Long Tumbles Poems
Long Tumbles Poems. Below are the most popular long Tumbles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tumbles poems by poem length and keyword.
The Swag-man
On the north side of the river
The water tumbles silver slivers
The rocks just peeking out to form a rapid fall
The waters speeding over the top of the new born water fall
The south side of the river
The calm waters waiting there
The flows of silver slivers reflections are beyond compare.
The golden autumn leaves reflecting in the river
Australia summer is going to sleep but not yet time to shiver
The swagman packs his swag to find a winter bed
The tune of Waltzing Matilda perhaps dancing in his head
He heading out beyond the black stump
He’s not sure of where he’ll park his rump
He’ll travel where work can be found
And park himself till spring comes round.
Before it’s too late
Distant bells clatter on cloud fed weathered skies where
darkness creeps past low light vestibules, faded beams flicker
Short skirts wave in a winter wind, breezy attributes
revealing fishnet thighs calling to the next hidden passenger,
batting lashes and blowing bubbles of stale gum placed under
crushed velvet seats worn in places, stained deliberately
for bragging rights and handkerchief blotting
A ghostly mist lingers as lips are touched up, bright red, crimson,
shades of desire, occupational decisions, advertisements leaking
into sewers and hopscotch squares spread along the avenue
Silhouettes in porch lanterns, whistling…so unladylike, ducking
constables with nightsticks swinging like the clapper in those damn bells
waking the unsuspecting and spooking the transients offering
a few coins for a ten dollar dream
Swine wallows in last week’s gossip, slimy little beings
fat on sausage and biscuits, cursing the rats pushing their way in
below curtains and kitchen windows framing inquisitive eyes,
watching cash change hands and satisfied smirks
on the faces of those wiping feet on mats,
greeting the family in disguise, shirt un-tucked,
long day rewards and dinner on the table
Yesterday’s newspaper tumbles down the walk,
clinging to sign posts, featuring headlines of death, a warning in bold print,
still at large, a menace to society in a grey overcoat,
double breasted and fancy shoeprints in the fresh mud
No further traces except the body, contorted and frozen, smeared faces
littering cobblestone gutters, frightening children and pets,
as passersby look to second floor balconies, oblivious
Midnight calls, staggering drunkards exit Chauncey’s,
hard up and spent, slurred laughter, boisterous to hide worries
and tomorrow’s jobs, time clock lies and penciled in wishes
Iron fence posts rust at the gateway as they glance to the headstones
of friends long past and recent memories, sensing the urge,
seeing the painted nails and low cut blouses, thinking…
before it’s too late
While from a secluded archway…
The street lamps are left hanging in the rain and the lights around it forces itself out of the darkness blowing the light of hope upon the wet night and the tingling of the bell chime slowly in the pedestrian ears as they try to escape the cold air.
The pauper in his thread bare clothes tumbles form underneath the bush and search desperately for a warm place to stretch his feet, but nature was cruel to him instead; he stepped into a pothole in the ground that left him soaking, dripping,wet.
He crawls up on the side walk and finds a glitter of hope under the street lamp and he slowly hums a song that resonates from his inner guts.
The passersby stares at him and walked on the other side, they cover their nose and ignore the pauper’s cry.
He moves closer towards the light looking for a comfortable place to rest but the rain came pouring down forcing him to leave that place
The grease on his body tells the tale of the years he was stuck out there, cuts and bruises on his feet and pimples all over his face speak to the cruelty he endured while fending for life out there in the streets.
A life of hope translated to a solitude of darkness as he moves further away from the town in his greasy clothes and empty belly.
I looked at the expression on his face, but it didn’t say much, his eyes were sinking at the back and the muscle around it drops and I spotted a certain glow coming from below and for one brief moment our eyes met he smiled and walked away and his life was changed forever.
When last I heard of him, he was driving a Honda and singing with a musical band in the city. He run a business on the side and married a beautiful wife.
He got three children and owns a ranch in the suburb just one look gives him the inspiration to write a dozen books.
The tale of the pauper that came out bush and crouched under the street lamp will forever be told until he grows old.
The turning wheel of time
stirs up the dust of disarray,
that settles in the crumbling cauldron
of disordered life of illusion.
In the maiming moments
of disdained dejection,
truth tumbles in the mélange
of disorientation chaos.
Under the fantasy firmament
psyche in desertic isolation,
embedded in mindscape imagery,
suffering desiccated and lonely,
searches for a novel niche
in self-constructed reverie
to get a spellbound shelter
of captivating hope in frustration.
Dormant notion then invents dream,
steers mind into domain of delusion.
A thing made is destined to break,
but not by the will of the creator,
for whom the sense of time collapses,
making the frame of timeless trance,
where the dreamer assembles relentless
the shifting scenes of desire dreams.
The montage etched by the trail of mirage,
migrating in dunes of desolation,
makes collage of dream in deluded mind
against backdrop of nocturnal oasis.
The dreamer doesn’t see the dawn,
for the soul sleeps entranced deep within,
can’t escape self-built illusory maze,
until divine consciousness makes wake-up call.
