Long Too large Poems
Long Too large Poems. Below are the most popular long Too large by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Too large poems by poem length and keyword.
A steady blanket of funereal rain fell for days,
From the wintry heaven, onto the ground.
And by about three in the morning I was woken by
A screaming pleading sort of sound.
I had clumsy boots and akubra, and a blood scratched Drizabone
To walk me towards this holler.
And then I found her on her side, in labour,
Rolling with defiant mud amongst the squalor.
This wasn’t good, no time for medical expertise,
Or people who have studied what to do.
She had dystocia, she hadn’t dilated enough,
Her baby was too large to break through.
She’d stopped trying, but on my knees I could see
The feet of her baby were out hanging still.
“She’s lost her baby. She’d given up hope. She mustn’t die.”
I needing all of my skill.
Immediately handy was the wire fence strainer,
That could be used to ease out her beautiful infant.
My hands were cut, my lungs were full,
She wailed but I remained focussed and persistent.
First its head, then its body,
A purge of everything else soon followed all over my feet.
And I leapt to its mouth to try and shock it to life,
And it breathed a breath sounding so sweet.
Within fifteen minutes the cow and the calf were standing,
Drenched in the mud and the rain.
And I returned to the house, cooked a billy of tea,
On my coat just another blood stain.
The Army was getting desperate in nineteen-forty-three,
For warm bodies to fill vacancies in the good old infantry.
Alas, the draft board beckoned causing his heart to sink.
Thus, began the notorious career of Private Roscoe D. Schlink!
He was a naive country boy from Bean Blossom, Indiana.
They sent him for training to Fort Fumble in Louisiana.
Only five-feet-four, he was issued clothes much too large.
"Don't worry, I'll make a man of you, son!" said old sarge!
At marching and drilling he proved less than deft.
He could never figure out his right foot from his left!
Sergeants growled at him with uncouth elocution.
Roscoe just couldn't do anything with sharp execution!
On long treks he was in the rear running to catch up.
Petulant sergeants ever screaming, "Closeup! Closeup!"
During inspections he amassed reams of damning demerits,
And spent many weekends paring heaps of taters and carrots!
Later in the heat of battle he reached deep within his soul.
When those with lesser mettle faltered, he assumed control.
That day his gallantry overshadowed others by far.
For his courage he was awarded the coveted Silver Star!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
My team lives in the basement,
among cobweb standings and rain-soaked dreams,
where every April promise
becomes a June apology.
Still, I return.
Because baseball is not measured
by the cruelty of the scoreboard.
It is a game that pauses long enough
for memory to catch its breath.
A father unfolds a lawn chair.
A daughter wears a glove too large.
The sun melts behind the bleachers
like a gold coin slipping from heaven.
Nine innings of possibility.
No clock stalks the field.
No buzzer ends a miracle.
Hope lingers in the on-deck circle,
adjusting its batting gloves.
The crack of the bat
is summer splitting open.
A double down the line
draws chalk across the evening.
An outfielder drifts beneath a fly ball
as if answering a prayer only he can hear.
And even in defeat,
there is beauty:
the groundskeeper's careful geometry,
the dirt-stained uniform,
the lonely catcher rising from a crouch
to throw one last ball around the horn.
Soccer may claim the title.
Let it.
But baseball is the art of waiting,
the cathedral of second chances,
the stubborn belief that one swing,
one pitch, one impossible inning
can rescue an entire season
from the basement.
Repent, and you shall be forgiven
And hopefully, reinstated
If you are conscience-driven
It’s much appreciated
No need to come up with objections
Just humbly take the charge
Accept all stupid allegations
Before they grow too large
The astute will suspect you’re kidding
Those will be a minority
Most of the judges will believe you
So blessed by their authority
You go whatever way you see
It might be not the same
You walked before, but you are free
To start another game
It is a gaming world, all play
Whatever game they like
In games of war for peace they pray
In games of work they strike
Of course the wise like to pretend
That only justice meets their needs
But at the high stakes it depends
Forgive the hypocrites.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2uqZhnqHMAg
The orchestra strains to be symphonic --- a bee in a tin box.
Cigar smoke thunders, molecules of sound wilt
only to be dialed up through brass lungs.
The combo is quaintly upholstered, a classic sports car
driven by Disney. Outmoded refrains gurgle.
We see the obsolete road ahead, feel the bumps,
the lack of shock absorbers.
The third piano concerto, the romance of the exile.
1940 is pulled from under its Perspex lid, served up
as fresh Prosciutto di Parma consumed in a diner
long derailed.
The mind warps eras, Michelangelo has gone Hollywood,
the 'Creation' sketched on a paper napkin.
Last notes.
Hands too large for tuxedoed minds, stamp
like rhapsodic elephants.
Percussive fingers slam-dunk ivory tusked themes,
Russian bells quake California.
Rolling vespers outgrowing each decade,
times now locked in a recovery CD millimeters thin.
