Long Stoops Poems
Long Stoops Poems. Below are the most popular long Stoops by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stoops poems by poem length and keyword.
Nature’s had enough of us
she’s sending in her troops
squirrels in the attics
raccoons on the stoops
Peacock’s flash their plumage
hawk’s do loop-de-loops
coyote’s stalk the waddling geese
across their field of poops
Black bears are going door to door
looking for things to scoop
wild turkey’s at the bus stop
are quite a fearsome group
Possum’s sit at dumpster doors
their sated bellies droop
feral cats ply their trade
as an owl plots its swoop
And so as sunset claims the night
and you sit down to soup
be wary of the presence
of Mother Nature’s troupe
John G. Lawless
©10/29/2019
Slogging swampy bogs, suction at the feet
Like pushing through molasses with a spoon
No evidence of forward progress made
Mired in a morass of foul decay
Vile filth closing in on what once was
Trapped in horrid ever-present now
Who can say what tomorrow brings?
What does tomorrow even mean?
The hands of time are bound up tight
Fetid vapors rushing up
Senses overwhelmed, recoil
Oppressive, suffocating
Forward has no meaning
No option for retreat
The world is closing in
Rudderless and lost
Disoriented
Every way is down
Such heaviness
Stoops the shoulders
Buckles the knees
Despairing
Silent screams
Go unheard
Hopeless
Endless
Nightmare
No
Way
Out
—————
For the 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 11 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Written 07/13/2022
He squats the entire day,
extending his empty cup.
Cold sweat oozing from the pores
of his slack bristly white face,
yet he crouched spiritless,
hoping for kindness to tumble.
Desire split his dry lips,
but he stoops without a murmur,
parting the busy shoppers,
roaming up and down the Plaza.
He makes rhythm with his cup,
a somber rhythm that plunges into the ground.
People pass by in a rush and ignore his plea.
Without warning a weight, falls upon his head,
and he collapses to the ground.
His weary eyelids stop throbbing,
the sweat drys up ,
and mercy plunges desperately
into his cup, but poverty stares.
©2013 Christine Phillips
Photo: RIVERVIEW AMUSEMENT PARK
~POSTED BY MY GUARDIAN ANGEL~
We were just kids in silken ribbons and braids,
Playing cut-outs in Chicago's summers toasty shade.
The clanging streetcars ran in front of our homes.
Who cared, we were licking delicious ice cream cones!
There was no such scare as " sugar is evil."
Anymore than the chance, that we'd find an intrepid boll weevil.
There was no TV till we were a tad older.
But we went to movies every Saturday and laughed so hard that
we cried on each others shoulders.
We shopped at Woolworth's Dime Stores.
Bought "Blue Waltz" cologne and little lockets, girls our age adored.
The big treat was going to magical Riverview Amusement Park,
The alchemy of the stars made it totally magic.....after dark.
Swimming back in the oceans of my heart's time,
I see how God blessed me to read books and learn how to rhyme.
Mom and Dad bought me many books.
I had a roll top desk, such a lovely, bright wooden look.
We loved saddle shoes, boy were they cool.
We'd sit and polish them,so lovely,we would drool.
We sat on the stoops and watched men in uniform, go to war.
Some sadly, with our tears, we saw their blue eyes no more.
On your back porch we sat on the great family swing.
Hearing songs and stories-the essence of my past,is so overpowering!
10/31/2020
Tribute to Joanie, my best friend since age seven!
Thanks for decades of memories!
Love, Panagiota
New York is not the skyline.
It is the man on 116th
watering the sidewalk
like concrete can get thirsty too.
It is the cracked yellow fingernail
of the lady at the deli
who knows your sandwich
before your mouth opens.
It is the little girl asleep on two train seats
in a princess coat
while her mother, still in scrubs,
leans against the window
with tired in her bones
and tomorrow already waiting.
It is not Times Square.
It is the faded mural
half covered by scaffolding,
the one everybody passes
but somebody paid for in grief.
It is the fruit man
stacking bruised bananas in a pyramid
like even the almost-gone things
deserve to look beautiful.
It is pigeons bullying a bagel.
A church hat on a windy corner.
A laugh too loud for the block
and nobody mad at it.
