Long Snowballs Poems
Long Snowballs Poems. Below are the most popular long Snowballs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Snowballs poems by poem length and keyword.
On the Twenty Fifth, December Night,
Black Skies Sparkle with bright light!
Church Bells ring,Ding!Dong!Ding!
Chores of angels ,start to sing!
Merry Christmas!Everyone!
Happy Birthday,Jesus Son.
We rejoice in prayer and joy,
as We thank this New Born Boy,
He is Born for You and Me,
from Our darkness ,sets us free.
Christmas time,a time for Friends,
Tender Hugs and shaking Hands.
Red Holllies in Window Sills,
Deers and sleighs,Over the Hills.
Cheery music in the streets,
Christmas time,a time for peace,
Neighbours sharing Merry greets,
robin's nest, safely in trees..
Its a time we give Our best,
thinking more about the rest,
Christmas Cards,a Christmas Gift,
Its Our time,to give and give!!
Christmas Spirit,Home sweet Home,
A star twinkling ,on each Dome.
Lots of toys, For Homeless Kids,
Stories told and ancient myths.
Brindisi ! a toast! Saluting with a kiss,
Warm mulled wine,We never miss..
French Beres,Red coats to dress,
in their tails,Men, look their best.
Decorating Christmas trees,
altogether,Families!
Phone calls ,far across the miles,
Happy Cries and lovely smiles.
Stocking with little surprise,
Before New Dawn,wake and rise.
Five course lunch, For Everyone,
Turkey roasted,just well done.
Aunties,Cousins ,join together,
On this Christmas ,Winter Weather.
At four tea,a Christmas Bun!
Crowd in Chit Chat,having Fun.
Grandma ,bakes ,a Christmas Cake
Snowballs,Mince Pies and Fig Dates.
I prepare ten christmas logs,
Cherries,Nuts,Whisky and Chocs,
Yummie Candies,so delicious,
Forget all which is nutritiuos..
Little Crib in every House,
Grandpa dress as Santa Clause,
Presents,granting many wishes,
Christmas Day, so very precious.
Missletoe and Gleaming eyes,
Christmas Carols,Christma Rhymes.
Cosy Eve,Burning Flames of Fire place,
Spicy wood and Indoor games.
Long Processions in the Streets,
all the Door Knobs Hold Gold Wreaths.
Candle lights in Children's hands,
Miss Christmas and Snow men Dance!
All the Nations holding Hands,
War Is Over,Still a Chance!
Many Blessings On Our Lands,
Merry Christmas Super Friends..
Merry Christmas Everyone,
Welcome Home,Enjoy the Fun! :)
(Inspired by Caroline Devonshire)
(Welcome in my picture of Christmas Landia)
Charma
I miss tugging on my snow suit and barely managing to button my purple winter coat over top of it
I miss the warmth of mittens and soft hats that covered my ears and made it hard to hear the howling wind
I miss the numbness that nipped my toes and fingers
I miss the soft crunch that would go off with every step I made underneath each boot
I miss making snowballs and building a fort to defend
I miss laying down and my hair getting covered in frost while I made an angel in the snow
I miss sledding down hills and feeling like for a moment I could fly
I miss the magical trees that lost their leaves and the ones that grew green and white
I miss the chilly air that was so frigid it ached to breathe but was refreshing all the same
I miss the soft flakes that danced down from the sky all wonderfully different
I miss the one giant cloud that meant more snow would be coming
I miss not having school and the joyous wake up from mom that it was canceled
I miss playing with my friends without having to worry about leaving them
I miss that first moment waking up when you run down stairs and see the world is covered in white powder
I miss watching the snow flakes fall at night piling up for the next day
I miss being called inside after a long day with a warm mug of cocoa waiting
I miss the knowledge that everything would be ok and happy just like the day had been
I miss being a kid where snow was the most magical thing and everything was simple
I miss my family and not being gone all the time and watching the snow together
I miss gathering around the fireplace and watching Christmas movies all together not a care in the world
I miss the magic of Santa Claus and trying to stay up late to catch him
I miss putting out milk and cookies and not knowing where they went
I miss being happy and not having to leave or worry about the future
I miss feeling and joy and just being able to hug my mom without sadness following me
I miss lighting the tree and hanging ornaments all while dancing with a Santa hat on my head
I miss matching pjs and Christmas photos with the dogs and hanging stockings
I miss winter real winter and I wish I knew where it went
I miss being happy and knowing that everything would be ok
I miss my family and
I miss happiness and
I miss snow
Mississippi.
Mostly mild, wet, and muddy in winter,
but also chilly, cold, and sometimes snowy.
We feasted on ice cycles from tin or asphalt rooftops;
We screamed and yelled as we fought each other with snowballs; With patience and craftsman-like precision, we made snowmen as mothers watched with smiles, making us the best tasting ice cream.
