Long Seventh Poems
Long Seventh Poems. Below are the most popular long Seventh by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Seventh poems by poem length and keyword.
Young farmers in their Sunday best,
All raffish rogues, all heading west.
They stop, they stoop, they laugh out loud
And draw admiring female crowds.
They have an air, a gentle grace
As each one dons his Sabbath face.
In their suits of tweed and twill
You see them walking up the hill.
Up the hill, and up the hill
To where the church spire rises still.
The hymns are sung, the prayers all said,
The sun expires, the sky grows red.
Young farmers walk in twos and threes
In groups, through parliamentary trees.
They talk of wheat, of corn and crop
Of livestock prices, rise and drop.
A drink of ale, a slice of pie
A song that’s sung, with voices high
With voices high, with voices high
As young girls catch the young guns eye.
While their fathers guard their stead
Young farmers now head home to bed.
They bid each other fond farewells
And listen to the toll of bells.
That echo down the valley deep
To where young farmers go to sleep.
And if a kiss was stole that night
T’would be remembered at first light.
Remembered at first light, first light
She was indeed a wondrous sight.
For six long days they’ll turn the earth
And curse their very day of birth.
While on the seventh they will return
To once again make candles burn
They’ll meet again without ill will
And walk once more up that steep hill.
Then after prayers are laid to rest
Young farmers walk in Sunday best.
In Sunday best, in Sunday best.
Towards the pleasures of the west.
"To be in nature remote, alone is to enter
a portal into another realm unknown."
Quote - by Constance
slowly, slowly, slowly nature fades to decay
yet, still there is a beauty unfolding
and hidden birds sing so gay
soon, in my hands stained leaves I am holding
as from trees they wither and fall
and still the forest has a beauty to enthrall
oh, smell the gentle showers
caressing the trees that stand like towers
but, the air now holds a chill
and it will not be long until
snowy draped branches of forest trees sway
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August 28, 2022
Poetry/Rhyme/nature's decay
Copyright Protected, ID 08-1484-010-28
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, A Brian Strand Premiere Choice
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 09/01/2022
Seventh Place
You know me as a poet, and writer of poems sad,
I take poetic license, violating rules and conventions;
telling a story using figurative language, I share,
my life's journey and sorrows in beautiful words.
Few beyond this safe harbor have read my poetry,
I write with raw emotion and I lay my soul bare;
my poems are my treasures and I keep them hidden,
oh, fathomless is the pain.
My view on life is somewhat sadly fatalism,
my destiny foretold, it is already written;
there are many facets to me that I share with few,
oh, classical music moves me to write my poetry and words;
I love Chopin, poet of the piano, Mozart, oh that lyrical charmer.
And I am a lover of art, going to the art gallery weekly,
I love Van Gogh, Degas, Pissario, Bernini and Botticello;
Leonardo and of course, Michelangio, I could go on and on.
I am also fascinated in the architecture in my city.
Often, I just walk the streets looking for beauty,
admiring Gothic revival with its arches and vaults;
and I love the Victorian building where I reside,
with my cat.
I have a small garden, created with a love for nature,
a tribute to my mother's great fondness of flowers.
the things you may not imagine about me are many, for example
I adore vintage jewelry and clothes, and antique anything;
and I am a collector of books, reference, dictionaries, all in a clutter.
And one last thing that I find so very odd and strange,
is that although since childhood I have walked with death;
and death haunts me- I am quite happy, although quite internal,
and I do love and absolutely need my silence.
_________________________________
July 30, 2015
Poetry/Verse/All That I Am
Copyright Protected, ID 30-695-897-30
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Submitted to Standard Contest # 260,
sponsor, Brian Strand
Fifth Place
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Submitted to Standard contest, 100 In A Row #1,
sponsor, Poet Destroyer
Fifth Place
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Submitted Premier to the contest, All That I Am
sponsor, C. Puddifoot,
Seventh Place
My words are birds set free,
to glide and to soar on the wind,
with all my deep love and grief twined.
I write when storms wake me,
and pour out my blood red stained ink,
'till dawns hazy turns pastel pink.
There is great beauty and there are scars that dwell in my soul,
and on this journey I set sail for my true north on waves that roll.
Poetry is my gift,
the gift I leave with you always.
even when I have no more days.
Remember, life is a delicate flower and a moment in time,
a fragile seed, a fragment, so I write words that chime,
and this is the gift I leave with you.
____________________
July 1, 2021
Poetry/Rhyme/The Gift That I Give You
Copyright Protected, ID 07-1368-236-01
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, The Gift That I Give You
sponsor, Mystic Rose Rose, Judged 07/06/2021
Seventh Place
Cantina Tina never met one meaner
Though she sure looked pretty as the night grew long;
And so did I, in the mirror of the john.
Bottom of the bottle is where the grass is greener.
A Skid Row guy with an eye for Pasadena;
Spend my nights between seventh and third
With old Jack D ’til the world is blurred.
Bottom of the bottle is where the grass is greener.
Out of County jail for a misdemeanor,
“No sir, Judge won’t be doing that no more;”
Hot foot it down to the nearest liquor store.
Bottom of the bottle is where the grass is greener.
Once had a girl, oh boy, you should have seen her
“It’s poker, pool, or me if you want me staying here:”
So yes, I went ahead and chose the boys and beer.
Bottom of the bottle is where the grass is greener.
So here I am, eyeing Cantina Tina
She’s sure looking pretty as the night grows long;
And so do I, in the mirror of the john.
Bottom of the bottle is where the grass is greener.
On the seventh day God leaned back and rested.
