Long Trots Poems
Long Trots Poems. Below are the most popular long Trots by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trots poems by poem length and keyword.
He is silly that Billy...a flow walker ...joy talker
He trots along so sweet some days
but then just turns and bolts away
He is an ever-ready arm embrace
but not so much for the long haul race
He is dashing as Santa and his sleigh
as you watch him keep you...... well at bay
His smile "how it twinkles and his dimples so merry"
lead you to believe it is true love that he carries
Oh the torch! How it glows and your feelings they flow
but as soon as he knows...
out the window he goes!
You fly to the rooftop to watch him ...drive out of sight
and crushingly learn he is more of a blight
than a heartthrob magnificent to hold close at night
So Go TO YOUR walking ...OH Billy BAH O
I am tired of talking ...to a big zerO
The skyline cuts through faded tones,
With moonglow blazing gilded bronze
And fluid my ink is interlaid
As nightfall drifts like a peace shroud
The glass pane teeters in the breeze
With my pen zigzagging on damp papyrus
I hear an old couple laugh on the alley
Their banter rolling , perhaps, of younger times--
Across them, a lone man trots, forlorn
His bent spine enduring road's travail,
Leading his wobbly feet to tangles of blooms
While egrets scuffle homeward bound.
My mixed thoughts wander at this picture show
...Receding off so gradually
From the tip- tap screech of cobblestones
To my pane's sill, fingers reach for verses
Where each day is a page to write new stories
About jagged yet sleek edges of time's folly
My hands sinking into tattered phrases, kneading
Recitals of life with unknown episodes.
On a Sunday in the evening
The old barn becomes a hall
Social place where every weekend
The town folk go for a ball.
The inside is decorated
Lights are lit, the banners sway
By the walls barrels and cartwheels
Wooden stools and bales of hay.
Everybody loves a shindig
Where square dancing is the craze
Violins, guitars and banjos
Loud hillbilly music plays.
There’s a guy who’s always present
He’s the handsome Cowboy Kurt
On his head a leather Stetson
Dressed in jeans and chequered shirt.
Carol comes in golden pigtails
Gorgeous looking in flared skirt
She stands out; her smile is charming
She is hot and likes to flirt.
Cowboy Kurt looks quite appealing
He taps his feet to the beat
As other couples are reeling
Pretty Carol takes a seat.
Kurt decides to mosey on up
And lay his heart on the line
See if Carol would share some grub
Perhaps a swig of moonshine.
Tiny Carol surprises Kurt
Chugging down half a bottle
She eyes him coyly, looking pert
Then starts to jig full throttle.
Stunned Kurt is reeling to and fro
As wee Carol takes the lead
Dance floor clears; they put on a show
Kurt looks like a tumbleweed.
Music wouldn’t stop fast enough
For Kurt who couldn’t square dance
Carol is made of tougher stuff
And has high hopes for romance.
Totally lit and loving it
Carol trots to the outhouse
But when she returns, Kurt has split
“Where’s my man?” Carol does grouse
In his truck Kurt has hit the trail
Head still spinning from the dance
Carol sits upon a hay bale
Hoping he’ll return to prance
After the hoe down was over
Banjos and fiddles tucked away
Cowboy Kurt was still a rover
Out cold on the hay Carol lay.
------------------------------------------------------------
Written 6th October, 2014
A collaboration by Paul Callus and Carolyn Devonshire
A horse that runs wild and free
Enjoys freedom with each stride
No saddle on his withers be
No grazing muzzle as a guide
No headpiece on his poll abides
His fetlock and his coronet feel the tickle of the grass
As his forelock ruffles in the breeze
No horseshoe on his hoof amass
With the wind he trots with ease
His gaskin flexes to run at his decree
His frog feels the soft earth as he stands
his coat feels the soothing rain
Unbridled by the bit's demand
His neighs echo through the plains
Upon these green fields, he reigns
His stifle and his hock aches once in awhile
But a good gallop 'neath the dome
of sky, brings him back in form and style
No crupper on his croup as he roams
For this horse calls freedom home.
~~~
10/4/16
*The crupper is the strap that runs from the horse's dock, over the croup, to the saddle.
I rode to power on a Midwest horse,
Bearing amongst the feathers in my cap this terse brief
from my broken people:
To lay waste to the irksome order
That home and abroad now prevails.
Strained voices break out in the valley below
And many more in the world across the seas
Bidding me to dismount at once
And move to saddle the global kingdom
Of Reagan, Roosevelt, Clinton, ...
