Long Sons Poems
Long Sons Poems. Below are the most popular long Sons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sons poems by poem length and keyword.
We loaded up for a Sunday drive
The Ozark Mountains were alive
Wild dogwoods of pink and white
Every shade of green in sight
Blooming jonquils and daffodils
Woodpeckers, blue jays, and whippoorwills
Even though the painting was unfinished
Nature's bounty was being replenished
On switchback mountain roads
Past gray bluffs where eagles abode
A long slow roller coaster ride
With buzzards feeding alongside
Headed to our favorite place
A canyon God's finger had traced
Where echos and memories yearn
Friendly fires cleanse and burn
The raccoons, the skunks and the deer
Cared less that we were here
A nervous lizard escorted us to the creek
Clear running ice water froze our feet
A white misty blanket of fog
Spread out for the picnicking frogs
The rocks played a gurgling tune
In the middle of Mother Nature's bedroom
Sitting under a cottonwood tree
It all comes back to me
Generations of family laughter
Roaring in the treetop rafters
I saw an old man with his two sons
In shadowed waters catching crawdads for fun
My children's voices heard in the wind
As they both were learning to swim
I started coming here at age five
We've camped here hundreds of times
Back then this water was deeper
Each year the stream grows weaker
But time's wind blows no weather vane
All around memories remain
I come here a lot to look
And color in my life's coloring book
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
I see you treating her badly,
tearing her down every chance,
she's ‘weak, ‘worthless,’ and ‘not that bright,’
even heard that your fists land.
You sought a weak woman,
someone quite easy to break,
revel in lording over her,
that her life is yours to makes.
It’s all so heartbreaking,
but you are forgetting
we pay for everything,
so hear me when I say:
I’m not wrong, she belongs
to Someone much greater than you,
it’s cold fact, stay off her back;
’cause I know this much is true,
there’s Someone much greater than you.
I see you mock your husband,
you’ve been out cheating for years,
hit him with divorce papers
once he paid off your arrears.
You lied, said he hit the children,
to bleed more from him in court,
driving the man toward suicide,
and still you keep taking more.
You claim you’re in the right,
keep his sons from his sight,
laugh loud when the pain bites,
so hear me when I say:
I’m not wrong, he belongs
to Someone much greater than you;
it’s cold fact, stay off his back
’cause I know this much is true,
there’s Someone much greater than you.
Your power’s an illusion,
your greatness is a lie,
to clean up all confusion:
We all pay for our crimes.
To think you can destroy lives
and get off is absurd,
He made clear how you should act,
and gives us what we deserve!
I’m not wrong, they both belong
to Someone much greater than you;
it’s cold fact, stay off their backs
’cause I know this much is true,
there’s Someone much greater than you.
…and He wants to have words with you.
In the deep recess of night,
while the stars were twinkling bright,
Then the sons of light did pray,
bring to bear their might 'to play.
Burning sons of JEHOVAH,
eyes like eagles seeing far,
Prayer power blazing hot,
against hordes of hell they fought.
Unrelenting voices cry,
petitioning GOD on high.
Pray they did and travail'd much,
a victorious conquering bunch.
Men will rise and men will fall,
pray-ers will be standing tall,
Cos this kind goeth not out,
but by pray'r and fasting rout.
A free gift not eas'ly bought,
Praying men not eas'ly caught,
When afraid, unsure, just pray,
And The LORD will light thy way.
There are no lofty mountain peaks, nor inlets of the sea.
Just rolling plains for miles on end, where the wind blows wild and free.
And before we found the oil, what was there indeed?
Mild lands, so unadorned, unsuited for man's greed.
Perhaps that's why the sowers, the ones who came before,
Were so intent on fashioning, for their children, so much more.
What quiet beauty in the hands, that built this precious state,
Tis it not man's greatest gift? To till, and plant, and wait?
Knowing well the fruit will come, too late for us to taste.
And knowing still our choice was right, that others call a waste.
By the struggle of our fathers, and sons in years to come,
who's to speak the limit, of what we can become?
2 September 2017
I stood there helpless not knowing what to do as the crowd began to swell and the message began to spread. I found myself in a crowded place and strange people running all over the place group together and going on a mission to kill the devil. They were armed with long hunter’s rifle, pick axe, sticks and stone and base ball bats, dressed in black and white suites and felt hats and long beard sticking out below their chin. The angry mob descend down the street chanting hateful words that stir dust in the street, and somewhere in the corner the victims of the intended assault kneel quietly in the dark praying to Allah for mercy. They were the fathers and grandfather of the village men whose sons have gone into the city to fight with the mercenaries and return once in a while to eat and share their success with wine, the mob was going there but the grand fathers and fathers were unaware, they could feel the tension but they could not tell where it was coming from. The children were out playing in the yard and the women were out in the field gathering wheat and the men were bundle up in the village mosque across the street chanting the afternoon prayer. The mob landed in the village, and the children began to run in all direction calling their mama and papa but they were not there, and shots began to fire and little bodies fell in the street and cries rise above the hill and the universe felt the chill. Blood gushes out of their head and innocent souls lie in the street dead and the birds cover them with their wings. They descended later in the mosque and in seconds another massacre began. The men had nothing to defend themselves so they had to take the bullets in their heads and lie on top of the dead and pretend too, to be dead, and just when I thought it was over the mob marched into fields to get the women but they were no match for them, they were all arm with pistol and they fought it out in the fields before the grease palmer arrived to end the bloody sacrifice. A few women got bullet graze but none of the women were killed, the mob accepted the offer and quickly left the place. The mercenaries were out of town but their children and parents were homeward bound and the village was stained with blood.