Late nights and early mornings, we waited to hear from the newscast.
“The roads are too bad, and for the sake of safety, no school today”.
Such words over the radio or television are the only ones that mattered.
But it was not all fun and games in the Northern Mississippi Dixie land.
Rain, snow, sleet, or sunshine, there were always outdoor chores to do.
There was wood to cut and to bring in with the coals to keep us warm.
There were hungry pigs, chickens, a cow, and sometimes goats to feed.
Chicago.
One day out near the O’Hare International Airport, my feet nearly froze.
That was when I was driving a VW Bus that was fun to drive until it got cold.
Let the truth be told, Chicago is not just a Windy city by the lake; it’s icy cold. I had my Chicago share of winters in the ‘70’s.
In Chicago, with hardened and freezing bones,
on short days or long ones, life always goes on.
It was so cold that I could hardly walk.
It was so cold that I could barely talk.
It was so cold, yet nothing seemed to halt.
It was so cold that my whole body would shake, and my ears ached in pain as if they would break.
If New York City never sleeps, Chicago never stops.
In the dead of winter, people on State Street continues to shop.
Mayor Daily’s city kept the streets clear, and the buses kept moving.
California.
This year our heating system was first used on Saturday evening, November 7. It seemed that summer forgot to cool down and depart, or even stall; but ran head-on into fall. My trees are still very green, and the leaves are slowly falling because Winter is calling. It’s Sunny California in the Sacramento Region, and Winter is just around the corner. For a few years now, the rainy winter season has produced much heat, but little rain. Our hope is that this winter will be different for a change; perhaps cold and wet.
11102015PS
Down in the white famed plains of Western Kentucky in the 19th century, Alpha Omega Latham was born. Days after his father was shot on the porch, was the beginning of being, and the pass of a torch. Now that his father was gone and bereaved, his ma took the duties, after pa’s life was thieved. A boy now in school confused of his route, the chants “go west young man” were dawning some doubt about the feudal trail that rendered much clout. Humble his beginnings, picking cotton for a living, snowball earned his name, being the only white kid in the game. Just 8 years old, a drive that once ran cold was burning from his hands that were yearning, he decided to up and hop west to Burley. Idaho he headed, decision imbedded, the lure of the west, assured a new life to invest. Alpha Omega began again, and ended a chapter, his life was in spin. Now was his chance, of success in the west, opportunities gleamed, held tight to his chest. A poker man, many cards he swapped, to scrounge and buy half of a sporting shop. With a mere chunk of change, a last ditch effort, his puzzle pieces to arrange. Snowballs sports shop, came to fruition in time, from the train ride alone, with barely a dime, now land and wealth, the ladder he climbed. Owned hotels and houses, made his mark on the land, now standing on top, he created a brand. A beautiful family, the American dream, he lived it and proved it, while swimming upstream. Make your own luck, the idea that he stressed, sink or swim, was life in the west. As the depression was sweeping the country abroad, Alpha had summoned the lightning rod; providing help to his kin in Burley, he helped the community, even when surly. Was known to help any poor old soul, altruism was his ultimate goal. From a bitter ending, blossomed a graceful beginning, just because he lost one fight, didn’t prevent his winning. Twas the life of Alpha Omega, his ending was much brighter, a hero in the eyes of many, a true american fighter. Beginning now is a different page, to snowball his vision in a different age, on west my friend; be brave, not afraid, flourish each and every stage. For one bad ending, cannot cage the transcending, of the flower contending to fend off the sour, bursting out in Spring.
(iambic pentameter, verse)
And sadness reigns
Though never ordained
from the simple truth
Billowing joy
Subverting bliss
Standards too ephemeral
To lobby the naked
wishes we hold
Desperately close
To our heart
And sadness reigns
Our heart
once whole
Sputter and mends
And beats eternally
No matter the blood
No blood the matter
It seeks, filters
and dispenses joy
From mechanoly cells
Pleading for regeneration
The familiar beg towards
Indiscriminate joys
Mean nothing but
To be left alone
Crystallized, for exhibition
to the many
Everyone partake
Seek a morsel for
Yourself
Because it's fleeting
And sadness reigns
Through our ears,
Acoustic lies flutter
Sincerely, vacant waves
Of love melodic,
It does its job,
Tainting sweetly our reality
While souls huddle close
For a deeper view
Our here and now
Climbs, repels
From sentimental summits
Vistas of pretty dreams
Fragrant, lauding over
The stench whispering
Towards the barren valley below
Then back to us
Hearing, humming
Exhuming
Chemical reactions
Singed
By recall
Broken or of whole
The music
Causing joy to
Drop by when we need it the most
And sadness reigns
We're startled,
As focus brings
The world into
Rarefied view
Intensive stare,
Colliding our senses
Interpreting their meanings
Elastic snowballs
Thundering into
Psychotic waves of
Lustful avalanches
that burn the retinas
With joy, inquisition,
Indelible glances
Hung up neatly
To wear when
Dreams demand them,
And there are peeks,
Boisterous looks
That tease your mind
And theirs
Visionary tales
Gross of dischord
And malfunction,
Though they serve
As guests,
Glee in a box,
Nibble, taste
Devour, done
And sadness reigns
Because you and I
All before us
And those to follow
And yet to come
Arrive, depart through
Unmarked swiveled doors
Betwixt adjoining suites
Cemented
Endlessly
By the mundane
we require
The horrific which we
Bring and run across
The zeal we grab
For ourselves and others
The aggression we
Wage and deflect
The resignation we extract
And authorize
And somehow
As sadness reigns
We defect
And elect
To be ruled
By something else.
