Long Ruth Poems
Long Ruth Poems. Below are the most popular long Ruth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ruth poems by poem length and keyword.
I have a fear of drowning in deep waters, dark and cold;
I dream the waves are parted revealing Death's threshold.
I wonder, trembling in my bed, if another life I've known;
is there a body beneath the sea, dissolved, bone of my bone?
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
We boarded the Titanic, her maiden voyage from the shore,
just the two of us together, me and my husband Isidore.
Grandly cradled on the ocean within the ship of dreams,
unaware an ice tower waited in the frigid, black extremes.
Roast squab and French ice creams, champagne and caviar
were the first class luxuries, sailing on beneath the stars.
Near midnight the vessel shuddered as though wounded in the heart;
we waited captain's orders to load the lifeboats, disembark.
"Women first!" the crew commanded; older men could also go,
but Isidore would not depart, the truest gentleman I know.
He entreated me to leave the ship, but like Ruth of long ago,
I replied, "We've lived together many years. Where you go, I go."
We faced Death as we faced life, companions to the end . . .
climbing the staircase to heaven, hand in hand with my best friend.
The story of Isidore and Ida Strauss is true; they were first class passengers on the Titanic. Isidore was co-owner of Macy's. My connection to Ida is fiction.
The grand staircase on the Titanic was called "the staircase to Heaven."
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, June 22, 2014
Being so awfully insecure
among confident people
seems ridiculous and brittle;
I'm very humble by nature,
it will not take me anywhere:
I'll end up gathering crumbs!
I'm too stubborn, still refusing to pay
for these silly and shameful faults;
I would cry out loud to feel anger,
not sit at a corner counting doubts!
I should blame you instead, dear:
because I'm getting hit hard by reality!
I won't cry on your shoulder, just be forgiving
when I seek some empathy, it's too humiliating;
if a man cries is because is a liar when he swears:
he'd rather carry inside silly and shameful faults!
Admit that you've been constantly cheating,
sneaking out at night while I was sleeping;
you dropped a sleeping pill in my Martini,
snuck out and flagged down a yellow taxi!
These silly and shameful faults
have given me sleepless nights;
don't kiss me to cover up the ugly truth:
it's a parody not as sweet as Baby Ruth!
God Save the King! So echoed round
the village halls, the pubs, the streets
the day our Charlie Prince was crowned.
Homes decked with bunting, cake, and treats.
We celebrated with a rave,
or knees-up, as my grandma said;
with piped music via short-wave.
At two pm, it went ahead.
They closed the street the coppers did.
Then out came tables, plates, and chairs
lace runners, doilies, too, amid
assorted china tablewares.
The caravans and four-by-fours
were parked elsewhere to clear the way,
they even shut the local stores
and closed the schools, hip hip, hooray!
Outside of number seventeen,
twixt the sausage rolls and jelly,
rested a crocheted King and Queen
removed from atop the telly.
Not to be beat, at twenty-two,
they placed a lifesize photo out;
which overlooked the cheese fondue,
soused herrings, and some sauerkraut.
Betty and May sang old-time songs
atop a shaky stage, arrayed
with bunting; made from their spare thongs;
while Ruth, the ukelele, played.
The Aussies were there, well, on screen.
Bobby, Kenny, and Aunt Maud too
to toast the King and mourn the Queen
with tea (and a tinny or two!)
Simon and Peter went all out,
made a spread called L G B tea;
with brightly coloured cakes throughout.
Open to all, as it should be!
Douglas and Rex from forty-eight
sat with Lil as she won her prize;
for the most original plate,
coronation jerk shrimp surprise.
Prizes too for best-dressed table,
front door, and garden gate, won by
Teddy, Fred, and Aunty Mable;
all well-deserved, we can't deny.
Captain Brett (self -titled we think)
gave a roaring one-gun salute
sporting a coat of dazzling pink
over his Royal Navy suit.
Thalis, made by Shrimati Nath,
were such a delicious hit they
caused a queue up her garden path.
(They paired well with Andre's Cabernet.)
We kids, long past our sugar high,
so full of cake, shrimp, nans, and stuff,
were told to say a quick goodbye;
we'd been awake quite long enough.
