Long Second year Poems
Long Second year Poems. Below are the most popular long Second year by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Second year poems by poem length and keyword.
Tattoo Belly is coming, the army whispered, clearly disturbed by the idea
Yet excited too, for we had heard how many heads he loped off in the last war.
I looked for my trust squire. Her face was as long as her name, Potawatameah
Can you do anything about him? I mouthed. She bit her apple to the core.
Chewed rapidly, but did not commit in front of the well-armed others.
I watched her spit out the seeds, and then she took off in an elongated run.
I knew she was pondering whether or not to return with her brothers.
If they came back with her, this devilish monster ogre would not have as much fun.
Do you think she can help? Another quivering, scared-looking young recruit asked me.
A loud roar happened at the front, and we heard it way down on this side of the line.
Not sure yet, I responded. Calm down, young buck, let us just wait and see.
Then Tattoo Belly came over the hill carrying a jagged sword, all terrible and fine.
I nearly swallowed my dentures, he was a sight that turned my blood instantly cold.
I figured it is because this is my seventy-second year, and I am getting kind of stiff and old.
Heads started flying this way and that, flicked off by the edge of his terrible blade.
When another roar happened, from deep within the dark verdant green glade.
The earth began shaking, as if elephants were stampeding closely to the battle.
I heard a roar that sounded like it came from the disengaged head of some cattle.
Potawatameah came racing over the hill with her brothers, giants with pure ferocity.
One picked up Tattoo Belly, and ate him in one gulp, and boy, did his army flee!
Once upon a time not that
long ago. Lived a beautiful
young lady named Princess.
Who lived in the inner city.
Her eyes were hazel. And
they changed with whatever
she chose to ware. Her smile
would just light up any room.
Princess's skin was smooth
like silk and it was a lovely
mahogany shade.She had
thick dark wavy hair. Not only
was Princess beautiful on the
the outside she was beautiful
on the inside as well. One day
she said “ Moma, why did you
and daddy name me Princess?”
“Baby I told you that story a
million times.”
“ I know moma, but I love to
hear you tell it. Can you tell
me again please?”
“ Me and yo daddy named
you princess because you are
a princess. You are our little
princess.
Her moma has been gone for a
a while now, but she never forgot
her mama's words.
Folk around the neighborhood
said she lived in make believe,
because she told everyone that
she was going to be a real prin-
cess one day. She would often
say “ I was born to
be a princess”. On one particular
day a childhood friend said “ Girl
you good people in all, but ain't
nobody from the hood gonna be
no princess. Get yo head out
the clouds girl.”
Princess was very smart and
she excelled in school. Her
G.P.A was so high that she
got a full scholarship to study
abroad in a well known school,
to study philosophy in another
country.
She excelled in her philosophy
class as well. Princess was in
a new country and she was still
loved by all who came in contact
with her.
In her second year she met the
most handsome guy she had
ever seen.
“Hi my name is Sebastian Wil-
cox.
What is your name beautiful?”
“My name is Princess Scott.”
The two became inseparable.
They fell madly in love. And
one day before graduation he
asked her asked her to marry
him. But he had a secret he
was a prince,who left a king-
dom close by to find his one
true love.
THE END
3-11-27
Alexis Y.
I felt that I should volunteer
for two short years to do my part,
and so I asked the local draft board,
“Make me next, I want to serve.”
The letter came from Uncle Sam.
It told me to do and when.
They gave me a green uniform,
as orders flew from all directions.
The food was good, the hours long,
as training turned us into men.
Our hair was short, our pay was low,
just sixty-three dollars a month.
I went to war my second year
and lived behind a wire fence.
A prison term is what it seemed.
It felt like incarceration.
When it was over, I came home
with ribbons on my uniform.
“Distinguished Service” was awarded,
by the officer in charge.
Fifty years have come and gone,
but still I hear that special phrase,
from some who say to veterans,
“Thank you for your service.”
The most important day of my whole life,
Was the day I went to Uni, bold and stark,
‘Cos it said to my parents that my mind’s state,
Was with the academics and society’s quark.
They called me as a child insane and *****,
For wanting my brother’s toys, books and pencils;
They also actually called me mentally ill,
For not wanting girly clothes which did frill.
