Long Seventeen Poems
Long Seventeen Poems. Below are the most popular long Seventeen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Seventeen poems by poem length and keyword.
Sixty-Six years ago today a very naïve farm-boy left the Hoosier farm,
To seek adventure beyond the horizon since farming had lost its charm.
He enlisted in the Air Force, a knight in blue to keep the nation free.
My gosh! Come to think about it, that unsophisticated lad was me!
Since I was only seventeen, I had to get my reluctant Ma to sign for me.
She came from a Quaker background and abhorred all strife, you see.
Pa was ambivalent about the matter - just one less mouth to feed, said he.
I marched off to face the future, another warrior for our family tree!
Harassment began once I arrived at the inhospitable induction station.
Docs had me bend over, then stand, turn my head and cough for observation.
They probed and prodded and stuck needles in my arms for inoculation.
Oh! The abject misery and humiliation of it all just to serve my nation!
Next came the swearing-in where I vowed to uphold the Constitution.
A fiendish sarge then assumed command and began his nasty persecution.
"Fergit yer Mom, Dad and Maggie Mae" said he, "Yer butt belongs to me!"
Just hours on duty and I was homesick for the farm, pining to be free!
They put me on a choo-choo to Lackland AFB, Texas, for my basic training.
I was shorn of all hair - by now my enthusiasm and patriotism was waning.
Ah! But when I donned that Air Force suit of blue, I stood proud and tall!
If my pals behind a plow and mule could see me now! I was having a ball!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
That naïve farm boy went on to serve 30 years in the Air Force, retiring
1 August 1978.
The attractive girl seemed younger than she ought to be.
Her sweet face was freckled, and she had an inner joy.
She made him feel like a seventeen-year-old boy.
Most pretty in the face, she wore a fine modesty.
They became a couple, this lovely lass and he.
They were honest never playing games or being coy.
She soothed his soul, fed his heart, they were a terrific we.
They dated solid for a year, two months and a day.
Then he left her behind to try and make a living.
It was difficult for both, but they knew it was the best.
He hung on tightly when he said goodbye, wanting to stay.
She was so loving, perfect for him, spiritual, and giving.
They have been married for twenty years now, a good enough test.
I learned the art of quiet long before I learned to speak,
a masterclass in standing tall when all the floors felt weak.
The blueprint of the family, the first to face the tide,
with every heavy standard neatly organized inside.
They compare me to the ghost of who I was at seventeen,
and measure every sorrow against who I should have been.
I poured my whole devotion into rooms that turned to stone,
believing if I gave enough, I wouldn’t sit alone.
I know all of your secrets, kept your history like a vault,
yet when the silence settled in, you named it as my fault.
You said you wanted peaceful days and walked out in the rain,
while I sat stranded, searching for the words to name the pain.
I can explain the heartache to a stranger passing by,
but look into the mirror and the phrases run bone-dry.
They say the ones who lack a home will seek it in the crowd,
but every crowded street I walk is cold and far too loud.
I am tired of the armor, tired of the steady spine,
tired of apologizing just for hurting on my time.
I never meant to break the room; I only sought a space
where someone listens closely to the girl behind the face.
In Seventeen Hundred and Seventy-six
By Franklin Price
7/4/2017
In seventeen hundred and seventy-six this Independence Day
Declared by our fore fathers, our freedoms here to stay
They fought the revolution came away the winning team
To see now what has happened would only make them scream
Instead of independence we are dependent in our ways
Caring for ourselves and family has seen its better days
The government has programs that put us on the dole
Make us become beholden, to put this country in the hole
The rich becoming richer through no benefits or pay
They send employment offshore to keep making all they may
Not taxed a fair percentage on the money they don't earn
The workers have to do without while the rich have bucks to burn
Buy another sports team, obtain a bigger yacht
Control the New York Market, put more money in the pot
Forget about the little man, he doesn't mean a thing
If he'll bow a little lower, I will let him kiss my ring
If I helped him with his healthcare or employed him at some work
I might not be a billionaire, then I would be a jerk
Any extra money, I must spend on Washington
To show the House and Senate that I am still the one
That's how the country runs today, there are the rich and poor
The middle class is shrinking, they don't exist much any more
The jobs that they once held, exist in another land
Our independence gone; the rich make another grand.
