Long Stabled Poems
Long Stabled Poems. Below are the most popular long Stabled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stabled poems by poem length and keyword.
How many reindeer does Santa have stabled?
Let's take the count, as in the fables.
If you count eight then you are off,
for that, I cannot but scoff.
You might say nine but to no avail,
That's if you include the red-nosed one in the tale.
No, Santa has ten reindeer in all,
If you don't believe me, just give their roll a call.
We know Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen,
Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen.
And if you will recall,
Rudolph became the most famous reindeer of all.
But no one ever speaks about number ten,
Perhaps, it's because no one thinks of them.
I want to cry when the fuss about Rudolph I at Christmas hear,
Because everyone forgets Olive...Olive the other reindeer.
Bevy of swans in a sea-fowl cloud,
starling mumuration,whispering aloud.
Wray of quail,where teal spring,
tiding of magpie,as larks nesting, cling.
Nightingale watch a hover of crows,
herd of wrens,hosting sparrows.
Flight of doves,lapwing deceit,
charm of finches,swallows sweet.
Kindle of kittens,knot of toads,
a yoke of oxen shed their load.
Den of snakes,skulk with fox,
shires stabled and boxed.
Business of ferrets,labour with moles,
span of mules in a string of foals.
Harrass of horse,husk of hares,
rake of colts with a stud of mares.
Drove of cattle,with a tribe of goats,
downs of sheep,pack of stoats.
Spider cluster in a thatch,
brood of game,hatched,matched
and despatched.
For the new year, my weather forecast shows
good outlook for improvement on my front,
'cause models for disturbance have disclosed
the changes in my atmosphere- less blunt.
Precipitation of my built-up tears,
held in by clouds to later fall like rain,
reveals that charts predict revised frontiers;
climatic stats project my drier reign.
My temperatures- stabled to stay fair,
and UV index low to prevent burns.
Statistics show no earthquakes to declare;
flash floods adjusted now show low returns.
Extended-outlook for your year is great;
no storms and brighter rainbows I'll create.
January 6, 2018
Contest: You're A Weather Forecaster
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
I miss the barn, the hay loft,
a place to listen to the midday sun
creaking through old wood.,
the small clouds of horse flies
moving as one in their jet-pack bodies,
that rose and fell
their small engines stuttering.
The humpbacked skeleton of a tractor
where goats built their castles,
the oily emptiness of its heart
as it clanked under their hooves
into a gearless life once more.
When the empty stalls echoed a warning
to the horses that no longer stabled there,
I would get up into the sagging rafters
where feather whiskered winds
rustled dust through broken boards,
It used to take them an hour
before they knew I was missing,
later they knew where to find me.
I miss the soul-deep smell
of dry leather tackle long unharnessed,
the empty cans of linseed and engine oil,
the old shotgun so rusted
it grew out of a dirt-caked bucket
as brown as a whittled flower stalk.
All gone, the barn, the farm house
and ‘they’ - gone now.
Yet sometimes they call to me
as I dream in a lullaby loft,
and I still a little disappointed
to be found.
Let me tell you a story from the old wild-west;
Of a terrible lawman with a star on his vest.
His title was “Ranger”; not bound to a town
He studied the outlaws then hunted them down.
One long hot summer; played like a pawn
He’d failed to take down the man called “Big John”.
He was tired and thirsty, his mood like black jet
As he rode into Dodge his sights were still set
On Big John!
He stabled his horse, and checked out the saloon
‘cause he’d heard the big man liked to drink there at noon.
Through the wide swinging doors, he strolled to the back
His face as long as a wagon-wheel track.
The scowl on his face told me this man was risky,
But I was the bar keep, and he needed whiskey.
So I poured him a double in a clean mason jar
And slid it down deftly to the end of the bar.
He quaffed it and gave me a tip of his hat.
I thought it was over, except for the fact
That his mood was still dark, like rain in a flood,
I knew in my gut there was bound to be blood.
There in the corner; his back to the wall,
He waited with patience; said nothing at all.
Just stared at the space ‘bove the wide swingin’ doors,
His hands at his sides, drooping down toward the floor.
It was quarter past noon when the room darkened some,
Big John in the doorway; blocking the sun.
Two shots rang out from the man in the vest.
Two blood stains emerged on the big fella’s chest.
Big John just stood there; there in the door,
Then the glasses all rattled as John hit the floor.
Dry-gultched, like a fox at a watering hole
Big John was finished; so, likely his soul!
The old wanted poster said “Dead or Alive”.
They just didn’t care how Big John arrived!
The Ranger just smiled and sighed, “One more round!”
Then he gathered his pony and rode out of town.
