Long Stoves Poems
Long Stoves Poems. Below are the most popular long Stoves by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stoves poems by poem length and keyword.
This poem was inspired by the interviews by Earl K. Pollon and S. S. Matheson conducted with native Sekanni peoples who were negatively effected by the flooding of their communal homelands by the building of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam. “This Was Our Valley” tells that story of injustice. 640 square miles of riverfront and hunting territory would be flooded to form Williston Lake. The Sekanni peoples were driven from their ancestral homeland in northeastern British Columbia, Canada and dispersed.
The Shopping Cart Injustice
People, place and spirit
All were our relations
Biopeds, quadrupeds, winged or finned -
River language told us so.
Fishing rocks spoke the run
Where the riffles and the rapids talked.
Ancestors, dead and alive, told living stories where
Running the river banks, the children played.
The land was a book written in forms.
We made our mark with love, community
Fishing weirs, aspen dugout canoes,
Hunting trails, camps and sacred sites.
Always traders, we traded furs with
White settlers when they arrived
On the rivers Parsnip, Finlay and Peace at
Finlay Forks, Fort Grahame, Fort McLeod.
We added pack trains, teams of pack horses
River freighters, flat bottom ‘longboats’
For supplies and for mail delivery.
It seemed that we could live together.
Then one day a government agent said
That shopping carts were coming
They would flood our world
Water rising everywhere
Shopping carts with electric can openers
Full, fast to check out,
Shopping carts with electric hair blowers,
Full, faster to check out,
Shopping carts with electric air conditioners,
Full, fastest to check out
Shopping carts with electric stoves.
Check out, check out, check out.
They would make our rivers into a lake
We would move or drown.
Our elders did not believe it.
That was the only consultations!
Soon Saskatoon berries all under water
Next, the banks sloughed back to graveyards
Next, cliffs crumbled, and banks fell into rising lake
Houses of the villages slipped and floated
Coffins, bones and bodies strewed the shore
Where tangled trees, debris and more
Eddied with flotsam in the wind.
We wept for our ancestors!
We weep for our children.
We had to flee the destruction
Caused by tree grinders, D-9 bull dozers
The dam construction.
Now they want to take more
Another dam for more shopping carts.
Please stop Site ‘C’.
Young Raymond worked the bakery
was up 'bout ten to three.
Just eighteen, still in high school he
had dreams of flying free.
He worked as hard as most grown men
then walked to school and slept.
Took all his wages home to Mom
who thanked him as she wept.
His forte's were science and math
in those he could engage.
Yet beneath all his knowledge was
a silent, anxious rage.
He dreamed, "I'll be an astronaut,"
but worked the fierce hot stoves.
"Impossible to soar," he'd think
while baking bread in loaves.
Young Raymond lost his childhood by
the time he reached sixteen.
Quiet brilliant in mathematics he
soon knew bread as his dean.
Scattered among the loaves of bread,
the flour, water, yeast,
he lost that precious dream-hope and
became an aged beast.
One fine May day in Physics class
with windows opened wide,
most students lolling at their desk,
our Raymond jumped and died.
His skull was broken on the sidewalk
entrance to our school.
Striding across the room's wood floor
he dove into a pool
of warm spring air as he took flight
toward impending death.
We gasped and ran toward the bay
while holding back our breath.
Some of us thought he'd stand upright
until we saw the blood.
Our teacher pressed the intercom
he'd shuddered at the thud.
Somewhere inside that bright young mind
with dreams of soaring high,
the walls of Raymond's world caved in
and left him asking why?
Not old enough to be a man
yet lost to days of youth,
his brilliant mind found no escape
he couldn't cipher truth.
Epilogue
While deputies worked at the scene
we all departed school.
With camera, tape, and clipboard they
applied fact-finding tools.
Yet none could reason why he jumped
and in May chose to die.
His teacher and the Sheriff would
return to find out why.
A physics book lay on his desk
a paper on the leaves.
Mathematically he'd worked it out,
two grown men were bereaved.