He gazed at the heavens, all of its planets, stars,
and the pleasing cerulean sky and its drifting clouds
as the earth turned as did the changing seasons;
the snow-capped mountains, lush forest and seeds taking root,
stupendous waterfalls cascading down
into the depths of streams and rivers towards the ocean.
He marveled at the sand dunes move across the ground in wind,
the blazing hot sun painting the skies tangerine-lavender
while melting over the corners of the horizon.
He smiled at the calm turquoise ocean's life swim
in its briny water as the waves walked up to the shores;
birds spread their wings and flew across the sky
while small birds near ground and around their nest.
God watched his children on land
having dominion over all the creatures on earth.
10/18/2018
Poetry Contest: What Did God Do On The Seventh Day?
Sponsored by: Curtis Moorman
Genesis 2:7
Then the LORD God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature.
Genesis 1:26-27
Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.” So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.
Genesis 1:3-27
On the first day God created the heaven and the earth
and God said , "Let there be light" and God divided the light from the darkness
He called the light day and the darkness night
the second day he created the Water and heaven
the third day Land, plants , and feed
the fourth day Sun moon and stars and let them be for signs, seasons, days, and years.
the fifth day Fish and birds to multiply
the sixth Animals and 1:27 So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them. all was finished
the seventh day God ended his
work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his
work which he had made. And God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified
it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which God created and made
In the depths of Mt Rainier fire stirred,
The earth around trembled in dire anger,
As the fiery spirit Elf wandered
In the depths of the spouting volcano
Exuding thick feculent, fusty smells,
And from the volcano's top, exuded
Ash, smoke, flaming rocks and burning lava.
Dare a human female refuse Elf?
Not that he loved her as Indians love.
His fervid lust for her knew no limit.
His anger increased beyond all known bounds.
Rising to the top of the volcano,
Elf hurled fireballs, torching the forests,
So that poor humans flew towards a lake.
There they prayed to their good God to save them.
A large stone fell into the volcano
Burying Elf and his hateful fire.
A fearful blizzard formed and rain and snow
Filled the volcano until all was calm.
A large lake formed and a lovely island
Rose majestically from the waters:
A seventh wonder of Columbia.
I plunged headfirst, my silly stilted pride
The instant I beheld your Cheshire smile
And dancing in a frame of summer blond
The gold-specked umber iris of your eyes
From first hellos until this breath I draw
Your heart has thrummed as if my very own
Despite the snares and distances ... of life.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Seven Lines Of Romantic Heaven" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Sponsor. The truly ironic thing is that I met my first true love on July 7, 1977, and the "luckiest" number for both of us was seven.
The summer grass of Montana waves in the heat of the noon,
Where the valley of the Little Bighorn waits beneath the silent moon;
The cottonwoods whisper along the river, the winding waters flow,
Unknowing the storm that gathers close, the impending grief and woe.
A nation of lodges spreads wide on the plain, the Sioux and Cheyenne and the brave,
Gathered in freedom to hunt and to live by the river's cool wave;
With Sitting Bull's vision of soldiers that fell like grass in the gale,
And Crazy Horse riding to shield the camp from the encroaching trail.
Down from the ridge comes the Seventh Cavalry, banners of dust in the air,
Led by the general with yellow-ringed hair, riding away from despair;
Divided the forces, the columns unlinked, marching to strike at the heart,
Believing the foe would scatter and run before the first shot could start.
The valley awakens to thunder of hooves, the crack of the repeating gun,
As Reno makes contact and crosses the river beneath the fierce afternoon sun;
The smoke rolls thick through the timbered brush, the panic and chaos arise,
And troopers retreat to the circle of wagons, amid the dust-blinded skies.
Then Custer presses the northernmost rise, seeking the flank of the camp,
Hearing the drumming of thousands of feet and the earth-shaking tramp;
Out of the coulees the warriors pour, countless as stars in the night,
A tide of resistance, fierce and unyielding, entering into the fight.
Arrows like rain blot the bright summer sky, the rifle-fire echoes around,
And riderless horses run wild through the smoke across the blood-spattered ground;
Circle by circle, the trap closes fast wholly engulfed at the foot of the sun-blasted hill,
As the sound of the shooting begins to recede and the valley grows eerily still.
On Last Stand Hill the blue uniforms fade in the dust and the heat,
A tragic collision of empires and fates, a moment of bitter defeat;
The shadows stretch long as the twilight descends, wrapping the slain in its shroud,
While the victors look out o'er the silent expanse, unbroken, defiant, and proud.
Now the grass grows green on the battlefield slope, where monuments whisper of old,
Of the stories of courage and sorrow and loss that history forever will hold;
Where the waters of Bighorn still wind through the plain,
Lies a monument carved where the spirits remain.
The brochure read- come for some winter fun,
explore picturesque pristine nature sublime;
walk down winding trails in the crisp, clear air,
escape the rush of life and have not a single care;
just dress warm and for an adventure prepare.
The day we arrived there was tons of sun,
and I was excited to have a real great time;
but it sure was a crisp cold frigid day,
an outside camp is where we were to stay;
and told from the camp and guide not to stray.
I did not notice at first that snow had begun,
but with a shrug into a horse sleigh I did climb;
and off we went over blankets of untouched snow,
and right smack into my face those snowflakes did blow;
with biting, twisting, turning teeth- pretty though.
I came back to camp a frozen girl quite undone,
we were to walk a trail after- oh what a crime;
I sat with hot coffee by a fire, shivering and shaking,
afraid if I moved anything my bones would be breaking;
isn't this great honey, he said- I smiled sweet, faking.
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November 14, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/SNOWFLAKES WITH BITING TEETH
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1085-158-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Cool Writes and Imagination
sponsor, Kim Rodrigues
Seventh Place