I had my nose in the encyclopaedias and dictionaries,
And they just couldn’t figure why or understand,
And wouldn’t leave me to browse and scan:
Wouldn’t in love care and just let me have my stand.
Society was for sinners, every day they pointed out,
But I felt that it was the fundamentalist Christians,
Who were cold, uncaring, and without clout;
Ready to explode in anger at any societal person.
But they knew who I was on that day going to Uni,
On the journey to Glasgow in the Grenada car,
And so when I was subjective, contemplative and still,
My dad rudely V’d me with his fingers in a spar.
I think they thought I'd say nothing and carry on,
But I waited a few seconds and then firmly replied,
“What was that for?” and he retorted “What?”
And that glint of something in me for them died.
I gave a few murmurs, but succeeded in letting it go,
Having quietly shed a tear about my childhood and early life,
But I promised myself to tell the Hall wardens about the gesture,
Who also made me swear to tell them of any future strife.
And then in my second year, when my dad became,
The conductor of Billy Graham’s choir,
When I made the wardens aware of my pain,
They took me to the cinema and loved me plain.
It makes it so much better, other people’s concern,
Just that bit of interest that you've never had to earn;
Talking about one’s problems puts colour in your cheeks,
And life will be to you that whatever one truly seeks.
Hot August, 1974, I was back for my second year at college,
having just settled into a new place at Anita Apartments,
right next to the guys’ apartment complex called Tanner’s.
My first night, we answered a knock at our door.
Steve Dietrich, a friend of my roommate, entered our apartment,
but my eyes went immediately to the younger man with him.
That would be his brother Joel, there for his first year at BYU.
My first thought was this: How shy he is, so reserved. . . but so adorable.
He was tall and thin and cute as the dickens.
They stayed for just a while, and by the time they left,
I’d formulated my big plan:
to get to know this boy Joel (who everyone just called Joe).
There was to be a parking lot dance that weekend,
and so I waited expectantly, hoping all week
to catch a glimpse of this boy I’d found so attractive,
but no matter how often I strolled past his apartment,
my opportunity for a “chance encounter” never occurred.
The night of the dance arrived and I was right there,
all decked out in my colorful tight top with bellbottoms,
long luscious lashes curled and pink frost lipstick applied.
When I caught sight of Joel, he was slow dancing with some girl.
A blonde with glasses, she was rather plain and smaller than me.
I was not pleased to see her with Joe, and I thought to myself:
Hmmmm, who does she think she is? I saw him first,
and he is NOT going to stay with her tonight.
As they danced, I fixed my eyes on him,
my beautiful, long-lashed, sultry green eyes.
He looked up and saw me then. I must have taken him by surprise
because I did not lower my gaze.
I wanted him to know that he was going to be mine,
so I willed him with my gaze to break away from that blonde
and come to me.
And so he did. . the rest is history.
Beside me at this moment, lying on our bed, watching TV,
is the man who today bears little resemblance to that
very young man I met 35 years ago.
I turn to him and ask, “Do you remember the VERY first time you saw me?”
He replies, “I don’t know; a parking lot dance?”
Well, at least he came close. . .
For Frank Herrera's Contest: Love Story
We planted love inside our hearts
a rooted tree, when but a seedling
Carved our initials deep in the trunk
with rings worn on our left fingers
In early Spring of its second year
a budded sprout began to grow
By mid Summer of its fourth year
branches drooped and became brittle
In Autumn, its leaves fluttered and fell
roots were exposed to the ground above
Winter snows left it gasping for breath
The tree weakened, hollow and dying
Uprooted, it fell upon the ground
and now lays covered in fungi and moss
Long ago in my memory, a tree grew roots
Limbs entwined like a groom and his bride
The carving in its bark crumbled and I cried
From somewhere near, a lone owl hoots
IV.
Lia called himself a woman,
though his chromosomes disagreed,
inside he felt he was female,
he made that his identity.
In the second year of high school,
the woke faculty played along,
but Lia would not face the knife,
even if his body felt wrong.
Now Lia was fond of running,
and he went out for track and field,
some of the girls didn’t like this,
but the coaches made them all yield.
At the first race he outpaced them,
breaking the records as he ran,
the teachers all declared him ‘brave,’
but beyond that he won few fans.
