Long Sunburn Poems
Long Sunburn Poems. Below are the most popular long Sunburn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sunburn poems by poem length and keyword.
“This circus is falling…”
It’s circa 1997; I’m in Charlotte, NC
It’s a 13-week consulting gig, my longest ever
I come home every few weeks
Long days at the customer site
A hostile environment;
they don’t really want us there
A server vendor is trying to make inroads at a bank
I’m there working for the vendor
After a long day, a swing by Harris Teeter:
pre-packaged dinner and beer
“The big top is crumbling down”
And so is my life
Evenings are spent
hunched over a laptop
in a dark 1 bedroom efficiency
Programming late into the night
Until the eyes are too tired
And the beer has run out
Music is a constant companion,
most of it, soulful, sorrowful, some upbeat.
Counting Crows, Matchbox 20, Sting
“These train conversations”
Are truly passing me by
No coworkers here.
No family here
No interactions with anyone outside of work
Just a call home early enough in the evening
that the words aren’t slurring too badly yet
“And I don’t have nothing to say”
Just ache
I want to be home
I miss my wife
I miss my kids
I miss my dog
“You get what you pay for”
They are paying me well
I’m getting all the overtime I want.
I am piling away the money for a nice trip to St. Thomas
For all of us
When I get home
And I don’t care; I just want out
“But I just had no intention of living this way”
Warp forward to today
Life could not be any more different
Life is wonderful, life is good
I have purpose
I have meaning
I have family
I have love
I know and am known by God
I’m working out in the barn
I’ve hooked up the old stereo
I see the “August and Everything After” CD and I fire it up
I set it on “Raining in Baltimore”
“I need a phone call, I need a plane ride
I need a sunburn, I need a raincoat”
And for a brief flash,
I am back at that dinette table
Alone, in the dark
And terribly lonely
When it is uplifting, music causes our spirits to soar
But it can put you right back
in a particular place
In a particular time
And that’s not always a good thing
“But what would you change if you could?”
Uh, August and Everything After…
click.
————
Quotes are from “Raining in Baltimore” off the
“August and Everything After” album by Counting Crows
What stirs around me is evasive and true
A light appears over me glowing and spinning
I get a calm feeling when and ever it's due
People have seen it, gasping and pointing
They say "what was that, what did you just do?
There was a light spinning around, like a ring"
I always ask "what did it look like, what color hue?"
The usual answer is red and blue, what was that thing?
There was this family vacation where I was presumed dead
My older brother, a friend and I climbed up the back of Half Dome
We made it up Quarter Dome easily and wanted to push ahead
Half Dome was unreachable, six degrees of granite stone
We decided to go down it's face, through slides and lips
Cold winds chilled us as the sunshine elapsed
As darkness finally came, we found ledge where we could sit
Stuck halfway down, we blamed each other as the night passed
Suddenly we saw distant flashlights, a rescue team? We yelled
A group of five climbers made their way over to us
They thought we were a rescue team, sent up when night fell
Finding only three kids who had absolutely nothing
They questioned us, where was our spotlight, ropes and pins?
After a full inquisition about our flood light, they quit talking
At daybreak we all repelled down in an eerie silence
Finally down, we all shook hands, no one had died
Blue lipped, weak and in disbelief, we bowed to pray
This halo had got us back to camp, where mom and dad cried
A hundred search and rescue had searched night and day
The reality of this aura is undeniable
A thousand close calls and brushes with death
Everyone has said it's just indefinable
Turning my head in time or steering East instead of West
I live day to day with a bullet in my spine, it's true
My back feels like a constant third degree sunburn
All the doctors could say was "Oh jeez, lucky you"
Pastors would come to pray over me, all in turn
This went on for weeks, until one even threw holly water
I barked "father, you do this to everyone here?"
He replied "you have a gift, we travel many miles to see your shimmer"
They had come just to see me, he left and I cried so many tears
My eyes still water up when I think about those days
There are no lessons here on how to escape fate
I can't even claim this glowing stays the same
Just my story of faith, light and how I was saved
Part 3
Long story short,
Let's cut to the chase.
To where the end of the day,
Marked the end of the race.
And as the sun set,
Who did they all see?
Cresting the hill,
It ... wasn't ... the ... bunny.
For, just plodding along,
As though heading somewhere,
It was Sheldon the tortoise,
They saw over there.
Well, such a commotion,
What a hullabaloo.
None of the animals
Knew quite what to do.
In the end, they were thrilled,
That Sheldon might win.
Thought of Rabbit losing,
Well, it made them all grin.
News of events,
Had drawn a huge crowd
And, as such, the noise,
They made was quite loud.
