Long Rows Poems
Long Rows Poems. Below are the most popular long Rows by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rows poems by poem length and keyword.
A girl in the crowd takes a selfie.
Her tam o’shanter sparkles
because of the fireworks going off
in the background, and because it has glitter.
At the gates of Moscow
weary French troops run away
hands over their ears, as Tchaikovsky
fires his righteous cannons.
The girl with the cell
is as pretty as her friend beside her,
but her friend outshines the tam o’shanter
as if it were just an ordinary beret.
She has sapphires in her eyebrows.
Kids in earshot of adults
‘wow’ or mouth age-appropriate obscenities.
The limp body of a teenage messiah
is elbowed and pushed around by his disciples.
Several rows back, a woman is laughing
as she cranes her neck skyward;
from the chin up, she looks like Greta Garbo,
only she is short and fat.
Rockets fly like fan-dancing ostriches.
The truncated 1812 Overture burps to a close.
My lens can’t capture the woman
or the girl, or her friend
who now all shine like diamonds.
I can’t fit all of this into 12 mega pixels.
The night eventually stops throwing missiles
at the moon,
the girls, and women fizz out,
the kids continue to sizzle
until they are led away by dark-eyed dreams.
Each summer my parents would take us to my grandfather’s ranch in Southern Texas to help with different jobs. It might be branding cattle, digging fence post holes, or picking cotton! My parents had told us stories about the cotton fields as I grew up. I wasn't old enough yet to partake in this miserable job.
One fine morning my brothers and I were awakened before daylight dressed, fed, and taken a mile down to the cotton fields! We were handed heavy cotton ducking sacks, they were over twice as long as I was. Diligently we all started filling our sacks with cotton. Under the hot summer day sun, which was beating down? The field was elegantly plowed with neat rows, lined with brown dried plants, with beautiful fluffy white soft cotton and seeds in bolls. A protective vessel that does its job with sharp burrs that make picking cotton by hand quite painful, and bloody.
I walked up and down the cotton rows dragging my heavy sack. With blistering sun overheating my body, I had begun to ache, getting weaker, the sack got heavier every minute My hands had swollen up with cuts that were bleeding from removing the cotton out of the bolls. After a while I started feeling faint, running a fever, heaving, and then I collapsed to the soft plowed black soil. My family runs over wondering what had gone wrong. I had developed heat-stroke!
I was never again brought back to the cotton fields.
©By: Eve Roper 12/8/2014
Contest Name : Jobs 12/ 11/2014 Honorable Mention
Freedom is it a thought, a word, or a dream
Where can we find it
I have looked but I’ve never seen
In a rundown cabin in a place called Valley Forge
A man prays for a miracle to keep not only his men but freedom alive
Years later another man quietly stands at Gettysburg
Telling us we my bind up our wounds and leave the war behind
Rows and rows of white crosses mark the resting place of so many young
Men.
They paid the ultimate price for freedom and sadly we will not see them again
A windy January morning a young man spoke words that still come to mind
He spoke of how we could reach to the stars and beyond
Three years later sadly he too was gone
A flicker from a candle truly can light the world
This is what freedom is and though it’s silent its voice is heard
It’s the whisper of the smallest prayer
It’s the cry of those who care
Do not look for it in books for it’s not there
Look deep in you hearts for it’s there
My mother had a way with green plants
They wanted to please her, and so they did.
She took cuttings and gave them to neighbors.
Millions of cuttings. Provided the town with cuttings.
We kids were gardening as soon as we could walk.
Out in the country, on grandpa’s land.
An enormous garden plowed by a tractor.
Our garden was the size of a small supermarket.
We planted our vegetables in rows
Slit the bottom of the seed packet and put it on a stake
Every second or third row was marked
So, I knew how to plant, weed, and hoe a garden
I learned how to grow my own food
After getting my own place, I realized I missed home-grown vegetables
I decided to plant my own garden.
I chose things I thought might be easy -carrots, radishes, and peas.
Corn takes too much room, and pumpkins are not early enough.
I had learned plenty from my parents; my garden was a hit.
I also had two rows of flowers.
Remembering much later....
My mother always planted two rows of flowers in her vegetable gardens.
Zinnias and Marigolds
The same two flowers I chose to plant.
ANIMALS TALKINGS
In the manger, away word manger
The animals were also worshipping
In the manger, away word in the manger
The animals were also worshipping
They to were praising HIM, JESUS
The cow says moo and he's talking
and he to is praising Jesus, baby Lord
yes my Lord say's the cow
and he to is praising Jesus, baby Lord
The ox huhht noise liken grunts and he's talking
and he to is praising Jesus, baby Lord
yes my Lord say's the ox
and he to is praising Jesus
The donkey hee haw, hee haw he to is talking
and he is praising yes the donkey talking bout Our Lord
and he to is praising Jesus, baby Lord
All the animals gather round with 3 kings
the mother and father as they all worship the Lord
The sheep says ba ba, as the elephant rows what about the lions
and all the birds
Unlike the days back in Noel
these animals praised and worshipped
So all the animals were talking
All the animals were praising are no born King
And all the animals were sounding off with vocals of your..