May 9, 2017
Alfred Joyce Kilmer Tribute ''Trees'' via rehash VIDEO presentation:
Alfred Joyce Kilmer, penned name, 'Joyce Kilmer,'
was killed by a sniper's bullet in WWI at 31 years old,
20 July 30, 1918. Joyce held a beautiful view of life
whereto, he wrote his poem 'Trees,' and as I, a wretched
soul with worn eyes, respectfully write this subtle homage,
by humble means of this renown poet via my take of his poem
Trees II
Methinks thus I
shalt naught e'er see
a poem lovely
as this here tree,
Doth sun does shine
its countenance,
gift tree its loft,
spreads its expanse,
Its girth above,
neath midst remained,
flicks of light burst,
like windows stained,
The trunk weighs down,
the cradled youth,
internal weave
exploits the roots,
Limbed tree who hath,
purged forth hugged vein,
thereon, ventures
long with its frame,
Styled tree stabled
in wonderment,
our learned life begs
our testament,
The tree tilled naught,
nor didst toil we toil,
providence hath,
sprung from the soil,
God giveth life,
sips and savors,
graced from seed thus,
tree He favors,
Seasons race on,
timely fashion,
the Divine hath
shewn compassion,
A poet writes
in praise of trees,
songs made of these
sweet melodies,
'Tis well-rehearsed
endowed in verse,
fool cools elbows
and stubbled toes,
A quill at ease
a chapter seize,
Joyce 'Trees' as goes
only God Knows.
Originally written: 2020 December 23
Resurrect Tribute: 2024 July 28
Alfred Joyce Kilmer 12/06/1886-07/30/1918, 31 years old died in WWI
The Chevy speeds by
eyesight pings it,
a reflexive vision
momentarily catches itself
looking back.
The barn is vacant, not empty,
its eyes have been locked open,
it bathes in sparrow and bat time.
Now hollow lids capture, snatch at
a headlong flight of vision.
A snap of fleeting attention
has stabled a glance in a timeless stall
where dust hangs
in a slant of suspended light.
Road barn and car are frozen
as one symbiotic after-image,
until all disappear into each other.
Then without pause or passage
horizons are released,
distance and perspective amended,
as the tremor of a splintered
looking glass
fades behind racing wheels.
A brilliant moon casts its mellow glow,
O'er fields covered with glistening snow!
Skeins of geese fly on high silhouetted 'gainst the moon;
The scene is all set for a sleigh ride, so very opportune!
The sleigh has been shed of a years build-up of dust,
And its runners have been waxed, a requisite must!
Dashing Dan was harnessed with jingly bells of course;
For generations he's drawn the sleigh, this gentle and faithful horse!
Mom, Dad and the kids snuggle 'neath quilts warm and snug;
"Giddy up" says Dad and Dan leaps forward with a gentle tug!
They sing 'Jingle Bells' and other Yuletide tunes with joy;
Dad reminisces about sleigh rides with his Grandpa as a boy!
They sip mugs of warm cider and coffee to ward off the chill,
Hailing others with 'Merry Christmas', wishing them goodwill!
Arriving home and after Dan was stabled and the sleigh was stowed,
They sip cocoa nigh the hearth to warm up from the cold!
Precious memories were met this night for future family lore,
As they anticipate next year's moonlight sleigh ride once more.
Entry for Constance La France's "Writing Challenge - Write A Christmas Poem" Contest
25 November 2022
Who was this One born meek and mild,
this infant, Mary’s baby boy child ?
Why was He born in dark of night
beneath the star of brightest light ?
Countless in number the angels sang,
above the hillsides their praises rang.
Below in the fields were those thought least:
frightened shepherds whose wonder never ceased.
Who was this One of whom angels did sing:
the question of those with little to bring.
Even those stabled there knew that this night
because of Him, all would be set right.
Heralded in time by men from the east,
they came with great treasures upon their beasts.
Bowing low before the King of Kings,
they paid Him homage with finer things.
But what was so special about that night,
that which puts Christmas in it’s truest light ?
O, who is this One of majestic worth,
This One with rightful claim to the earth ?
Bevy of swans in a sea-fowl cloud,
starling mumuration,whispering aloud.
Wray of quail,where teal spring,
tiding of magpie,as larks nesting, cling.
Nightingale watch a hover of crows,
herd of wrens,hosting sparrows.
Flight of doves,lapwing deceit,
charm of finches,swallows sweet.
Kindle of kittens,knot of toads,
a yoke of oxen shed their load.
Den of snakes,skulk with fox,
shires stabled and boxed.
Business of ferrets,labour with moles,
span of mules in a string of foals.
Harrass of horse,husk of hares,
rake of colts with a stud of mares.
Drove of cattle,with a tribe of goats,
downs of sheep,pack of stoats.
Spider cluster in a thatch,
brood of game,hatched,matched
and despatched.