looked at the stars appearing so maiden;
As we talked of our youths and her company I did hound.
Then the moon cast its shadows and darkness did cloak;
Whilst trees bustled, rustling, the night timely whispers.
As we cuddled up close, to get warm friendly whispers;
It grew colder, I gave my jacket and said it wasn't fair.
So we got up to leave and she bunched up her cloak;
We walked to the car to the place I did park.
In the back did we place my faithful friend hound,
And we drove into the night on our journey so maiden.
We drove and we drove till the dawn arrived maiden.
To the rustling chorus of natures whispers;
And a fox searching for breakfast did stalk and did hound;
Saw chickens, roosters and hens such a fair!
In burrowed field did monstrous combine park,
Whilst autumn leaves rained tumbling natures cloak.
We went to my home and and we hung up the cloak.
Then I partook a chance to kiss the hand of my maiden.
While we spoke of the night at the park.
We enfolded ourselves to bodily whispers;
And I nestled amongst all of hair fair;
But when in heat of moment the barks of my hound.
A knock on wall from angry neighbors, please shut up the hound.
So I fed him, watered and let him outside; around me her cloak.
Then returned to my angel so beautifully fair,
Her skin looked so radiant my heavenly maiden;
That I caressed it so longingly, with gentle whispers,
Then stopped and remembered the leash in the park.
Then cursing the hound; I tell the dear maiden.
Dressed quickly, coats, cloak; and I love you whispers.
She tells me not fair, and we go to the park!!!
The calling of the Rooster confirms a new dawn to me
I can sense the morning sun through mist I now can see
I lie here alone, so distant from love and life
My companion, a cold pillow, I need rescued from my strife
My breathing resonates amidst the loneliness I live
To cross my door to liberty, one day I'll have to give
When once my bed was warm, with heart warming displays
Now it's cold like a grey granite slab, for many many days
A darkness engulfs my life, when love before was there
To awaken to the Roosters call, all I can do is stare
My desire is to open my eyes, to venture to another day
When love again will fill my heart, in warming loving plays
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life-15.php