Long Vacationers Poems
Long Vacationers Poems. Below are the most popular long Vacationers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vacationers poems by poem length and keyword.
Baldwin, Michigan is a fascinating town to see.
It is the county seat of Michigan’s Lake County.
Just over a thousand residents call Baldwin home.
Many summer vacationers come here to roam.
The town is a great place for camping and hunting.
Others come here for the canoeing and fishing.
Lake County has many lakes and rivers here.
The Manistee National Forest is near.
The “Blessing of the Bikes” is an annual festivity.
“Troutarama” is another great activity.
The Pere Marquette River is a Blue Ribbon fishery.
Another great attraction is the Shrine of the Pines.
If you want to get to Baldwin, just follow the signs.
There’s a lot to see and do in this town in Michigan.
It is a place worth visiting again and again.
http://www.michigan.org/City/Default.aspx?city=G2791
FLEEING IRMA
spotlight moon, full, like an Old Testament cloud, leading
Floridians forth, not into the desert, but away from the wrath
of Irma. bumper to bumper, neighbors from pilot to caboose,
illuminated in each other’s flood beams. testiness and pride
put aside, as fleeing cars, in camaraderie, brave the calm
before the storm. like the Israelites, they leave behind the
homes they know, put themselves in the hands of God. many
have family and friends north of their beloved peninsula,
an unintended visit, a warm haven, not a picnic nor a vacation,
but each pulls themselves up, for our Southern neighbors
are not of the craven sort. those who choose to live near the sea,
with its beauty and fortitude, know how to batten down the hatches.
hammocks left behind will tangle, and hug palm trees, suffering
the loss of their occupants. hotels, with never ending vacationers,
takes a much needed rest. God believes in rest, sometimes
a seven year sabbath, even when the soul forgets its place. we
pray, even north of the path, in stillness, we must, in gratitude,
never taking for granted, lest we too find ourselves seeking solace
elsewhere. godspeed our tanned Peninsula friends. godspeed
and bless, with safety, tenacity, and love as we reel you in.
9/8/2017
I simply find out how to get two hours of sleep.
A walled bastion around your neck is steep.
Elitists commend this moderate landmark.
While visiting vacationers all around the park.
Here's the way your body will in general look.
Arms are stone squares stained with a nook.
A fleece tee lands on the body with a thud.
Despite that, late spring clothing is very scud.
They linger the same as wet palm fronds.
To the path, skirting the drain's ponds
Your toe pain is a metaphor for it anyway.
I squirreled away in a pair of boots to stay.
On the road, the eyelids are shovels.
The white line devours the car's labels.
Written: November 14, 2021
There are these small grassy islands
in-between the sectional lots of cars;
you would presume that nesting geese
would select these spaces
above all other less green choices,
but in the mall parking area
where acres of concrete march
toward distant outlets,
the geese have shunned greenery,
as if soft earth and sheltering stems
were just too rustic.
The birds have created synthetic havens,
woven from strips of Styrofoam, plastic bags,
cardboard fragments, straws, paper cups
and other debris plucked
from the strategically sparse
and overflowing trash bins.
I don’t know if being Canadian, the geese
eschew anything that smells of
wild prairies, or snowy hills,
preferring, like tourists, to construct
their nests to be more like un-valeted motel rooms
after a boozy party.
They sit there taking turns
to face the exhaust fumes,
the rumbling squeal of broken cartwheels,
crying kids being dragged into minivans;
all the chaos of a tribal shopping dance.
They seem content to mix it
with these Ohio natives
with their discarded urban detritus.
Maybe they feel like rich vacationers
in a less fortunate, impoverished land,
I guess after all,
they just want to blend in.
To be fair, it was the end
of a long day and a large drink
we called Screaming Jesus
nothing more than watered-down
vodka, grape soda, and a stalk of rosemary.
We were dug in near a sandcastle
at Ormand Beach. My skin shrieked
against the heat, but all I heard were the angel's
murmurs between the eternal slosh
of loamy, gray-brown waves.
Eyes salty with dehydrated sea,
considering an impending trial
separation, my anonymous angel said,
"The keys to the kingdom are reserved
for those with an appetite for interpretation."
My husband had no idea
what it meant. Even I still remain
areligious, despite the evidence—
the seraphim's calligraphy across hot sand,
carved into my skeleton.
We shed ten layers of epidermis that week,
Ohio bodies exposed to a new slant of sunlight.
Hotel housekeeping kindly hoovered up
the sheets of our leftover skins.
My husband still jokes about it,
volumes of our DNA collected,
discarded vacuum bags of vacationers
rotting at the bottom of a Florida landfill,
how I sat with an angel whose graygolden halo
was a rusted-silver carabiner secured to a spike
driven into the hands of heaven.
"Commit to the bit," were the last words
I heard before the horizon turned orange.
Everything since is a hidden scripture, bewitched
in red and yellow, fragrant as pestled ginger.
