Long Timetables Poems
Long Timetables Poems. Below are the most popular long Timetables by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Timetables poems by poem length and keyword.
I.
I’ve lost my sense of silence…
I’ve lost my self
So now I hate everything
I want nothing to do with anything
Does this make you sad?
It makes me sad, sure,
And even as I curse even that sadness
I cant not rip it off
I wish to burn my angel wings
The game to me is cruel and dumb now
There is no merriment where there is no place to re-fuel
Buried in the thickets of eyes and ears as I am
Let me be
Retreat and I will learn some other trick
And never ever tell you about it
I will show you, like I do my own tears,
To me in the mirror
But just as my tears that I keep hidden from you
I will never tell you my reason for living
My own intents of love
This I will burn in my own memory
I am tired now…
Of you, world…
I wish not death or darkness
But light and warmth, out of ear shot from all savages.
II.
I was pulling strings of beads--
They were dancing!
I lumbered to a lull,
The lighted eyes raying into me--I shot upwards!
A rebounding blue casket flash,
I slip onto wet pavement as Wendell
Dropped salt spit from his brow,
Patting me tender.
Wendell lived alone.
With the many fresh faces rolling along the lawns
Pattering and clopping against the silent realm of wood,
Piercing my silvering sounds
With shuttering glimpses of the Great Blue and White
There was always a party with Wendell.
Woven in nature’s diagonal rings, as they appear against the sun,
There is some irate lust for human companionship,
Like mad scientists a-muck about the land,
All on differing timetables, differing desires,
Thoug with a thirst for air like me.
(Inspired by Harry’s poems- The Old Oak Tree, Oh them hot air balloons, Death is Not the End and An Agendaless Age)
I have known Harry barely two years back
Yet I felt a strange rapport with him
Even before reading his poems,
On seeing the silhouette of Harry,
In colored glass and grey hair, reflecting
Nobility and gentleness, I got overpowered.
I have always felt he was cool and level-headed
But strong like the old oak tree, ever sheltering!
A sanctuary to new poets, a guardian to everyone,
To learn and derive inspiration from.
A gentle spirit who had a word of encouragement for all.
He was not among the clump of trees
But stood aloof like the old oak tree
He wished to stay rooted to the ground
And never fancied to ride like the hot air balloon
As he knew it would soon come down to earth
He was never a votary of the ultra modern age.
He nostalgically reminiscences of an agenda- less age,
When there were no timetables and no worries
Where fences were constructed, not as barriers,
But to lean on and talk with neighbours.
Harry, with you we too believe, death is not the end.
You will not die dear poet friend
But through your poems, will live in our hearts forever.
Enjoy the bliss of being in an agenda- less age,
And roam free ‘in fresh woods and pastures new’!
May 31.2023
~ Placed First~
Tributes to Harry Horsman- An Uncontest Poetrty Contest
Sponsor- Andrea Dietrich
.
I sort the silence and the sighs,
The dreams lost in old goodbyes,
They fill the drawers of my days,
And leave wind blowing through my haze.
I keep the pain I never voiced,
The hopes that died without a choice,
Pages linger in my spellbound book,
But it’s all the same, since you never looked.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of loves that expire, of moments marooned.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of tears turned to art, of sorrow too pure, too soon.
I gather missed appointments, late,
Ghost trains, frozen faces, twisted fates.
They leave timetables with no names,
And autumn’s chill that never wanes.
I carve the void with quiet care,
Make art from the space where you’re not there.
Only my monotone words remain,
Since you flee whenever roots take aim.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of loves that expire, of moments marooned.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of tears turned to art, of sorrow too pure, too soon.
Just a museum of wounds,
Where your name blurs hopes I thought immune.
I store the hours standing still,
Lost calls on fragile voicemail thrills.
They shatter light across my screens,
And stitch the void into my dreams.
I sort the echoes of past I love yous,
The ruins of a we with nothing true.
And I become that roaming heart again,
Since you were just a soul-shaped flame.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of loves that expire, of moments marooned.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of tears turned to art, of sorrow too pure, too soon.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of kisses undone, of love with no return,
Of love with no return.
