Long Stonewall Poems
Long Stonewall Poems. Below are the most popular long Stonewall by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stonewall poems by poem length and keyword.
A bird flies over a blue-green sphere,
but it doesn't measure a day or year -
it may be ten thousand years ago,
or perhaps, ten thousand years, hence -
the world glanced over by a crow
shows neither monument, wall, nor fence.
Sometimes, it soars, sometimes it flaps -
in the now, it knows no future or remains,
using eyes, not names on maps,
for it has no use for names.
Never, does it count up scores.
It only flaps and soars.
But you're human, so I will appease,
using man's names for these things it sees:
towering, fruit laden trees,
over desert hares enjoying breeze,
as they feel it softly blow
the date palms of Jericho.
Leatherbacks in the ocean, that glide free,
but hatch upon the land...whereupon,
they find their way back to the sea -
the turtles of Marathon.
Swimming to the river's song,
darting under an iceberg,
in a current, cold and strong,
the brook trout of Gettysburg.
Down below, a mountain steep
in the prairie far below
graze those austere sheep,
the bighorn of Ludlow.
Over the scrub and brush
and flying by the sea,
it spies the singing mistle thrush,
and gulls of Gallipoli.
Wildflowers bloom by trickling springs.
A mother bird patiently sits.
So pleasantly she sings -
a skylark in Auschwitz.
Living a life that's solitaire,
climbing on terrain that's rocky,
enjoying mountainous fresh air,
the serow of Nagasaki.
A kingfisher swoops down for a snack.
For a moment, he will not fly.
but will rest on the sturdy back
of a water buffalo in My Lai.
Spreading out his broad wings,
a seabird after a squall -
to her little chicks, a perch. she brings,
a cormorant in Stonewall.
Gazing at the full moon, in profile,
a striking pose, quite noble,
he mournfully howls all the while,
the grey wolf of Chernobyl.
Building a den in the sand,
the sweltering heat, to withstand,
this skittish animal was a
desert fox of Gaza.
Yet, there was one creature, unseen.
I wonder where its teeming masses went?
Was it unintelligent?
Was it unevolved?
Passenger pigeons or something mean -
a riddle dies unsolved.
Unruly rabble demolished statues of General Robert Lee.
Now, the politically correct clique is a-comin' after me!
My name is Robert Lee as well and 'twas so inopportune,
That I be associated with the General, my name to so impugn!
The mob wants to eradicate anything to do with General Lee,
Includin' his namesake little old insignificant me!
Besides all of that I'm a Yankee born in the Hoosier state,
And had nothin' to do with the Rebel Cause I'm happy to relate!
So any of you fellers named Stonewall Jackson or John Bell Hood,
Hunker down 'cause a request to change yer name is a likelihood!
Robert Lee (Hinshaw)
Many immortal words have been spoken in the heat of the moment,
During romantic settings, wars and other distressful foment!
Damsels have said, "I wouldn't be caught dead with that guy!"
Decades later she celebrates their fiftieth with love yet in her eye!
"We caught them napping!" the last words of the arrogant Custer.
Surprise! Surprise! He took on more than he could muster!
From the Titanic's crows nest, "Slow down! There's ice dead ahead!"
Said Captain Smith, "I've schedules to meet!" sailing on instead!
"They couldn't hit an elephant at this distance!", said the general.
They lifted Sedgwick off the ground, already planning his funeral!
Admiral Farragut roared, "Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!"
Easy for him to say, filling his sailors with terrible fear and dread!
"I only regret I have but one life to lose!" said Nathan Hale,
Before he was hustled off to the scaffold sans benefit of bail!
"Lets cross over the river and sit in the shade of the trees."
Said Stonewall Jackson, instantly shot in error, falling to his knees!
Goliath taunted, "Am I a dog that you come at me with sticks?"
David with his sling and stone showed Mr. Goliath a few tricks!
