Long Sloped Poems
Long Sloped Poems. Below are the most popular long Sloped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sloped poems by poem length and keyword.
I say the same things - one day you will too,
'Any snakes? Is she ugly or what?' Just a few,
'aaaiiiooo! Anyone would think you're a big officer.'
'Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit' - was that Oscar?
He came for tea, earnestly, Ogden with his mint-julap,
Bent, my Danish friend, who said: 'You're the master of small talk,'
we said that, ' We keep it simple so that you will understand.'
Between all of us, cynicism paled into insignificance,
Oscar was unfazed until we reminded him of orientation,
'My dear boy, isn't it time that you stopped repeating yourself,
otherwise you surely will get left on the shelf,'
Oscar sloped off, Bent had enough, Ogden with alliteration,
above his station, with animation, me still repetition.
Somewhere in the general melee
we lost our imaginary horses,
their ghostly neighing
added pathos to this momentous moment.
It was decided, we boys, and one sister
of a boy we hardly knew,
that Custer must die, the Indians win,
there could be no sudden victories
plucked from certain disaster.
We had no Indians,
one bow with a rubber-tipped arrow
does not make a gathering of the tribes.
We had no Custer,
six dark haired kids, no long flowing hair,
no mustaches. Undaunted
we marched on to meet our heroic death,
lip-bugles tooting, makeshift flags flying.
A fertile field of battle was selected.
At the site of our coming glory,
it was disheartening to discover,
a growling construction site,
giant bull dozers,
tractors, and iron-toothed diggers
busily tearing up
our hallowed ground.
Jim (my best pal),
loudly proclaimed: " fork it,"
to no one in particular,
then sloped away,
hands in pockets -
an event which I now consider sadly ironic,
for ever since,
we have lost all sorts of battles
over many a fertile field.
The Distance kept its Secret well —
Till Curvature confessed —
That Space was not a level Floor
But Sloped in every Breast —
A Line once straight, grew shy of Truth
When Gravity drew near —
And Length itself forgot its Name
Where Mass had bent the Air —
The World was clothed in Indices —
Each Point in silent Dress —
With Covariant Etiquette
And Contravariant Address —
No Step could move without Consent
Of g?µ??’s Law —
For Space would weigh each Footfall’s Thought
Before it let it go —
Time stitched itself to Distance fast
In four-dimensional Thread —
And Proper Paths were whispered where
The Shortest Roads lay dead —
The Interval — a sacred Thing —
No Eye could apprehend —
Yet kept its Shape in any Frame
Observers might attend —
For Clocks would differ — Rulers lie —
Yet Still the Form remains —
Invariant beneath the Spin
Of Reference and the Brain —
Thus Geometry learned to feel
The Weight of Energy —
And Matter wrote its Biography
In Spacetime’s Calligraphy —
Where once the Plane was Euclid’s Dream
Now Manifold holds Court —
And Curves decree what Bodies do
Without a spoken Port —
So Space became a living Page
Where Stars sign every Line —
And Motion reads the Poetry
The Tensor did design.
You know how a cat is? The way it
opens its eyes, not seeing anything
but looking into spry muscle and bone.
How it blinks slowly---so slow,
eyelids washing the mind
of anything but satisfaction.
It arches its back
& stretches its legs out -
a rubber band of pleasure.
I used to awake like that,
but no more.
This morning, my head is a pumpkin
stuffed with kapok,
a swollen gourd
on a creaking cactus.
The sleek, lissome cat,
who owes me at least
a consolatory lick,
for all I have done for it,
& me with my bad back,
has sloped off
to catch a sparrow for its breakfast
shunning my
expensive canned kitty food.
Nature made convenient sluice,
when pool water did wend
down the gentle slope
describing gargantuan wetsuit vend
er steadily chugging, chiseling,
and channeling straight away
blindly coursing upend
ding (mankind imposed)
property boundaries demarcations tend
with futile diligence,
asper the whimsical barenaked lady's
propensities, viz mother nature
made short shrift send
ding hours of surveyor labor down
into the behavioral sink also rend
ding inhabitants within the flood plain
to vacate premises and return,
when storm didst abate
comically shaking angry fist
at darkening non sheltering sky -
faux imitating to berate
meteorological processes
many complex systems create
the downpour seemingly
appearing (to me) rainier date
then years gone by scattershot memories,
(which figurative, somewhat unreliable
yardstick of boyhood) did equate
climate affecting
Southeastern Montgomery, Pennsylvania,
registering *****sapiens ultimate fate
burgeoning population, which impact great enough
for this lix spittle country bumpkin to ejaculate
(not prematurely) Hawaii hate
to reckon my environmental impact doth irritate
fragile ecosystems, and
holistic lifestyle aye would trade
(hint...mebbe ya know
of eco-centric intentional communities)
even (yes absolutely)
necessitating sweat of brow spade
work agreeable to this sometime joker
renting from management Grosse and Quade,
who primarily bolster increasing monies to get paid,
perhaps partnership incorporates hiring maid
service for their own households,
no doubt beds get properly made
yet, this regular John Doe (dependent on
social security disability because
debilitating panic attacks undermined
ability to function found (yours truly) laid
up (prior to acquiescing strong suggestions
to accept prescription medication), where grade
to cope much less steep, plus un huff frayed,
now rowing tha old skiff to destination
for to long not fostered and delayed
(christened matthew scott harris) to feign charade
nod duh so merrily lee down the time stream.
The other day a memory I hadn’t thought about in years came to me
from wherever my memories are stored…
as I helped push a man in a wheelchair in through the hospital doors.
Back when I was in college (and I had a lot more hair)
I heard about a boy with cerebral palsy confined to a wheelchair.