~~~
https://www.thetruthaboutcars.com/2010/10/sergei-rachmaninoff-car-guy-aero-investor/
Everyone is an immigrant
We all are human
I guess we belong
On this planet
Called earth
We all are human
Born by a woman
As she pure her
flesh blood on
Each of our heads
So we are here
Not as an alien
But citizens of the world
We all are human
We all share same air
I guess non of us
Breaths in nothing else
We feed on plants for food
We drink clean waters
The world was design
For our good
Hope it still does now
We all are human
And non is an alien
If the earth is human
Place for a planet
Then i tell you non
Is an immigrant
If there is then
Is all of us
We all are human
Sharing this round world
Together in different ways
As we differs in our ways
So was human who
Created banderies
By forming teroteries
Called countries as we
Know today
Is sure and true
Our forefathers
Where one family
From same place
I really hope the world
Understands this
We are all human
Not an alien
To be killed or devalued
By our selves
The world is too large
For every one
So we are to live
And settle peacefully
Where ever it pleases
Who ever
Yet the reality today
Dont and never
Aprove so
If you think other people
Around you are immigrant
Dont forget you are same too
Cos you cant carry the land
Or could you carry your houses else where
When ever you travel
You must step on someone's
Land
The land of our one mother
In this earth non is a foreigner
And if there should be one
I have never seen
Apart from the aliens unseen
So on the quest of fighting
Immigrant
Remember our forefathers
Are from one source
As it simplifies non is an
Immigrant
If there is to be one
Then the truth is
Everyone is an immigrant
For years, the King of Terrors
had been blamed for every fear.
At last, he agreed to be interviewed.
He arrived in a black cape
with a crown too large for the door,
and asked whether the room
contained any ducks.
“Your Majesty,” I said,
“people claim you are responsible
for irrational fears.”
“People,” he said,
“are responsible for irrational fears.
I merely receive the letters.”
I opened the first file.
“Elevatophobia.”
“Metal cupboards
that travel vertically,” he replied.
“I rest my case.”
“Climacophobia.”
“A staircase, a ladder,
or steep terrain
with its safety removed.”
“Nyctophobia.”
“Darkened halls
are corridors
practising secrecy.”
“Arachnophobia.”
The King adjusted his crown.
“Even spiders
should have privacy.”
“Anatidaephobia.”
“Ducks are watchful,” said the King.
“That is not irrational.
That is observational.”
“Xanthophobia.”
He glanced nervously
at the yellow pencil on my desk.
“The sun is yellow,” I said.
“Exactly,” he replied.
“Turophobia.”
“Cheese does not improve
with being left alone in caves,”
said His Majesty.
“It becomes confident.”
“Geniophobia.”
The King lowered his own chin
behind the royal collar.
“Linonophobia.”
He watched my untied shoelace
curl across the carpet.
“It is making connections,” he said.
The clock ticked.
“Your Majesty,” I asked,
“are you frightened of anything?”
“Certainly not,” he said.
“I am the King of Terrors.
Fear kneels before me.”
I turned to the final file.
hippo
poto
monstro
sesqui
ppedalio
phobia
The King’s crown slipped sideways.
“That,” he whispered,
“is not a word.
It is a corridor
with no visible exit.”
The clock ticked once.
His Majesty screamed,
diving through the window
into a hedge
full of cucumbers.
Pedro was a mouse
A mouse who didn't eat cheese
He would like to have a choice
Of anything he pleased
He was a Spanish mouse
You can tell that by his name
He liked all kinds of things
Not everything the same
He liked eating crumbs of bread
Found upon the floor
Sometimes he found a crumb of cake
And always looked for more
He was quite a greedy mouse
He lived in a mousey hole
He was also very lazy
In his chair, he loved to loll
In the house there also
Lived a cat
He was very skinny
And wearing a big hat
One day while out walking
And much to his surprise
The hat that was too large for him
Fell over this cat's eyes
The mouse was feeling hungry
And spied the skinny cat
The mousey licked his lips and said
I'd like a meal of that
The cat was now so blind
His hat covering his face
The mouse pounced on the cat
And ate him, every trace
The moral of this story
That cats usually eat mice
This mouse is very different
And ate this cat in a trice
It's not always the weakest
That succumb to the strong
This way of thinking
Can sometimes be proven wrong
What’s the point of maintaining a government?
Who of us wants to be ruled?
We know what we mean, what our ancestors meant
Why pretend that we need to be fooled?
Considering those “we” might vary
Let’s be gentler to them, just a bit
Perhaps parties won’t be too contrary
Would be glad to express some wit
You see governments are quick to punish
We’re a herd far too large for grazing
Ought to hear the alarming rubbish
For decades – isn’t is amazing?
I presume you’d say I’m an idealist
Who thinks nobly of matters too serious
To be taken lightly, cause we exist
Due to rules that are quite imperious
We’ve no power in its tangibility
But the same slaves and masters plot
Take a ride for the master’s facility
To win in style the slave lot
As for me, I’ll check out the only way
Back to the station I knew
There I’ll take a bus to 16 Marroway
That’s the solace worth to pursue.
A millionth of a grain of sand, maybe even that is too large
To something that's so grand yet man thinks he's in charge
Just the size of our sun or the vastness of Jupiter and Saturn
It's so much fun watching scientific men in taking their turn
A billion billion galaxies expanding at a faster and faster pace
Yet in science everyone agrees that none of this is God's Grace
135 thousand years it would take the shuttle to get to one star
When will they awake to the nothingness as Godless one's are
An atom bomb can only destroy where as God's Glory Created
Where as some share this joy these others try to dissipate it
Seeking life where it is not again never mentioning His Glory
Such Glory they can never plot especially not knowing His Story
To a single cell filled with unique DNA His Creation being so great
What else would anyone dare say thus risking upon their very fate
If you see His sun rise tomorrow and you still don't understand
I might beg, steal or borrow but I won't be the One to demand
Genesis 1:1
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.