Long Trading Poems
Long Trading Poems. Below are the most popular long Trading by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trading poems by poem length and keyword.
Fragrances of roses wafted throughout the garden
No idea why I had been invited, but I cherished this scent
Others milled around in fancy frocks and expensive suits
My dress was a plain blue with tiny yellow daisies
“I hear you traded silence for roses,” someone said.
Thought he was talking to me. Turned to answer.
Found myself facing two gorgeous apricot rose bushes.
Knew I would have to speak eventually, but not yet.
Did not recognize the rest of the staff, as I was new.
School had not started yet; we were at an ice breaker.
Was going to ditch this activity but my mother talked me into it.
She loved roses and asked me to take pictures.
I pulled out my camera and began to get some close ups.
Pink, peach, red, yellow and white blooms posed innocently.
“I hear you traded silence for roses,” the same voice said.
I turned and faced the speaker. a handsome young lad.
“I guess we both did,” I replied.
He had a nice smile, beautiful light blue eyes.
“I am glad I am here,” he told me. “I do adore roses.”
He made many points in my mother’s book for this.
In the sweet spring air,
We love a long walk.
I fancy he listens
As I blabber and talk.
I playfully sigh
Once we come in the door —
Someone’s muddy paws
Have painted the floor.
In the hot summer air,
We drive to the beach.
He pulls off my flip flop,
And runs out of reach.
As dusk settles in,
He nips at a firefly;
While never successful,
He loves to just try.
In the brisk fall air,
I need time to breathe,
But he begs, “one more time,
Throw my ball to retrieve!”
When I bring out the pumpkin,
He wants his fair share.
I say, “down boy, down!”
But he acts unaware.
In the cold winter air,
Snow lands on his face . . .
Just a second of calm —
Then a squirrel to go chase!
Only back inside does he now shake off,
Melting snow and frost cascading.
I groan but deep down I know:
What makes his personality his own
Are his quirks and irks,
Misdeeds and misleads,
Imperfection but true affection,
That I would, of course, never consider trading.
Must be cool to be a farmer.
(Well, except for all the work!)
Having produce at your fingertips
Would be a lovely perk.
Feeding chickens, brushing horses,
Waking up to milk the cows,
All sound great within the fantasy
My urban mind allows.
Wearing flannel shirts and Carhartt’s,
Picking crops and baking bread,
Trading subways, cabs and buses
For a tractor ride instead.
Oh, I know I’m being foolish;
Farming’s not a lot of fun
And it takes the kind of labor
That’s not meant for everyone.
But from days of “Old MacDonald,”
When I think about a farm,
I don’t focus on the grunt work,
Just the hype of all its charm.
When nightfall dips in palest of gold
I feel a sense of indignity,
As owl's melody loses its eloquence
Through the absence of a safe abode;
Where quietude calls for avian coos
The kind which never seeks to intrude…
And its orbed eyes larger than neons, freeze
In need of natue's hued, aerial parade---
Startled, bird's forest trail is washed out
By mourning dew of poison
Denying the barren woods of nourishment
while allowing thieves to skin owl feathers,
mangled talons like so, wasted ---
Wise keeper of secrets, hushing the noise.
Life marvels at your nocturnal guardianship
yet, this world shares not your moonlit toots
lithography of hills no longer owns
your delicate interludes of silence...
Man ravages bird navel, flesh , and plumes
For trading quests, for self- interest ---
Can this earthly slaughter cease
sucking nectar soil of birds dry?
Somehow, I still hail the dwindling number
of hooting owls
Which believes that the next generations
will wander on an environ,
Soaring their wings... joyously free at last.
To your right, at the end of Kings Heath, sits our supermarket,
Sainsbury's first dream of trading beyond London’s swinging 60’s,
Realised and immortalised
As value to shout about - making life taste better.
As I approach the automated swing gates,
I imagine them as saloon doors to the wild zest,
Making my way to the citrus aisle:
Mandarins and clementines, nectarines - tangtastic!
I see the invigorating yellow of the sociable lemon,
Jolly and sociable companion to lime -
Tropically, they sit well together.
They distance themselves
From the murderous and mysterious blood orange,
Squatting close to his Cantonese cousin the golden orange kumquat,
Tart, sharp and crisp.
And then there's the grapefruit. A brute of a fruit,
Resolute, and I find stand-off-ish.
Sat on the shelf looking pleased with itself,
Seemingly in angry pleasure,
Knowing and boastful in having had a fling
With sweet tangerine.
She now finds him obscene, sour and mean.
Says he was clearly confused
When he called their child, ‘ugli’.
The ugli fruit - oddly shaped and blemished
But perfect in her imperfections
She's an unexpected surprise.
Aromatic - bursting with vitamin C
And sooooo juicy.
To the other fruits, it's an open secret,
That though she's pretty ugly,
She is awfully good.