Wives claim husbands have a knack for having the last word:
"I ain't lost! No need to ask for directions!" immortal words often heard!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Of course I drew a stick person
I was a stick person with a mere bush and spots
stick-to-it-ive-ness
ants crawling on sticks for monkeys
eeh-ahh-eeh-eeh-ahh
stick to your guns
this is a stick up
not stuck up
stick your stomach in
stick your butt out
stick to the facts
these are the facts
stick with me
and i will stick with you
stickers of hearts and unicorns
and stick those lighters up
higher stick them up
now, stonewall
and stone to death
stepping stones
stone cold look
stoney point
stoners
stone cold drunk
on pebble stones
heart of stone
wearing stonewashed leather jeans
sticky buns make for
sticky fingers
chakra stones
sweat lodge stones
sticks and stones may break my bones
but these are just my bones
and for the highly sensitive words can
surely hurt more
used to live in the sticks
with all the hicks
standing stonesin parrallel by Lorenna
mckennit
Let he without sin throw the first stone
rolling stones concert in the
90's
Ye-hoo!
women used to be stoned to death for adultry
stone temple pilots-core
stone sour come whatever may
an iowa band
Rosalena means stone
match sticks and birthstones
her thoughts always stick together
I/She is coherent!
"It's like an Agatha Christie mystery where the tail is the head," ... by Poet.
Since when do shadows privy forward,
wealth measured lead imbue the Sun's light,
none be the tray of hearts, a crossword,
shuffle true your way gifts the catchword,
keys to secret clubs at mid-hours night.
Reserved seat nexus yours, the best friend,
show of hands, to the nines, nails -- dirt deep,
pick a card, save one that life; depend,
choose that blessed number, life might extend,
roll the dice, sow your life, gamblers reap.
Game of a lifetime, be it your own,
birth to present -- glows, after -- who knows?
The wheel spins; now wins and sins, they clone,
but when it STOPS! Silence, twilight zone.
Eyes 'rounds, yours stare ... you know who it chose.
Traceback days past years, I knew all?
A kid who hid ... closet bare -- no bones,
yet all the while, I faced a stonewall,
pockets full of intrigue, the Eighth Ball.
Cheers indeed, well played to 'Crossbones!'
So, 'twas you and me though always you,
games we play, day to day, dawn till night,
times I won 'twas part of the game, too,
your master plan was to define who?
Naught us? There's another! Who'd that might ...
My friend's family ... My Night of Nights!
A former worker ... focus on one!
Remembered why ... who'll show up in lights?
History this mystery -- ignites,
"Your chair ... so he can't make it ... your son?"
Urban jungle roosters,
born-again scarecrow,
to untutored city eyes,
tawny pipit stonewall nester,
jet black Inca dove bereft,
of dovetail on a croque monsieur,
idle bone grub crawl,
mother hen to sandy brown,
and velvet bill gazer,
from an nearby creak,
recent rural migrant now,
a tree house side kick,
chickadee a late date sitter,
on this air flock beaky natter,
or tweet between the ice float,
edgy grey day species wield,
their sprightly ruffled feathers,
as an orthopaedic surgeon,
and their spatula when scraping,
rancid bark off windmill elm trees,
gastric bugle trenchermen ahoy,
while ogling a fellow common redpoll,
oh these tummy rumble diners,
will zoom in on every gourmet,
tangled wire mesh feeder station.
round and round they’ll fly,
on zesty mission beetroot,
a cock-eyed scavenger‘s delight,
are they siblings of a noble order?
white tale mountain bluebirds swopping,
habitat for granite boundary habit,
off key off discordant choirboys,
six sided snow bird chorus,
ear splitter for tardy wakening,
they cheep religiously as if,
their only valid creed was,
window squinting prayer meets
After all this time, it is here,
Still here that you speak to me.
Here, where occasionally a vehicle passes by,
There is nothing else but nature and You, my Lord.
But it is here, in this place,
At this stonewall overlooking the valley
That all about me is so reminiscent of You.
I mean, who tames the wind but You, my God ?
Letting it soar free, and yet
Setting bounds and limitations to it’s soaring.
And the trees-
Who do they lift their branches to in praise
But You my God, the One who created them.
Yes it is here that I see your creative touch,
And it is here that You whisper, “I love you so much.”
Here, away from life’s clamoring noise,
It is here that my heart becomes filled with Your joy.
For I have communed with this One of might,
This One, this God of Love and Light.