And I'm sure you've all 'heard',
About forests and sound,
And trees when they fall,
But when there's no one around
But, whenever this happens,
Since no - one's ever about,
On the matter of whether,... well
On that, the jury's still out.
But this time there was,
So the matter's twice moot
And of no interest to Rabbit,
Who, upon hearing Owl hoot,
Had woken from slumber,
his "only - one - hour snooze,
When he'd thought to himself,
"There's no way I could lose."
But the knot in his stomach,
Grew with gnawing concern,
Had he rested too long,
Avoiding sunburn.
And upon that note, that rabbit ran,
In fact he practically flew.
And how many records,
he broke is unclear
But it was definitely more than two.
But alas his best, was not enough
Poor Rabbit looked awful dour.
For Sheldon had just finished crossing the line,
(which, from head to tail,
took just under an hour).
When he'd broken the tape
They'd all gone ma-goo,
But, thirty minutes still crossing
Had grown more subdued.
And by the time crafty Sheldon,
Won that race and for good,
Half of the animals
Had started thinking of food.
And this brings us too,
The end of the tale
Where tortoise beat rabbit
In a race through the dales.
And though he had hoped
For an ongoing ovation
Their response fell far short
Of his expectations.
For half of the animals
Were planning their supper,
While the rest were avoiding
Being a meal for the other.
And so while rabbit, still fuming,
outran his fox nemesis.
Tortoise plodded home
And pondered his existence.
The End
September is aging with a cool beauty
and the Missouri seems to be hurrying the expedition
into a world of natural splendor that is impatient to strip our spirit to it's bare light,
in my silent moments of strategy I feel the birth pangs of winter in the air
and know that an emergency of shelter will soon be the crucible,
more days than not the river wind has aided the Corps of Discovery's adventure,
rarely have we had to pull Destiny along by ropes
and today I'm off the boat, hunting a fleet and mammoth goat
the pronghorned antelope, unlike the buffalo and deer herds
that have easily been in excess of 500, these shy creatures
move about in small groups, seemingly familial in manner,
a hide of short, soft white and brown hair
which stripes the throat, and vicious charcoal horns
that could impale a man in a single jolt, none of us has ever seen such an animal,
these damn goats bolt like bullets every time I creep near
they must be catching my scent for I am stealth and camouflaged,
they are so agile and swift, unafraid to speed through the most dangerous ravines,
getting back to camp with no hooves to show for my time
I see that John Sheilds has sacked a peculiar hare,
he calls it a jackrabbit, it is a monster rabbit no doubt
20 pounds dead and can leap like a rock across water, 20 foot spreads at full speed,
we all laugh and agree this place is becoming more of a jungle than a prarie,
any moment we may encounter apes and wherewolves,
its good to see Private Shanon chuckle well since returning
from being alone along the river for sixteen days nearly starved and maddened,
the fires be hot and the kettles be kickin with the right stuff
most of us are consuming 5, 000 calories per day including several pounds of meat each,
the mission is teaching the men's' bodies new extremes, the exertion is remarkable,
sunburn, blisters, rolled ankles, sprained wrists and backs, inadequate sleep,
mosquito bites, spider bites, ant bites, hours of tedious paddling and foraging,
no woman love, gaurd duties, chores, the stress of Indian encounters and ambush,
home sickness,
the only thing familiar to us is eachother,
sharing our sufferings, sharing our survival,
J.A.B.
The night falls, a darkened sky,
Stars glitter at me… every second, every time.
From the eastern side of my island, we see an eye—
A bright, round, dark-yellow eye,
Peeking from beneath the calm, dark ocean blue,
Yawning, as we wait for the game to start.
When the full moon rises, awakened by a cold breeze,
It glows above with a heavenly breath.
White clouds take shape in different forms,
Moving like actors in a silent film—
Dancing, battling, making funny faces.
Soon, our backyard is bathed in ghostly white,
The niu, ulu, tamaligi, and talie trees
Stretch their black shadows across the garden,
Twisting, creeping—scary, eerie, thrilling.
Bushes wave at us, adding to the excitement,
And one of us calls out, "Fai kakou igave’a!"
This is better than any sport,
Playing under moonlight—
Not too hot, not too cold,
No sunburn, no boredom, no chores.
An owl hoots in the distance,
Cicadas whisper secrets we can hear but never see.
Bats swoop above, hunting on the fruit trees,
Turning the night into an adventure.
Each player takes position,
Finding the perfect hiding spot,
Disappearing into the shadows.
"Make sure to survive a forbidden fall!"
Hide and Seek, the palagi name it,
But in Samoa, this is the game of the night.
