Long Vicinity Poems
Long Vicinity Poems. Below are the most popular long Vicinity by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vicinity poems by poem length and keyword.
Karen Windle roughly on par...
with being a miniature poodle size dogsend
Apartment B44 one bedroom unit
at Highland Manor low income facility
housing older folks convenient starting point,
to launch poem and invite reader(s)
reason(s) without rhyme
why yours truly (me)
chose to express heartfelt gratitude
toward resident Karen Windle,
which named individual most likely unknown
across world wide web
(hmm... maybe methinks perchance
possibly ye did sound her out courtesy radar,
especially if thee dutiful patrol officer
generously handing out -
not necessarily) winning lottery tickets
within vicinity encompassing
University of Delaware.
We (myself and zee missus) inhabit
aforementioned single bedroom abode,
allows, enables and provides
convenient reference point
upon exiting our dime a dozen quarters
(housing near penniless occupants)
verily orient toward left of hallway,
no need to access global positioning satellite
leisurely amble short distance
just count three doors down on the left,
thee will espy name tag printed
small letters Karen Windle
her acquaintanceship we did kindle,
now greater value when measured with corn,
wheat, or other commodities
approximately equal to three bushels,
but varying in different regions.
Explanation whereby appreciation
toward Karen (spry firecracker, energetic,
diminutive, albeit frail looking gal)
materialized when series of unfortunate events
rendered me and mine spouse
without ready immediate access to automobile
near necessity within quaint enclave
identified as Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
affords absolute zero public transit,
hence necessity for chauffeur de jure arose,
whereby availability to shuttle us
found monetary compensation declined,
thus stymied intent regarding how I could
communicate sincere thankfulness
relieved when she would accept
poetic endeavor incorporating
best college try (mine) to alleviate
imposition if/when opportunity exists
to scrape meager money
and expect to sink a fortune
maintaining, insuring, fueling vehicle,
significant portion of social security (disability)
allocated to sustain reliability of car
dollar figure greater than buzzfeeding
caretaking, duties linkedin to
mental, physical, and spiritual health
concerning this aging baby boomer,
plus his counterpart approximately
previous couple dozen years.
Theme for collaboration suggested by Tim Smith
Two enormous old toads crossed the road
On Tom’s back lounged Thomasina toad
Both are ugly and warty
Thomasina’s so naughty
As her bowels on his back she’d download
06-16-17
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
When Thomasina toad dumped on old Tom
He thought her poop explosion was a bomb
He hopped in the air
gave her a mean stare
shouting, "I'm not taking you home to Mom!"
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
Ribbit rubbit robbit 'n ro
this crazy toad has got to go
She's turning quite mean -
Fifty shades of green
No time to chat but still does crow
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
"Why don't we do it in the road?"
Said Thomas, the old horny toad
Thomasina hissed,
"Get a load of this!"
and a "blessing" on him bestowed
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
Thomasina was on a road trip
Her taxi was Tom's back she'd grip
But she strained as she held
And her bottom expelled
So she said "I've just left you a tip"
WRITTEN BY RAY GRIDLEY
Tom and Thomasina were the perfect pair
They were ancient toads without a care
He had a huge wart
She gives a mean fart
Anyone in her vicinity better beware!
WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y
Now Tom was an over achiever
He wanted the lady, not leave her
He sprayed his back with Scotch-Guard
and rubbed down with lots of lard
the dumper was now the receiver
WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART
Tom gave Thomasina the boot
Got sick from the smell of her poot
told her to get lost
right after he tossed
She gave him the one finger salute
WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER
Thomas and Thomasina loved to hear
the waterboatmen rubbing their gear
Thomas tried and started to croak
causing Thomasina to choke
you two will never get it right I fear
WRITTEN BY SEREN ROBERTS
When T'sina hopped on for a ride
Old Thomas reminded his bride,
"Though you're my sweet dish,
on the road we'll get squished",
"Just do it!" was her terse reply.
