Long Toiled Poems
Long Toiled Poems. Below are the most popular long Toiled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Toiled poems by poem length and keyword.
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in ’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and told, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at Buzzard’s Breath.
The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la Tart”.
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the mother lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, “Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! boys, git the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the earth, and the heat increased by day.
Buzzard’s Breath became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
DOES CHANGE CHANGE?
For history is wont to repeat itself
Ever reneging, constant turning on the hinges
For the old in nature’s obeisance
Enter oblivious existence
That the present may succeed the past
For things now visible and feasible
Were once formless vision, thoughts and whispered words
Does change change?
Will there be housing unit or tourist centre in the moon?
Will a white smoke produce a black pope
Will monarchy be separated from British democracy
Will Christian and Muslim find a common ground?
For the present order and scheme
Were the embryonic idea in the belly of the past
For just above some 1oo years ago
Popular commerce was the transatlantic slave trade
The equivalent of 21st century crude oil and narcotics
Long before Wilberforce crossed Hull’s bridge
Does change change?
Will terrorism go the way of the dead and forgotten
Will Palestine find Stately peace?
Will Osama ever find the salaam in Islam
Will Hamas and Zionists find a common factor of human race
For barely 15 years ago
Apartheid’s spectre stood stoically in South Africa
The Black now reign where they once toiled like lesser humans
For small-pox once held terror court
Near and far, leaving more casualties than wars
Dreaded like its 21st century incarnation –HIV
Less than 50 years ago
Black lived as slaves in sugarcane plantations across US
Now US first family is full blooded black
Does change change?
Will HIV become a mere word of old English
Will guns and nuclear weapons
Enrich and adorn our museum in 25 years now
Would Iran be rich in Uranium or people?
Will peace find a permanent seat in security council?
For it was Kings and Princes some time before
Reigned over lesser mortals as Lords and Masters
of the known world called empires and kingdoms
Now the emerging relics of our collective past
Wall-posters of where we have been, and regal tourist attractions
Government houses now in place of kingly courts; parliaments for palaces
Does change change?
Will semantics of poverty change to… say… property or plenty?
Will there be equality of the classes
Will woman truly be equal to man
Will there come a time when the day will nor break?
Will science conquer death?
Some time ago
Women were best house-keeping, voteless second class citizens
15th Saturday October 2009.
I smiled when the world was ended. I pretended not to care.
I thought it only fair you see, to suffer such indignity with some restraint.
You may think it easy, but it ain’t.
I recall when they were small, young and just reborn. They looked so forlorn,
and sad, as babies do; and not as bad or half as sad, as when they grew.
The world I gave them was a gift, I toiled long and hard to make.
I hoped they would appreciate it, if only for their sake.
I shaped it with my breath so well, with painted hue of green and blue.
Palate colors you could smell, a feast of colored stew.
I spiced it up; variety in every cup. I added sensuous texture too;
with every touch and taste I knew. And it was such a marvelous toy
made for each one’s joy. I gave it freely to them all, for all their earthly pleasure.
Gave to each free will whose call, was greatest of my treasure.
Theirs to do with what they will, to savor and renew.
They took it like a bitter pill, and did not have a clue.
As child is often wont to do they stomped their feet and whined and cried.
They took my gift and mangled it and stepped upon my pride.
They were so young and foolish then, with no respect and little care.
No surprise evoked me when, they laid my gift so bare.
They made it dirty with their soil, polluted water-well and air.
For every ounce my ceaseless toil, gave me pounds for my despair.
I watched in horror as they fought, blood for blood and eye for eye.
Thinking I should stop I thought, take free will; for lest they die.
But, I relented in restraint, and left them to their sad devices.
Stepped back and let them have their way, to see them solve their crises.
But they, alas, could not see far, and plodded down the long wrong road.
Destruction, hatred, savage war; all manifests of evil flowed
In the end the gift I gave, lay in ruins at my feet.
unhonored to a man’s last grave, destroyed by their defeat.
So I will start again my task, rebuild with loving care and pride,
and if upon their birth they ask, what shall we do with this great gift so wide.
I’ll say what every loving parent says, “free will” means life is yours…so you decide.
One day I hope that all my children see, my gift so rare is meant to set them free.
The earth is theirs to do with what they may. It could be heaven, they have but, to say.
