Long Rutted Poems
Long Rutted Poems. Below are the most popular long Rutted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rutted poems by poem length and keyword.
On a walk after the worst of the Sandy storm
I slogged down the still dampening
Green grass valley rutted between
The moldering fences of the shadowed alley.
Under the low, ominously rushing, soggy gray clouds
I saw so many black birds silently
Clinging against the stiff breezes
To the broken branches of the skeletal oak on the corner
As if they relished the fate of the cruelly stripped leaves.
I saw a hundred crows there.
How many make a murder?
Black pointy wraiths;
Scattered commas lined up like
Iron shavings stuck
To magnetic branches.
Dull steel skies slid in vast arcs around them.
Sprinkling windy foreboding,
Their clouds reached down
To Collect their talons.
So many eyes I know they see
Spiny black needles poking out of me.
Bloodless murder, muffling gray gauze No need to caw…,
A hundred crows see it all.
In its place, not on a cart,
rutted and mixed with dung;
consistent too, in its purpose
as it was when the world was young.
No shame attached that from it came
fell man who disobeyed.
Man, who needed an ark and law;
who brought the curse and strayed.
The ox had stumbled in the mud;
the ox who pulled the cart,
which, though brand new and garlanded,
should not have played a part
in returning the holy object;
and as it slid to fall to the road,
Uzzah thought his hand more pure
and reached to steady the load.
Profane flesh touched pure gold
instead of wet chaste earth;
when a man thought too much of himself;
too much of his own worth.
He died right there with good intent,
and cheering turned to mourning
when mud was better than man
and God gave us His warning.
I lie and think..? And think then dream..On how it will end?
What will be the scenes? The die is cast..' So many now
Know.! Many more will soon, and that will show.' Will they
Lose some more.? Do they know they can stand? and truly defeat
This evil plan? Lets assume they will, arise as one' and
Start at home, were they are well known.' I guess? they'll
Root out the 'low life agents local ' starting at town and
Shire, and gettiing real vocal.' I can imagine up in Yass i
Bet those hills will ring' People greeting freedom what a
Wonderous thing' along the Bidgie out Balranald way
Where the river winds through endless days..The tracks
Are rutted the earths kinda softer, it would suit a dragging
I know its not a hanging.' But murder i'm not for' yet two
Stock horses and a brand new rope.' Tied round the ankles
Well it wouldent be a joke.' I guess albo should survive
A good thirty yards? or twenty five metres, you see i'm not
That hard.' Then off to the smokey a two hundred stretch
LOL)) just a little humor, yet i'd save their necks! And their
Time won't be wasted..Not while they reside, at the peoples
Pleasure..I'll let you decide.' now experimental medicines
Seem their thing.' So as soon as they get made they can
Take them in, they'll be doing their bit and can even report
Right on t v, to the nation what do ya think old sports? And
They can also have our old tramping staple, salvital and
Meths..To keep their health well.? kinda stable.'
The Girl with the Blackberry Eyes
So there you stand, with your yawn colored slickers,
wishing your life to be more
Fruit flavored fantasies sprinkled with stickers
so much is waiting in store
Someone is longing your destined arrival,
desires held loose in her hand
All that you need to effect your survival,
I promise, she will understand
While sunny the days of a cloudless expanse
in fields lowly rutted with fear
Down footprints of mud in a circular dance,
a garden now beckons you here
A wood picket fence and a hedge overgrown
beyond an old gate bearing rust
That cringes and creaks near the wicked seeds sown
about southern winds once were thrust
Where vines cling an arbor in strangling grip,
creeping like worms neath your feet
Proud of their thorns and the flesh they do rip,
souring fruits ever sweet
Beware of this realm where the petals now bleed
with faces apart from the norm
On barbed wire stems of a nevermore need,
now cast of an unending storm
For here waits a child with a part in her hair
and roots tethered deep to the ground
A bouquet of pain offered up, if you dare,
in silence she speaks without sound
So follow this path of a nightmarish dream,
where nothing that lives ever dies
But hold tight your tongue for she hates when you scream,
the girl with the blackberry eyes
There was a day once
when the factory boys
took to a rusty van
driving through the early morning dark
to play soccer on a muddy field.
Our team was called. now let me think,
does it matter that I cannot remember?
Let's call our crew the 'Raging Eagles'.
the Eagles had pimples and bad breath,
but we were all mates for the day.
It's not easy to 'rage' on a rutted field
in the middle of an industrial estate
on a misty Sunday, but we did our best.
The other team arrived full of snarky-jeers and leers.
Insults were returned, added to and sent back.
The game was more a donnybrook than
regular soccer.
Rules were made up on the fly
only to be broken.
Legs were kicked black and blue,
one arm and a head diagnosed by one and all
as totally for33ked.
Later we convened to a pub
at the other end of that sooty town
and downed a few, then a few more,
vowing to be brothers forever.
An old man plods slowly down the rutted middle
Of an ancient dusty country lane, unmindful of his steps.
