Long Son Poems
Long Son Poems. Below are the most popular long Son by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Son poems by poem length and keyword.
In a quiet town where shadows blend,
A boy named Dustin learned to mend,
Born to a mother, young and alone,
With dreams in her heart, but a heavy stone.
No father’s hand to guide his way,
But a grandfather’s love would light the day,
With wisdom deep as the ocean’s tide,
He taught the boy to stand with pride.
“Integrity, my boy, is worth more than gold,
Hard work and honesty, let them unfold.
Knowledge is power, a beacon so bright,
In the darkest of times, it will be your light.”
As the years rolled on, the family grew,
With siblings to care for, Dustin always knew,
That love was a burden, yet sweet to bear,
A great big brother, with a heart laid bare.
While his mother worked, he took on the role,
Of protector and guide, with a nurturing soul,
Though childhood slipped by like sand through his hands,
He learned to be strong, to meet life’s demands.
Through sleepless nights and endless days,
He forged his path in a myriad of ways,
With dreams of UGA, he set his sights high,
Determined to reach for the limitless sky.
But life can be cruel, and fate can be tough,
When his grandfather passed, it felt like enough,
Yet in every tear, in every sigh,
Dustin held on to the lessons that never die.
With a heart full of love and a mind set to learn,
He pushed through the pain, for his dreams he would yearn,
A PhD in hand, he stood tall and proud,
Knowing deep down, his grandpa too would be proud.
“Look at my boy,” he’d whisper with glee,
“From a boy to a man, what a journey to see!
You’ve carried the weight, you’ve weathered the storm,
In the tapestry of life, you’ve woven your form.”
So here’s to Dustin, a beacon of light,
A testament to love, to courage, to fight,
For in every struggle, in every embrace,
He found his own strength, his own sacred space.
With integrity, hard work, and knowledge in hand,
He'll walk through the world, a proud and noble man.
Although it is he who had his bottom spanked
No tears stream down his face
It is my handprint that the pain can thank
And I am the one who is disgraced
His wrong was much lesser than mine
As off the handle I did fly
I am the one who needs beg forgiveness this time
I am the one who has started to cry
He says, “I forgive you, Daddy, for getting mad
I still love you when your anger shows
And I’m sorry for sometimes being bad
I try to be good, I hope you know”
I hug my boy, a lesson learned
A deep breath and count to ten
I’m sure a new leaf this dad has turned
I’ll take pause before overreacting again
Our fishing guide thought I wanted to catch fish –
that I had come to the River’s Edge to catch
a mottled Brown for a mantled photograph.
I should have told him that I cared not for a fish
for my father had recently passed away
and I held his rod of beautiful bamboo.
I had come only to cast into my memory’s mist –
to hear the line sing my father’s song
and again his voice arise from a riffle.
Many mornings he held my hand to teach me
to find the rhythm of the line then extend
to mirror and become the water.
From a rock, I cast into pocket water
where a Brown watches but then chooses
not to strike the timelessness of the past,
at the river’s edge.
An old herdsman said to his son
when one went astray,
untethered take note,
it just wandered away,
“You get my goat!”
A present pupil told the teacher
who the register was taking,
with such a serious cough,
the whole school was shaking,
“You tick me off!”
A bossy boyfriend informed his girl,
“We're going for a walk in the woods,”
but bitterly tired of being bossed,
she gave him the goods,
“You can get lost!”
The carpenter spoke to an apprentice,
yet, as his instruction received no thanks,
believed he was teaching a clown,
and, like sanding a pile of planks,
“You wear me down!”
The photos stopped
when you were 10 or 11.
Around that time, you started refusing to
have your pictures taken.
A few candid shots are all I’ve
managed since then.
In them, the look on your face is growing inward,
as a cocoon slowly encloses you in a
translucent mystery,
turning you into a dark silhouette
as you start to construct your
own parallel universe,
in a tug of war with a thousand things
you are just starting to learn the meaning of,
morphing into what the world will know,
what I will, with any luck,
recognize only with squinted eyes
when the cocoon reopens.
For now, I can’t see you.
All I can do is wait.
The park is nothing but a mass grave
for the plant kingdom when unravels the night.
Winter's spectral feet whisper like a knave.
The flowers they did not save.
A cloud barrier and light.
The park is a mass grave.
Every bough exposed, prepared to slave
many months carrying clumps of white.
Winter's footsteps whisper like a knave.
Mother's light diminishes like a hollow ocean wave
grass letting go of green sight.
The park is a mass grave.
An old eucalyptus looked upon the ground and forgave
the clouds who stole the sun and bound him in blight.
Winter's gait whispers like a knave.
Light charged with icicle breath and the sky steeped in iron, let's be brave
before gravity's chants begins and the ground turns. The truth will bite.
The park is a mass grave and winter's stride whispered like a knave.
mother child
nestled encircled
sings a lullaby shouts rebuke
forever giving endless forgiving
cuddles with soft hands scolds with look of eyes
a candle that gently guides a flint that fires up the child
kisses heals with tender grace hugs forgives all falls from grace
silence teaches more than words songs unsung are yet always heard
soft hands set child free yielding never losing touch
endless is the sacrifice small are the rewards
beholds the dawn relishes the dusk
laughs out loud weeps in silence
never ever forgotten
beget begotten
one all
I open the door for my son,
while he carries his laundry basket
full of clean clothes out to his car.
He says, "Thank you mama.
I love you mama."
He's a prison guard and I worry.
While I watch him walk off, I say,
"Be careful. I love you."
and shed a tear.
Letting go is so hard.
Wishing he was still young and at home again.
To hold and protect him of what is waiting
for him out there in the world.
Then, I wonder of what I have been taught,
to leave him in the Lord's hand, not mine.
I ponder of moments similar,
when I have fallen away from God's faith.
I need to remind myself,
trust in God and his word.
He has never failed me,
but always guided me in my life.
9-3-2014
I remember when you came to the end of your journey
and traveled that last weary mile
I forget all of your frowns
and only remember your amazing smile
There were no unkind words spoken
but only good deeds you had done
I forget all of your heartache
and only remember all of the fun
No more stumbles and blunders
and falls along the way
I forget all the battles lost
and only remember those won at the end of the day
Even still I grieve for your going
and sadness finds me every day
I forget that this world should be a happy place
and only remember where you now lay
But when evening comes on your anniversary
and the sun paints the sky in the west
I will try to forget all of my sorrow
and remember all of your best
I wonder what
you’re doing tonight
Whose poking and prodding
my blue-eyed delight
Are you lonely and scared
of what nature has bidden
Are you angry and tired
of feeling downtrodden
Are you chasing the ghosts
of dreams thought forgotten
While praying for sleep
with the music forgiving
Are you looking inside
for answers forthcoming
Knowing only that you
hear the differences drumming
I wonder who
you are forever becoming
That boy in the woods
whose motor’s still running
The one at the shore
whose Sea Doo is flying
That man on the bike
where the mountains are calling
I think you will find
they’re protected inside
Sleeping together
awaiting your cry
And when you reach out
to embrace them again
Your world will be whole
—today to befriend
(The New Room: May, 2022)