Long Strollers Poems
Long Strollers Poems. Below are the most popular long Strollers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Strollers poems by poem length and keyword.
There are many perks to working in a bookstore…
There’s the books, the music playing in the background…
the wide variety of people I get to meet….
but one unexpected but welcomed perk…are all those baby feet.
Parents enter with their babies in strollers…and it’s the parents’ faces I first greet…
but before I see the baby’s face…dangling out in front…I see those baby feet.
As the stroller rolls by me…every baby who’s awake…I greet.
I wave and smile…happy to attach a face to those tiny baby feet.
But I have to admit that moment when I first see those baby feet
for me is a little emotional…beautiful…yet somewhat bittersweet.
It brings me back to when I held my children and grandchildren as babies
a memory I love to repeat
When what amazed me about the life I was holding in my arms
were those tiny baby feet.
I did not know at that time…in that moment so joyous and sweet
that I would have such a short time to enjoy their baby feet.
I did not realize back then…at that time…how could I know
with the persistence of Father Time how quickly those baby feet would grow.
Which makes me want to say to every parents behind every stroller
of every baby I happen to meet….
They are going to grow up fast…
so now is the time…
to take some time
and enjoy those baby feet.
He Once Wrote
How quickly the vanishing
Where once shone the sun
Now only skyscraper shade
Horse drawn wagons
Once parked below tenement smiles
As rope baskets lowered with coins
Sent back with apples and grapes
Knife sharpening push carts
Their grinding wheels
Ever turning razor sharp edges
Making cheap meat cut special
Tilted fedoras tipped
By cashmere-draped gangsters
Greeted numbers-hungry tenants
While knickered children
Ran their errands for pennies
Warning shop owners
They needed protection
Then...
Came post-war-family-building
Turning wanton streets alive
Baby strollers passed
Job hungry veterans passing
No Help Wanted signs
In slumlord heaven
How precarious his street became
Teetering between shelter and commerce
Preservation and extinction
Wrecking ball and obstinacy
Finally...
Housing Department placed him elsewhere
Nice
He guessed
Missed the old stairs though
Squeaks
Creaks
Scrapes
Sounds and smells
His special friends
Now
Seems little comfort is left
Modern whoosh of elevators
Whirls of air conditioning
Frequent ambulance sirens
Stopping below
Providing the lucky ones
With their last ride
Boredom no more
He once wrote
Little sweet Lucy..four years..so small.
Her pink teddy bear.. and her Barbie doll.
Pushed strollers of fun. ..in traipse of malls.
Then a Topsy turvy evil.. stifles her a thrall.
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
Crawls a cruel connive...arrives a sudden sinister.
Wrangles her hard destiny. .lurks a doomed disaster.
Poor Child, ...Leukemia is now her master.
She collapses into the arms.. of a malevolent monster.
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
Wasn't Blood red. .that flowed in our veins?
Her's was a translucent black. ..
only strains..and those pains.
With her curly hair shaved. .the ugly doll sustains.
Syringe of thorns prick. .a rose.. to sick bed detains.
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
Crummy " Chemo" of the 'Crab '. .
creeps on the little dummy.
There's yucky throw of food...
from her aching tummy.
Fear stricken Dad.. and a tear streaked Mummy. .
Her outstretched arms.. say..
"I know you both love me"
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
The helpless girl.. gets weaker and thinner.
She longs for the table...sit together for dinner.
Forlorn she quirks.. in the MRI shiver.
Fighting with Cancer. .her spleen and liver.
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
Painkillers help ..seeing windows and walls.
Doctors are elves... and Fairy nurses call.
To live without dying. .she daily sprawls. ..
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
A desolate girl..she dreams. .playing with dolls.
PLACED THIRD IN SCREWED POETRY CONTEST by Rob Carnack
7th October 2018
A Poem of Reaction Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Julia Ward.
Pink fringed lotus,
stunning leaf floater,
suffusing pond surface,
beneath sapphire sky,
in stoic city pond,
charming capture,
casual strollers peep,
as vim skims,
reflection of visages,
luscious liquid stream,
fluid canvas,
water in atmosphere.
or pool intensifies,
navy blue welkin,
august morning shift,
in shade or tint,
hue’d reservoir,
sapphire firmament,
a momentary pause,
for zestful urbanite,
bowl-shape flora,
or vapored vault,
coalescing influence,
bridging distance,
town dynamism,
lush environment,
bosom buddy treaty
Part 1 - London's Medieval Minster
Cathedrals come, cathedrals go,
but none impresses or enthralls
(summer drought or winter snow,
sparkling springs or foggy falls)
quite like the Church of Old Saint Paul's.
Six hundred years this marvel stood,
surviving earthquakes, wars and fires:
vaulting not of stone, but wood,
with one of Europe's tallest spires,
so plainly seen from eastern shires.
The doors of transepts north and south
(the shorter "arms", that is to say)
were never closed. Each monstrous mouth
admitted strollers, night and day,
like Shakespeare, off to see a play.
But nothing lasts. All things must pass.
No permanence is ever found.
Grief follows joy. All flesh is grass.
First, the mighty spire was downed,
then the roof (by now unsound)
was razed completely to the ground.
...early Spring walk around 3.2mi. Lake Calhoun...so named after controversial industrialist sotten with checkered past...movement underway to return name to Native American Dakota "Bde Maka Ska" White Earth Lake.