He knew the precise distance from
the window to the walk.
His pen the feet per second for
his keen mind to meet shock.
He'd chosen one three story flight
over stacks and rowd of bread,
abandoning the ovens that
had given him deep dread.
I think of him on fine May days
rich with ambrosial air.
I hope that Raymond soars the skies
and sees his world as fair.
Losing Raymond
Elysian fields long since embraced dada's soul
which rocketed into aerospace
(courtesy General Electric satellite)
just a tad more'n eighteen plus months ago,
nevertheless melancholy
still plucks mine heart strings.
Mine psyche still situated awry
placid countenance of yours truly doth belie
residual sadness easily prompted
can easily trigger me to cry
linkedin when grim reaper gloated
October 7th, 2020
ye did somewhat peacefully die
though methinks immortality
I did briefly espy,
when miracles of modern medicine
tried, but could not
stave off mortality nor fortify
depredations of aging concerning
one wunderkind whose accomplishments
laudatory when a young handsome guy,
whose intelligence scored high
native talent aptitude tests did imply.
The late Boyce Brandon Harris
exhibited prolific talents at young age
aside being scholastically gifted,
acquiring graduate degree
courtesy Columbia University,
freshly minted mechanical engineer
(he admirably ranked within
uppermost percentile academically),
I hashtag thy mine deceased father
(a polymath - jack-of-all-trades),
who possessed (née excelled)
at diverse creative abilities.
Aside from being schooled
as mechanical engineer,
(which courses in mathematics and science
he passed with flying colors)
his mind genetically bequeathed
to craft almost anything under the sun
evidenced first by yours truly,
the second offspring and sole son
who ofttimes felt intimidated
at being in presence
of said Renaissance man.
Handicrafts included
expending blood, sweat, and tears
to craft multitude of projects;
i. building me Flintstone (foot powered)
car with wooden license plate.
ii. making playhouse for all three
of us - his progeny.
iii. amassing wood pile(s),
to stoke wood burning stoves
iv. designing Zayda trail for Teddy and Ruff
(two doggone mixed breed Border Collies
rescued courtesy youngest sister
at her Jacobsburg, Penna work site)
v. constructing sauna in cellar,
This new age technology
Have me confuse I must confess
Cause while I spending more money
Everything else is getting less
I will give you some example
Hope you don’t get depress
But if I’m telling the truth
Just answer and tell me yes
Our telephones now
Are all wire wireless
And them new stoves
Now are completely fireless
A woman in Trinidad washing cloths
On the tree she throws her dress
I ask her why not use a line
She say she going wireless
Google making new cars now
That is driverless
And you just press a button to start
Its is also keyless
They even changing fast food also
To make them completely fatless
So you can eat all you want
While your wallet become cashless
A woman in Malaysia
Have to children who are jobless
And she quarrelling with her husband
Because them wives today are fearless
So while the cost of living rising
Our value become less
The world is in recession
Those leaders are directionless
Today you see young couples
Some of them cheat so heartless
Because to them relationships
Are completely meaningless
Some today have bad attitudes
And live life so careless
And when you tell them good morning
They say mind your own business
My friend the romantic dude
With then women he has success
But if he don’t marry one
Then he will be living wifeless
The fees in universities are expensive
While education are become valueless
And everywhere in the world today
You will meet people who are manner less
A man buys his wife a perfume
They call it timeless
Then he trying to lose some weight
so he drink is completely sugarless
My girlfriend gives me lunch in a bowl
It was completely soup less
Them ask me if my belly full
Saying today we going foodless
So I tell her yes darling
It was so delicious
Because if I hurt her feeling
She might leave me loveless
Yes the 21 st century
Has everything is getting less
But still am and optimist
And will keep my hope endless
I told you long ago that this land called "Romania" has exhausted its sources of blood and dreams.
For 35 years, we've been walking the thin line of memories, on the debts left by those shaped under Ceau?escu,
but they are slowly retreating to the quiet pensions and to the Cold Park of fleeting shadows.