Yes my Lord said the Ox
Yes my Lord said the Cow
Yes my Lord said the Elephant, Lion, Sheep and All
Animals Talking
Yes, even they too Praised the Lord
12/21/17
A short pleasant drive through the pathway
Between the impenetrable woodlands lying untamed -
Cradled by soft wind, the scenic lush foliage I gaped at
During my recent visit to my homeland
Enriched and cheered my dreary mind;
Fresh breeze, so pure, gently tousled my hair
Giving me a feel that right then I was
Heading towards a heavenly hamlet; the
Idyllic green cover was embellished with mangoes, enormous and
Jackfruits, huge. The flowering trees with vivid blooms formed a
Kaleidoscope of colours glinting in soft sunlight after a drizzle;
Lofty trees shaped a canopy of leaves, so artistic, and glued
My eyes to its pristine rustic charming beauty:
No wonder this land is called ‘God’s Own Country’ -
Of all the beautiful places, here is Nature at Her best!
Ponds, lakes and streams were fringed with long
Queues of coconut trees, some leaning over the lakes -
Reflecting and glistening in the water below;
Shh! The soft silvery clouds and the misty hills seemed
To be engaged in a cosy-chat - so dreamy and enchanting;
Upon the luxuriant land sprawled large spindly rubber trees -
Verdurous, lined up in orderly rows - so mystic - as if
Wishing to whisper a secret in my ears. Listening to
Xylophone music from my son’s mobile, so peaceful, my mind
Yearned to glance more at Her graceful face!...as the
Zig-zag road, untiring, unfurled before my eyes, with its twists and turns.
Date: 06/23/2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 16 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
I’ve been walking in a thousand parks
Sat on a thousand benches or more
Dreamed away hearing blackbirds and larks
Each time I rested like never before
Always forced myself to go out
Being timed up by reasons I deemed
Quite exclusive, although now I doubt
If they were as important, as seemed
In the alleys with flowers and squirrels
I had casual thoughts to unfold
What I meant to divulge disappears
Much too fast to be honestly told
If I could, I would tell you about
Why I needed a thousand parks
Maybe more, I didn’t bother to count
All the moments I listened to larks
Could’ve been something else than tranquility
Of idyllic blue skies, rows of trees
Even though parks were my home facility
I’ve no way to convince you of this.
Standing in the silent fields of the fallen....
Such overwhelming loss weighing heavy on my soul.
Chance of dream gone from each forever....
having paid so steep a price,,,so great a toll.
Their hopes and loves now lay silent....
within this solemn place...
No sound of laughter on their voice...nor hint of joy upon their face
Injustice done by broad stroking brush....
while glancing at columns and rows....
For within each and every loss..
A tear stained river forever flows..
A mother's smile and loving arms....
Held in moment of birth.....
A father's pride and pounding heart...
Remind's us all.... what this life was worth..
A world which shouted out with joy...
Celebrating first drawn breath.....
Destain's forever the horror of war...
The calls of kings... and their demand for death.
A daytime in Madrid
Gray sky overhead
The mist forms rows
Eyeing, hesitating
As spectators in a field
Hovering for kickoff
Masses of zealots
Shining bands of fans
In the style of a royal army
The sound of shoes trampling
Moving to a specific ground
Hovering for kickoff
The reals of Madrid are tough
They defy tooth and claw
The adrenaline level is rising
Blood of steel ran in their veins
Artistic knives are at the ready
They hurt the stadium
The reds of England look anxious.
To do this, a hero must be called.
A savior in times of peril.
A leader to rally the troops.
A Liverpool that flips the tides.
Halftime is near
Relief for the Spanish is near
But there is a last terror spell
One final shot towards glory
A clip-on their lips
A blow on the Reals' souls
The fate of our heroes is unsure.
What lies next for the Reds?
But one thing is certain.
They seek victory.
Will they master the chaos of war?
Written: June 2, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
In the spring, the crows sit in the tall pines
Capitalizing on the field of newly planted corn.
Farmer dreams of corn on the cob which he will dine
Caw, caw the lookout calls to his mates to forewarn
As crows go down rows, gleaning the kernels
Dreaming their only competition is from the farmer
But up high is a nest of pesky, frisky squirrels
On the ground also those armadillos with armour
As the farmer sees his profits go into the crows,
His temper flairs to beyond recovery.
Farmer sits in garden reading aloud prose
Bored to tears, the crows a great book discovery
"Selected Poems" by Edna St. Vincent Millay
With it drove farmer away in chorus sang, "Yea"..
Sonnet:Sort of