Long Timers Poems
Long Timers Poems. Below are the most popular long Timers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Timers poems by poem length and keyword.
Jim had only glimpsed the gorgeous merwomen once
But he never forgot her gray-eyed stare
She had bored pinpricks through his surprised eyes
Was her hair real or imagined?
Jim recalled coral, starfish and pearls at her crown.
Had she been a mirage, or had she been real?
His boat returned to Dolphin Bay each year for thirty-six years
He hoped to get another glimpse of the beautiful siren
We old-timers knew the story
Jim had told it in every tavern and restaurant down the coast.
Some figured he met with the merwomen upon his death
Unsure, I sincerely hoped that this might have happened for him.
Pocomoto was a cowboy who inspired dreams galore
With adventures and heroics that lit up my days of yore.
He survived the cruel killing of a ravaged wagon train
Was adopted by ‘old-timers’; lived in camps across the plain.
He rode fast across the prairie pushing forward on his steed;
Bronco Buster, Buff’lo Hunter, helped the Rangers when in need.
Pocomoto the Li’l Fella went in search of desert gold
Single-handed fought the bandits, constant evil, heat and cold.
Independence, resolution were the traits that showed his best,
Self-reliant, conquered hardships in the wild and famous West.
There are plenty years behind me but I often tend to find
Pocomoto’s recollection in the corners of my mind.
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6th May 2014
Contest: Howdy Pard
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Placing: 2nd
Old timers in a dark tavern were telling tales
I was the eavesdropper, and none seemed to know
Where exactly is the hanging tree? One asked.
I was horrified, but not enough to quit listening.
An address was given, so I headed out there on foot.
The house was simple, but every light was lit.
Odd for this time of the evening. A crow watched me.
Was he listening to my footsteps? They slapped against the walk.
Looks like rain a grizzled cowboy type said.
I nearly jumped out of my shoes. He laughed.
Gave me a nod and tipped his hat.
I was too shocked to smile.
I had not heard him creep on me.
Silent footsteps; how often do you not hear that?
It was an odd evening; Halloween-like and not Halloween yet.
I turned to say, “I didn’t even hear you!” But he was gone.
I looked in every direction. “That is the hanging tree,” a man’s voice whispered.
I looked past the house and knew this was the hanging tree.
The crow gave me a sharp-eyed look and flew off.
I felt like he had been an ethereal visitor.
A park has been making the news
Because people have differing views.
Those who live very near
Wish that all would adhere
To the rules and stop breaking taboos.
But a younger crowd’s recently found
They could party with no cops around
So they flock to this park,
Even more after dark,
Where their music and motors resound.
Since the park is a public-fed place
The old-timers would always embrace
People spending the day
In the usual way,
Not the mob that’s become a disgrace.
So it’s time for the city to act
When, at night, the park’s overly packed,
For the drugs and the noise
And the crowding annoys
Every neighbor who’s feeling attacked.
What to do when the young and the old
Find their values so often controlled
By the difference in years
Which, quite strangely, appears
To have neither side feeling consoled?
Bonanza of shamrocks will soon blanket Green Acres...
where Lassie free to run across petco junction
All across the webbed
wide esse Scott's landed wold
emerald green Trifolium
carpets harbor untold
burrows of tiny Leprechauns clover
(leaf) ways grant trifold
wishes if captured might
divulge pot of gold
at rainbow's end, and e'en mend
yar shoes, whence re: souled,
thence tread softly beneath subthreshold
of audibility, cuz unseen universe
hapts tubby microscopically rolled
with subterranean inhabited by Lilliputian
mischievous impish beings
(about bajillion holed
up could fill the Taj Mahal) even donned with
heavy coat protecting them
(usually men) against cold
yet frolic with reel delight jiggling
with inborn instinct exhibit twofold
talent to dance with modesty
downplaying (while fiddling)
analogous to some roof fiend
averse tubby extolled,
nonetheless, their popular
doth soar, and grievously scold
persistent myth anchored with toehold,
and thus do not indulge
pruriently with pixies considerably dulled,
since libido practically nonexistent told
me (under oath of
confidentiality), one Grunwald
trusted yours truly, the secrete
will not leak out,
nor spread like slime mold,
this descendant of Lemuel Gulliver
who schleps across the webbed wide wold.
Yours truly (an average
height and weight size ways)
nondescript grown
male munching kin
stands a little less than threefold
larger than full grown homunculi.
Rumor monger kickstarter
Matthew Scott Harris
posits nontrue tidbit
regarding rock 'n' roll star
who (name unmentioned)
became the most influential
musicians across the universe,
with estimated record sales
of around 600 million
as of two thousand twenty blank.
Imp possible mission
to see non elfish (pressed) lee
160 years after his Irish ancestor
crossed the Atlantic
curling his left lip,
whereby convalescing, peep ping auld
timers cavorting wax nostalgic with
itty bitty whippersnappers,
averse to any outliers,
whether hirsute or bald
an honest to goodness painstaking effort
initially stymied friendship proffered, a cold
reception eventually bedecked
hall of the mountain king
(while sharing diet of worms)
deep under verdantly
festooned knolls of Eire land.