Parents showed up at school meetings,
decrying how this was not fair,
a man who’d gone through puberty
simply had no real business there.
Their daughters who had trained so hard
were now cheated, no chance to win,
since a man racing meant it all
was over, why even begin?
What was the point of women’s sports
if it now was open to men?
soon enough guys would rule it all,
like the 1950s again.
Lia was shocked by all this talk,
how dare they rant and misgender?
She went online to call them out,
but most just called him ‘pretender.’
Declared he was an ******* who
couldn’t compete against the guys,
that his ego needed stroking
so he flipped to the other side.
The female runners hated him,
and refused to associate,
rhe male runners thought him a joke,
their mockery stung more than hate.
Lia found out, when all was done,
that nobody really was ‘trans,’
a man cannot be a woman,
a women cannot be a man.
Cold starting the car on a crisp autumn morning
my Dad wasn't the happiest bloke,
put antifreeze in it, ran the engine, ten minutes
and then he could pull out the choke.
On his pale blue Austin the locks needed defrosting,
condensation to clear from inside,
warm water down the screen and then give it a clean
after that, it was ready to ride.
In my sixty second year, like that old car, I fear
(and it crept up on me without knowing),
I now have developed a cold start routine
since otherwise I can't get going.
Wipe the sleep from my eyes,
stretch my arms to the sides,
move my head in a figure of eight,
a good cough to feel better
clears my carburettor,
then a yawn, and a two minute wait.
I get out of bed but my exhaust backfires,
I wasn't quite expecting that,
with a moan the good lady hides under the sheets
and I'm left with a disgusted cat.
(In December 1936, English poet John Cornford
was killed in combat near Lopera, during the
Spanish Civil War. It was the day after his
twenty-first birthday. Could this be the poem
he was formulating in his last hours?)
They switched from cubes to cylinders,
those knights of Calatrava,
when cannon chipped the corners off.
We’re still playing at that palaver.
I’m lying in a scratch-mark
(saying “trench” insults true trenches),
about to take Lopera,
mired in medieval stenches.
Sunlight’s livening turrets
on the ochre-amber castle,
and we’re about to murder
its “Fascist-lackey vassals”.
We glided through the olives
like viruses, infesting:
since no-one gave us shovels, we
scraped fox-holes with our mess tins.
Amusing, isn’t it, pondering
exactly what a fight is?
Do I help humanity by
contracting enteritis?
The whole thing seems to hover
between contrary poles:
by killing (or by dying)
do we achieve our goals?
I’d hoped to fire some shots, then go,
but war’s prolonged, extensive.
I can’t defend aggression, though
passivity’s offensive.
Lopera – is it Cordoba,
or is it part of Jaen?
We’re lads with rusty rifles,
but do we count as men?
And am I now a soldier,
or a Marxist doctrinaire?
Five turrets glow down on me,
three round, while two are square.
I Wanted To ‘Get Away’
By Curtis Johnson
Without naming the company, one of my favorite commercials use to be the one featuring ‘embarrassing moments' and closing with the question, “Wanna get away”? Many years before those commercials were conceived and popularized, I had such a moment in one of my college classes. It would have been a great time to get away, or disappear, or for a fire drill moments before, or for “The Rapture”.
The class size was no more than 15 plus the teacher, who was a rather friendly and smooth character. I think that it was my second year at Bible college where I was studying for the Gospel ministry. This was most definitely a required class for anyone seeking to be a public speaker. So I was well suited to excel in my Homiletic class, or so I thought. I did fine later on during the year and more that just pass the course.
But for some reason on that particular morning, when it came my turn to stand before the class and preach my sermon, I bummed out. My subject matter was fine, and my three points were well defined and organized, but just after the introduction of my message, I froze and forgot everything. The teacher and the class were great and very supportive. I do not remember if I managed to pull through it or whether I was forced to sit down. What I do remember is that, in spite of the kind spirit in the room, I was very embarrassed.
Yes, I became a pastor and preached hundreds of sermons and spoke in public on many other non church functions. No, the ‘freeze’ never happened again, and I suspect that I was to ever remain humble and never think myself to be a great speaker. And also, one embarrassing moment was more than enough for me, and I think that I learned my lesson well. 09282015. 1P