It is the barber
turning a boy toward the mirror
so slowly
you’d think he was revealing
the future.
It is the woman on the bus
holding a birthday cake flat in both hands
like trust is still possible.
It is how summer smells
when the hydrant is open,
when children turn screaming
into a kind of music,
when even the heat
seems to come up from the people
instead of the sun.
It is old men playing dominoes
with the force of history.
Teenagers walking in packs,
all bravado and baby faces.
Sneakers tied to wires.
A plastic bag dancing
like it has somewhere urgent to be.
New York is a city
forever fixing its wig in a broken mirror.
A city with chipped teeth
and gold in the smile.
A city that curses you out,
holds the door,
and keeps walking
like kindness was an accident
nobody needs to talk about.
It is not made of landmarks.
It is made of almosts.
Almost home.
Almost rich.
Almost gone.
Almost summer.
Almost caught the train.
Almost made it.
And still
every morning
it ties its boots,
opens its gates,
lifts its shutters,
sells its coffee,
sweeps its stoops,
and begins again
like beginning again
is the most ordinary miracle
in the world.
This is New York,
not the version printed on T-shirts,
but the one with grocery carts,
school uniforms,
side-eye, steam, sirens, saints,
and one good hoop earring
left on the sidewalk
like evidence
somebody magnificent
was here.
Life means I can talk to my friends and others,
When the untravelled sea fills with brothers,
Pleasure rushes the uninhabited areas we just don't sail,
And when we semiotically emit our meaning, we will prevail;
Freedom rings with resonance resounding and pervasive,
No need for more traditional others to be abrasive,
No bears or wolves, no chides, jibes, and no probes obtrusive,
Your identity is your construct, your speech is conclusive.
And my books! Alas my books. They proffer so such contentment,
A breadth of knowledge with no suggestions delinquent,
Nor are there any accusers to accost,
My mind and spirit which upon some can be lost,
Possibilities endless, bringing depth of character,
They glint and glide, swimming in grammar;
Multiple amounts of information councel my hesitation,
Brimming particulars restrain inhibition.
But oh my computer: How elegant is she!
Believing in my easy registrations as well as my errors to be;
Such possibilities, moulded so neatly into my space,
Without the communal glare of uniformity’s trace;
Personalised desktop, memory and input method,
It accepts me unquestioned with no staff or flogging rod;
I program to set the user interface alight,
With the functionality and procedures of the user’s plight.
However, I can also give myself my own system,
Personal software from my own inclination;
Knowing some designers do not have in hand,
The shortcuts that only I seem to understand;
A software engineer’s god complex should not surface,
The digital space is a privilege to influence, place;
I love determining the screen and its sounds,
Where freedom of knowledge and data abound.
But the gift of poetry delights and ignites,
Hurtful regressions lull in its sight;
Its credibility only ever stoops to concede,
That only your introversion may expression impede;
Language caressed, dignity nursed,
You never need to be at all reimbursed;
Its haters are silent for fear of rebuke,
As truth, imagination and love are its hook.
Who is like You, O Lord, in all the earth?
He who breathes galaxies as easily as men exhale,
He who paints the sky with colors no eye has named
And yet stoops low to cradle the sparrow in His hand.
Who is like the One who carved mountains with a whisper,
Yet stitched lilies with more care than kings stitch robes?
The heavens are Your curtain, the stars Your scattered jewels,
And the earth Your humble footstool kissed by glory.
You told light to walk, and it ran.
You commanded night to fall, and it bowed.
The sun obeys Your schedule, the moon reflects Your poetry,
And time itself waits at the door of Your will.
Who is like You, who sits on eternity yet walks in my dust?
You shaped my lungs with Your breath,
Wove my soul with threads of thunder and mercy,
And called me good when I was still but dust and longing.
The trees clap their hands at Your arrival,
The oceans hush to hear Your whisper.
Even silence sings when You pass by!
Creation is drunk with awe,
and I drown in the flood of Your wonder.
Who made fruit taste sweet and thorns grow with purpose?
Who made deserts bloom and bones rise from valleys?
You turn graves into gardens, ashes into beauty,
And a sinner like me into a psalm of grace.
The earth is not just Yours it is You, reflected.