As the sun set on our nation,
Old Fionn Byrne began to sing,
a joyful amalgamation;
Danny Boy and God Save the King!
IT’S SOMEWHAT LIKE THE WORD “DEFINED”
YOU CAN EVEN MAKE FOR IT A RYHME
IT LAST A WHILE, FOR A WINK, A SMILE
BUT IN TEAR TIME IT’S REALLY A CRIME
IT’S PUSH AND SHOVE TO HURT AND HIT
YET THE DIFFERENCES IS THE JUST A DAY
SO LIKE A RHYME IN SPACE AND TIME
IT’S TALK AND TALK TO SAY AND SAY
IT’S TEAR TIME MAN, DON’T TAKE A STAND
TO LET ALL THE BYGONES REALLY BE
THE DAILY GRIND WHERE YOU WON’T FIND
THE EYES TO HOLD NOR EVEN JUST TO SEE
IT’S TEAR TIME SIR, THE WORLD’S ON HOLD
FOR HANDS SO CLOSER TO THE TRUTH
SO FIND THE SPINE, BE BOLD TO FIND
TO TAKE BACK TEARS FROM YOUTH
IT’S TEAR TIME FRIEND, THE PULL IS “SHUSH’
IN THE DAILY’S THEY ALWAYS HAVE A WAY
THE TIMES, THE LINES, THE TALK SO FULL
OF “RUTH” AND “LESS’ TO ALWAYS SAY
IT’S LESS A VERB AND CAN BE ABSURD
BECAUSE THE NAPKIN CANNOT TELL
THE SHED, THE BLED, THE LEFT FOR DEAD
IN THE CINEMA WHISPER’S LEFT TO SELL
IT’S TEAR TIME HERE YET TEARS WILL END
FOR THOSE WHO SEE, WHO NEVER BEND
IN LETTING BY, IN ALL REASONS WHY
IN A HAND TO CRY JUST FOR A FRIEND
"*Oui, the winner, American Beauty,"
yet hail these 'Windflowers' Anemones,
flourished yon 'Down Under', 'Aussiszlanders,
indeed a showstopper for bystanders
of all but Europe, Turks, then South due East.
Breed buttercup, yet, some toxic; no feast,
bold capped to stop at bowls use; bowels feared,
not ground hugger, but mid-road, four feet cleared.
Eye catchers, nose losers; scent attracts foes,
begs Ruth from deer, rabbits ... cuts Atropos,
relevant, floral events, vast numbers,
eyes lacking, vainglory lapping ... wonders.
Attract bees, butterflies, and egotism,
flowers have that novel effect on schism.
Visions of you
I see a knight in armour – one of King Arthur’s – ready to do battle
at the drop of a word – for Queen, country, god and ego.
I see Babe Ruth, knocking balls out of the game,
in order to be the winning team – for god country and soul.
I see Amelia Earhart, taking on the air, the skies, the world
– for ego, spirit, soul, heart and the abused child / woman in her.
I see Muhammad Ali, putting on the gloves in order to knock out
all wood be challengers to her position, control, power, rightness.
I see a chess pro, taking out the pawns, the knights, the bishops,
rooks, the queen – check mating the king – putting him in his place,
- under her thumb, under her queen - winning the game.
I see a friend chocking up in the crunch – makes the wrong choices –
ends up missing, sinking the eight ball that she is now behind.
Never winning the game she so desperately wants to play well.
I see a friend who needs so much more than she is,
who needs so much more than she ever gets,
who needs to be a lover and loved,
who needs to be loved as a lover.
B. J. “A” 2
July 29th, 2003
Visions of you
Part Two
De ja vu - I see a sergeant, major, barking out orders, to all,
as if this world were her own private army.
I see a little Hitler, – mustache and all – trying to rule
her tiny, little universe – make it fit her ideal dream.
I see a Johnnie Cochran, and his dream team ( your demons ),
O J Simpson, the defendant, convincing herself and the world
she is truth, she is right, she is might, and as Jonnie Cochran,
the lawyer, the mouth piece shooting down - all reason, all logic,
all attempts – by denying, by lying, by deception, by trying
to baffle brains with bull ****, by throwing every irrelevant
- verbal diarrhoeaed – thought and word into the fray,
in order to distract, avoid the issues, the truths, to be right.
