Long Rusty Poems
Long Rusty Poems. Below are the most popular long Rusty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rusty poems by poem length and keyword.
Writing was a passion
Passion masked the nail
Your child’s way of life was writing
Mom’s little author she thinks
Mom boasts about the qualities of an author son
Mom doesn’t know there’s a nail in the picture
Your son is sitting,
Feeling the rusty nail pierce his brain
This nail is masked
Your son begs for aid in removing the nail
Mom ignores the begs
Mom tells child to toughen up
This nail eventually takes a toll to the child’s heart
The child begs to his mom
Mom ignores the begs
The child can’t deal with the pain
The nail is now taking full control
Mom ignores the begs
Mom opens child’s door next day
The nail just pinned the coffin
Now the mom listens
An old man returned to the rustic cabin where he was born.
There it stood midst a grove of pines, tumble-down, forlorn.
The home he loved in his youth now stood in a shambles,
Nearly overgrown with creeping vines and thorny brambles.
The horseshoe over the door was still there, albeit a bit askew.
Rusty hinges protested as he opened the door and ventured thro'.
He was overwhelmed by emotion as he recalled his family cast,
The good times, the bad times, distant shadows of the past.
He could see his dear old Dad burdened with years of toil,
As he strove to feed his family on forty-acres of stony soil.
He never aspired to accrue any transient worldly treasure.
His love for God and his family was ever his only pleasure.
He learned at his Mother's knee to shun all evil and do good.
How he longed once again to embrace her, if he only could.
He recalled Christmases, tho' often love was all she could give,
And snuggling 'neath her cozy quilts, times he yearned to relive.
He knelt by the hearth, there he sensed his old dog, Champ,
Content, while a boy lay reading by the glow of a coal oil lamp.
The old man closed the sagging door and muttering a last goodbye,
Slowly walked away, cherishing fond memories with a pensive sigh.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
On rounding a bend in the road,
I caught a foul whiff of Lost Lake.
For it's mostly a putrid pond,
that now lives up to its namesake.
Shrunk into a slimy green scum,
this lake sure doesn't look like one.
And it is giving off a stench,
that sends most critters on the run.
I found a rotted-out cabin,
years of ice and snow made it so.
And on a rusty iron stove,
a shinning kettle all aglow.
I swear that shook me up awhile,
till I realized 'twas the sun.
And not some mystical spooky
ghost out to have himself some fun.
The lake's now choked and overgrown,
but there's no need to interfere.
For soon, no one will even know
that there was ever a lake here.
(Quatrain)
2/10/2018
POTW 22rd April 2018
To right the wrongs of love no flawless gauge exists
Though visions unfulfilled can leave one bereft
With tears of remorse for the ones who didn’t show
Or lamenting the ones who came and left
Sparkly wings donned we cruise the starry skies
Crooning songs of love to the silvery moon
Mourning its presence being ~ Too late? ~ Too soon?
Grieving for the ‘dish’ who ran away with the ‘spoon’
Rewrite your song ~ Compose a new melody
Peek through those shades of pearlescent pink
Discard the restraints of unrequited love
Bask in loves splendor ~ lest it goes in a blink
Feel a whisper of the breeze ~ on those thundering seas
The quest starts right here on this night crystal clear
That rusty anchor raise ~ you’ve lingered too long
It’s your ship to control ~ Reclaim the power to steer
I trust you like the music video clip by Australian singer John Paul Young. Still loving the sound of the Disco 80’s
POTW 22rd April 2018
Did we meet when stars aligned?
Or when fate dragged our paths,
to coincide, to bump together,
sidled up, side by side,
by coincidence, in time and space?
Or did we slide into the same path by accident?
Enchanted to dance by chance,
with happenstance and serendipity,
on a path less traveled?
We met in a deserted park,
in a deserted ghost town,
on a path way off the beaten track
Both coming to see how rising salinity
in the district's groundwater,
through excessive water use,
had ruined the crops,
ruined the town's livelihood.
Everyone had left.
One of us came here,
to yen its cause,
the other with pen,
to write a report.
In the park was a swing
with a rusty chain and black rubber seat.
The wind made the swing,
swing to and fro, to and fro,
emitting a haunting creak.
Which drew us to share the
pathos of the scene.
Which to us, thus met,
made all the difference.
This path, this town, this park,
this swing, this wind, this creak,
by accident,
made all the difference!
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. That’s the sound of life.
Ever-ticking, counting down,
A soundtrack for our fleeting days.
We have this old Russian clock at home,
A rusty relic, its hands creaking,
Telling stories of a life lived and lost.