A path of revised perspective, sifting sand
through sunblistered fingertips until the memory
of it settles—
like a beachside angel on the fence, manufacturing
meaning in her downtime for desolate humans.
if necessary applying pledged finishing touches
repurposing third rock for another species slated
to inherit pseudo tabula rasa after Campbells,
and broth hers detox polluted primordial soup
i.e. once cleansed of poisons, thus...I condense
my Green New Deal spiel!
Midwinter night dream filled
with balm of June solstice rays
lackadaisical and carefree months ideal time
to while away pronounced illuminated days
outdoor sports a favorite choice
occupies athletic population
which venues witness frequent surge
and spill of overtime plays
another popular milieu
favorable climate awakens
constitutes habitués vacationers visit
ashore popular waterways
beachfront shoreline inundated
by mass exodus of sun worshippers
tidal seaboard awash
along every square inch
human species splashes to keep cool
within ocean and bays.
Six months ago bitter cold
and dark snow filled skies
wrought undeserved vengeance
viewed from these eyes
who after each and
every major winter storm
donned proper attire
to stay warm outside
while clearing walkway
with shovel in hand
executed repetitive motion
akin to how boater plies
similar (yet reversed)
bodily swing of arms
now readily prepares for execution
of most difficult seasonal task
requires usage of most complex muscle
the source of poetry witty and wise.
We really thought this was virgin soil
When we sailed upon this land so vast
As we drifted into a secluded cove
Thought we'd stumbled upon the past
Natives sure looked very much like us
But they wore the skimpiest clothes
With only one or two piece coverings
Not a bad looking group by jove
We motioned to them in sign language
We're friendly and we've come in peace
But much to our utter astonishment
They spoke our language with ease
Seems we had stumbled on a sandy beach
On the southwest coast of the state
These natives were actually vacationers
They thought our sailing ship was great
It was really all quite embarrassing
We played dumb and pretended we knew
Said it was our lame attempt at humour
As we thanked them and bid them adieu
So we all got back in our sailing ship
And waved them a fond farewell
We'll never forget our trip to the past
It's a tale for our grandkids to tell
The street where I live
is where rich people
have holiday haunts,
or investors have airbnb houses to rent.
The little old lovelies are
tarted up with a lick of paint
stuffed full of
period matching furniture
and nick-knacks,
to charm the socks off
the visitors flocking to
the seaside for short stays.
Mid-week outta the holiday season
my little old street is a ghost town.
Only 5 of 34 houses with lights on
at night.
On the week-end its party time,
with parked cars choking the roads.
The kind vacationers tell me
when there's a party on
across the road,
and ask if I mind the noise.
Fortunately, though unfortunately,
I'm deaf in one ear,
and so with curtains drawn
and good-ear down,
it's sweet dreams
and memories
for long-stayer,
party-animal
on the outta,
little old me.
We thought we'd landed on virgin soil
When we sailed the ocean so vast
And drifted into this secluded cove
Thought we'd stumbled upon the past
Natives sure looked very much like us
But they wore the skimpiest clothes
With only one or two piece coverings
Not a bad looking group by jove
We motioned to them in sign language
We're friendly and we've come in peace
But much to our utter astonishment
They spoke english with total ease
Seems we stumbled on a sandy beach
On the southwest coast of the state
These natives were actually vacationers
They thought our sailing ship was great
It was really all quite embarrassing
We played dumb and pretended we knew
It was just our lame attempt at humour
As we thanked them and bid them adieu
So we all got back in our sailing ship
And waved them a fond farewell
We'll never forget our trip to the past
It's a tale for our grandkids to tell!
© Jack Ellison 2013
High up amidst a forest slope,
in bedding grounds where whitetails lope,
by ledges hidden from our eyes,
a quirky outcropping does lie.
Breaking a broadleaf canopy,
the scree-slope of an old quarry,
long ago Dibble cut blue-stone,
must be a century ago,
slab-sheets cut out with sweat and pain,
so much abandoned still remains…
But the hikers have had their fun,
make use of the work that was done,
First they built half-a-dozen walls,
some of them damn near six-feet tall,
like some medival castle large
once stood on this small mountain-scar.
Up above flat-stones circle ’round,
a spiral built into the ground,
like Celts got lost, ended up here,
or icy foes wished us to fear…
A little below sit four thrones,
tall, and built of stack-up stones,
from the top of the old quarry,
you perch, and many miles see:
Black vultures soar, looking to eat,
sniffing the winds for rotting meant,
a hawk flies by on thermal rise,
with sharp eyes rodents he espies.
To the east, the sheer gash of Platte Clove,
spattering of vacation homes,
a cliffside road, somewhat scary,
no guard-rails and turns quite hairy.
Some small meadows that once were farmed,
they still retain their rustic charm,
rounding form of the Catskill Peaks,
where vacationers long have seeked
a place to play and remain sane,
so what’s a better place to reign
then stone thrones under brilliant sun,
high up in our Catskill Kingdom.