Standing 'neath rocky vestige on Hatteras Cape
Overhead, sky's billowy caverns offer cerebral escape
Proffering delusions of grandeur in every size, shape
A ventilated ocean of blue; visions of bliss at which to
gape
Yet mind firmly planted in gravity's brace
Earthy ambitions wandering eye doth embrace
Nature's rhythms around beating heart do drape
Cluttered ridges enveloped by Crape Myrtle's sallowing
serape
Dark clouds swoon over the ridges, panoramic view
efface
Malingering light house hovers o'er the shadowy terrace
An angry ocean rises and then tumbles at rocky base
Cool, frothy ocean mist curdles my exposed nape
Cresting waves pound shoals; weary feet do chase
Swirling wind hurdles stinging needles at weathered face
Screaming sea gulls serenade, then with strafing swoops
menace
Last year we planned a new kitchen
And went to the glossy showroom.
There were choices many,
But not flustered,
I was keen on slate grey and mustard.
The man too had a vision
Cupboards new, clean finish.
Then he spoke of the washing machine;
“I think they look best integrated,
Hidden behind closed doors.”
It made me pause…
White goods, classified
Too unclean to be seen.
As if in shame of her duties mundane.
Our domestic goddess,
Taken for granted.
Her duties -
Fed weekly and meekly
She takes on full loads,
Tumbles and turns,
Delivers, and births us clean clothes.
I knew how I loved her.
I chose not to hide her.
And she stands there,
Proudly on view.
Integral, dependable,
She’s a giver of time.
Present.
The steep steps go down
the winding wash,
along the plodded cobbles
between the cottages
with their smuggling hollows,
their sleet rinsed eaves.
Beyond the scarp
the bay tumbles over
shingle, shale, and scree
to a shore and its contesting tide.
Above my flying coat,
the huddled village
bobs and floats in a flooding cloud.
I could throw a stick
at the sea here
and the wind, like a dog
would fetch it,
elemental voices
return from the deep.
Now a chopping fray,
squabbles at a brim where
flurries of tern and guillemot
trawl for brill;
a pell-mell of light
roiling on a harrying spray.
Today, I allow myself to fail
here at the surging squall,
and crashing crests;
to lapse and founder -
to be redone in the one gulp
of self.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This one was written a pretty long time ago,
but recently fiddled with.
Mostly it's just gluing bones together
ones found in a well furrowed field
a scattering of empty joints,
undetectable until tripped over.
An iron-age rebar
can be dug for
it will girder one socket to another.
The framework reconstructs itself
emptiness becomes whole
yet still see through.
There are sharp edges and blunt sounds,
they will clang like cowbells if not polished
into a ringing voice.
Sneak up on yourself,
rattle an echoing skull until teeth chatter
in a free-floating mind.
Whatever tumbles out of that
will be a loosely connected osseous process -
dead on arrival of course.
Pull the invisible strings - make it dance.
your bag of bones just nailed it
but what is it?
Line of inquiry:
"The dream seems real since we don a form,
borrowed from elements of that domain,
but if we simply chose not to conform,
we wake up when desires to rest are lain."
The turning wheel of time
stirs up the dust of disarray,
settles in the crumbling cauldron
of the disordered delusive life.
In the maiming moments
of disdained dejection,
truth tumbles in the mélange
of disorientation chaos.
Under the fantasy firmament
the psyche in the desert of desolation,
embeds the shaped imagery in mindscape,
searches for a novel niche
in self-constructed reserve of reverie
to make a montage of extant rainbow.
Dormant notion invents dream,
steers the mind into deceptive domain,
where the sense of time collapses,
making the frame of timeless trance,
where the dreamer makes a mural
of the shifting scenes of desire
in the self-built illusory maze,
until divine consciousness makes the wake-up call.
Acuity suffused with sunset spectrum
designs the derelict desires,
fading in the perpetuity of illusion,
mistaking stable silence for resonant permanence,
embeds the eternal efflux in enlightened soul
sailing buoyantly to the bay of bliss
where the cognizant essence avers
solidity is an epithet of illusion.
My migratory mind indomitably mobile
recedes with the ebbed time to the shore of the past
like the spirited surfer on the wandering waves of life,
surging on curled crests carrying the fractured moon
to the twirling troughs that store the sunk stars.
The wheel of time churns up the disarray dust,
settling on the unstable shelf of my listless life.
Memory menagerie from the dismal debris flies away
as the fulcrum of frail self-realization oscillates
beyond my grasp on the rolling ripples of longing.
In the weed-webbed terrain draping the depth within,
turns from the wreckage of lost love to a golden garden.
The pathway paved by memory outside its frail fence,
waits for me remarkably rejuvenated, to be walked
to the mesmeric meadow of the promising tomorrow.
The dormant memory is then inspired to innovate
the arcane acumen of self-acquired inspiration alchemy.
Marigold blooms with hues of hope in the junkyard,
the glitter of gold flashes in the rusted crust of riling ruins
with the metamorphic touch of the Midas mind.
When my castle of sand on the shore of yearning
tumbles down as the discarded debris of doting heart,
I discover the hidden flute of feeling permanently preserved,
and play again the lost tune that changes my life
with the ecstatic melody of the symphony of memory.