Every breeze is a kiss of Your Spirit,
Every thunder is a roar of Your justice,
And every heartbeat mine included is a drumbeat of Your presence.
So I cry: Who is like You, O Lord?
Not in heaven, not in earth, not in time, nor in eternity.
You are unsearchable yet near, invisible yet seen.
You are paradox wrapped in love, glory wrapped in dust.
Blessed are You, Most High
My Maker, my Music, my Morning Star.
Let all I am burn to tell of who You are.
For even if I had a thousand tongues, they'd all fall short.
Still, I will sing.
Saying who is like you oh lord in all the earth
and the heavens above
Between my soul and God there yawns
a chasm stretching out so wide
I cannot see the other side
from where I stand against the dawn.
How great the gulf of human pride,
of degradation, sin and woe;
yet, I the true depth do not know
nor can I judge it where I hide
among the trees, all covered o'er
with self-made robes my mind contrives
of dubious good deeds and lies,
just withered fig leaves, nothing more.
My soul cries out in agony,
"can no one turn the dreadful tide?"
And Christ, the one I have defied,
stoops down to taste my misery.
My heart is wrung in Sorrow's grip;
an awful pounding fills the air,
and, like a dog in mad despair
with glassy eyes and foaming lip,
I stare in holy terror now
as upward, out of that dark deep,
a cross takes form. From steep to steep,
it spans the gulf to where I bow.
There, in my night, I dimly see
the Son of God slain, crucified:
how can two arms stretch out so wide
in love to bridge infinity?
© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson
Hey YOU,
Yes, I’m talking to YOU
Please listen to me…
You used to comment on almost every poem
But you don’t visit me of late
So I have to ask the question,
Why has your support turned to hate?
Actually… don’t bother answering that
because now I know
A little bird told me the reason why
They’ve been advised on 'twofacedbook'
NOT to comment on my poems.
It's a sad fact they did not deny.
So we have a puppeteer who pulls so many strings
Sadly, blinkered marionettes keep dancing
to tunes and keep doing these petty things.
Well, to be honest I’m glad you’ve cut the ties
It’s a pity folks can’t make up their own minds
and not listen to malicious gossip and lies.
12/22/17
Background to the poem. I made a comment on a poem about a lack of reads and comments recently. Totally out of the blue another person informed me they had been requested via twofacedbook not to comment on my poems but thankfully they took no notice of this. They did not mention who is behind it and to be honest I don’t want to know, but I am just sad that someone stoops so low.
Comments or no comments I will continue to write and be an active member of the soup community and will deterred from posting on soup
An ancient mariner in the seamless sea seemingly serene,
I am sailing with solemn determination for ages,
both in the radiance of the luminous sunshine,
and at times when the testing tempest rages.
The onyx sky tears open with a furious scream,
signaling danger in cosmic sound across shattered seas.
Clouds clash with unending surge in bruised black sky
as winds run wild through the ribs of shoreline trees.
The sky descends clad in the bashed robes of gloomy grey
as the swelling waves break in foams of blinding white.
The shrieking winds command the wild sea its diktat,
ingest the stifled spark of the splintered moon’s light.
Rain strikes the indigo vastness like dropped-down blight,
while the splitting flashes of lightning slink burning hand.
With each roar of rupturing thunder, sharp and abrupt,
the sky stoops low to abide by the tempest’s command.
On the azure swells of the rolling waves of menace,
rising high with the fallen sky and plunging abysmal low,
my senile antique boat pitches, and I struggle hard
to keep it afloat, the voyage is painfully slow.
But to reach the yonder shore destined for me
I know I have to sail steadfast for long and very far.
Lost and forlorn in the tempestuous alien sea
I search vainly for the ubiquitous guide, the pole star.
I discover in the end the guiding beacon of acuity,
shining as the divine star hidden within me,
tracing in psyche the course to the final destination
I have been relentlessly trying so long to see.
Then the new daylight seeps through the fleeting clouds
to sparkle on the jagged crests of the glass of blue.
The silence falls where thunder once shouted loud,
as hope swathes my world with radiant sanguinity new.
YOU are waiting at the edge of my trying time
in the eternal realm of the heavenly shore for me,
I’ll reach even though I don’t know yet why for so long
I’m sailing in the tempest across the tormenting sea.