Long Trotting Poems
Long Trotting Poems. Below are the most popular long Trotting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trotting poems by poem length and keyword.
Death was uglier than I knew
Sure I had heard the fire and brimstone rumors,
But I had never actually believed them.
Death came at me with a hard set face.
A vacant skull head, trotting with purpose.
I saw her weapons and wondered what she would use.
I would not go easy, I thought. I felt superior because of it.
Death sneered, showing me a rancid, ugly, mean side I had never seen.
I picked up my arsenal of tricks, determined to battle.
It was a ridiculous façade of a fight, fatiguing and defeating.
I felt like a rag doll as she carried me off into the fray of a bigger battle.
She threw me onto a pyre, and burned my body beyond recognition.
As the smell of burning flesh entered my nostrils, I felt less smug.
W- Who said there is no paradise?
H- Have you ever tried?
A- Around the corner.
T- There you will find,
A-Amazing places that hide.
B- Breathe taking waterfalls, with willow trees standing tall.
E- Evergreens blossoming even through winter and spring.
A- Antelopes running wild, with their beautiful hinds.
U- Umbrella mushrooms with red and white dots,
T – Trotting horses, dancing while grazing on their spots.
I – Infinity of insects, jumping, flying, and buzzing on hot summer days.
F- Fire Flies that comes out at night to play.
U- Ushers us, to sit down, listening to,
L- Leaping frogs calling, it’s time to mate, arranging romantic dates.
W- When you still wonder if there’s a place of splendor, come,
O- Over and I will escort you to my world.
R- Relax, on the bench here is an empty space.
L- Let down your hair and breath the fresh air while all the creatures great
and small,
D – Dancing under the night sky at the masquerade ball
I saw him
Well, I actually heard him
Shouting
POETRY HERE
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SONNETS ON PARADE
ALLITERATION TROTTING BEHIND
METAPHOR MOCKING THE MOONLIGHT
He waved his papers proudly
Temptingly reciting snippets
Spidery webs
Inviting the unsuspecting
To slow down
To listen
A few passersby gathered
Chuckling at the idea
Unaware
They had succumbed
Altered their paths
Stood
Motionless
Mouths a-gape
Mesmerized
Ensnared
In the gossamer tones
Of poetic
Reverberation
Once in a memory
The boy played by the small stream running near the hospital
where his mother was a patient and time hung heavy this
afternoon in late September.
The boy picked five elongated leaves from a bush on each one
he put a pebble wanted to see if any leaf/boat survived
the voyage to where the stream went underground.
One leaf made it and should come out where the seaport is.
Once the stream had run free and rapidly crossed the green
field where elderly horses grazed, after a life of pulling
heavy carts, the lady who owned the land let the horses
be free; she had spent her youth looking after her father
who had been a Danish general, keeping his boots shining?
Habits are difficult to erase sometimes, a horse was seen
trotting in the cobbled streets lost in the past.
The stream ran to the strand where men pulled the boats
up for repair and selling fresh fish, crabs and shrimps.
As for the horses, when they were so old their teeth, gone could
not eat, the last walk was the knacker’s yard; salami and glue.
The field is now a town square where farmers sell their products
and their wives sell thick woolen long jones.
There is a statue of a famous writer he looked patrician, but mostly
he suffers the indignity of seagull droppings.
The lady who protected horses was regarded as eccentric,
but she lives on in songs and tales.
The boy saw in a café two ladies he sensed he knew; little did
he knows they were, as time rolled on- one at the time, wives.
When the boy came home, his mother was out of hospital,
boiling potatoes and frying sliced turnips.
All the strawberry's and moss rose's bushes
are slowing budding along the dusty bridle paths,
and as the husky New York cowboys pull down their hats,
they don't seem to excite their trotting horses;
and I am slower than they are...dragging my aching feet
to barren fields, where yesterday's lovers loved to dream!
And as the dormant forest awaits spring,
below the rain-soaked hill, some trees dingle from it's corroded cliffs
that are thickly covered with maroon leaves;
but the innocuous squirrels, unaware, scare away the wandering robin
that is too lonely and looks for sign of existence,
and my observation is a note worthy one by the rhythm of his wings!
My memorable childhood was spent observing the diverse seasons,
and the spectacular colors that bewildered me...enhancing their significance,
and whoever saw that child with a rosy face and short, curly hair:
must have thought to have seen a cherub with the softest wings,
who never tired of discovering new flowers and trees;
jotting down every detail in his handy notebook, to create words with flair!
Rest under the pale sky, tired man and write your drama;
your strength has diminished as sunsets ultimately do;
you have seen the dawn with its intense light and a bright star, too:
that star which always illuminated your path and spirit!
