Long Rural Poems
Long Rural Poems. Below are the most popular long Rural by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rural poems by poem length and keyword.
At about the age of seven
We moved to a farm. New life now
Growing up rural with devon
Daddy got dog to herd cows
A Collie pup so small was she
Totally dependent on me
In awe an animal so wee
Responsibility would be
Daily chore to feed her each day
It was fun for on me depended
When I fed her, with me would play
To only child, Queen's love splendid
I remember her with warm thoughts
How she would lay down next to me
At the table would sit to my right
While would do homework like trainee
Queen lived ten years filled with great work
Most of her life, work was best part
No responsibility shirk
Now she still has place in my heart
Contest Name:"Pick A Pet Contest"
Sponsor: Francine Roberts
Written: Today July 5, 20ll
All dressed in matching shirts, belt buckles and ties,
The big black boots made from leather,
And their pride and joy, sitting upon their head,
With the biggest brim, leather strap and a feather.
There’s headers and tractors, sprayers and drills,
Harvesters, loaders, and ploughs,
And the thousands of farmers, from this region,
All walk around and casually browse,
This new equipment for barley, sugar, or wheat
For fields of canola or fruit,
And a special buy is the new dog box, that simply sits,
Right on the back of their ute.
This is the site where farmers meet once a year,
Wheeling and dealing a rural parlay,
The hundred hectare paddock, transformed into,
The Henty Farm Machinery Field day.
They don’t know the joys
Of riding a grapevine in the woods
And they can’t make the noise
Made by kids in rural neighborhoods
They don’t know the joys
Of picking wildflowers for mother
Or playing with woodland toys
Sometimes not even with one another
Town children are a lonely sort
With only their relatives for support
They don’t know the joys
Of a piggyback ride across the lawn
Given by one of the boys
Before the bright flowers are gone
They don’t know the joys
Of running as fast as their pup
Or seeing the garden he destroys
After he gives a whooping yup
Town children aren’t so much fun
Some never even hit a homerun
They don’t know the joys
Of sitting out on the front porch
Without any need for poise
Simply because you have the urge
They don’t know the joys
Of waking up at the crack of dawn
Forgetful of all that annoys
Happily giving the sunshine a yawn
Town children don’t have a clue
What other children come through!
September 12, 2019
Town Children Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Childhood Theme Park
In the shadow of Ilkley Moor,
Cow and Calf rocks watch over.
Growing up in a rural town,
A childhood hillside rover.
Flowing like the River Wharfe,
Young days of endless wonder.
Summertime never ending,
Joys of innocence I plunder.
Nature trails in bluebell wood,
Lido swimming in open air.
Bogey cart down Curley Hill,
No fear for safety, didn’t care.
My town was full of adventure,
I had my very own pebble beach.
Tickling Trout by old bridge,
Hide under stones out of reach.
Hebers Ghyll, moorland streams,
Teasing the whirlpool in May.
Pooh sticks from dusk to dawn,
Just one more perfect day.
Memories of ten years l treasure,
Shaping the person in me.
Ilkley was my first theme park,
Days of future past, let them be.
None keeps its inventory
But it creeps into a story
A story of a modern society
Which is plural in nature;
Partly of a rural nurture
Partly of an urban stature
Yet must remain together
Lest it falls a part
For unity is strength.
For peace.
To join these pieces to each other
That requires acuteness of thought,
That demands leaders of acuity,
Who are too acquiescent to it,
And well acquainted with it.
As it demands political acumen
That defines the acme of democracy.
Not autocracy,
Detests acidulous rulers,
Who develop quirks
To become acquisitive personalities.
Egocentric.
Raising their hands to quell the feelings
Ever in a querulous tone of voice
Ending up in quibbles
Both with the minorities,
And the majorities,
And sparing not the authorities.
To suck up to them.
To come up with funny quips
As quislings.
That all and sundry
Are left in a quandary;
Since to them
Neither a banana
Nor an orange
Or any other fruit
Can quench its thirst
Without a qualm about their stand.
And virtually nothing comes on a silver platter;
Always there is a price to pay later.
And not their dreams to shatter
Even though they dwell in the gutter.
But indeed a quid pro quo of a kind
That needs a lot of qusto to wind
And seems as distant as a pulsar
Whose drive you can’t quash
Whose desire you must succum
Whose desire is succint
To its acolytes.
Acquitted splendidly in its path
Without acrimony,
Without mean acrobatics.
Sociocentric.