Purple Finches trill their soothing song
to people walking around Lake Bde Maka Ska,
a deep glacial lake in the heart of Minneapolis.
A lone Eagle cruises above, easily snatching
spawning Carp from the shallows, gracefully
cruising away, talons firmly clutching the
writhing Carp.
I enjoy watching families enjoying their first
walk around the lake, infants in strollers taking in their first inhalations of sights, sounds and
smells after winter isolation.
Young people wander wide-eyed, wondering
how the world sees them, as they establish
identity through dress, movement & interaction
with others...subtle changes will occur as the
summer evolves...reacting or not, to perceived
reflection.
Most of all, I enjoy my own movement,
evaluating subtle changes I notice in myself,
returning to the park bench by the path where
I comfortably situated my 87yr. old Mom,
grateful to have the opportunity to once more
enjoy our city of lakes, wondering how many
more such gifts she will enjoy,
Grateful
for
the
moment
5/7/17
?If The Sidewalk Could Talk?
On July 4, 2022, a?? mass shooting? occurred during the 4??th? of July parade in? Highland Park,?? Illinois??, United States. The shooting occurred at 10:14 am, roughly 15 minutes after the? parade had started. Robert E. Crimo III killed seven people, and 48 others were wounded? by bullets or shrapnel.?
?
The ground shakes beneath my feet.?
?Fireworks? My eyes dart across the crowd,?
?A tiny hand tugs at her mom’s skirt in panic.?
?Cracking sounds split open?
?my brain, trapped in its fortress.?
?
Suddenly, a silence clings to the air,?
?heavy and unmoving, settling in like dust.?
?My mother pulls me back with trembling force,?
?my father walks forward, his figure steady?
?starting to be swallowed by chaos.?
?
The screams explode, thick?
?like the smoke hanging in the distance,?
?it wraps around me, pressing into my chest.?
?I want to scream, to shatter the unbearable sounds,?
?but my voice is buried under the rubble of fear.?
?
Strollers, backpacks, a teddy bear, left behind,?
?the innocent litter of a moment never to be undone.?
?The sudden weight of a world turned fragile,?
?where laughter has fractured into fear.?
?
Mothers with arms flung out,?
?as if reaching can shield the sky.?
?Fathers grasping at the unprotectable.?
?
The sidewalk at 620 central avenue?
?forever stained red with organs?
?painting the sidewalk over smeared chalk?
?of an American Flag.?
?
A nation of storms, I am frayed under the weight of invisible wounds.?
A morning walk along the beach has some lovely consequences…I
t is the best way I can think of to wake up all the senses.
With your first step you feel the coolness of a breeze against your face and the sand between your toes…you look around and realize Mother Earth is already putting on a show.
Immediately upon entering you are put under nature’s spell…looking at all the impressions in the sand with all the stories they can tell.
If you happen to arrive early enough…ahead of the inevitable crowds…
you hear the rhythm of the waves and gaze out to where the water meets the clouds.
The clouds…as clouds are wont to do are constantly changing shapes and sizes…
and begin to catch the colors of the sun as, from the east, she rises.
You pause a moment to enjoy the aroma of the ocean…and it sets your senses free…
as you look around and all you see is sky and sand and sea.
While on your walk you begin to see other people…on any given day…
you smile and quickly greet each other as you pass along the way.
Fishermen, people jogging, families out for a day of fun…
people swimming, babies in strollers…a grandpa and grandson.
You see boats upon the horizon, watch and listen as egrets and pelicans soar…
you pass the remains of a crumbling sandcastle built the day before.
When your walk is over…you decide to go in for a cool refreshing dip….
and when you bring your head out of the water you can taste the salt upon your lips.
You might remark at how the water is still cool…even in the last days of July…
then you go out, sit under your umbrella and read a book until you’re dry.
When it’s time to go, you pack up…you take one last look around…and you smile
glad to have spent some time here…even for for a little while…
As you head out you pass more people who are just now heading in…
Your time on the beach is over…there’s is about to begin…
You look back once you pass them…smile because you understand….
They’re about to add their own impressions….their own stories to the sand.
Babies get around on wheels;
From strollers, we can hear their squeals.
Tricycles help toddlers get
To where their legs won’t take them yet.
Wheels on buses, rolling ‘round
Propel our travels off the ground.
Bicycles supply the means
For people who lack limousines.
Kids on skates roll through the parks;
Skateboards also leave their marks.
Taxis, airplanes, even trains
All have wheels for their terrains.
We don’t dwell too much on wheels.
Still, I wonder how it feels
For those whose wheelchairs do provide
The only way to get outside.
I guess we all pay much more heed
To things in life we really need.
Yet somehow, all of us rely
On tires and wheels to get us by.
The walking trail around the lake
crunches like a full bags of crisps
at a Fall football game.
The oak leaf refuse curls frost burnt inward.
The manmade lake still, motionless
a covering of snow cone slurry
drapes the depths.
Prepubescent boys lob mud covered
boulder bombs through the lakes sheath.
Babies born in Winters night
emerge enthroned in umbrella strollers
whooshed in cocoon-buntings by
proud twosomes through the Sping mud.
Jogging homemakers
with fish bottom white legs
hurl themselves round and round
the circular track careening past
young lovers who can’t unplug.
Missing the first kiss of Spring.