Long Slung Poems
Long Slung Poems. Below are the most popular long Slung by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slung poems by poem length and keyword.
Where‘s The Bull?
A few years ago at the close of the morning worship service in the lobby of our church, a young teen greeted me with the words, “How are you doing Mr. Curtis?” My reply to him at the time was, “I’m hanging in there.” This was a time when the nation’s economy was in disarray, and my personal finances were not much better. Some weeks later I saw him again in the same area of the lobby, and he greeted me with the words, “Hi Mr. Curtis, are you still hanging in there?”. I almost answered him in the same manner as before, because things had not really gotten any better. However, I caught myself and replied by saying, “No, I’m not hanging in there. I have the bull by the horns, and he’s going down”.
I believe that the 'Bull statement' triggered something inside of me that made a big difference in the future outcome for my life and circumstances. No, my belief system did not change, but a “God Moment” came to the front and overpowered me to overcome any attitude of doubt or negativity that had existed in my spirit. A fresh fire was kindled, and a ‘knowing’ within me was born that in essence said to me that I did not have to ‘hang on’ or ‘hang in’ there for dear life. The fresh fire enabled me to stop hanging on to the tail of the bull to be slung about and around wherever the bull desired.
The bulls of life are always on the loose, and bulls will do what bulls do. We must decide and take courage to do what Christians do. Our bulls of life will never go down as long as we are fighting at the tail by hanging on. It is when we take on the bull by his horns that we are enabled to bring him to the ground.
At the time of the young man’s question, we were in a season of life unlike any we had faced before. The seasons of the year can be defined and generally described, but they are never the same. We know that they are coming and going all the time, but we never know the character and the magnitude of their impact. So is the case with the seasons of our lives.
So. What is your bull’s name today? Where is he, and where are you positioned in relation to the bull’s movements? The bull’s movements are always strong and are designed to destroy us. We must not be content with simply hanging on for survival. Because God is with me, I can trust him in the stormy seasons of my life.
10022014 cj PS
Your spirit was to bright for this pit viper world.
A pine scented soul, treading poverty's venomous whorl.
With a sack of hungry kittens slung across the back.
Your heart was a break wall against the battering ram...
of the selfishness and indifference of man.
You polished our grit into pearls of faith and light.
Feeding our confidence, allowing our gifts to take flight.
Many times, your words were like uncut diamonds.
Pouring shine into the heart of our darkening minds...
Offering endless cups of warmth and wisdom for:
the wayward
the depressed
the jobless
the spouseless
the homeless
the aloneness
the lifeless... in us
Grandma passed into
that gilded realm of infinite miracle.
With fathomless love and tenderness,
those matted kittens have turned into tiger gems.
11/17/18
The fae of the forest watched as they
Gaily slung the discs on their way..
And it glowered hatefully from where it stood
As again and again their discs struck wood.
Surely for their offense they'd pay!
Patience was hard as it followed and sought
A punishment befitting for this offensive lot
Laughing in merriment when their discs struck chain
Strung from the iron poles that his wilderness, stained.
His fiery hatred grew hot!
But the iron and machine that invaded his realm
Weakened his magic, did arcana o’erwhelm,
Even as they climbed and hiked and played,
He studied the lot and his hand was stayed,
Three men, two women shaded ’neath elm.
So he bid the day increase its heat
He bid the trees their discs defeat
He slung small magic to deflect their discs
Off-course into thorns and other risks,
Yet their discs flew to basket’s entreat.
As the eldest wished for the trees to stop
Snatching his disc in flight to flop
On the ground, its flight outshined,
A horrible, evil thought sprang to mind,
Ahead the mad imp hopped.
In the false meadow set the devil his trap,
“No trees? No trees!” And with an evil clap,
As the eldest stood at the edge of the meadow
The younger’s disc flew errant, powerful, into elbow!
Horrific thud, not a light rap.
No truer could any aim have sought
Nor more devastating than the nerve it caught,
Waves of nausea wreaked by such pain
Stunned the warrior, he couldn't regain
His feet. The younger man was distraught.
Yet on they played, and gave no ground
Stubbornly threw their discs and found
Joy in every basket’s clink
And caused the evil imp to re-think
The awful paths he'd bound.
Twice more, throws askew were slung,
Twice more was impish, hurtful magic flung
Once at the mother’s head- wisely, she ducked,
Then again, feebly hit the youth’s leg, whose laughter clucked,
Mocking laughter, his leg unstung.
Sorrowfully, the wood devil gave in
He could not defeat this family's win
Even the old man's arm wouldn't bruise
How could the imp do ought but lose?
And so did the disc golf end. Fin.
So if you, enjoying family time fair
Seek to enter the forest imp’s lair,
Take cover from friends as the disc is cruising
Lest the wood devil, offended, send you a bruising
As from shadows he hates and stares.