As I did gaze upon her for the first time as she labored in small shop in what appeared to be
a hole in a wall that open into this place where she did work all day. Almaz was an Ethiopian
beauty with gorges reddish color hair which was filled with big curly locks that seem to flow
into an endless chasm of never ending twist and turns, with a smile that seem to light up that
tiny little room. A rare beauty was she to behold, elegant yet graceful and humble in her
soul…as I did watch her as she did strategically place each flower by hand one by one and
with each gentile twist or turn of her soft golden tone skin colored hands until a work of art
was form inside of each vase that they did adorn.
Sometimes the vases were made of glass or maybe of some type of fine cultivated stone …
but each one that was made to become a work of art made to express someone else’s
declared love or concern for a love of family member or even the lost of an unrequited love
and she did do her best to express their thoughts with the arrangement made from the heart.
With her beautiful brown eye’s that seem to tell a story of a pain and a deep love for her
family… that she displayed with each piece of work that she did make. With each day of hard
work in this small shop where she toiled all day in her endless attempt to repay her family
for a debt that she so desperately wanted to repay…for it was the love of her father that had
brought Almaz the flower arranger to this place.
So many people do take the love of their family for granted, but… no not this lady…no not
this lady…no not her ever, not even for a second in a day. Almaz made the flowers arrange
all day, all for a debt of love that she wanted to repay. Little did she know that it was already
repaid in full… with a father’s silent pray of love to see his daughter in a place where her
dreams could blossom in the promise land, were no Kings are crowned or Queens ruled, but
in this place of commoners were freedom was born to rule. Were even the poorest of men
could rise to the highest office in the land. Truly your father has completed his arrangement
in the vase with the most beautiful flower that he could find to place it in for the whole world
to see, Almaz you are that flower that completes his arrangement.
He made them in a hurry, He made them in the night.
He had other things on His mind, and forgot to paint them white.
A woman planned to fix this error - she was a woman of notoriety.
She saw the problems that this mistake had caused in society.
She beckoned to her female counterparts, to help her if they can.
Medical practitioners and scientists, between them not one man.
Now to decide what colour this future race should be.
Lets not make them blue, they wont be happy.
If we make them green or yellow, they may be jealous or cowardly.
We cant make them black, else they will have to fight to be free.
They pondered. They cant be red, others will take their land.
All colours were suggested, white was rejected as being too bland.
It was decided by unanimous vote the next generation you see,
will be of a delightful purple hue and all the ladies did agree.
They toiled for years to create a race of purple people to inhabit the earth.
Purple mothers everywhere having purple babies when they gave birth.
By the time all humans were of the same colour, peace now reined.
Harmony befell upon the human race and no bigotry remained.
It seemed they had found the answer, but Utopia is hard to uphold.
Soon discontent and aggravation among the population did unfold.
It wasn't long before rebels demanded to be different and not the same.
People demanded a choice of rainbow colours which seemed a shame.
Unrest developed within the race and soon the movement grew.
People stated that they were tired of being all just the same purple hue.
They began to chant a ditty from the lesson learned from a story.
by a young writer named Mary Shelley who found fame and glory.
Everything seemed quite amiss,
And their chant went like this:
A ghostly apparition?
An ill-reputed disposition,
A legacy to educate?
For all to meditate.
His ghost may be heard.
Frankenstein utters this word.
Notorious as a creator,
Of the monster, nothing greater.
A total disappointment,
After its deployment.
He showed it no respect.
It was a victim of his neglect.
His health declined during his search.
He left his monster in the lurch.
His ghost will forever teach us.
The lesson is there to beseech us.
Leave nature to do the creating.
A ghostly message, with no debating.
WHILE PASSING THROUGH:
My heart speaks loudly on the tablets.
Ink leaving traces of my thoughts;
Mind-spills left on paper,
addressing the survivors of humanity.
Desperately I have searched
and found many messages.
I will not come and leave
without passing them on
to the generations forward.
What I do while passing through
gives leverage to the vestige, of our investments.
Though you've cheated death a thousand times
you still must die, one time!
Though we have been used and abused,
we have toiled. and have been allowed to exist
only because of what we do.
If it were not for our abilities we conclude,
we would have perished like a weed
unwanted and sprayed.
The human will have endured.
Even with your best plans and
your most crucial diseases still
you could not separate us from our souls.
Though you've cheated death a thousand times
you still must die one time.
We have baptized your ideas into our reality,
religions and concepts, we have been
foolishly obedient in this servitude.