My youngest
of three AfricanAmerican adopted sons
has profound nonwhite
nonstraight
nonverbal cerebral palsy.
Profound
in at least not being privileged
or victimized
by internal LeftBrain dominance,
violent micro-aggressions,
zero-sum competitive thinking
Either positively True and Good
or negatively False and Bad,
laughable
or humorless
Sacred indigenous consciousness
feels more Right-Elder brainstem
bodymind nondualistic synergy
friendly energy
which is my son's political blessing
and his capital secularizing
segregating
colonizing
economic disabled curse.
Youngest son communes
with music
more fluidly co-empathic
than linguistic communications
He touches
and sings
and chants
through echoing shouts
and exclamatory barks,
short nonphonetic phrases,
lip smacking,
and belly laughs.
When he cries,
which is seldom,
he cries silently
No vocal cords
Profound inhaling wet gasps
and exhaling sad sacred shakes.
He laughs unconditionally
from his root chakra
warm unguarded soul
and bicamerally cries
from his buddha
co-empathic eyes.
Only one person he trusted with his virginal wife while he was on crusade.
It was his best friend Nicolas, who was a rather handsome blade.
He gave him the key to her elaborate shiny new chastity belt.
Sure that he would only use it if an emergency was dealt.
Nicolas was honored by King Henry’s admiration and trust.
He resolved to only use that key if an emergency was thrust.
The wearer of the belt was Queen Anne, a beautiful wife.
She gave him a come hither look, but he ignored it with strife.
Queen Anne was gorgeous, prettier each day, Nicolas had to admit.
She did not like that belt, it irritated her more than a bit.
Nicolas spent years with her, more delighted and enthralled each day.
He finally had to chip that damned chastity belt up and away.
When King Henry returned from the crusades so fine,
He had sons all over the kingdom, the newest made nine.
Henry was delighted with his sons; all strapping and true blue.
He was a bit light in the belfry, just between me and you….
Political ordeal
Criticising every good move,
Is that what opposition means ?
Putting party above country
politics left no more than a dirty game.
Feeling joy of having an honest PM
positivity is apparent in the air,
His dreams of taking us to heights
which no citizen has any doubts about.
Yet for their own selfish motives
trying to misguide innocent minds,
Disrupting the internal civil peace,
Miscreants are joining hands,
In name of colour and religion,
Trying to divide the sons of a mother,
Disrespect and betrayal to our motherland,
raising slogans in anti national tints,
As beaming sunrise illuminates minds
and ebony cover of thoughts evanesces,
Be sure the good days are knocking
with happiness and prosperity on the way.
Written March 17th, 2016
For contest by CT
Today's political ordeal in India -Ever since PM Narinder Modi has come to power with a majority democratic govt.... opposition is trying to play anti national and foul games.
Congress had a historical defeat, didn't do any good in last decade, corruption touched peaks n poor turning poorer, are now not letting the govt function.
But Modi Govt. is determined to give its best and we people of India have full faith in him.
Awarded 6th place win
The Benjamin that I know is, like the Biblical
Character, the YOUNGEST of 8 sons. For the last
Year, I have sensed that there is something that
I am supposed to impart to Benjamin. I have not
Concluded what that impartation is, but I will begin
By sharing an acrostic poem bearing his name.
8888888888888888888888888888888888888888
BELIEVERS do not have room for doubt and fear
EVERY door is an opportunity to explore and excel
NEVER say never, but rather, forever say, "I can"
JUSTICE may condemn me, but Christ pardons me
ANTICIPATION explodes within and makes me wait
MANY are called; few are chosen; most refuse
I can do all things through Christ
NOTHING shall be impossible to those who believe
Dad, born into white-hot poverty
eldest son of an adulterous drunk
abandoned
man of the house at five
white privilege.
His stepfather, also a booze bunny and bigot to boot...
To escape, he went to vocational school
as all the poor waifs did back in the day.
white privilege....
Married too young, a couple of sons...
was promised a job out west,
By all of people, the adulterous drunk...
3000 dreamy miles later.
With two small boys swirling in the prospectors' pan
but all the gold had vanished by then
white privilege.
He managed to make ends almost meet
with shovels for hands, soul of concrete.
white privilege
We survived in a one-bedroom, converted chicken coop.
At the age of twenty-two, he was crowned the king of desperation.
Supported all of us without any complaint, including the deadbeat, Uncle Frank.
White privilege.
Divorced, he lost custody of his doves.
Months beyond broke, he staggered back home.
Into the embrace of, you guessed it, the same drunken bigot.
White privilege.
Deadly happenstance brought us all back together again.
For forty years he wore the burning wreath
of back-breaking gigs on cinderblock dreams.
2 steps forward, 2 and a half back
One foot in the grave, the other on a snot rag
His ledger, never in the black.
White privilege,
Four decades, he earned the right
to hang up the shovel and pan.
The concrete settling into the joints
of his bent turtle hands.
Willing us away from poverty's fangs.
White privilege.
Soon after he retired. Mr. C arrived.
For three long years he battled and survived.
With Veins still flooded with benzene rings.
He had a blind date with open-heart surgery.
White privilege.
Old battleaxe versus scythe, he fought off the reaper.
Only to bury his mom, whom he loved very deeply.
The next to go was his beloved son.
White privilege.
He's not quite out of that shadow.
But I think he'll make it back to reclaim that glow.
It's been a privilege to have known such a bright angel soul.
That privilege has nothing to do with color.