Yorkshire, 1914
I patch mended her copper saucepan,
Edged an axe, two cleavers and a knife.
I did all the jobs that were required.
By this comely young farmer’s wife.
She served me a platter of rare beef
With chunks of home baked bread,
And along each large slice of meat
Relish of horseradish was spread.
She served me there in her kitchen
Sat me at a large wooden bench
As I watched all around the room
A young and fine buxom a wench.
She slid on my knee quite suddenly
And I held her there in my arms.
For how could any young man
Refuse an offer of such charms
She kissed my mouth with a passion.
She kissed me with a lust and desire,
That set may pulses off racing
That set my whole body on fire.
I held her for all of that evening
And most of that coming night,
Enjoying the play of our passion
The pleasure and sheer delight.
She served me a farmhouse breakfast.
For which my whole body yearned.
Eggs and home slaughtered bacon
Bread, and butter near freshly churned
I held her once more in that kitchen
In thanks for the love we had made
Then out to follow my fortune,
A wandering Jack of all Trade.
I could hear Shires in the stable
That fine November’s morn
As I set off on my journey
Just at the crack of dawn.
I strode away quite briskly
Down that winding cart track,
My body so pleasantly sated,
Possessions slung over my back.
Oh how I so love this my freedom
To enjoy while there’s still chance
For I reckon it’ll soon be the recruiter
And a spell in the trenches of France.
Maybe this really happened.
I wonder did he survive
The carnage of that bitter war
To come back whole and alive.
Yorkshire 2022
People reveal the contents of their hearts.
Drip by painful drip.
It takes courage to tell the world what ails them.
What hurt them-stomped them down.
How they are in the process of healing.
Climbing back up that brutal mountain, called self-doubt.
Frayed hope-sliding back down -getting back on route.
A million questions slung in the face.
What is God anyway? Who are the demons?
What are all these strange forces in between?
Major decisions to be made, crossroads, if you will.
Which cells to nurture-which ones to kill.
Life is their brushfire; they must sprint straight into it.
Dodge around it and they'll slip over the edge.
So, while they drip vulnerable things from their heart into the cold world.
Some keyboard troll kneads the hurt into their plaything.
A flaccid attempt at humor, or to make themselves feel supreme?
All at the sufferer's expense.
These trolls are nothing but keyboard pigs.
Rooting for another truffle of their endless cowardice.
Hunters in the Snow
Slowly, the hunters break stride through the snow,
Hunched over in failure, their heads hanging low.
Below the hill where villagers at play
Will soon be sad with no food on the way.
The meagre kill slung across one’s shoulders
'Tis barely enough, let alone for others.
But there at the inn a boar on the spit,
Pork and ale for them who can pay for it.
A band of crows meets the depressed procession,
As a magpie flies by in food exploration,
While those perched in the trees caw incessantly,
As if to mock the returning party.
Yonder mountains rise with icy-capped peaks,
Where at the cliff’s base a castle is seen.
Across the dam an ox-drawn cart lumbers,
While men on ladders douse a chimney fire.
Off in the distance, a tranquil scene reveals
A village with its clock and a church steeple.
All around the town are fields covered with snow,
And below the troop, the millpond froze over.
Everything looks cold ‘neath a green-tinged sky
That signals a storm gathering be nigh.
There on the bridge, a hag totes afaggot,
Fuel for the stove to keep herself toasty.
The hounds look unnaturally thin and worn
And, like their masters, hopelessly forlorn.
Back from the hunt and home from the forest,
Hunters and dogs are badly in need of rest.
***
Note:
“Hunters in the Snow” is an ekphrastic poem describing the painting “The Hunters in the Snow” (1565) by Pieter Brueghel the Elder (c.1525/1530–1569).
Hi there new born baby, welcome to your life,
Off to work tomorrow, mother’s got no choice,
Your at the teats, sister’s slung around her back,
Ten hours in the field, gathering god knows what,
She’s pregnant again, another one’s in the pot.
Oh I forgot to mention, this is the Third world,
Don’t get too comfortable, for time quickly unfurls,
Nine more months, your turn, on mums bony spine,
Dad’s missing, buried alive in a government mine,
Troops rounded up our men, like goats and wild swine.
Yeah sure is tough! gone beyond the point of caring,
At least you have a hut, three orphan families sharing,
Just get on with life, what our indifferent elders say,
Next week compulsory overtime, with no extra pay,
Animals have it better, for in the shade they lay.
Billions on this earth, living hand to mouth,
So what’s the problem, plenty to go about,
All our excess wasted, casually dumped back out,
Its human nature, we want more than the rest,
Yes! some give to charity, never sorts out the mess.
“There go I, but for the grace of God” What!
Conscientious absolution, does not mean a jot,
Actual interpretation “Rather You Than Me,”
Better to say nothing at all, sanctimonious piety.
