Long Skipping Poems
Long Skipping Poems. Below are the most popular long Skipping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skipping poems by poem length and keyword.
Nature in a Mischievous Mood
Early Sunday morning;
nature rattling at the front door!
I accept its clamorous invitation
stepping out with nothing more
in tow than an upturned collar..
and a theatrical imagination.
The morning ground is well-baked pastry,
all crusted with a shiver of winter;
sunlight whispering across the ground
all sharp colour and playfulness.
So I step out, church bells skipping alongside
and light skating off in front of me.
Soon I am within reach of the beach;
my sandy sanctuary,
but nature is in a mischievous mood
the light fluctuating,
its moods shifting,
gloss turning to flat matt.
The sea offers up a cold, blue arm
encouraging me into watery depths
while the sky sits heavily
in a grey leather-weathered armchair.
Behind, peeking through a curtain of cloud
a new season waits to spring into action.
Ian Souter
They march like a circus of self appointed kings
Waving their gossip around like puppets on strings
They whisper my name like it’s top secret news
Buddy relax…I’m not Bigfoot in shoes
They huddle in corners with insider facts
Somehow their stories come up missing the facts
They talk like detectives with clues they invented
Solving the case of, “Im jealous but vented!”
They post little comments with bravery borrowed
Courage on loan due back by tomorrow
Roasting me in public with chest puffed bravado
Vanishing in person like where’s Waldo?
They act like professors of all about me
Skipping every class past Assumption 103
They major in drama with minors in snark
Graduating daily with honors in bark
(Let it be recorded far and wide
That the sun shone brilliantly with pride
And bright azure were the skies
The day he entered Paradise.)
Slight of build,small of frame,
His ginger head weel kent throughout the game.
A buzz of excitement ran round the ground
When his name the PA did sound.
His presence promised electric thrills
As he paraded his rich range of skills.
He made his name out on the wing
Where he could make the ball dance ,and almost sing,
A dip of the shoulder,ball tied to his foot,
Skipping nimbly over a cruel ,scything boot.
Whenever he was forced into a fall,
Back he bounced like a rubber ball,
Ready to launch another mazy attack,
Body prepared for more pain on the rack.
Finally time made him hang up his boots,
He retired to Uddingston ,the place of his roots
There were dark days,they say,of drink addiction.
Thanks to family and friends,he survived this affliction
And went on to entertain guests at his old alma mater
With jokes and songs and his bright ,breezy patter.
Glorious were his years upon that hallowed stage
But the finest hours arrived with his advancing age.
Was it a stumble or losing his grip
That alerted his doc to his physical dip?
Those limbs,once fluid with beauty and grace,
Were now imprisoned as though with a steel carapace.
When he was diagnosed as having motor neurone,
That's when we saw the true strength of Jimmy Johnstone.
More cheerful than ever, he offered all comfort and solace
And made the world a much happier place.
We shall never see his like again
But,thank God,the memories will remain
As we recall Wee Jinky in his football guise,
Now Lord of the Wings in Paradise.
I caught a look at myself and I smiled
I was skipping in the water,
Splashing it on my jeans, getting wet
Remembering what six felt like.
I had not given myself the gift of play in a long time.
A giggle escaped from somewhere long forgotten.
This sabbatical from work and home
Was exactly what I had needed.
I had fought the idea of a vacation
But everyone had insisted after my breakdown.
First my body, and my nerves, then my physical body.
I was a wreck, and they all knew why except me.
I looked up and saw the sun shining through
Trees that were saying “keep on, we have your back.”
I had not been in touch with my child-like self
In so many years, I did not think I remembered how to play
And yet for the first time in years I heard birds singing.
I heard the creek gurgling, and I began to full out laugh.
Joyful that I had been forced to do this, I began
Returning back to myself, finding my soul here in these sacred woods.
For hours
her whole world was
hunting for rocks at the
banks of the shallow
narrow river that runs
through the canyon behind
the house.
On her knees,
wrist deep in the
icy current, she
sifts through piles of
polished stones,
searching for the
perfect little pebble.
She slips the pebble
safely in that pointed place
in the pocket of her jeans.
Down the path,
she's conscious of the
precious cargo,
digging her hand down
now and then.