We've had no problem following your rules,
even though we were not your first mules.
Many souls are wailing. We still triumphed over evil.
The jokes on you, we know how to be good.
We know how to live righteously almost,
and we do, when you let us.
But your own straying gave away the hoax.
I hear souls wailing, voices joining mine,
as we cry in unison. You are the thieves in the den.
Stealing everything we bring in.
Though you've cheated death a thousand times
you still must die one time.
Do not count the dead bodies
on the bus ride, home,
that only causes nightmares.
Wait until morning, if you make it back home,
listen to the news of the body counts;
It's easier that way.
Get a good night's sleep
and your mind set will come back
to its original state.
No matter if we save your life,
raise your children, fight wars side by side,
one day your mindset will return to
you, to feed upon its own ignorance,
like a dog who returns to its vomit.
This too is a promise.
We are under no obligation to any man,
my course on earth, direction,
space, time, no problem.
Though you've cheated death a thousand times,
you still have one final death to die.
The old man had finished raiding the garbage cans outside Tines' store,
A few crusts of bread and a bit of sausage, his belly screamed for more,
Walking away he shivered, as he hid the book from the wind and rain,
For it was the only thing left from his past that in his possession remained!
The church's centers for the homeless and downtrodden were crammed full,
So once more, the old man gave the large cardboard box a big pull,
And down it fell to cover the homeless gent to keep him warm at night,
While all around him people walked in apathy aware of his lonely plight!
They were too busy worrying about their lives, to take the time to care,
Or else the lust for power and money, had left them no time to share,
Governments had raised the tax and condemned the older shops,
And farmers had lost their farms and drought had destroyed the crops!
The old man opened the book and his rough and broken voice was heard,
He didn't need a light to read by, 'cause he had memorized every word,
Someone close beside him said, 'Could you speak that bit once more?'
'Cause the guy lying across from me on the papers, has a mighty loud snore!'
So the old man 'turned' back the page and read again from the start,
And his voice rose in pure joy as he recalled the words to heart,
And the tired and hungry men listened to the stories that he spoke,
They thought that maybe in their miserable lives there was a ray of hope!
The old man regaled them with stories of the cruel, the brave and the strong,
Of a king that ruled in power and greed while a boy soothed him in song,
He told of strange places were people toiled and royalty made them slaves,
Of the butchering of little babies and the Tyrant who laid them in their graves!
The old man stopped then suddenly and the others heard him speak,
'Are you sure it is me that you need?' 'Am I the one you seek?'
The men saw then a light coming from where there should be none,
And lifting the box, they searched, for the old man he was gone!
His threadbare coat was lying and on it was the old man's book,
And one of the men had a few matches, striking it they had a look,
The cover said, 'The Holy Bible', and one of the men began to read,
The others sat down to listen and the Sower planted more seeds!
©Jane Richer
Nov. 15/2007
There's a leprechaun in my garden
stomping all over my soil,
I'm trying to prepare it for flowers
with the sweat of my brow, I've toiled.
He is extremely mischievous
he pees all over the place,
tries to kill my trees and grass
and then, laughs in my face.
I can't stand him at times
he ruins every little thing,
at one time, he was my friend
but, now, it's just trouble he brings.
I've been waiting since last year
for him to get away from me,
I have tried everything possible
now, he just won't let me be.
I've kicked him out of my house
threw his stuff out onto the lawn,
I think he's paying me back
he bugs me from night until dawn.
I'll have to do something
something that I won't regret,
I'll get him back for sure
that will be a sure bet.
I'll steal his shoes and hide them
shave his beard off his face,
make him wear lots of make-up
only then, maybe he'll be disgraced.
He'll surely be ashamed of himself
for nagging me morning, noon and night,
I will have to make sure
to give him quite a fright.
I went out and sprayed my garden
with a concoction of disgusting things,
the smell it gave off was extremely gross
a lot of trouble, Mr. Leprechaun, I will bring.
He found out what I was doing
saw the clothespin upon my nose,
quietly laughed, while running to my barn
then, sprayed me with the garden hose.
I really wasn't expecting this
now I truly disapprove,
I can't stand his shenanigans
guess I will have to move.
He laughed and pointed his finger
I had anger written all over my face,
he kicked me, while I was down
my own medicine, I could taste.