His calloused sandaled feet know the way,
As he has trodden this path to market for decades,
Or centuries perhaps,
He no longer tries, or cares, to remember.
Time has lost all meaning.
Bowed beneath the heavy weight of years and toil,
He wears the mantle of his life,
Not proudly as he once did in his hopeful youth,
But now the way he bears his cumbersome burden
Of broken limbs and sticks and twigs,
With a resigned and weary sadness as immutable and maimed
As the arthritic stumps and knees of old cypress trees,
Or countless other old withered and withering men
Like him.
Author's note: This piece, dear readers, was inspired by "Man with a Sack of Wood", a sketch by Vincent van Gogh.
Where did all the memories go?
Stories we were told as kids
Ignored as the ramblings of the old
Stories not connected with our time
Not happening in our space
Not part of our lives
Why should they matter?
Horror and starvation
Disease that took the lives of millions
War in distant lands killing sons and brothers
Atrocities done for many reasons
All beyond a man’s imagination
Yet they survived the pain
They remember through tortured dreams
Through tears flow down a rutted cheek
From vacant eyes that stare into space
All they wish is for someone to listen
Maybe not believe…just listen
Is that too much to ask
After all they went through to survive
To live long enough to share their story with us
Where did all the memories go?
Ignored as the ramblings of the old
Lost because of the ignorance of the young
Stories never again to be told
Yet destined to be repeated
Life’s Jackdaws
I wish it were now! Yes now!? ?Seven tens and two years further along,
like that dead headed summer garden, you know the song, you a long time gone,
In your eyes I saw all the answers, to all those questions which I never knew then,
you never spilt any, I constantly watched for drips of clues uttered unhidden.
Oh, and how, now, that impossible conversation would level this rutted path of blunder,
wonder rattles those memories, stirring thoughts echoing as loud, rumbling mind thunder,
in a spiteful way, where washed up confusion reigns answerless, wishes would become,
a frail burnt paper kite in a storm of lightning shadows, no solace to share just numb.
Instead, we coral horses galloping in endless circles, ridden by yesterday’s spectre,
So, we as empty wonder boxes, move on in the shadow of the hourglass’s collector,
we don’t see the time pass, we see the thoughts pass, on a destiny bound runaway train,
amid the cackling squabbles of life’s Jackdaws wielding their blunted knives life stained.
Bursts Of Creativity...
Asper myself tend
to occur late at night,
or early morn 'o follow
wing day unbeknownst
despite acute insight
how, when, where, why...
ideas swarm and bite
inspiration doth alight
try as I might to
coax, anchor right,
burning candlebox at
both ends during midnight
oil, and pry open hermetically airtight
noggin, where my poetic
(side) juices glommed up tight
blew silly blackened, and barbed
as though cold anthracite
ash coal lest futile effort
fueling mental cogs synaps (snaps),
sans each axon and dendrite,
and damn pinwheeling frenzied
writer's block won't budge,
no matter intense aghast fright
regarding drawing nothing,
but blank screen, an unpleasant sight
which activates greater fright
concentration stoppers appetite
to satiate agile literary skill
invoked with all mum might
encountering severe
resistance along well worn
nicked, pitted, rutted...
central processing unit abysmal sight
core cratered tracks analogous trite
other places blasted as if by dynamite
nanobot size infrastructure blight
hmm... huff frayed
to admit fifty plus shades
of grey pock marked beltway abustle
with at least bajillion
self important cosmopolite
avast friggin buzzfeed contrasted with bevy
of heavily rowdy, yet polite
sumo wrestlers exuding
spongy dimpled cellulite,
nonetheless grueling effort experienced
with craven half starved diabolical spite
undermining, jackknifing,
dogging... literary endeavor to expedite
satisfactory pièce de résistance flight
of fancy, though challenged
every step of the way,
once ambition fired up...at twilight
as mortal passion
unstoppable to complete
crafting daily poem
kindled with emotional lignite!
She sinks into her threadbare cushion
on the aged-old rocker she huddles in daily
placing her thin-skinned arms
cold to the touch upon the arm rail
darkened from the oil of her skin
Creaks and moans play a tedious rhythmic song
from loosed screws holding the oak rockers
that roll over the rutted floor back and forth
her feet pushing off an upswept floor
as she drifts into her thoughtless doom
It is an everyday sound to her ears
She does not feel its rhythm
or hear the sounds of the day that resonate
from the busy street below
She waits for something she cannot find
day after long day
season to season
year after year
When her heart stops listening to the silence
she watches out the window facing the street
where the sidewalks carry on with life
Her eyes meet unknown faces
that she greets with impenetrable eyes
Her mouth turns down with no utterance of words
In that solitary confinement within
her self-imposed throne
the songbird has lost its song
the sun has faded in its warmth
she sits in a cathedral without god
She has fled with each lonely night
in the darkness that swallowed her dreams
to awaken to one more day at the same window
She has forgotten the sound of her name
There is no one to answer