(1/27/05)
Nobody wants to hear a boring story.
'specially when voices drone, monotone
like an ancient documentary recording
or there’s so much "peace" and "happiness"
you begin to doubt sincerity
and the lack of any message
results in a lack of any clarity.
Bueller, Bueller... there’s nothing cooler
than watching eyes glaze and seal potentially mutual thoughts
The point of this being, when it came to my story
I always thought it would sound better to be more "lost"
To find the prize from a cereal box
you need to reach the very bottom
And any sense of victory
indicates a struggle once caught in
So is it possible to put one’s head in the sand
and be in the clouds at the same time?
Is it possible to sink just low enough to brush ungodliness, yet set aside
the rest of life as a distant picture of who I could be if I tried?
Potential becoming merely a word wrapped in the minutes slipping by
Folded, braided, knotted, tied
I wanted to die to myself, why did false feeling stay alive?
Personal insight and foresight must be a rarer gift
than I imagined.
It’s true you can’t always say what you’d do
until it’s in the past,
but by then
You start to relate to things you used to hate
so like a sweater with a string
that you can’t stop pulling
it starts to unravel and now an avalanche is rolling
snowballs of thoughts that melt when at a stop
lights flashing but no cops to make you promise dollars or change
I need my future rearranged
So maybe I’ll stay up and write
the best tricks of parodies and lies
And that’s okay, because on a page
manipulation’s in the author’s hands
the pen becomes a tool
and like in Huxley's "Brave New World"
we’re content to act the fool
................
....now could come the ironic moment when
you find yourself waiting for that "exciting" personal story
that I’m not actually going to tell.
Because being a poem, not a book
I can make words flowery enough to have a hook
that’s not necessarily attached to anything at all
because its beauty lies
where the
ambiguity
falls.
LUDix-Rym
Charm of glory glistened to glow
when hand in hand, we stepped on snow.
Fervent fun on snowballs to throw.
Emotive nectar oozing slow.
Pearl of passion pierced to grow.
Dulcet dreams coming row by row.
Forgot the terms ‘grief’ or ‘sorrow’.
In zest and zeal zephyr to blow.
Carefree lovers did never know
Untoward event on tomorrow.
Glances met to touch core of heart.
Dormant desires going to outburst.
Silent sublime souls got alert.
Full devotion was to exert.
Feelings cascading not inert.
Only empathy, not to hurt.
Love and compassion to impart.
Committed not to get apart.
Well set absolute, no doubt but
merciless you were to depart.
I was moved on your elegance.
Mind was flavored with your essence
in enclosure of your presence,
now turning to reminiscence.
Journey of life seeming nonsense
Each moment feeling your absence.
Imprisoned in sorrow of fence.
Lost love to look through broken lens.
As loner to proceed and hence
watched you to walk far in silence.
Granted you as perfect descent
Closeness witnessed by Moon crescent.
Glamour of amour! Commitment.
Rest trivial irrelevant.
Greeted as couple excellent.
Thought unison permanent.
Ruthless truth not to prevent.
Shocked, stunned on untoward event.
Leaving me alone, you just went.
What to do? I am to lament.
Once floated on amorous flow.
Now shedding tears soaking pillow.
Once enthusiasm to start.
Now to restrict and to revert.
Once swam in dreamy affluence.
Now putting in dull despondence.
Once soared high touching firmament
Now sweet relation to ferment.
Thought love as eternal entire.
Now convinced, Love too to expire.
11/01/19
First Place.
'LUDix-Rym' Contest by Lu Loo
Of all the things that I have lost
Perhaps what hurts the most
Is that I can no longer go
to where I once called home...