It stops sometimes.
Dead in its tracks.
No tick, no tock.
Just silence.
A silent echo of the silence that’ll greet us all.
That clock, man, it’s a damn prophet.
It whispers secrets in the dead of night: “Don’t wait.”
“Mend the broken bridges,?before they’re swallowed by time’s endless tide.”
Each chime is a reminder,
a punch in the gut:
“Tick-tock. You got work to do.”
I have unfinished apologies to give,
forgotten birthday calls to make, resentments to shed, and hearts to heal.
Because one day, the clock’s gonna say "Checkmate."
The final chime will fade, and you’ll be left with only echoes of “What if?”
Don’t let the clock win.
Turn your time into gold,
make each moment count,
mend what's broken,
love with abandon,
and embrace the dance of life,
before the music stops.
Terror Beneath the Bruised Twilight
Beneath the bruised twilight, forsaken graves gape wide,
Splintered crosses leer like phantoms that bide.
Brambles coil and clutch with thorns sharp as dread,
Weeds mutter curses for the restless and dead.
A skeletal steeple claws the plague-stricken sky,
Hollow winds shriek through windows where lost souls still cry.
Rusty gates slam behind, locking shadows within,
Power lines moan warnings of unpardonable sin.
Ghastly shapes swirl, faces twisted with pain,
Grasping cold gravestones, chanting dark refrain.
Silence crushes breath, as if the world mourns its doom,
In this eldritch graveyard, pure terror finds room.
Rock bottom
People talk about it like they know what it means
Have I been there
I know I've been close
But I believe there is still farther to go down
But just how much farther
Something tells me I just might find out
No matter how far I've fallen I always manage to drag myself to slightly more stable ground
My knees staining the ground below rusty with my blood
Bone showing through flesh
A pain I no longer feel
I've become numb to most sensation
Like a protective barrier a bubble around my heart
Slowly I get to my feet and begin the careful administration of my wounds
Past scars a testament to battles fought and won
My ability to stand at all no longer a shock
My growing knowledge of stitching jagged wounds and setting shattered bones has been battle born
I am proud of these scars and these skills
I don't think I believe in rock bottom after all
I will not succumb until I'm dead
This journey finally over and the next yet to begin
4/26/21
No
Don't blow up my phone
With nonsense
Such hateful comments
So quick to take things out of context
On a nightly basis, I smoke and drink until I am unconscious
While close and far from flying objects
In a world full of harmless things or toxins
The process is constant
Not all grasp such a concept
Got all these pals
None of which are gals
Why not?
I got
A good heart and soul, it isn't foul
I'm wise like an owl
Toward the moon I howl
All the while remaining on the prowl
I can't understand how
Not a single woman cares about me now
It's no rumor
In it many find humor
Always thinking that it makes them cooler
They're so fast to call an honest man a loser
In person or behind a computer
Now I'm a drug user
And alcohol abuser
Struggling to establish success for my future
Still I remain a trooper
Only one to blame is myself
No one else
Truth be told
It's getting old
Taking it's toll
Been feeling cold
And falling into a black hole
Struggling to get a grip and hold
All the while not trying to fold
Or be another who sold their soul
Until I realized what I had to offer was gold
Funny to you because you got all this money
And are sitting there all comfy
Like life is so lovely
You don't know me at all, yet you're so quick to judge me
I don't tolerate that behavior because it's ugly
People like you I call a dummy
Since you want to act all entitled and funky
Don't be suprised if the outcome turns out bloody
Never do I rely on being lucky
I've got to stay at it, or I'll get rusty
In multiple ways I'm hungry
Continuing to study
Yet to be a discovery
They say there is something below and above me
Without absolute proof, too many just believe
I've always been trying to live sucker-free
Close and far from shrubbery
Always been in the coventry
In a world with far too much puppetry
Scribbling with amber-colored crayons,
time scrawls sepia on ancient rocks.
And ocher and orange canyon walls
rise above bushes wearing dust frocks.
Flora and fauna are left behind
serpentine rapids swallow the ground.
And white-water murmurs ricochet
off cliffs that echo the slightest sound.
Sentinels, sculpted by wind and rain,
create a maze full of twists and turns.
And embedded crystals of pure quartz
make monoliths sparkle; as day burns.
Red tints the Colorado River
shades of scarlet, where rusty rocks bleed.
And crimson waters rush to the sea,
grinding gorges at a breakneck speed.
A star-studded sky of twinkling lights
forms a backdrop for a pocked-faced moon.
And ebony spills into the chasm,
encasing all in a black cocoon.
(Quatrain)
2/23/2017