I see a Jim Jones, a Joseph Smith, preaching her gospel,
a gospel according to her - designed to have the sheep,
the blind, the week, the lost souls of this planet
to follow her path without question, and in the end,
sacrifice “ ALL ” for the sake of her fragile soul,
her floundering, lost spirit, her ill ego.
I see a friend, with a heart of gold, if truth be told.
More of a friend to those who have done her wrong.
then to those who truly care, about her welfare.
B. J. “A ” 2
July 29th, 2003
Helena has been rambling for nearly twenty minutes.
I have her blathering on speaker.
I barely listen as I paint my canvas.
Some conversation about her neighbor Ruth
Ruth wants her sister Cookie’s life.
Ruth talks about Cookie’s husband.
Something is wrong with Ruth.
Maybe she is schizophrenic or something.
She has not been out of her house since Tuesday.
Maybe she is sick, I say. Maybe you should check on her.
Helena laughs. I’m not going to check on her!
She spies on me all the time.
Every time I go out, there she is, staring at me.
Hey wait! WHERE is SHE going?
Ruth?
Yes! She is leaving in her car. Right now.
She could be going to a store, I say.
She is obsessed with me! Helena tells me.
There is something wrong with her.
I think she is OBSESSED WITH ME! Helena's voice is rising.
I am barely listening, outlining a tree in green paints.
I think there might be an obsession I think
But I wisely keep this thought to myself.
I'm all alone in a room;
Nobody here;
So I remove myself from my chair;
Walk down the hall to the stairs;
Somebody took my house;
And made it inside out;
Now to cut the grass I have to do it under the bathroom steps;
Honeybees and fireflies;
Light up the place where once was my living room lies;
As a matter of fact;
It only takes four bricks;
To make a wall so big;
That it will furbish, furors and funk all the kids;
So don't pet the cat, or I'll kiss you with my bat;
You can't use that purr-fume that way;
Purina have to be fed everyday;
So little kids please come here;
Snickers, by far, will make any child crawl;
Then Baby Ruth just a sweet brute;
I know what I'd say;
I used to eat Milky way;
So kids please stay off the grass;
It'll be a matter of time when you'll have a house like mind;
This Room outside Inn;
6/25/81
Written words by James Edward Lee & Gary Boyle ©1981
A Christian writes
of Mary's agreement to the blessed flight
when angels bowed before the blinding light.
A whisper soft and a promise
as the changing times alarm us,
fearful so that it could harm us.
A hope comes down to earth
in the simplicity of an uncrowned Kingly birth
precursor of our spiritual rebirth.
Would that the questions still rise
with the inflection of doubting eyes
that erase and sacrifice for all our lies.
Two thousand plus years pass
and still we are incompletely cast
with visions of our half empty glass.
Waxing philosophicl
would that it appear most logical
when faith is less methodical.
A Christian seeks the truth
from Adam and Eve to Ruth
in scrpiture of interpreted fruits.
God loves us, God does exist
nothing is more sacred than this
why resist Christ's birth in God's Kiss?
Simple and magnificent is my belief
each of us steal Heaven like a thief
satisfied that this life is short and brief.
Splashing, thrashing, wetly crashing
rages the rolling sea,
like a dying serpent swirled
in waves of misery!
Through stormy gales and black of night,
these sailors from afar
seek out the dim, faint, speckled glow
of heaven's Compass Star.
But howling, howling, madly scowling
swells the deadly squall
with spite and ire in its briny veins
to damn them—damn them all!
So far away from home and hearth
their ship has sailed the seas;
its men seen sights of boon wonders
with deft and seafaring ease.
Trapped by the foaming, deadly squall;
the wrath of the ocean
rocks their masts and strikes at their hull
like Neptune’s winged griffon.
Gnarling, gnarling, viciously snarling
the squall’s stormy tempests
strike and savagely beat at the
ship’s wooden bow and breasts.
Alas! Alas! All is now lost
as soul after drowning soul
lose hope, panic, and then perish
with HMS The Merry Troll!
The stormy tempests of the squall
sink, swallow, and devour
up all without rue or ruth: so scorn
not the squall's wrathful power!
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