Now, don't cease to exist and vanish like a dark star...
peacefully sleep, as the dormant forest awaits spring!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
The strangest and weirdest vision
flashed across the purple wall
painted by a scrubby rascal,
where a blood-stained altar
was used to offer humans to Satan;
the eulogy dedicated to the next victim
was terribly frightening and resounded with sadism:
the specter's eyes were darker than tar
and too menacing to anyone not shouting a line
and did not participate in the daily sacrifice,
but kept away and challenged the guiltless vile!
I tripped on weeping stones
smeared with the stench of blood,
some of them profusely bled;
they shook under my trotting,
emitting many painful moans:
they thought I was their biblical Savior,
little I could do to ease their moaning
and looked away in a mood so sad!
I readily admit I am a country bumpkin
But I am no buffoon
I am in this to build others up
To help others win
To raise up my neighbors and my friends
We hear about the coastal towns
Both east and west coast have terrific reputations
Their people are more sophisticated, more stylish, chic.
It is fashionable at both coasts to be less hands-on.
To be less community oriented.
In the big citiies of the coasts, people on the streets do not speak.
They do not smile.
They do not say “hi”.
They walk past each other, like trotting lamp posts.
Not noticing faces or inflections.
Not noticing humanness in each other.
I am in New York City today, trying to figure it out.
Where is a guidebook to help me unlearn social niceties?
How can I immediately become less human? Less caring?
How do I not say “hi” to everyone I pass?
Is there a manual? A cheat sheet? A U-tube video?
Too late. I am already here, feeling miserable.
Wishing I was back in the Midwest where it is okay to care about strangers.
The loud fastest growing
non-thinking hand-it-over
flowers are abrasive
to some who feel they are truly weeds,
just messing up us real flowers
Their gnarly appearance is
off putting because they
are not the approved people, they are clover.
They look different, they dress
different, they advocate giving
away stuff to so-called poorer flowers.
They are way too giving with our flower seeds.
This is our seed; we made it.
You cannot take it away from us.
Our gardners purchased it online or in stores.
it is ours until we throw it in the garbage.
We do not like the
abrasive irritating selfish
non-thinking hand-it-over
flower weeds who
are screaming for our seed,
who want our well-earned pollen.
Sit in the sun yourself, you poison ivy leaves!
These give-it-all-to-us weeds sometimes become
abrasive in our gardens. They are overbearing,
disrespectful, trotting over us flowers in a mean
and arrogant way.
We are so irritated with them,
they are covering us up quickly and thickly, loud and proud.
We stick up our noses and try to push through their
hard-headed, do-it-our-way-and-give-us-everything ranks.
Then when we are mortally wounded, and we see
little hope, when we lose our fight, and become weeds
ourselves, our perspective changes. We become the
arrogant and rude take-over types, tromping over each
little marigold and lavender slice, silencing them.
We are now the desperate, take-over weeds,
screaming for our due. We become the bullies.
I have no idea how to rectify the approved
flowers with us weeds, but we weeds soon
get our own way, we become
incensed, and crafty, and our dendrites kick in.
Some of us dandelions have developed magical powers.
We figured out how to look and sound less weed-like.
Some of us are running for political office,
telling the loveliest most naïve flowers what they need
to hear to get onboard and give us their seeds.
Knowing they will soon be joining the world of
weeds, and loving the knowledge we have done
it with little bloodshed, only craftiness and stealth.
Oh, it is fun to be on the bad side.
The ground was blanketed with fallen leaves
that crunched under their feet as they ducked
into the bushes and secluded spots behind thick trees
The forest was their domain the comforts of life
as fugitives in hiding they could survive,
it beat capture and torture.
Emerging on the path came eight horses
with their riders trotting into view
Robin Hood and the others emerged from hiding
knowing they will not be eager to surrender
As the sun starts melting into the horizon bringing in the twilight
Robin Hood and his men knew they were in danger
Why did he feel like he was totally kidding himself?
Jumbling and stumbling they start to dwarf
Their voices had evolved from bass and baritones to tenors
Avoiding getting caught they all backed away and scattered
Bidding the riders farewell, then departing
2/13/2016
Poetry Contest: A twisted poem about Robin Hood -
Sponsored by: C. T.
Walk on the plantar aspect;
Yonder sole walks through life's traffic
So on these streets he walks alone;
On cobbler pathways made of stone;
Tether bound feet worn polluted soles;
Trotting marching everywhere he goes;
Step by step by step by step lonely traveler;
Trolling throughout the city he goes;
Yet now preeminence instilled solace;
The marathon a walking gatherer;
Hindsight in the back of his mind he knows;
Like in biblical times he's marching the streets of Zion;
Now still he stands he digress;
Embedded of The Souls of his feet bit so gravel;
Feet corns and bunions hurt ;
Done walked miles on this bumpy Earth;
Pathway lit lighted flows;
Marathon Man walk on, he walks alone-
On terrain this worlds track and field so graphic;
Marathon Man walk on plantar aspect;
8/26/21 ©
For A Brian Strand Rime Me Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand