Long Twenty seven Poems
Long Twenty seven Poems. Below are the most popular long Twenty seven by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Twenty seven poems by poem length and keyword.
Apiece of heaven
In twenty seven
Falls from the sky
So many will die
Some are left to cry
The world will reel
But it will heal
It needs to be understood
Fire burns all that's wood
For food people will fight
The world looses its light
Forever night
The world changes
Rearranges
Gone is the places we knew
No plants grew
Most animal life
Lost amid the strife
Mankind's darkest hour
No one in power
Dark days ahead
How will the survivers be fed
Confusion runs free
This frightens me
All that I see
A world go's mad
Sad
Struggling to survive
Those still alive
Don't know if I want to be there
So unfair
End of time
End of my rhyme
Welcome to the 90's!
Dial-up, pogs and frosted tips.
A decade to spice up your life,
Take a moment to reminisce
Blockbuster's and pic-a-flic's
Tamagotchi's, SNES, MSN
Slap bracelets everywhere
Burnt C'D's for your discman
Met Forrest Gump and Mrs. Doubtfire
Travelled with Thelma and Louise
Dreamed to work at Empire Records
All through the VCR, rewind please...
We cheered Tiger woods and Armstrong
Both pre-scandal at the time
Saw McGuire's 70th home run!
Watched Gretzky retire #99
We saw Harding take out Kerrigan
and OJ Simpson try a glove,
Holyfield lost a bite of ear
and John Bobbitt lost his love
Mandela released from prison
Kevorkian went inside
We witnessed the fall of Waco
and we cried for Columbine
We said goodbye Mother Teresa
She meet Diana up in Heaven,
We mourned Tupac and Biggie
Cobain is forever twenty-seven
We were cool as ice at hammer time
in our baggy jeans and plaid
And we met a sheep named Dolly
So it wasn't all that baaa-d
It was the decade of Titanic
and the birth Harry Potter
Google was born in a garage
As the internet got hotter
Dance crazes and impeachments
And found out we could supersize
It ended all with Y2K
So there's the 90's, with a side a fries :)
Grandpa T. Squirrel was a put together guy for sure.
G.Q. Quarterly was his magazine of choice, so pure.
He was dapper and debonair, a dancing escort with flair.
Women squirrels sighed longingly when his scent was in the air.
Grandpa T. taught his grandchildren to walk with pride and love.
He reminded them that Grandma Squirrel watched them from above.
They knew he would never again marry, for he was still hitched.
He lived to be twenty-seven, and this fact is true, no glitch.
But while he was on earth, he gave many hearts a sigh.
They thought he was marvelous, a truly wonderful sweet old guy.
Grandma Squirrel waited patiently until it was his time to go.
He was a dandy, for sure. All of us agree, and many others know.
A child pulled from her mother's arms
and placed into a cage.
How could a person seeing this
not feel enormous rage?
Instead, the mother, full of fear
and shocked with disbelief,
thought what she said or how she looked
had brought about this grief.
Was it because her clothes were torn,
her shoes had come apart?
She had been walking miles and miles
in search of a fresh start.
Was it because her skin was brown,
her face was stained with tears?
Was it because she looked too old
for twenty-seven years?
Would she hold her child again,
kiss her as she slept?
Would she see her timid smile,
caress her when she wept?
Or, would she miss those childhood years
not meet her until she'd grown?
Then, would the child think her Mama
was someone never known.
How can this be happening?
Where is our country's heart?
Why aren't more of us standing up?
Instead, we stand apart.
The mother sits with others
who are old beyond their years.
She bears her grief in silence now,
her legacy is tears.
Trust was absent in her home, so she never fully could be a child.
Since she had no idea how deprived she was, it was not an issue.
Her mask was affixed firmly by the time she met the outsiders.
“The only non-smiling non-laughing kindergartener” Mrs. G ever taught.
And Mrs. G. had taught kindergarteners for twenty-seven years.
“Why don’t you trust anyone?” a girlfriend screamed at her.
They were in third grade, and she refused to eat her friend’s food.
Last friend for a long time, for nonchalant covering fear looks like arrogance.
She was okay without them, she had books, and her animals.
They would never betray her or share the abuse she had deserved.
She never joined the outsiders’ frolics, adventures or shared in their mirth.
She was afraid if she ever let her mask slip, they would learn the truth.
If they thought she was demented and deformed now, can you imagine….
How much stranger she would be the instant they realized her parents hated her?
She almost let her guard down last week. But her strategy was in place now.
If he came by, she would make herself scarce. He had a way of listening that frightened her.
As if he cared, and wanted to know her. As if she was a real person.
Sweet faerie reposes on mushy roof of a mushroom house
Swinging her legs in a casual, happy, carefree faerie way
Brownies gather around, watching, smiling, laughing
They have not seen a faerie since 1984, twenty-seven years ago
There is a joyfulness about the meadow today, creatures are frolicking
Newborn bunnies hop out to take a peek at this beloved visitor
Sparrows, robins and wrens briefly swoop past to take a glimpse
Butterflies and grasshoppers flit and flirt and dance with delight
A faerie visit on August fourth, what a marvelous sign!