Bobby was homeschooled but he and his parents thought it would be cool
instead of being taught at home…if he attended his local school.
Everything was arranged…all that needed to be found
was someone to take him to and from school…and when there…to wheel him around.
I volunteered thinking it would be a good experience for me…
besides…wheeling around a young boy in a wheelchair…how hard could that be?
And it wasn’t hard at all…it was a piece of cake…
as long as I remembered once I sat Bobby in his chair
since the school sidewalk sloped…to set his parking brake.
A couple of weeks in…we arrived at school…it was like any other day
filled with anticipation, excitement and hope…
until I heard Bobby scream Jiiiiiiiiim! and looked up
to see him rolling backward down the slope.
Luckily the slope was not to steep and pushed by the forgiving hands of Fate
I easily caught up to Bobby…before it was too late.
Once I caught him…I apologized profusely…but he was laughing…then
he looked me in the eyes and asked, “Jim, can we please do that again?”
And that became our morning routine…for me and Bobby, my little friend…
I’d set him in his wheelchair take off the parking break…let him roll,
then run beside him and catch him in the end.
I’ll never forget the happiness on his face…the joy…the smile the laughter
as he rolled backward down that slope…while I came running after.
When I look back now I’m glad the way it happened…glad for my mistake
for Bobby might never have felt the freedom nor I his joy
If had remembered to set his parking brake.
Lured to the moon-splashed ledge by silver streaks
of valorous fish leapt to trace the slow sloped
parabola of atmosphere, I reach
the liquid and let the curious crests grope
my naked feet, muddied from midday rain
still gathered on the trail leading back home
in puddles held by a void. A distant train
lumbering, I hear the Earth’s quiet sigh, a groan
of age burdened by youth, a mother’s pain
to find her son swapped her Buick for shoes
and dirty socks. The imprint of heavy tread
traces the path to sleep the woken refuse,
where I’ve chosen to crush the tin-can instead.
The light on the train through a strengthening shower.
“Look deep into nature and you’ll understand everything better.”
Albert Einstein
I stood on the sloped path near the waterfall.
Mesmerised by the sound of falling water.
All around grew green-leafed ferns,
While tall poplars and redwoods provided
Ample shade that covered the running stream.
Tall purple pickerel plants, scarlet cardinal plants,
Everything contributed to a sublime, picturesque sight.
A symphony of sounds emanated completely around.
Frogs croaked in great abundance, jumping in and out,
Of the clear stream where fish swam toward the sea.
And all around, busy bees fluttered over exotic flowers,
Where nectar provided them with such sweet nourishment.
Placed 1
A Leafy Land
To the North and East, green sloped Downs above
The Weald* of Kent. Beneath, the Pilgrim’s Way
Where Monk, traveller and Penitent walked
And Chaucer wrote of the Canturbury Tales.
A land of ancient paths; Chestnut and Oak,
Where Kings and Princes held castle towers.
Oast Houses; beacons to ancient crafts,
Red brick, half timbered dwellings, pan tiled roofs.**
Meadows of buttercup and columbine.
A historic land of hops and fruit.
A leafy land where Jute and Saxon came.
To the South, the bleak and lonely Marshes,
A land of sheep and one time smuggler’s haunts.
Then to the West, high chalk Downs and Sussex.
Beyond, the sea surging on shingled shores
Where the Saxon yielded to Norman Sword.
* Weald – Saxon – A forested or uncultivated tract of land. Probably related to ‘wild’.
**Pan tiles - A type of pan baked clay tile used in the Eastern counties of Scotland and England, rarely in other parts of the Country. First imported from Holland in the early 17th Century.
06/11/17
McCaffrey, a champion golfer in his own mind
All bluster and bull, you know the kind
Like the fisherman who’s big one’s always got away
He will never change, even at the end of the day
One-day last autumn, maybe at the end of the summer
Anyway, for McCaffrey it turned out to be a bummer
Playing eighteen holes in the championship match
Tried to look good playing off scratch
Everything went smoothly out on the first nine
Holed out the thirty six in thirty nine
Out on the tenth all went to pot
He hit a large Kangaroo with his driving shot
Retrieving the ball was a bit of a disaster
The Roo decided to show him who was the master
Up with his legs, catches McCaffrey off balance, and unsteady
When he should have been aware of the danger, been at the ready
A painful kick in the groin had the golfer down for the count
As the Kangaroo hoped off over a nearby grass, mount
McCaffrey now seething got into deep stress
How he finished eighteen holes is anybody’s guess
In the nineteenth hole, consuming drink like it was going out of fashion
Well oiled at closing time a home he went dashing
A cut across the course, striding out nicely, though a dark night
Tripped and fell into a bunker and went out like a light
The Ladies foursome the next morning, teed off at nine
A bright sunny day, everything fine
Arrived at the tenth, driver in hand had she
Mrs Montgomery walked up to the tee
With a good whack from her right hand, the ball was sent aloft
Came down with her ego, it fell in the bunker sand
A loud scream erupted and all heard around the course
A mouthful of expletives greeted the women as McCaffrey crawled out in full force
Mrs Montgomery as bad tempered as he
Took a swipe with a number nine iron right onto his knee
Swearing and cursing McCaffrey sloped away
Fortunately for him to fight another day
Nursing his ego, his groin and his knee
Arrived home hoping to get sympathy, and a nice cup of tee
But Mrs McCaffrey was waiting, and whack, McCaffrey had another bruise
With her frying pan in hand had no time for any excuse
Not impressed at all at her husbands night out
Her heading still aching, then there was the gout
From all the wine consumed the night before
For the rest of the day McCaffrey was ill, and felt rather sore