In seventeen seventy-seven,
amidst the deep summer’s August heat,
Barry St. Leger, loyalist milita,
and the Iroquois walked on sore feet.
Their mission was clear: move down the Mohawk,
meet Burgoyne and split the rebel states,
except the Americans in Fort Stanwix
were effectively blocking their way.
To advance the fort had to be reduced,
but St. Leger’s force had few big guns,
so he settled into a siege of the fort,
with a mind to hold strong 'til he’d won.
But the patriots knew of the British plans,
and were not content to just sit and wait,
Tyrion County called up its militia
to save Stanwix from a bloody fate.
Eight hundred of them marched for the fort,
under the command of Nick Herkimer,
a palatine German of the Mohawk vale,
an able and determined fighter.
They stopped to camp not far from Stanwix,
and Herkimer counseled that they should hold,
to await a signal from inside the fort
and launch a two-front attack bold.
But the militia saw this as cowardice,
and said,”What else could we expect?
His own brother fights with St. Leger,
we can’t expect him to take the next step.”
Herkimer darkened at his men’s words,
and would not idly receive their scorn,
he ordered the men to be on the ready,
they would advance the following morn.
But the British knew of their approach,
and prepared to put them to the test,
near five hundred set out to intercept,
mostly Iroquois with some Loyalists.
The next day the Americans, on the move,
found themselves passing through a ravine,
unaware that eyes stared upon them
as they drank from a cool, tiny stream.
The British had planned to wait until
the patriots were all stretched out,
but some Indians opened fire too early,
a roar of muskets and loud piercing shouts.
The first volleys hit hard, stunned the militia,
a good many brave soldiers went down,
Herkimer took a ball in the leg,
and from a dying horse pitched to the ground.
So fierce was that first surprise attack,
so many patriotic souls shot dead,
that all sides involved said the tiny stream
was stained by the blood until red.
Some tried to move wounded Herkimer,
but he was still in no mood for retreat,
he took out a pipe, leaned on a tree trunk,
and said,”I will meet the enemy...”
CONCLUDES IN PART II
Carmena was born in Bolivia
but left that place at seventeen,
after three years of waiting for the chance
to live out an American dream.
When her folks finally got their green cards
they moved up into old Santa Fe,
Carmena finished out her high school years
picking up on all American ways.
She’d known some English before she had come,
but her vocab expanded real quick,
immersed in the tongue every day
her accent softened and became less thick.
This helped a lot in her father’s new shop,
he bought a gas station in a franchise,
Carmena waited on all walks of life,
and the experience opened her eyes.
She’d chat with truckers and travelers
from all over the fifty great states,
lefty Californians, southern good-ol’ boys,
northern Yankees and Texans hauling steaks.
Mid-westerners who were so crazy nice,
New Yorkers who always sounded pissed off,
good-natured rednecks looking for more beer,
even some Yoopers with their funny talk.
Learned more of her new home on that roadside
then she did in any public school,
what would divide and what would unite,
but the one thing that really stuck her as cool
was that Americans, the better ones,
made everything subservient to choice.
Culture and skin, ethnicity and faith,
you had the freedom to ignore and avoid.
These facts struck her as how things should be,
had not every person a claim to these rights?
Here force of law was meant to make free
people to be the driving force in their lives.
And best of all, she heard all sides of things,
good for thought, both the grease and gourmet,
when seven years passed, and she took that oath,
she became American in so many ways.
But then something happened she didn’t expect,
it came about in an election year,
talking with her friend Sue about the vote
she was greeted with anger and fear.
Carmena was confused,"Why the harsh look?
I was just sharing the thoughts on my mind.