Population explosion, has them on the brink,
Free contraception, go a long way I think,
Education for all, definitely the missing link,
Without abject poverty, can be no mega-wealth,
Worked socks off for mine, (Hundred Billion To Myself,)
Baby’s mother toils harder, instinctively killing herself.
All together now!
#Oh what a beautiful morning,
Wake up smell the coffee beans today,
She picked them, spine’s lost all feeling,
Everything’s going my way.#
It’s a mess, goddamn mess,
Dirty filthy mess!
It’s a lie, Goddamn lie,
Dirty filthy lie!
Your not real,
This is vile,
In denial!
Don’t exist,
Stop crying,
Keep lying!
Just
Die
Baby
Boy!.
By
David kavanagh.
Form:
Meanwhile Doctor Kaunda reminded young
people in the country ascending the rung
of success they have a big role to play
with trappings of pride slung
in weaving together unity among unsung
swiftly tailored heroes, as sowers
reaping luxe fabrics of peace among
divinity, integrity, magnanimity,
and unity for this country.
He has however commended President
Edgar Lungu for his efforts in uniting recent
dichotomy, sans the various people in the country,
And speaking at the same event,
National Guidance and reminescent
Religious Affairs Minister
Reverend Godfridah
Sumaili sought riches for indigent -
says national unity and urgent
peace critical for development
of the geographical extent
spanning entire country
Reverend Sumaili says difficult
no matter how fervent
for Zambia to develop
if no unity among Zambians.
And earlier in his speech, Commodores
Vision Ambassador to Zambia
Chairperson Misheck Kombe yours
truly expressed concern to jumpstart
solution regarding regionalism and tribalism at heart
tearing Zambia apart, like inures
reflux resignation of meal,
thus Mr. Kombe underscores
how important each and every shores
Zambian to join the crusade complacent
against tribalism and regionalism
because it retards development for s'mores!
It was high noon in Dodge City, Kansas on that hot and sultry day.
The sheriff was makin' his leisurely rounds on Old Dan, his faithful bay.
Rowdy cowpokes was wettin' their gullets tossin' whiskey down.
That mornin' they'd herded their steers to the railhead jes' east of town!
After bein' on the trail fer weeks they was ready to go on a drunken toot!
The sheriff had been through this before and was ready to settle any dispute!
He was lanky with a leathered face and wore a .44 slung low on each hip.
He was fast on the draw as shown by a dozen notches on each grip!
The cowboys convened at the Long Branch Saloon when an uproar was heard!
They was settlin' an issue with Slick, the resident gambler, that had occured!!
They was yellin' and cussin' tryin' to git their paws on that miserable cheat!
A brawl erupted and shots was fired - the fight spilled out into the street!
The sheriff arrived on the scene and expertly drew his blazin' guns!
After the smoke had settled, three fellers was sprawled upon their buns!
Their pals, havin' seen the odds, hopped on their hosses and took to hoof!
The gallant sheriff triumphed once agin and thus ended the daily spoof!
When the swirlin' dust had settled and the billowin' smoke had dissipated,
The tourists who saw this excitin' event cheered those who had participated!
I reckon you thought a bit of history was bein' played out in old Dodge City!
(If I "steered" you in that direction with this bull, what a doggone pity!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Watching crows eat roadkill in Montana, my rifle slung across my shoulder,
early morning workers sweating, cursing, as they break apart a boulder
Ice cream truck stops by the roadside, driver shouting “come and get it”,
A lumbering moose the only taker, the angry driver shouts “forget it”.
The river overflows into the valley’s golden corn fields
The farmers lay large sand bags, they fear to loose their yields
Crop duster circles as the crows fly in pursuit
of falling butterflies and ladybugs who perched upon the fruit.
The poison claimed their short lived lives today
bees flee, birds scatter, all escaping from the spray
The bobcat spies the moose, in all it’s forest glory
pouncing on its back it sinks its teeth, I cannot watch, too gory.
Thunder in the valley, rain falls ‘cross the land
a forest dweller begs for help, he needs a helping hand
“My daughter ran away without a word into the city,
I only ask for where to search, I do not ask for pity”.
“Dear man what can I say, I’m just a hunter, not raised in Hollywood,
where only bad girls find their way there”, the old man understood
He slowly disappears beyond the trees, and softly moans,
The crows have finished with the roadkill and only left the bones.
And me, I think I’ll patch my jeans, and jump into the water
and climb into my pickup truck, go searching for his daughter
I hold a picture I was given, as he walked into the woods
I must admit she is a beauty, and has the proper goods
To drive this man to find her, before she disappears,
into the crowded city streets, that drive young girls to tears
The beauty of Montana, the forest and the farms,
will call me back I pray, with his daughter in my arms