Woodlands is alive with birdsong, trills, tweets and toots
One small faerie has changed the ambiance of the meadow
They cannot wait to find out what she is doing here….
Update: I unalived my name
to spite its face
and steal its frame
Update: I came out to my mother
smothering a cookie in hand
left covered in crumbs
by the conversation’s end
Update: I got my first chin hair
and I took twenty-seven pictures of it
at different angles.
Update: the only thing I own entirely is my body
my taxes fund war overseas
while unable to raise resolutions
for my internal revolt.
Update: I constantly crop this body
so it fits other people’s picture
my voice reduced to whispers
Update: I dream of slicing open my pectorals
just to let my spirit experience
freedom’s rush of fresh air
Update: day by day, the reflection that’s fed to me
is finally feeling familiar
my entire life, I’ve been trying to find myself
beyond a body I did not belong in
Update: I do not owe the world masculinity nor femininity
Update: for once, I hear my voice when I speak.
For too long, I’ve let silence
decimate me by the decibel.
my voice box unleashes
no evil, my people
only growl louder amid adversity
Update: My goal is to be as obsessed with myself
as politicians think I am
loud, proud, annoyingly boisterous
my voice is a gift I gave myself
and for as long as I breathe I will speak
on my becoming.
Update: pride is my protest
G-ive love each and every day,
R-egardless of one's color and race;
A-ll the time, all the years,
C-reate joy through warm
E-mbrace.
M-ake anyone so delightful
A-bout the life full of love;
R-ight before one's eyes,
C-onnect with grace from above.
I-n spite of the devil's hate, let harmony reign the heart;
A-nger, pride, war and chaos from the mind must depart.
F-eel the greatest emotion,
R-elease the hurt and pain;
O-pen your soul to gladness,
N-ever let the ache remain.
D-ay twenty-seven in July,
A-nother chance for mirth;
R-ecord of sadness shall turn
I-nto a fun file of your birth.
N-ow is the opportunity to take the night away;
A-lways make yourself available, give love each and every day.
Finally leaving the stage after
Twenty seven encore calls
A huge sense of elation as
The last curtain finally falls.
There’s all the media interviews
That she has yet to face
Then perhaps she can retreat
For a while to her private space.
Treated like minor Royalty
When she visited her mum
Back home in Barnsley after
She’d danced the Sugar Plum
Meets with the Toreador
To world wide praise and acclaim
Boosting the popularity of Ballet
To make her a well known name.
They called if Ballet meets Martial Arts
In its brand new and radical form
With just a little adjustment period as it
Settles down beside the accepted norm.
She’s toured the cultural centres
Of the whole of the civilised West
Where her radical performances
Have Easily passed the quality test.
She’s contemplating retirement
Doesn’t want to tour anymore
Would really like to settle down
With her beloved Toreador.
The Arts world is in turmoil
As it enters the current century.
It’s as though it’s been released from
A hidebound cultural penitentiary.
They’ve all had to put away
Their rose tinted glasses
As this new art form is welcomed
By the uncultured masses.
To be fair they are trying
To do their very best.
Grand Opera meets Wrestling
Is soon to be put to the test.
Let me tell you a story...
It has not happened often in our neck of the woods;
I can remember only one time we've had snow on Easter.
The Ohio River had flooded earlier
that March of 1964
causing many disruptions in our lives.
Our town had a floodwall which protected
its low-lying residences from damage;
but my aging grandmother had to evacuate her area
and come to our home ten miles north.
This flood was second only (in her lifetime)
to the disastrous cost and destruction
triggered by a 1937 deluge.
Her visit was haunted by the memory of
severe damage to their home and business
twenty-seven years earlier
during the worst flood ever on the Ohio.
She worried the whole time - re-telling stories
of how folks had taken sick with scarlet fever and pneumonia.
How they had to stay with higher-ground relatives
and the back-breaking clean-up after the water receded.
They had just bought a new square grand piano.
She told of how they put ropes under the
legs and hoisted up it to the ceiling to
protect it from the water damage.
This was the first time I ever remember
her spending any time away from her home.
She and my grandpa ran a small grocery store
and made their mark in the community
by also selling homemade ice cream.
Just prior to the era of swirling soft-serve,
Tom's Ice Cream was known for miles around.
When grandma finally returned to her home,
the damage was more than her eighty-five years could bear.
My German-immigrant granny died on Good Friday
and was buried on the following Sunday, March 29, 1964.
I remember well, we had a light dusting of snow that Easter,
a kind of heavenly eulogy
marking her entrance
to eternity.
April 22, 2022
Sponsor Constance La France
Contest Name Form N - Narrative - New Poems
I chose a family theme