We play until the seeker finds us all,
Laughter echoing through the garden,
Until exhaustion pulls us to the soft grass,
Breathing in the scent of pure earth,
Singing lullabies to the moon’s endurance.
"Omai i le fale, ua leva le po!"
Mum calls from the front of the house.
We groan—too soon to end the night!
"Darn it!" I whisper to my brother.
"It’s alright, there are plenty of nights ahead!"
"But not every night is a full moon!" I grumble.
We race home, wash up, and rest.
As I lying in bed, my mind still full of wonder,
Dreaming of the moon, our white planet.
What would the world be without you?
Dark, dull, silent, lifeless.
'Ha! Ha! Can’t wait for your next return.'
Tonight? Maybe next time.
I laughed, as I heard my little brothers giggled beside of my bed
Find me stupidity talking to myself.
I’m off to sleep now—
Or else I’ll be late for school tomorrow!
G’night, moon babe, and sweet dreams.
Little Santa Helpers
Santa has outsourced his services to child labourers from Bangladesh they
fit zero-sized through chimneys much easier and the leaner they are the
better they share full of joy in the globalised feast of winter communion
Detached they are from ‘wrongful’ beliefs and so much happier for their distant
faithful relation to Christmas plus they are used to half naked toil with
loin cloths draped in native design and fig-leafed in the wider scheme of migrant
extortion minimum wage wasted on them but they might get some
tips from little children on other sides of divides if those can catch them in glee
But then there are milk ‘Ho Ho Beer’ and biscuits by the fireplace laced with
incense and Prozac not licensed for young ones maybe but the booze as willing
sign of cross-culturalization is surely inclusive and a Peace offering sponsored by
‘Alcohol Without Borders’ while the odd trace of Ritalin keeps ordered control
Santa is not really burnt out but neo-liberal delegation is the vogue of the month
and post traumatic stress drones and hoovers on his sick note nevertheless
as his bonuses and shares float on Panamanian waters and now he needs a lungi
as well instead of the red coat extra large without doubt as he burps in the sand
The Bangladeshis meanwhile chirp in silent frost bitten nights but at least there
are soot and ashes no sunburn sometimes carrots with broom sticks thereafter
almost a year of ‘social’ benefits homely rest recuperation free time for Mohamed
They scrub brush and sand their dehydrated skins by the Ganges until they come
to accept the ‘Terms of their Trade’ bow to diversity’s splendour and discern what
is dirt and what their skin colour and it’s the latter that keeps them employed
28th November 2016
After my boat capsized
out in the ocean,
had a lucky rubber raft,
which I stayed afloat on,
where it seemed like days,
I was lost at sea,
with nothing but the vast sky,
and the endless waves and sea,
had my emergency waterproof
igloo to help me get through,
but just in case,
had to ration my water and food,
my skin turned red
with the sun beating down,
Gods tears from the sky
helping soothe my sunburn,
my friends were the whales,
dolphins and sharks,
the sharks I could tell were hungry,
as they circled my raft,
then some dolphins came
to my rescue at last,
thought I spotted
some land yonder way,
or it could have been
my imagination running away,
noticed some birds
flying overhead,
which was usually a sign
of some kind of land mass,
got closer to the tiny island,
which was a sight for my sore eyes,
but no matter how far I paddled,
still seemed a million miles,
then I finally made it to shore,
which really made my day,
being that I was sunburned,
tired, hungry, achey and sore,
it was a beautiful tiny island,
with coconut trees,
yelled out, "can anyone hear,
can anyone help me?,"
walked around a bit
to get the feel of the island
didn't see any footprints in the sand,
so I was the only person,
then I set up a tent to have some shelter,
just in case of inclement weather,
knew I had to survive,
so ate nothing but fish and coconuts,
all the while,
felt like I was dying of loneliness,
having conversations
with just me, myself and I,
was making me feel insane,
making me feel empty inside,
there were days I'd just
sit there crying and praying,
for someone to come along
someone to save me,
finally giving up hope,
I took a coconut,
and sketched a picture of any person,
a person I made sure,
was a very good listener,
so there I lived out my last days,
talking to a face on a coconut,
like some Eleanor Rigby castaway,
or someone gone mad in
solitary confinement.
Do you ever wonder why old people cry?
reasons unknown to you and I
here are some thoughts that come to mind
there are many more I'm sure you will find.
A well loved son killed in the war
now only a photo kept in a drawer.
A family pet who gave so much pleasure
just a precious memory that will live forever.
A silly quarrel with a once dear friend ..
regretted now, but too late to mend.