I believe in gun rights, and low taxes,
My father’s shop has been having a time—”
Sue interrupted,”Do you hate yourself?!
Don’t you know that you’re a Hispanic?
You’re betraying your own kind, voting this way,
colored people should vote Democratic!”
Carmena was stunned, struggled to reply,
“But I see nothing good in their beliefs.”
Sue just fumed,”You’re a damn race-traitor,
or brain-washed by fascist enemies!”
CONCLUDES IN PART II
HOUSE OF GRANDMA
Huge house of Grandma once in grandeur and pomp
ran full of kin, cousin, relatives.
The staircase leading to roof had a beautiful banister
The residence was my birthplace.
So far, I remember on my visit, when I was four
Grandma put a flyer under the porch of the house.
Flyer was a dazzling golden satin designed by herself
with sparkling spangles and red rosette at corners
showing ‘Welcome Little Princess’.
Onward whenever I visited, I saw that hanging in same gorgeous glow.
She died when I was seventeen.
I reminisce her deep affection
After fifty years I revisited the decaying house
now left under caretaker.
Door window in broken condition: Rusted latch in gate.
Garden Once bloomed mostly in white flowers
spreading pellucid placid calmness
now full of feral ferns, wild weeds, thorny bushes.
Most expected scenario. I was not shocked yet sighed.
Whelmed to see the flyer still hanging
and shows ‘Welcome Little Princess’.
Gentle zephyr whispers.
.
Sun rays making network of shadows through cracked lattice.
Flyer though pale, dusty, bland,
spangles still in shimmering sheen.
The decaying house welcomed me
though Grandma had left.
I wept.
07/18/20
Second Place
'Decaying House' Contest by Constance La France
Twin Towers Fell
By Franklin Price
9/11/2018
Twin towers fell, a living hell
The day was apropos
Was a nine-one-one emergency
Setting the future we now know
The years, now seventeen, have passed
From that day, two-thousand-one
We've yet to see the ending
Of what that terror had begun
Although the action felt like war
No country was to blame
Terrorists had felled those towers
Our lives would never be the same
Our country since, has been at war
Fighting factions full of hate
That has permeated all of us
And our actions since that date
We're battle hardened, all of us
Our politics, now, make that clear
We've taken sides with attitude
Our enemy, is us, we're here
We soon must come together
Let fallen towers be our call
If we continue on as we are now
Like those towers, we will fall
If you've read this and believe it, please pass it on, in any manner you have available. We not only need to fight terrorism, we need to make peace with ourselves.
ARIANNA COUNTS
Arianna counts One-Two-Three-Four
while she dances joyous on the floor.
Onward coming Five-Six- Seven- Eight
Arianna puts steps perfect, right.
Nine-Ten danced, Arianna to clap.
Most comfort she gets on her Mom’s lap.
Eleven-Twelve now to twinkle
Anklets of Arianna to tinkle.
In queue, waiting Thirteen-Fourteen
With Mom Arianna going to canteen.
Fifteen -Sixteen then danced, being glad.
Arianna rushed to hug her Dad.
Seventeen-Eighteen next in line.
Arianna counted feeling fine.
Nineteen-Twenty running in hurry,
to stay in Arianna’s memory.
03/23/21
Nursery rhyme -3
Third Place
Contest by Eve Roper
Seems like ten thousand years passed since I came,
and here you are in this idyllic scene;
under a weeping willow- pliant and tame.
I, a soul empath with sorrow aflame,
and now I stand lamenting my sorrow;
my spirit is supine- numb and weary,
names in veneration for each morrow.
Oh, is it weakness that makes me teary?
Then, a white aura of strength to borrow;
incidental- my love lays in this g r e e n . . .
___________________________
July 5, 2019
Poetry/Rhyme/Seventeen is the Lucky Number
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1164-274-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the Standard Contest, 17 Is The Lucky Number
sponsor, Lu Loo, Theme chosen # Strength of Sorrow
First Place
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