Long Third year Poems
Long Third year Poems. Below are the most popular long Third year by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Third year poems by poem length and keyword.
I see the closet door and I hear the theme song to Shark.
Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo
The one they used to play on Saturday Night Live in the eighties.
You know the one.
I opened it once to take a photo.
Which I sent to my twin sister.
We were bemoaning our messy spots.
So we decided to have a little contest.
I took photos of this closet, and six hoarder piles in one bedroom.
Believe it or not, she sent me eight photos and hers were better.
Or worse depending on which way you are going competition wise.
Thanks Daddy, we both said. He loved keeping everything.
Whereas Mom was a minimalist. She had a rule.
Bring one new thing in, toss one old thing out.
She had no messes anywhere in the house
Except Daddy’s area. She could not control that.
Maybe it’s Mom’s fault, I think to myself.
She is the one that never let us have a mess.
Maybe we are still rebelling.
Anyway, I cannot face this closet yet.
This is the third year in a row it has been un-faceable
It would be nice to use a closet, just not this one.
I turn and take another peek. Is it still there?
Unfortunately yes. Who knows what lives inside.
Charlie told me that for fun
He watches a terrorized mouse
Get chased down and eaten by his corn snake
Jake, the Snake, every Thursday at two.
I met Charlie the first day of school
My third year in the district.
His twelve foot friend Jake was being wrestled in by....
Five giant guys who were carrying a glass container
Large enough for a couple of elephants and a wrestling mat.
Jake was inside, red and yellow striped, fat as my wrist.
Charlie was the nicest teacher, and he loved science.
Loved his children, but the snake thing bothered me.
He let his sixth graders watch the hunt every Thursday.
I knew when it happened because they would all yell
“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” in unison on Thursday
I asked him once if they were given a grade for watching this.
He laughed and said he had never thought of that.
But he was certainly glad that I had.
One prissy boy named Sam never watched.
I rescue Sam on Thursdays at five minutes before two,
pretending he has a giant counseling issue.
Dreading the first Thursday I am sick.
Glad that Charlie was military, as the hunt is always at two.
One Horse Town
The boardwalks full of people only two stood in the street.
The showdown of the century counting down to thirty feet.
Black Bart said this towns too small for you and I to both be in it.
Today's the day we found out which one of us will win it.
Handy Randy took a spit and looked up at the sun.
He said yep, the truth be known by the time this day is done.
A hush fell over the town folks mother's hid their children's faces.
The two men in the desert sun walked just a few more paces.
The sheriff called out that's close enough! I'm a countin down from three.
Who's the best in all the west this whole damn town will see.
When he called that magic number Barts face turned black as night.
Handy Randy drew his pencil and they both sat down to write.
Randy wrote of springtime rain and the sound of childrens laughter.
Bart penned a verse about Randy moving on to the hereafter.
Then Randy wrote another verse so quick he made it rhyme.
The sheriff said time is up Bart finished just in time.
They filed into the saloon and they ordered up a drink.
While the judges read their writings and told them what they think.
Again the crowd grew quiet as they eagerly watched the show.
Old Hank from the hardware store said he really liked Barts flow.
The blacksmith from the stable stood up and cleared his throat.
And in almost a whisper said I loved what Randy wrote.
Bill that ran the old hotel said there ain't use denying.
My wife is a Randy fan but she always ends up crying.
The barber from on down the street trembled neath Barts gaze.
He said Barts poetry's kinda dark but he likes it anyways.
Some town folks started clapping you could hear the women sigh.
For the third year in a row the judges ruled a tie.
For some folks love the softer side while there's some that like it deep.
And not all men do their dreaming at night while fast asleep.
Once again the call was made the choice was handed down.
Black Bart and Handy Randy stay in this one horse town.
Edwin C Hofert
The crash has put the country in dire straits
But these two movie stars do not have similar fates
They descend the staircase in their fancy clothes,
Thinking everyone is rich, wearing wealth that glows.
The people in the restaurant are equally unaware.
That thousands are going hungry, wearing shoes with heels bare.
1932, they have diamonds, rubies, and expensive cars.
Art deco finery of restaurant aids the ignorance of these movie stars.
Daddies are out of the street, begging for milk money for their child.
Some were killed working the railroad, or in the dust bowl, not mild.
It is 1932, third year of America’s very worst depression so far.
Glamorous couple clueless as chauffeur takes them home in their car.
University was intimidating at sixteen,
But I decided to take the plunge, and join anyway,
A passionate bookworm me, fond of reading and writing
Prepared to leap in an ocean of knowledge!
First few days were exciting, joyful, but unsettling,
Until I found the irresistible presence of an amazing teacher,
Who with his sense of humour and booming voice
Won hearts of many, in an instant, no wonder mine!
He taught us literature - Charles Lamb and Eliot,
He taught us Virginia Woolfe, the mysterious woman writer,
He introduced us to her unique writing style - stream of consciousness…
I was captivated and got immersed in the world of creativity!
Literature, both prose and poetry alike, was my passion,
Hours and hours passed I stayed completely hypnotized
Listening him recite, the most compelling lines,
As if those powerful lines belonged to him - he was the owner !
A tragedy struck in my third year, when
The professor was going on a leave, and mentioned surgery,
But the next day we were informed he was no more,
This incredible personality had left this earth for a heavenly abode!
That was the first time I encountered death very closely,
And was shattered...losing him was heartbreaking, an irreplaceable void,
I felt his absence for a very long time, even now I do,
He left a lasting impression on the way I find solace in literature!