A special teacher does NOT....
care about financial gain
play the glorified sitter
teach some, yet let others wane
ever really seem bitter
A special teacher DOES....
sometimes use their own accounts
to get kids what they need.
Not caring about amounts
preparing to plant the seed.
They don't....
give up on "unteachables"
hand out notes and walk away
care that much for timetables
dismiss what a child might say
They do.....
use every single facet
to aid children's connecting.
try hard to help ALL get it
have great ears for listening
All their tots are respected
no matter their race or size
They comfort those dejected
to the top, they help them rise.
Our world needs more of their kind
caring souls, oversized hearts
Passion for sculpting a mind
deep within them, where it starts
I know of one such teacher
though it has not been for long
Feel she's a children reacher
molding them to become strong
That's not what brings pen to pad
the thought has my heart sinking
What does could have been so sad
if not for her quick thinking
She saved a young life that day
NO ONE dare say otherwise!
Such calmness within the fray
one's instincts, how they arise
What was done, creditable
a debt I can not repay
Earned her place at His table
Forget Nicole NE'ER A DAY!
Time
There is the essence of time in space, that we are not aware
There is a quality of time, that we wish we all could share
There may be times when you feel that time is on your side
Or time can be an eternity, lost somewhere in the great divide
There are timelines that we impose upon our daily lives
There are timetables that we set forth and attempt to strive
There are timeouts, whenever we believe events have gone awry
There are timeframes, life's memoirs lost in the sweet bye and bye
We have timepieces we wear, they remind us to be there
We have timekeepers, to tell us we should always be aware
We have timeshares, that are meant to share a part of you with me
We achieve timeworn, a reflection of what was and what must be
Never be timed with what you really want to achieve
Allow yourself to be timeless in what you truly believe
If we all live our lives with humility in a timely manner
Then our time spent on this earth shall truly matter
Within every second, minute, hour, day and year
Like the rhythmic beating of your heart you hear
Every breath you take, is such a true gift everyday
Because one day, father time will take it all away
Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock
Within the beating of our hearts, like a time clock
“The song is ended but the melody lingers on.” – Irving Berlin
Ever since I became a Souper in 2022
A profile with tinted eyeglass and grey hair,
Reflecting gentleness and aristocracy,
Caught my wandering yet judicious eyes.
On reading his poems, I was drawn to him.
A cool and level headed man was Harry.
Strong like an old Oak tree, ever sheltering.
A sanctum to new poets, a guardian to all,
A man of warmth and wisdom, an inspiration.
He was not just one among a clump of trees
But stood aloof like an oak tree, firmly rooted.
In his popular poem The Old Oak Tree,
He lays down the credo of his life~
“Let us be sanctuary to the
symbolic songstress, scuttling
squirrel, vulgar urchin;
a fortress for the warrior
a haven for the pacifist
an inspiration for the poet!”
Never a pedant, flaunting his trophies,
For he knew the transitoriness of worldly fame.
Never fancied to ride the Hot Air Balloon
Knowing, it would come down to earth, deflated.
Not a votary of the ultra- modern.
In An Agenda-less Age- a poem of his,
He nostalgically reminisces his childhood,
In a rustic country side with no timetables and no worries,
With 'a tuneful mum dusting the blues in a song,'
Where fences were constructed, not as barriers,
But as support to lean on and chat with neighbors.
Harry, with you we believe too- ‘Death is not the End’
But the Golden Gate to another life.
Though your voice has fallen silent,
You continue to speak to us through your poems.
Your songs are still, yet you live on,
Through every line of verse composed.
THE ART OF PATIENT WAITING
The art of waiting only comes eventually
After days to decades of practical practice
Staying in limbo, whether still or pacing:
As looking down the line of tracks for
An awaited train; as in a stretched-neck
Waiting to merge into traffic; like gauging the run
Of a line by counting the number of people
Ahead; and the preparing to enter
More internal rooms
Where another recline in time will begin.
We wait for seasons or service; or recognition;
We wish for an end of fears and pray for
The clearing of storms; for speedy healing;
Or for a quickened death without suffering.