And as I get to the checkout,
I wonder if it is this, that has made grapefruit so bitter
Loneliness follows me where ever I go,
only companion I have had for long,
people have wandered in and out
of my life like it was a market place,
trading emotions, feelings and thoughts,
for tokens of love or words exchanged,
each with purpose, journey of their own,
shaking hands briefly where roads meet,
but go different ways to destinations each,
through darkness and light, wind and rain,
each person doing a role as they go by,
a mother, a brother, a sister and father,
a daughter, a son some friends and others,
but then the only one that has stayed with me
is a friend who knows when he is needed most,
and lends a hand and talks to me,
is the one that has echoes of myself,
and I even wonder if it looks like me?
we are all in a way lonely in this life,
wading through this mirage of society,
some with prayers and thoughts of God,
and some in silence, in slow steady steps,
but the only reality is the loneliness with us,
and the many lonely in the crowds that
surround us!!
Arousing opulence of ancient ballrooms
She creates her own make-believe world
Waltzing coyly in terpsichorean rhythms
Upon glittering stage where they sell love
Each time she caresses arms of a stranger,
Pretending to levitate in sultan’s harem
In glitzy appeal of polygamous mansions
Where she reiterates to sighs of ambivalence--
This used to be once the venue of glamour.
But her allegory of ardor quickly fades
As her disillusioned ego yearns for solace
When invisible bruises begin to ache
Having surrendered esteem to ruthless nights
Trading dead-feelings in lavish marbled halls
Where stench of alcohol, perfumes, and cigars
Traps perturbed anguish inside prison walls
From which, she knows, there’s no escape.
Initiation period for her was the hardest
When beauty and youth at height of apex
Squandered her magical Cinderella zeal
Abandoning fabled-castle her childhood built
Crying into that gutless, gruesome night
For lacking the force of fortitude to leave
Before she condemned her soul into abyss.
She’s worthless to the heartless crowd now—
A shriveled rose desolate in parched garden,
A discarded bottle of expensive scotch;
So, voicing contempt, like a caged bird she sings
About the wedding night she always fancied
Reciting lyrics, crooning spent feelings,
Whispering the names she picked for her kids.
Look closely at her, she has no chains now,
She can abscond easily whenever she wants
But, alas, no longer has she the desire to fly;
For her mutilated spirits relentlessly bleed
Ever since her own hands clipped her wings.
August 29, 2020
Placed 1st: Woman in chains poetry contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Inspired by Woman in Chains song by Tears for Fears
Secret lover
greeting morning
from flowering
window
a song
opening day
like peacock fan
lilies and roses
light sparkling
ripped
from night
equalizing veil
dawn
a new day
is coloring
rosy child play
maturing
to midday
for adulthood
heat
trading petals
with seeds
of tomorrow
life's harvest
to share
till one by one
start falling
dry dreams of
diversions
life's essence
remaining
to heaven
grey arms
extending
unweighted
by care
on rocking
dream chair
four seasons
capriciousness
sees ending
a new fifth season
of mild spring
ushering
with jolly old friends
banqueting
with music and hymns
to God all the glory
now and forever
in love.
Third Place Winner-Brian Strand-Up To You Contest-2/10/24
The logical possibility to jump over the moon,
make sense when considered its cheese eaten with a spoon.
The same cheese became famous by Mozart composing Cinderella,
melted in on bread called Mozzarella.
The milks fat has its meaning by matter of form,
as one can pull it gently in its use to be torn.
The essence of man by Plato is conceptual confusion,
Aristotle’s answer was the rational animal conclusion.
The death is one of two things and metaphysical,
hypothetic nature in grammarless forms of being radical.
Abstract concepts to the point of phrase,
indefinable logic to stay confused in philosophical pace.
Nothing divided by nothing to multiply the zero,
trading and selling golden mirrors portraying the hero.
The hypnotic ability of linear verbal communication,
overwritten melodrama and its cultured sensation.
Caffeine clicking clocks in commercial wars,
to safe the astounding audience aspiration from taws.
Intensified intuitive balloons matching the color of the eye,
illustrative animated slices with the cherry on top pie.
Vulnerable velocity by vanity loosing lips largely,
absurdity with distinction established ambiguity fiercely.
Falsity and truth before sense and nonsense,
thinking one knows what is not known in essence.
Philosophical poetry may be with or without rhyme,
but it is never without reasons of confession in time.
They rise in suits, not in truth,
Whispering honey into the ears of youth.
They promise bread, and break it twice —
Then sell the crumbs at triple price.
These are the kings without a crown,
Their thrones built on a broken town.
They speak of peace with sharpened knives,
While trading bombs for children’s lives.
Parliaments of puppets sway,
Dancing lies in grand display.
They sign their names in blood and oil,
Then toast their sins with peasant toil.
They steal not once, but every breath —
From schools, from homes, from limbs of death.
And when the people cry for aid,
They build a wall and call it “trade.”
But the soil remembers every scar.
The stars record who these men are.
For thrones are rented, not divine —
And justice drinks a patient wine.
A time will come — not far, but near —
When truth will no longer cower in fear.
No flags, no laws, no gilded rule —
Just hearts awake, and none to fool.