Those who follow are merely dreamers of small trades, a kind of Hittites wandering through markets,
and it's no wonder that Georgescu wants to appoint them Land Leaders, shepherds for a lost nation.
A forgotten model of pueblo, like the Mayans who wove the sky with the earth, boroughs breathing history,
a combination of lost tribes and medieval ages, a time that was never born.
Perhaps another 935 years under an iron hand were needed for Romanians to become a nation of dreams and hope,
but never! They are talking tools that cannot be quiet in the toolbox of history.
Personally, I would lean towards a utopia between an ashram and a kibbutz, a sort of camp finding its place,
under the open sky of a cauldron where dreams and desires mix, grills and stoves, a dance of fire and smoke.
Here, between the heated stoves and woks that swirl the aromas of life, you clearly see we are nomads of the soul,
or perhaps the Brought Ones, nourished by the camps of a present seeking roots in a world of mist and echo.
In this story, we always find the same images, the same longings that do not fade,
a country searching for its identity in the smoke of an eternal fire, a nation dancing in endless circles,
where the past and future meet in a melancholic dance, like a song that never stops.
I told you long ago that this land called "Romania" has exhausted its sources of blood and dreams.
For 35 years, we've been walking the thin line of memories, on the debts left by those shaped under Ceau?escu,
but they are slowly retreating to the quiet pensions and to the Cold Park of fleeting shadows.
Those who follow are merely dreamers of small trades, a kind of Hittites wandering through markets,
and it's no wonder that Georgescu wants to appoint them Land Leaders, shepherds for a lost nation.
A forgotten model of pueblo, like the Mayans who wove the sky with the earth, boroughs breathing history,
a combination of lost tribes and medieval ages, a time that was never born.
Perhaps another 935 years under an iron hand were needed for Romanians to become a nation of dreams and hope,
but never! They are talking tools that cannot be quiet in the toolbox of history.
Personally, I would lean towards a utopia between an ashram and a kibbutz, a sort of camp finding its place,
under the open sky of a cauldron where dreams and desires mix, grills and stoves, a dance of fire and smoke.
Here, between the heated stoves and woks that swirl the aromas of life, you clearly see we are nomads of the soul,
or perhaps the Brought Ones, nourished by the camps of a present seeking roots in a world of mist and echo.
In this story, we always find the same images, the same longings that do not fade,
a country searching for its identity in the smoke of an eternal fire, a nation dancing in endless circles,
where the past and future meet in a melancholic dance, like a song that never stops.
Themed based
takes the place
of sponsorship strategies
a consortium of things
that angles on the
possibilities
Wrong choices
selfish motives
and disobedience
are key points to began
instruction
each theme focuses on
person " Anyone"
who needs instruction
but does know
the right terminology to
illustrate what he or she needs
Thematism and Sponsorage
teaches terminology with
word usage and definitions
to separate
the confusion
of spoken words
in play or in day to day
communication.
We will take time
to find each genre were each
term is usaed and
define it's purpose.
Using the right word in
the right pretext
illustrates one's professionalism.
Incontext studies
will separate each term to use
words in the jargon and field
where it is surpassed to be.
For example Prise Mandel
is smart. But a person on his job
doesn't like him.
Instead of auguring with him
or fighting him
he uses his position as manger
to get Brice into trouble.
He put's Brice in charge of
management while he is on vacation.
He tells Brice that he is to
reopen the restaurant after hours
and asks Brice to
clean the grills and stoves before
inspection.
He tell Brice to write
the chore list under
the title " duty of the Flurrers".
Flurrer is a **** term. When
the District manager came
to review the books she see's
Brices entry in the Chore Ledger
under Duties of the Furriers:
and she instantly fires Brice for
being unprofessional. Brice has
now been seen as a joker, someone
unprofessional. And he doesn't
ed and worked
to achieve.