At home,
she reaches in
with her fingers, to
pluck the pebble
from her pocket
and she places it
on a shelf
with the others.
That evening,
stretched under the covers,
tucked and tight, and drifting,
she dreams of
skipping stones.
“Don’t water your lawn!”
They told me.
There’s a shortage of water and
we need to conserve.
Yet, I saw fire hydrants open
and water flowing like a spring.
Kids skipping and dancing
getting wet and cool.
“Don’t water your lawn!”
It came again on the news.
Driving down the street
I saw pretty gardens
in the median, with
underground sprinkling systems.
Setting off mist in the air,
drifting like clouds.
Yet, my lawn is dry,
and cries for water as it
fights against dying thirst.
Who made the rules?
As I drove, I saw people toasting
with glasses of lemonade.
Politicians drinking champagne
from long stemmed glasses.
The lawns at their homes
plushy green and neatly trimmed.
Yet, I’m told,
“Don’t water your lawn!”
Does it deserve to die,
or should I …?
© Joseph 6/25/07
© All Rights Reserved
Drifting line to line
Like an answer it calls,
loud voices of the inspired,
sipping coffee cups
Picking moments like fresh corn,
hoping for the sweetest
Falling into space
in tiny squares of who we are
lost in words
Requested visits due in time
as the door opens,
the mat is clean…WELCOME
Breathing in search of dreams
Still dark outside as
bright light finds me
and I am here
Where I belong…mostly
Some love me, some don’t
some don’t care one way or the other,
but they are all poets,
sharing thoughts and ideas,
well wishes flourish
and sometimes anger, softly ranting
Adventures become lone wanderings,
lush floral habitats
with gardens of fragrant ideas
battling the weeds of yesterday,
still beautiful when woven
in the serendipity,
sown of long ago experiences
and tomorrow’s promises
for those eyes drifting
line to line from
time to time
Human beings, trapped in a world…
not trapped, (that was wrong) found living,
touching others and soothing hearts
Examining feelings with magnified senses
Skipping from here to there,
dressed up for an evening in
Finding direction and offering it
Poetry, it is our blood,
the rivers we float on hand in hand
till we reach the falls
and go headfirst into our own written paradise
Etched in my mind a place in time of light
social disparity love light made blind
hearts overflowing their sparkling delight
twins intertwined in soul, in heart and mind
I left invited skipping like a doe
grass still tender before the mower bent
back home death left a glacial darkness woe
then through the cracks your light still shone unspent
the day we met for my granddad I wept
your smile then mine the darkness kept in check
worst the cold silence your lilting voice swept
for when I called you never answered back
not loving you as you loved me regret
tears still calling or praying to forget.
First Place Winner: A Brian Strand Sonnet-7/30/21
Fourth Place: Regina McIntosh- Best Friend-12/22/19
A lonely figure twirls itself, concealed
by blades of wheat as clouds float through the sky.
The form, a boy, looks up from golden field
and sees the clouds as wedges of cream pie.
He hides despair as if it were that wart
beneath his sleeve. A no-fuss, lonesome lad,
he thinks of things most wonderful to thwart
forlornness. . . He rehearses being glad.
Skipping to the thicket, near a brier,
he spies some lovely flowers; standing there
he uses the demeanor of his sire,
pretends to hold a Bible, thumps the air. . .
and preaching to forget-me-nots, the boy
imagines what might be. . . imagines joy.
For Chris' Anything goes!
We marched down to the meadow to watch the witches dance.
Their bonfire was popping and crackling, you could hear it in France.
I was so excited; my feet were doing a skipping kind of prance.
I had never seen the annual Halloween festival’s witch’s dance.
The ghosts and ghouls were standing around peeking at the thrall.
There were all kinds of witches, dressed in finery from the mall.
Welcome one and welcome all! Said the head witch, brave and tall.
The dance started, and the meadow gleamed. I felt suddenly kind of small.
I hid in the shadows with the ghosts and the ghouls, feeling afraid.
They are the weirdest creatures from here to the Florida everglades.
This was said by a ghost who his friend called Slade.
I tried to sneak away but got caught by a ghoul in the shade.