Little children who once sat on their knee
Now all grown up ,too busy to call,or off on a spree
Holidays and outings with friends and lovers
brings back happy memories of exciting things discovered
.
A day at the races for the first time ever
I chose the winner, you chose the other
I laughed at you and called you a loser
You took the huff and stomped off to the boozer!
Our old cat, Fluff , who caught many a mouse
and scared us to death bringing a live rat in the house.
A chat with a neighbour by the garden gate
unburdening all our woes,
of war and rations friends and allies
and who we thought were foes
Old fiends drifting past in our mind's eye
we thought it would never end and one day would say goodbye
But it does.
That holiday in Spain where you taught me to dance
The Pasadobla, the Tango...or was that in France ?,
Days at the beach when the children were small
building sandcastles , eating ice cream, sunburn and all.
trying to teach them all to swim, the splashing the shrieks, they made such a din.
Our daughter was wed at twenty three
and prouder parents there never could be,
two years later she had a son who did not last the year,
the grief felt by all was immeasurable 'twas almost too much to bear.
Time hangs heavy now I've lost my spouse
the ghosts and memories haunt the house,
so don't wonder as we age lost in memories of times gone by
So now you know why old people cry.
Arlene Phillips 2018 ©
The Team.
Here we are in Gayndah town,
The parks are all filled up.
With Caravans and Motor homes,
‘N’ Backpackers trying their luck.
The pickers are around the trees,
And filling Gaypak bins.
As cold and frosty as you please,
They’re picking Mandarins.
When the fruit arrives at Gaypak,
With the staff all ready and able.
The Mandarins are washed and waxed,
And rolled across the sorting table.
This is what to look for,
Sharon tells them one by one.
The number of bins is thirty four,
It’s an average sort of run.
Black Spot, Splits and Sunburn,
Hail damage and Sooty Mould,
Juice the stuff that’s too deformed,
Or whatever can’t be sold.
Karen’s on the packing floor,
From there she runs the show.
She’s the boss and that’s for sure,
So don’t upset the flow.
Aunty Pat she is there,
As Karens’ Two I C.
She checks that all is run to plan,
Without her where’d they be.
The pattern packers work away,
Under the watchful eye.
Of Sharon ‘n’ Gayle in the day,
And Elaine and Linda at night.
The forklift drivers as we know,
Work with skill and speed.
Up and down, to and fro,
Always they are in need.
At Gaypak they’re a cheerful lot,
They talk and laugh and joke.
Even when it’s bloody hot,
But they are conscientious folk.
When knock-off time comes around.
There’s one who wont be late.
Speedy Gwenda will be found,
To be the first one out the gate.
Afternoon shift takes the reins,
They carry on the work.
Without a break they step right in,
The fruit, they’re here to sort.
We can praise the workers all we want,
And praise the management too.
But nothing works and nothing moves,
Without the maintenance crew .
All in all this is the team,
Of which they can be proud.
That sorts and packs, and sends,
The fruit, all around the world.
Daytime,sunshine...crystal clear
burning through clear blue atmosphere
Tanning laserays of light
Ignite solar candled lantern aisles by night
Silent meadows and sheep grazed pastures bare
Summer's yield matching colors grown in pairs
Travelers' eyes steal glimpses of the ancient surreal
Clever celestial timing ,ensures summer's perfect weather
Past summers remembered
My skin sunburned tender
Its old age hastened ,its healing's slow,yet I've patience
Horizon gaze ,wading shallow shore waves
cold and curing,my sunburn tamed
Sand impressions proof of my presence
Vanishes as saltwater tides retreat
Forming rythmic swells, cleansing sand,fine as snow,each grain unique
Potential their essence
Each memory ,an impassionate impression
Resolves imaginitive questions
Sacred memories remain life's essence
An unresisted inclination to explore
its endless trails is ignored
by wiser travelers who retire near crossroad trails
each day's passage,treasured memory for nostalgic tales
Blond sunlight through graying skies pale
Dark as dusk,sunlight's cloaked in an expanding veil
As distant thunder grew near,cooling air held an odor of ionized rain
As electrical glimmers lit skies dark as eve which shadowed verdant plains
Camera eyes skygazing dusk to morn
Canvas skylight's color transformed
Night darkness followed ,silence filled this vast woods hollow
Heaven's light shone pale through eve's black veil
Pearl moonbeams and crystal starlight invite
Passage through dark meadow trails
An ancient summer tale ,
Eyes photographed evenings past
As morning passed
Harsh molten light shone through thinning cloud mass
Burning fine white sand ,each grain...fire glass
Verdant flowerfields ,summer's pretty yield
Camera eyes steal as autumn's shades are revealed