I cannot roam with childish glee
Down through the leafy grove
Nor play with snowballs, dance is snow
Then thaw beside the stove
I cannot use pink muhlberries
To paint my childish lips
I cannot eat the greens I've picked
Right down to soily tip
I cannot brown my little legs
Beneath the blazing sun
Or slpash in cold and icy pool
Until the day is done
I cannot play my hide and seek
With gateman's little kids
Nor drink the flavored Persian tea
Chase dreams through drooping lids
I cannot rub the walnut skins
And stain my fingers black
I cannot gorge on cherries sweet
I can't bring one day back
I cannot pick the blubell flowers
Or swing from walnut tree
I cannot gorge on luscious fruit
Those mountains, I can't see
I cannot run through fresh green grass
Nor bask on asphlat walk
I cannot run through classroom halls
Or tire from childish talk
I cannot show off gardened home
To foreigners and say,
"This place is really paradise
That none can steal away"...
I had a dream last night that I was back in my childhood home in Tehran, Iran. We lived in a walled, gated compoud that was the property of our church. My father was a school principal and the administration building and dorms were on our campus. We were situated in Shemran, at the foot of the ELBRUS mountain range. The compund was green.....beautiful. We'd swim in the icy cold pool then lie on asphalted walks to warm up. We had a cherry orchard, walnut, apple, apricot, plum, muhlberry, and almond trees. It would snow in winter, and My brothers would jump off the roof of our house into the snow. I can't describe the ache in my heart at not being able to go back. It was an enchanting childhood and no one can steal my memories. After the revolution in 1979, the government took over the property....but they can't take My dreams. I've shared this....painstakingly written on my phone because my dream was so vivid. I needed to share...
(Note- Based on the story of a friend of mine)
There are TWO PARTS to this. The second one is here- https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_pen_lives_on_part_2_876105 . Since I can't enter the contest this was originally written for twice and character limits...ugh... Please read BOTH PARTS. Thanks!
She married him for his money.
He married her for her breast.
Both use each other as exhibition pieces.
But whenever I ask, it was
true love.
Sure, of course it was
true love,
because every night now, they fight,
insults, books, papers thrown about.
Leaving lets you avoid emotion.
Everything’s perfectly fine with me.
I have a loving, supporting family.
So what if most of the time they believe
I can’t do anything, or if their ‘love’
consists of strings of expletives
whacking my senses like snowballs,
cold, hard, stabbing? It’s still love.
They love me in a material way,
books lining the shelves.
Some books I’ve never read and never will.
Masks cover feelings.
If I feign a smile – or even if I don’t –
nobody asks what’s wrong. I’m just there,
like the dysfunctional coffee machine,
something everyone avoids inherently.
And I like the solitude – it gives me more time
to brood in thoughts, philosophies.
Depressive ones.
One of my favorites goes like this –
Love is a bastard.
Not all was meant to be.
Like the fantasies of my father
doing something else besides sitting on the couch
and watching television and old soccer matches.
Like the notions of my mother
inherently happy for once, not just
professionally cracking a grin and gossiping.
Like the whims of myself
finally able to end this whole mess.
There’s only one way to die.
My parents think they love.
I was the sole ordeal in bed either of them either experienced,
a nine-month wait and taking cancer pills to alleviate the pain.
I wish the pills worked.
If I weren’t here, they’d be happy.
But I am.
And they aren’t.
So I lie down and fantasize
about how happy everyone would be if I were dead.
It’s fun to stop breathing.
After chewing shoe leather they called steak,
in the Pencey cafeteria,
Mal, Ackley, and I enjoyed a winter afternoon on campus,
on the bus, and in a restaurant.
We walked across a puffy white quilt
as students conversed, laughed, and threw snowballs.
I held my snowball until the bus driver told me to leave it outside.
We had intended to see a comedy with Cary Grant,
but Mal and Ackley had already seen it.
We hung out in the restaurant played pinball and ate burgers.
Arriving back at our dorms at a quarter to nine,
Mel left for a bridge game
and Ackley shoved his acne ridden face into my pillow
until I told him I had a paper to write.
I couldn’t write what Stradlater wanted.
I couldn’t describe any rooms without elaborate furniture.
I couldn’t describe sporty rooms
with trophies on dressers and pennants on walls.
My brother Allie played baseball.
He wrote poetry on his catcher’s mitt with a green pen.
He stood in right field and recited verse from his imagination,
in his mind.
He died from leukemia very young.
I fell into a depression,
a garage,
a gym with windows to punch out.
I broke my hands against our station wagon’s windows.
I cannot make a tight fist.
I curl my fingers enough to type excerpts of Allie’s poetry
for a paper that will never be appreciated.
My red headed brother Allie,
such a good natured kid,
he had a good combination of extrovert and introvert,
avoiding anger.
Sitting on his bike fifty yards away
with his hair shining in the sun
as I teed off,
hoping to make a distant green and shoot under par.
Mom had scored a hole in one with him.
I still try to overcome unidentified handicaps
on a hazardous course.
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If you are intrigued by this work read and review G. D. Master’s book, “Interpretations,” free in PDF format on SmashWords.com. Enter “gd master” or “interpretations” in the search bar of SmashWords to find it.