I have tried so hard this year
to get this wee bugger back,
he has done it to me again
mischievous intelligence, I do lack.
I can't seem to get him back
it doesn't matter what I do,
I've been planning this for quite a while
hoping he wouldn't have a clue.
Guess I'll have to throw in the towel
I know when I have been beat,
maybe next year, I'll have some luck
and my garden will be nice and neat.
For now, I'll have to put up with him
stomping all over my soil,
there's a leprechaun in my garden
watching him dance, makes my blood boil.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Mar.17/2013
He's gonna get his. LOL
~The Greatest Show from Hell~
A circus quietly drifted through our town,
causing everyone here to curse the ground–
where they toiled to set~up their ghastly show.
They passed the town, demonic eyes aglow—
~*~
†
No jugglers, tight ropes nor funny clowns,
not one living soul– anywhere–to be found.
Not one was sure of their rueful intentions,
demonic creatures from hell's dark dimensions.
~*~
†
A diabolical debauchery– everyone surmised,
Malevolent menagerie's pure evil went undisguised...
~*~
†
The old Barker's visage–terrifying scene!
How his demonic minions danced, would sing;
–luring everyone into a cavort of death.
A performance designed to steal our breath
~*~
†
Like nothing we had ever seen before,
this pale white horrid, smiling troubadour,
raised single bony arm upwards, toward the sky
when, suddenly, from osseous hands did fly—
~*~
†
Such metaphysical mastery, it seemed,
his dead eyes with unholy forces— gleamed;
demanding the townfolks expiation,
or face the fires–eternal Hell's damnation.
~*~
†
A boisterous, bellowing wall of flame,
within the very midst, from whence it came;
all manner of devilish succubi–
did dance and sing a damning lullaby.
~*~
†
Like Pied Piper's rats led to the slaughter,
eldest townsfolk; brothers, sons and daughters,
entered into that billowing wall of flame,
were consumed, never heard nor seen again...
~*~
†
An epoch of such epic proportions!
These creatures, continued—horrific contortions,
until— mercifully— faded to crimson mist
evaporated them, like grain, churned to grist.
~*~
†
The spot is still marked where they all succumbed,
if you're caught standing near, then, back they'll come,
–unsatiated, taking not just young and old...
As they feel, you too, just might be cajoled.
~*~
†
Legend calls it the Greatest Hell on Earth;
a place of torture–a kind of new unbirth
The place I reside, not comfortably well,
having witnessed the Greatest Show from Hell...
BIG HANDS DON
I s’pose I’ve been a cowboy since I was just a ‘teen
But I was herd’n bad guys, see I cowboy’d for the queen
I rode with lots of partners up and down the asphalt trail
Those that cut the corners and those that wouldn’t fail
Some were rough and ready and a few just down right tricky
One sticks in my memories, he’s Big Hands Don Molicki
Now Big Hands wore a smile that surely was no bluff
It didn’t seem to phase him when customers got rough
His presence was imposing, a draft horse in the stable
When muscle was required Big Hands was more than able
He was who ya wanted to back ya in the bar
Or wrestling ornery critters into a police car
But after all the action of solving crime and caper
We’d head back to the office and put it down on paper
Well this is where the smile just melted off his face
His hands were hardly suited for a secretary’s place
Fat fingers on the keyboard, the letters surely flew
But when he’d aim for W he’d hit E S and Q
One late night as he toiled to fix his shift report
The waste pail full beside him with pages he’d abort
His mighty fist then crashed down hard upon the keys
And he cursed so that we knew this wern’t no time to tease
The rest of us were busy putt’n guns and cuffs away
When one went over to him and entered in the frey
He thought his gun unloaded when he aimed at that machine
And said “I’ll solve your troubles” then pulled the trigger clean
We stood there in a dither when we heard that pistol bark
While the bullet pierced the heart of the exclamation mark
When eardrums quit their ringing and smoke commenced to clear
Our minds turned to excuses for the questions sure to hear
When mounties fire their side arms, reports they have to make
We figured this was one we’d probably have to fake
But every new rendition of the lie that we would give
Seemed just about a shaky and water in a sieve
It finally was decided in the middle of the night
We’d call the Sarge and fess-up, not a pretty sight
With courage fully mustered, the Sergeant home in bed
Was told the gruesome details, he asked “ya think it’s dead!!”
The month or so that followed slipped by without no gripin’
Big Hands did all our bull work, we did all his typin’