We tell ourselves we are patient
Upon every minute’s glance out a window,
And applaud the grace of our twiddling fingers;
Or we go one more time playing, “I see something
Green...” with our children. We discover
How quickly busy minds grow bored, left to notice
How the stunning plants on the tables beside us
In the waiting room are really cheerless plastic.
A desire for usefulness grows: we may
Choose to pick among our mental menus;
May begin making lists; may go on
To worry that what’s expected will not come.
Feet tap. Eyes are rubbed.
It may be that despite the laws of physics,
Actions do not precipitate further actions,
That the timetables of people may, after all,
Only and always abide in the art of patient
Awaiting upon the Lord...
Through the directed dispersal of our hours
As eternal judgement will reveal.
*********. ************. **********
(c) Sally Young Eslinger 9/11/20
Thanks be to God
I'm very good at it
-- running that is:
Most my adult life
seems to have been
a treadmill of sorts:
Morning Gush. Got to love
those subway jousts! All us
elbow warriors fencing for
optimum position, wanting
fast entrance and propelled
retreat.
Elevating to the running-board of
city sidewalks and streets...step to the flow
or be bowled over, trampled upon. Tires, Florsheim, Nike, high heels~
They all mark deeply!
(Evening rush escape no less a trek)
Joggers make me laugh
heartily! Roadside exhibitionists,
inhaling deeply everyone’s
filth. I swear, that If there are
schedules and timetables in heaven,
God inadvertently has given
the Devil but another tempting card
to play.
BACK STORY
Me and my dad used to work as a team on the Trolley Buses for Manchester Corporation, out of the Hyde Road Depot. Dad drove, and I was his offsider, collecting fares, and keeping order on the bus, like making sure people did not block the aisle, or go past the stop they had paid for. and no one was standing up if there was room to sit down, also making sure people upstairs did not bang there feet on the floor. General Spoilsport eh. In the second part, Moses was a big African fella, and his offsider was a little red headed Irishman, they usually had the run in front of us, and tried whatever they could to get us to go ahead, and take the load off them, timetables did not bother them much. I always told dad,
if it comes to a fight, I will take the little one
Trolley Buses
By Robert (Bob) Moore ©
I used to work on trolley buses, up and down Hyde Road
My dad he was the driver, and I controlled the load
Move along the bus I’d say, there’s room for 2 upstairs
that’s where you were allowed to smoke, in those days no one cared
Leave from Piccadilly, the 210 was our bus
Keep eyes on the timetable, it meant a lot to us.
Ardwick Green and Belle Vue, then on past Debdale Park
Hyde would be the Terminus, then turn and head right back
Sometimes a petrol driver, would try to make some cash
With overtime on trolleys, but sometimes they were rash
They’d forget about the trolley arm, and try to overtake
They’d see us wave and shouting, and realized “mistake”
It was all too late of course, and the sparks would start to fly
The arms were bent and waving, and the power it would die
Then swearing and apologies, and laughter close to tears
Then back to depot on batteries, for the ribbing and the sneers.
Moses was an African, his offsider was a Mick
They tried to get us to take their load, with every dirty trick
We pulled into Hyde one day, they had their trolleys down
You should be in front they said, and take the load to town.
Dad did not bat an eyelid, we’er on a break he said
you’ll have to wait 10 minutes, before we go ahead
they knew they could not wait that long, they had to make their run
so trolleys up, and off they went, we drank tea and watched the fun.
Good morning my Sweetheart
Although you’ve got nothing to gain
Your love is as pure as the imminent oncoming rain
Wipe sleep from your wakening eyes
And prepare for the oncoming day
With needles and diets and timetables
No respite nor no time to delay
From pains in your tummy
And bloods taken throughout the night
I wonder at all how you manage to love me in spite
Of the pains you go through
You’ve a heart brimming so full of love
No remorse nor self pity
You’re my Princess my Angel my Dove
Though life can be cruel
And at times it can seem so unfair
The tolls that we pay and the burdens oft’ too great to bear
I’d lay down my life
And all that I’ve left that’s worth giving
To grant you a wish and afford you
A life that’s worth living
For my little Princess …