Both full of sympathy,
And empathy,
And the acceptance,
And the appreciation
Of the uniqueness,
Of the diversity,
Of the peoples and cultures,
Nurtured by nature
For this is the real conquest of the quest.
In the rural green field far away from city cacophony
the lure of sonic extravaganza rose from the virgin soil,
reaching far and wide across the urban pop culture
with the tantalizing tunes of grass root country music.
In the early years of the high-octane rock and roll,
a mighty musical revolution that burst out of nowhere,
shaked the one-time edifice of melodic perceptions,
while generational upheaval veered onto an obsession.
Words floated fast in the quiet neighborhood air,
a band of the third generation country musicians
would captivate the wilderness with rockabilly songs,
an upcoming experiment on the art of musical fusion.
On the grass laden pristine pasture off the highway
assembled the music enthusiasts, young and old.
“You rocked me” resonated in the tune of verdant land,
for some in lyric of dream, for some in rhythm of memory.
March 14, 2020
A Brian Strand 1098 Contest
They grew up in the rural during a more gentler and innocent time.
It appears that they were childhood sweethearts from the word 'Go'.
It also seems their connection was like a board never screwed tight enough,
or a plank not quite nailed properly. Perhaps their hearts sparked but could never continue burning, because from early childhood to early teens, they continued to grow further apart. From then on, their lives started to spin separately in every conceivable way.
After high school, they both went north but to completely different cities.
For whatever reasons, they never saw each other again until the day she died.
They both lost touch with each other and got married, starting families of their own. After many years transpired, he got word that she became ill and died an untimely death.
True love never developed between the two but there was sure 'puppy love' as children. Whether love or just a spark, something was lost. One could say that their love never got past the 'puppy level', and if there was any trace of love, it was certainly lost somewhere between two metropolises.
01192018 PS
The doctor gave the diagnosis of pernicious anemia
Which then explained the new found fatigue
In the past, he had been able to take on any enterprise
An astral imagination was his adherent
To help carry out his entrepreneurial spirit
Now all of his gifts seeped slowly like sand through the hour glass
He had wanted to traverse over the poverty of his childhood
He refused to accept any sort blemish
That would dampen the ladder to his success
His visage upon his final goals landed
Rural plots turned into verdant open land, tools, equipment stored
Now like a sentry he guards his fold
Date: October 30, 2020
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Contest: Eight Word Challenge
A plush monk’s life was my designation
Before the process of dissolution
Then back to now, fast extrication
From enforced seizure and desecration
A simple life it was for me
Amid fertile land, its fruits aplenty
The chapter house was full of deals
lucrative ones that ensured good meals
The venerable relic in sacred place
A mecca for pilgrims upon which to gaze
And tourism fast filling the chapter house coffers
Ensuring the refectory is full of scoffers
A rural retreat in which to languish
Organic produce, not just a sandwich
free range and fresh by home kept beast
A buttery and flour, just add the yeast
The spartan dorm is plain and crude
But no money needed and even free food
Just say a few prayers and work on the land
Outdoor jobs that leaves one well tanned
A stroll in the cloisters, then meditate
Plainsong soars melodically when it is late
It soothes the mind and placates the soul
Even more lovely when the bells start to toll
This monastic decadence now at its peak
Espied by Henry who’s got a damned cheek
The supreme head is after its dough
O dear, I think its time to go
My trusty machine will ensure my return
Refreshed, better and much I’ve learned
Ruthless old Henry their land he took
Their fate outlined in my history book
,
Talking apple and oranges may deliberate,
wondering to what has been considered.
Different things altogether just multiplied,
losing the string of thoughts refined.
The extended version by lots of Fish in the water,
poachers have no mercy taken stories broader.
Incidentally to go off in tangent moment,
not having the right kettle for Fish component.
To have a kettle that fits the Fish,
is the secret in this gastronomic dish.
The stealing game and the show to manipulate,
changing to another kettle of Fish accurate.
Pique-nique and rural feast conversation,
perplexed affaires as general sensation.
One can still make a fine kettle of Fish with it,
having a surreal perspective permit.
Give it a break, the truth is simple,
squeeze that focus pimple.
Then the Fish needs its kettle,
getting a particular topic to settle.
Winding necks and astonishments,
the art of appearance in dare relevance.
Minding ones business in different speech,
who is who in the kettle of Fish.
Other days as metaphor situation,
different kettle of Fish declaration.
Misfits in places have to transform,
making easy accent the norm.
Everybody knows the questioning reach,
who dare is, another kettle of fish.