That now is mine to ride.
Yet this very kingdom I came to crush;
My Midwest horse, I wouldn't trade for it!
In her neighs, I hear a nay
Forbidding me to consider the bargain.
Her counsel I think I'll heed
For between the two, she's the easier to ride.
A horse that trots on cheap lies
Or a kingdom that floats on costly allies--
That's the question I now confront.
From the dixie land of northern Mississippi to Chicago;
From the mid-west metropolis to a central Florida bay;
A mid-size rental served us well; about 4000 miles of service.
We knew that the second leg would take more than just a day.
It was somewhere between Nashville and Atlanta that our
little girl arose from sleep to ask, "Are we there yet?"
That's about the time when we wished that, instead of
driving, we had taken a fast jet. In all of our lives,
there seems to be endless things. The little boy that's only
11 knows that someday he'll turn 18, but when? In the mind
of 11, 7 can be forever. Slowly is the time that passes at
snail-pace. Long is the day that trots along without haste.
There's that 2-laned narrow and winding road that slows me
down and gets me nowhere soon. There's the long night of the
soul when the heart is not bold; you doubt the things you've
been told; and the only light you see is the bright full moon.
091522PS
The Fox Trox and THE DANCING CHILD - -
See the Fox who trox
Sees the dancing child and wants to box
He finds it hard to dance with her wiggles
Overshadowed by the dances they giggles
Who is that watching near the pink
I think he'd like to eat me the fox I think
But he’s but a fun boy
Admired as he just dances for joy
Her empty stomach givers and shakes
It needs for food it runs on cake
She's not alone she brings a suede
The pet fox and lots of palisade
The fox likes to dance also
Especially the fox trots cause he's a herbivore
He loves dancin girl shudders the fox
Fox wants to dance but she wants to fox trot
3/21/19 Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
That Salad Went Right Through Me
I've always wanted to write a poem called
“That Salad Went Right Through Me”.
And I would wager upon its best destiny:
To begin with, there is the Universal Theme--
For who has not gurgled around a conference table
at half past the last radish scrap?
Who, once stalled, has not
persistently punched the flusher
to muffle the borborygmus din?
But on a loftier note, I prefer
to think of my paean emblazoned
in the annals of first line indexes,
where, as one wanders lonely as a cloud
over dactyls and tropes,
“That salad went right through me”
trots right off the page
demanding a fervid flip to its leaf.
And future discourse plied at workshops,
and other such rarefied privies of poesy
might thusly include:
"Did you write a poem for the class today?"
Yes...“That Salad Went Right Through Me”
"Well then, you should consider the cheesecake."
Shark waits in the bushes, for his opportunity. I am watching the scene in horror, because I feed these birds. There are many robins, sparrows, wrens, cardinals and my bluejay. They all trust me. I try to get out there in time to scare the cat away from his prime spot, but alas, I am too late. He has captured an unsuspecting baby bird. Trots off with his prey into the forest while the other birds continue to feed, unaware they are now in Shark’s own secret happy hunting ground.
cat takes flying leap
little brown robin escapes
feline grab in air
A cowboy don't need no plushy pew or a rantin' preacher,
Pontificatin' from his pulpit aerie as his spiritual teacher!
He gits his religion from (to him) a more gratifyin' source,
Cherishin' God's Great Creation from the saddle of his horse!
He sits on a log contemplatin' the rigorous work to be done,
Sippin' joe from a tin cup, admirin' the risin' of the sun.
He saddles his faithful horse, Clyde, for the long day's ride;
His old dog, Rex, with tail a-waggin', trots along at his side.
He lifts his eyes up to yon Pikes Peak a-thankin' the Lord,
For sech majesty and the herd of antelope a-grazin' on the sward.
He crosses a stream and pauses listenin' to its soothin' hymn,
As water caresses stones - sublimer than a cathedral choir to him!
He dismounts, removes his sweat-stained hat and takes a break,
'Neath a ponderosa pine savorin' the breeze from a nearby lake.
Cheery meadowlarks serenaded the old cowpoke in acapella style,
Easin' the strain of his challengin' day and makin' livin' seem worthwhile.
His workday was endin' and he ambled home along the dusty trail,
To the bunk house where he'd be fed beans and bacon without fail.
As the sun settled in the west, a glorious spectacle caught his eye;
The Master Artist had painted a most beautiful sunset in His sky!
No! A cowboy don't need no cathedral in which to worship the Lord!
His redemption is reverin' God's Creation for his eternal reward!