Born in May 1975, in a small Australian town
I would battle my way through life, like a clown
Having no idea just of who I wanted to become
All I knew was, I wanted to become a mum
Poetry begun to take a shining to me
Soon to become an author, we'd see
While the grandmother role came on quite thick
I tell you no lie, 7 babies born within 3 years is quick
Tragically, a car accident would take the joy from me
Unable to cuddle, or hold the new lives in our family
Broken all over, with no sighs for a real recovery
I begin to see hope in the third year to pass, luckily
The time spent between mending this broken back
I Studied the world wide web, and polished up my nack
Author would surprise, me from my hours online
With lyricist coming in a very close behind
As motherhood end, I find I've begun to write a story
Who knows where it will take me, this is my journey
God bless the unknown, and the future poets untold story
And all that's awaiting me at each, and every nights glory
I've been watching you
Since your beginning
Whispering to you
A thousand subtle ways
Throughout all your days
You picked me up as a leaf
You were only three
Clutching my stem in your tiny hand
Long time you stared at me
Gazing at my veins, amber colors
Other leaves rustled in my fall winds
My songs to you, thousands of them
You couldn't listen then
At twenty three with your friend
You laid on your backs one clear night
In a grassy field peering starry lights
My voice was that galactic silence
Too low a whisper for you to hear
Only crickets caught your ear
Now you did hear
In your thirty third year
When your first child was born
And you heard my primal cry
Shook your illusions, you asked why
Your deceptions re emerged over time
Forty years later, no longer aware
Of the cosmic cycle we all share
Still my voice too quiet, too low
My greater voice in a single clap
Disintegrates humanity into smithereens
Think tectonic plate shifts are epic?
My full voice explodes a supernova
A sound no human has ever heard
A mere hiccup for me
I speak through this fragile human
Something of a poet, his intent is fine
Make no mistake, his thoughts are mine
Oh, I have many stories and wisdoms
I could have shared, had you only cared
At your end, we will finally embrace
As your dust clears
And leaves no trace
Listen
Be aware
4/6/18
Nature Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh 5/6/21
I have already noted a change,
a deepening analysis
in second year framing of the Trump Administration's
first hazing year in fascist process.
A DOA year ago,
we grew heatedly invested in fake-conversations
about whether the fake-patriotic Republican Party
was really all that more fake-Constitutionally insane
than other U.S First and Only partisans,
other special fat and long-infested interests.
This January
by contrast
we apparently have accepted last year's insanely obvious
supremacy of insanity
held by Republican national leaders,
as the last Wise PatriarchalElder shadows
of Eisenhower AntiMilitaryIndustrial Administrative investments
fade into family multicultural values
associated with stardust memories.
Now our questions
have evolved into which Republicans are most insane
and which slightly less so,
on a scale from ZenZero
through RightWing rabid overpopulated paranoia
nightmares of sleep-deficit caffeinated Western cultures
self-medicating chronic stress
of patriarchal violent secularizing
WinLose
EitherOr
indiscriminate double-binding MADness tendencies;
absence of bilateral ego-eco consciousness.
Hopefully
by the beginning of a Trumpian ThirdReich,
these National FakeConstitutionally InCorrect Republicans
will all be too busy
locking each other up in their insane asylums
and retributive secular courts of punitive law
and lack of moral aesthetic nature-spirit harmonic order,
and then throwing away the keys
to their not-so-divine Kingdoms of Competing EitherOr
Absence of Sufficient SacredGrace.
Such third year fascist distractions
could get them unelected,
and unelectable,
as we post-millennially open
to more organically Green Democratic Ways
and PermaCultural Means
toward Restorative Justice
as also Healthy EcoPolitical Grace
of AbundantLove.
Today is Edgar’s birthday
And the third year in a row
That the famous caped “Poe Toaster”
Has decided not to show.
From 1949 for sure,
And maybe years preceding,
The Toaster visited Poe’s grave,
And not to do some weeding.
With wide-brimmed hat and scarf and cape
To keep his ID hidden,
He’d sneak right up to Edgar’s tomb,
A visit most forbidden.
He used a cane with silver tip
To navigate the ground;
And in the morning, at the site,
The following was found:
A Martell cognac bottle
With its contents halfway filled
And a trio of red roses,
Which helped make the legend build.
In 1998, a note
Explained the torch was passed;
A Toaster “son” would be the one
To hold tradition fast.
On Poe’s 200th birthday, though,
The year 2010,
The Toaster missed his calling
And has not been seen again.
The ritual’s become, alas,
A faded bit of history;
But Edgar Allan Poe fans love
Its enigmatic mystery.
It's the summer of my third year.
Dad is driving us to the seashore.
The sun follows us, a happy fellow,
beaming in the mid-morning’s azure sky.
In the back seat with my two sisters, I’m looking out the window
as I crunch on Mom’s homemade salty Chex Mix,
anticipating the warmth of salt spray
from the waves I’ll be jumping on this beautiful day -
Life is a beach not yet even in my vocabulary.
We are now at the shore, a large blanket laid out,
Mom with her bright red hair tied back with a brighter red check scarf,
and my dad, dark-haired and handsome, smiling.
So rare is this happy countenance he wears today!
For a while I sit as if entranced, watching the waves roll in.
But eventually, and predictably, my joy ebbs like the tide.
Dark clouds are gathering; gray begins to envelop the sky.
I look over to my dad; the gray has recaptured his face.
In the vanishing sunlight, familiar dark thoughts invade my mind -
Dad, can I see you be happy just once for a whole day?
Rain . . . always it rains when we go to the seashore.