Smoke trickles from red brick stack
Children make ready for slumber
Through the frosty panes of boudoir glass
Eyes amaze at the wonder before
Amber radiant glow of street lamp
Broken by fall of crystalline confetti
Obscuring rays and speckling ground white beneath
Sleep won’t come soon
As preparations cease and excitement mounts
Six unblinking eyes, mesmerized
Three smiles grow wider in anticipation
Darkness’ shroud powerless to suppress
The ever thickening blanket of pureness
The sky, once grey with cloud gives way
To hues of pink in silent tribute to a seasons’ finest hour
Adolescent lids grow heavy
In tune with the boughs of fir they watch
Sleep comes unwillingly; but with it
Dreams of silver blades and alabaster characters
Orange of nose, black of eyes with imperfect grins
Trident tracks dot the snowy surface
Evidence of the morning’s vain forage
The songbirds’ voice echoes in accompaniment
To the celestial dance bringing dawn to the world.
“Academia on ice for the day”
A radio resonates the children’s wishes
Followed closely by a fervent scramble
for wellies, scarves and long since lost mittens
Runners scrape trenches down every hill and berm
The screams of white warfare, giggles from fresh angels
Jubilant reminders of unplanned vacation.
The Aroma of hot chocolate gently simmering on stoves
Is too much temptation for little cold nose
Jackets and gloves are shed in wet heaps
In favor of mugs for their hands, and a fire for their seats
It slips in at night. Stealthy and low at first.
A few flakes pick up speed as the first low howl can be heard.
Wind howls against the house, branches scratching at the window like a cat trying to get in.
Heavy wet snow can be heard plastering itself onto everything.
Lights flickering as if planning on going out.
Snow in the street lights, heavyweight thumping down trees.
Tree limbs crash down on wires, popping sounds and sparks as transformers are taken out.
Cities go dark as power is lost, houses grow cold as the furnaces die down.
Sleep finally wins out till mornings light awakes.
The storm does not abate.
Everything covered in white, an eerie and wonderful state.
Trees coated in snow, winds whipping the limbs around mimicking the haunting of ghosts.
Snow drifts piling high as others places scoured clear and clean.
The snow hammers down and will for hours more.
Smoke in the chimneys, stoking the wood stoves and fireplaces as homes warm back up relying on the old ways to stay warm.
As the storm slowly dies down the soldiers of winter shovels in hand begin to roust about, bringing some semblance of order back to the homestead again.
Kids in the yards warring with white ammunition as school was called off. Snow angels with Frosty dancing around the yard. Sleighing and yelling can be heard out in the fields.
Mom back at home prepares hot chocolate with marshmallow delights for all the frosty nose participants from this winters stormy night.
Imagine a standard barrel of crude oil – 42 gallons.
The barrel unit of measure dates back to 1859
When Pennsylvania oil wells were first drilled
And the wooden ‘tierce’ wine cask
Holding 42 gallons and weighing about 300 pounds
Was about all one man could maneuver.
Today, a barrel of crude oil sells for about eighty dollars,
About half the retail price of its contents
In four dollar-per-gallon gasoline at the pump.
That sounds like a lot of profit for the oil companies.
But wait…
That barrel of crude oil refined into gasoline
Yields less than 20 gallons of automotive fuel.
There is also about 12 gallons of diesel oil left
To fill the trucks and power emergency generators.
From what’s left over after that,
There’s 2.6 gallons of jet fuel
To power all the airliners in the world.
The remainder yields about 1.8 gallons of asphalt
To pave roads for the cars and runways for the aircraft.
Still left over is a bit less than a gallon of propane
To power our portable stoves and barbecue grills.
Still left at the bottom of that barrel is enough raw material
For 540 toothbrushes, 65 plastic drinking cups,
Twenty-three hula hoops and 65 plastic dustpans,
Almost 200 one-cup plastic measures, 135 synthetic rubber balls,
Thirty-nine polyester T-shirts and a quart of paint thinner.
That $80 barrel of oils looks like a huge bargain now,
A veritable ‘horn of plenty’,
When viewed from a fuller perspective.