This epidemic re: murderous love affair perfervid
with gruesome morbid
fixation allowing, enabling and providing terrifying
trappings, whence Pandora out the lid
anger loosed by gun toting recorded by hid
dee us aide de camp per grim reaper
milling crowd, each bewildered person stunned viz satanic grid
loosed bullets ensnare coterie upping ante bid
daring pernicious fare thee well odiously off loaded
per incendiary fiery maelstrom to mega death count added.
Suicide bombardier slakes thirst aims at billeted soiree
with deadly precision, and spray painting human innards
congregated engaged groupon people), with egregious pay
ment for exaggerated slight mowing down, a slew - nay
soon to be lifeless victims unaware - delivering may
hem to anonymous hunter a cannibal as well
family and survivors, who lay
down their sorrows, which bring revulsion and gray
obsolescence of faith in mankind to fray.
Death be not proud, nor ought airtime be allocated to these
heinous cavalier avengers foe tee eight-hour special (proffers
twitchy finger itching to squeeze
especial easy access to sophisticated high caliber compact
offspring family affair sport doth please
manifesting prize pride killing machine owners
posed as stonewall Jackson frieze
rapaciously with so much ease
lethal gimcrackery cutlasses incite epidemic violence as disease.
Sorrow soulful songs sung by the likes of death cab for cutie or goo
goo dolls in tandem with foo
fighting beastie boys pay homilies whence homage grew
to grateful dead nobody knew
fetishistic martyrs wannabe set sights of sister and mew
sic cull doobie brothers of their simian species with no sorrow to rue.
It seems like I fell off the map on my life journey,
my path has been twisted and quite ferny;
and beauty is concealed . . .
I have learned to dip and dive in life's battlefield,
but this warrior of fate could use a shield;
and perhaps an attorney !
Fate just keeps throwing me off mountains I climb,
I end up in dangerous places most of the time;
I could use a fate guide . . .
So that over oceans and quicksand I could glide,
and face- fate's devious footballs with pride;
life is often lemons and lime !
Wonder, would I find contentment on easy street,
no, I like this journey, music and beat;
I like catching the football . . .
Standing strong and tall when I hit a stonewall,
so, I will play the game and there is a windfall;
I could be an athlete !
_________________________
March 9, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/Simple Mutterings/Fate
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1002-488-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
On a summer night in Greenwich Village,
when neon trembled against wet pavement
and fear wore the uniform of the law,
a spark leapt from the shadows.
It was June 28, 1969.
The night the people who had been told
to lower their voices,
hide their hands,
change their walk,
bury their hearts,
finally said:
No.
At the doors of Stonewall Inn,
the pursuit of happiness ceased being a promise on paper
and became a demand carried by living, breathing souls.
Drag queens.
Runaways.
Dreamers.
Workers.
Artists.
Lovers.
People whose names history almost erased,
yet whose courage became a torch.
The world would later learn the names of heroes like
Marsha P. Johnson
and Sylvia Rivera,
but that night belonged to thousands,
each carrying a universe inside them,
each deserving the simple freedom
to exist.
To love.
To dance.
To breathe.
The journey was never straight.
It wound through funerals and protests,
through silence and song,
through years when hate marched openly
and hope marched anyway.
Yet every generation carried the banner forward,
stitching new colors into an unfinished quilt
of human dignity.
And as fate would have it,
the uprising began on the birthday of
Judy Garland,
whose voice had long offered refuge
to those searching for a place
somewhere over the rainbow.
Perhaps that is coincidence.
Perhaps it is poetry.
Today the rainbow flies in cities and small towns,
in courtrooms and classrooms,
in places where it once would have been dangerous
to whisper its name.
Not because the struggle is finished,
but because courage is contagious.
The pursuit of happiness
was never about chasing wealth,
or fame,
or applause.
It was always about the right
to wake each morning
unafraid of being yourself.
To hold a hand.
To speak your truth.
To live openly beneath the same sky
that belongs to everyone.
And so the voices continue.
Different accents.
Different stories.
Different songs.
Yet together they form a chorus
so powerful
that even history must stop and listen.
A chorus born in resistance,
carried by love,
and still marching
toward freedom.