WRITTEN BY CRAIG CORNISH
Thomasina and Tom a heavy load
Lingered a little too long on the road
He could have kissed her all night
shocked at the oncoming lights
Croak and ribbit was heard; two flattened toads
WRITTEN BY EVE ROPER
PLEASE SOUP MAIL ME ANY SUBMISSIONS FOR THE COLLABORATION
06-16-17
Our dear leader
Our favorite President
President Trump
Once again
Interjected himself
Into areas that he knows nothing about
Making a fool of himself
In the process
Why does he do this?
Time after time
Talking nonsense
It is because
He is the smartest man
In the universe
Knows more than anyone else
And so he feels
He has to comment
On everything
Under the sun
And then some more
Even when he
Does not know
What he is talking about
So painful to watch such a fool
Mark Twain had sage advice
If you want people to think
You are a fool
Open your mouth
and remove all doubt
In the midst
Of the devastating Paris Norte Dame Fire
He tweeted
“So horrible to watch the massive fire
at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris,”
“Perhaps flying water tankers
could be used to put it out.
Must act quickly!”
Later, Mr. Obvious noted,
They’re having a terrible,
terrible fire,”
Mr Trump later told reporters.
“It looks like it’s burning to the ground.”
The French were not amused
By the unwanted advice
By the fire fighter in chief
France’s civil defense agency,
Sécurité Civile, tweeted —
once in French
and once in English
— less than two hours after Mr Trump
sent his tweet
and appeared
to directly respond to the US president.
“Helicopter or aeroplane,
the weight of the water
and the intensity of the drop
at low altitude
could indeed weaken
the structure of Notre Dame
and result in collateral damage
to the buildings in the vicinity,”
the agency wrote in French.
And despite never posting updates in English,
the agency then sent out a second tweet.
Hundreds of firemen of the Paris Fire Brigade are doing everything they can to bring the terrible #NotreDame fire under control. All means are being used, except for water-bombing aircrafts which, if used, could lead to the collapse of the entire structure of the cathedral.
— Sécurité Civile Fr (@SecCivileFrance) April 15, 2019
And the French provided
This helpful advice
To the Fire Fighter in chief
When California burned
you did not seem to be a fire expert.
Please, shut up.
It is a tragic moment
for the cultural heritage of humanity.
april 17 poem for April Month of Poetry Challenge see Writers Digest, All Poetry and my blog, https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com for the rest
It’s a recurring thought–
Over and over again–
echoing in my head,
Bouncing back and forth,
Reeling up and down like a Yo-yo,
Like a boomerang that keeps coming back,
Like a song stuck in your head,
A thought that gnaws at your will to live,
Like an army of termites devouring your soul
making you hollow from within,
Like the waves of the sea
lapping its shore incessantly.
A thought nagging my soul,
Why not to just shut off everything?
Like turning off the lights,
turning around and walking away;
A thought to strip away
all my worries and cares of the world,
Like a snake shedding its skin
to just wander off leaving behind
petty rivalry, envy, jealousy, shallow ties,
The strife and the peril,
The platitude and the contradiction of life.
And to step out renewed, reborn,
into a new place with no identity,
no name, no past, no expectations
for the future – just living for today;
As I like. As I please.
With no vagaries of life,
No yearning for paradise.
Walking away folk free
unrestricted by time or space,
customs, creed or the rules of the law.
But this thought
Like an active volcano,
Ever brewing and rumbling
but never erupting,
Like a seed sowed with care and nurturing
but never sprouting, never coming to fruition.
It just keeps kneading and churning
Forever bobbling in the doldrum,
Performing boondoggle tasks,
Bearing the burden of the world like Atlas,
Unable to sigh or sneeze,
Fearful that a sudden moment,
The slightest shift
might cause an upheaval in someone’s life.
Ah, the woes of life,
Why thou linger willy-nilly in my vicinity?
Why thou not forsaketh me?
Go and befriend the dark, foreboding clouds
And burst down over some distant shores.
Let some sun shine upon me,
For once, let love
gather me in her warm embrace,
Let me not suffer
for having loved too well,
Bequeath to me the days rife with joy
and mellowed moonlit nights,
Let my path run some distance straight
and not twist or turn at whim,
Let there be spring in my seasons
instead of the gray cold and bare winter,
Let me rejoice in the day’s toil
and earn me the night’s repose,
It’s a recurring thought,
Over and over again,
echoing in my head...