Detasseling, 1965
Kevin Davis 2024
At dawn we gathered— first-timers, veterans, boys and girls in clothes already tired from other chores. The fields waited, silvered with dew, and we waited too, for the moment we would prove ourselves.
Garbage bags over our legs, we laughed at the absurdity until the cold wet corn slapped our shins and the joke made sense. The crew leader’s voice carried over the rows: Right side only. Cut the tassels. Male from female. One seed becoming another.
So we walked— row after row, stalks cracking like old bones, knives flicking tassels free. Morning soaked us, midday wrung us out again. Breath came thick. Pride kept us upright.
At ten we collapsed in the shade beneath the truck and wagon, ate fast, slept faster, rose again because the field still asked for us. Some left. None were blamed. Those who stayed moved slower but did not stop.
I went home each night sunburned, starving, falling into bed before the sheets cooled. Yet every morning I rose— a little stronger, a little more certain that I was earning something more than a dollar an hour.
By week’s end we were a crew, bound by sweat and stubbornness, friends made in the long green corridors of corn. I left with money in my pocket, a pat on the back, and the quiet knowledge that I had done a hard thing well.
Soft Green
moss will cover all
shy fungi nestle in deep
layers of dim shade
GINSU-KNIFE EASTPORT , MAINE USA
I know this spot well. Its on the forested seashore in the
farthest eastern corner of the USA. The spring is bubbling with sweet water
amongst the ferns.
Seasons bring waves of blossoms and greenery and gold
Day lillies linger for weeks.. The lupine trumps all. Pick a color.
The old timers all call that slice of rocky woods The Heritage.
We still dont know what the lights at night are all
about on Smalls Island, across the cove. Its empty .... ???
So here we are.
Together again.
I won’t ask you how the years have treated you.
I know.
I remember that moment all those years ago,
how your breath caught at the sight of what
they had just put into your arms,
and your whole world contracted in an instant
until it was shrink-wrapped
around this tiny bundle
with a hospital identification band around its ankle.
It’s as if you’d never exhaled again,
love having kept you at the edge of your seat
in a simmering, 16-year panic attack.
At the cinema, in restaurants, on airplanes
and the sofa at home,
we have sat apart since,
bookending precious cargo.
But now, the middle seat has been vacated,
as we discover
we’ve become part-timers in a world
where once we were everything.
And so here we are.
The couple-turned-trio-turned-couple.
It will take some getting used to,
this new/old life,
this unaccustomed roomy feeling that seems to have
crept up on us without warning.
But a 16-year habit dies hard.
Even as we’re catching up,
finally reunited after a long separation,
comparing what we remember of each other
with what we now see,
you’re looking out of the corner of your mind’s eye,
permanently distracted.
Breathing a sigh of relief,
and a sigh.
As indeed, I must be too.
This is the story of two all-time great baseball pitchers who are both in the Hall-of-Fame. So, the story goes like this. Last week the old-timers both well into their nineties, were out together at a pub enjoying a fine meal and some fine chardonnay. They talked for hours about their pasts and about how long they knew each other ever since they started playing ball together way back in little league. Over the years they became great friends exchanging Christmas gifts with each other, having Halloween parties and celebrating many occasions with each other, never missing each other's birthdays and both always attending the other's family members weddings and anniversaries. They were indeed best-of-besties for life. During their dinner conversation the topic of death came up. John, who was six months older than Joe, came up with a thought about dying and when whoever should pass first that they promise to ask the good lord if they can come back to tell the other what to expect when he gets to heaven. After they both agreed they sipped their fine wine and made the toast and a promise. Well, sure enough just about a week later, John, the elder of the two passed away. After learning of the terrible news Joe (feeling down and out and lonely) went to the pub and waited for his friend to show up. Wouldn't you know it, just about a half an hour of waiting Joe realizes that his pal John was sitting in the stool next to him. John...he shouts!! You're here, I can't believe the good lord actually agreed to you coming back. His first question to John was naturally- "John- What's it like in heaven, do they have baseball up there" John looked at Joe and smiled, then he said- "Yes, there is baseball up in heaven. He told Joe that it was awesome, but he said to Joe, there's some good news and some bad news I must tell you about. The good news is they have beautiful fields, umpires that never make a wrong call, the food is terrific, and they even have beautiful cheerleaders at every game. Wow said Joe- that all sounds amazing! Well, that's all-wonderful Joe replied, but tell me what's the bad news, John? John replied- Well, the bad news is "Get ready quick...you're the starting pitcher tomorrow"
baseball in heaven
playing together again
forever friendship
My name, I’m sure I had a name.
I wish I could remember my name.
My name, is it well known? Is it popular?
Does it have any fame?
I woke not knowing who I am,
Not knowing where I belong.
Not knowing if this is where I live,
Not knowing where I am from.
Do I like to surf the waves?
Infinitely open with the bright blue sea?
Or do I like to create new things of
Happy and rosy and free?
I guess I’ll name myself the name
Tagged on top of this shirt.
And then I’ll leave this hospital bed,
I don’t think I’m even hurt.
This feels odd, what year is it?
Have I always forgotten the date?
And wasn’t I once bigger than this?
I thought I was overweight.
I know I’m not young, but why’s this place
Filled with all these old timers?
Too many questions, I’ll have a rest
Under the sign that says “ALZHEIMERS”.