Wait just a minute,
Didn’t we go over that already?
Our severe pain is unforgivable at eternal night.
I twist over, my brain hustling with mystic insight.
Cries made me exuberantly sad, letting my sting.
I felt bound that could never be fit of stirring.
Your gloomy yell penetrates the serene quietness.
Leastwise, I realized you'd befall a whiner pitiless.
You've arrived at my most prominent gateway.
Once again, it roused me up, as it had all sultry day.
I let forward a puncturing shout of agony.
Once again, I will not scorn the cease eagerly.
And reject the thoughts mugging my reasoning.
Grasp my once-living voguish is promptly dying.
The blade was in a distinct area to my brawny arms.
Reverberations of our ultimate hug hang my eyes.
Such much sorrow stuffed into a cramped space.
And all I lack is to regain a place in the audience.
I'd wisely prefer seeing genuine compassion.
Except for me, everyone is in repletion.
Afterward, why are you pounding on my door?
I was dodging, similar to the mild night before.
I'm going to have you removed right away.
It happened as soon as it was made defray
My supplications and asks for salvage were unmet.
I'm mindful of our dreadful period once onset.
How random do you admit your mentality?
But voicing regret isn't enough in this vicinity.
Remember me for a type of contact with you.
Sorry for the hassle, yet my choice is too true.
It was vital for me to do what I did.
I couldn't stay with you anymore; I want a slid.
I needed to awaken and concede my misstep.
That you'd follow me until the night with no pep.
We can scarcely improve anything right yet.
And I must say I'm right from the outset.
For the time term, "I'm apologetic" will not vow.
You've broken my soul and granted me a bow.
You can't undo the wrongs you've done.
You didn't opine over what you shun.
You had the only choice but to perform this.
But our relationship has cooled an abyss.
Can't you consider your acts have altered you?
Supporting for my freedom to cognition blew.
However, it needed lasting by till ends survival.
Rusty mind that deadly sins were unforgivable.
Written: November 11, 2021
''U'' Contest, New Poems Only Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
It’s a recurring thought –
Over and over again –
Reverberating in my head,
Bouncing back and forth,
Reeling up and down like a Yo-yo,
Like a boomerang that keeps coming back,
Like a song stuck in your head,
A thought that gnaws at your will to live,
Like an army of termites devouring
your soul making you hollow inside,
Like the waves of the sea
lapping its shores ceaselessly.
It’s a nagging thought
to just shut off everything,
Like turning off the light switch
and walking away;
A thought to strip off all my
worries and cares of the world,
Like a snake shedding its skin,
And just wandering away,
Leaving behind petty rivalry,
envy, jealousy, shallow ties,
The promises and perils of life,
And to step forth renewed, reborn,
into a new place with no identity,
no name, no past, no aspirations--
just living for the day
As I like, As I please,
With no vagaries of life,
No yearning for paradise.
Walking away folk free
unrestricted by time or space,
customs, creed or the rules of the law.
But this thought
Like an active volcano ever brewing
and rumbling but never erupting,
Like a seed sowed with care and nurturing
but never sprouting, never coming to fruition.
It just keeps kneading and churning
Forever bobbling in the doldrums
Performing boondoggle tasks
Bearing the burden of the world like Atlas,
Unable to sigh or sneeze,
Fearful that a sudden moment
The slightest shift might cause
an upheaval in someone’s life.
Ah, the woes of life!
Why thou linger willy-nilly in my vicinity?
Why thou not forsaketh me?
Go and befriend the dark, foreboding clouds
And burst down upon some distant shores.
Let some sun shine upon me,
Let love gather me in her warm embrace,
Bequeath to me days rife with joy
and mellow moonlit nights,
Let my path run some distance straight
and not twist or turn at whim,
Let there be spring in my seasons
instead of the cold and bare winter,
Let me rejoice in the day’s toil
And earn me the night’s repose –
It’s a recurring thought,
Over and over again,
Reverberating in my head...
Wait just a minute!
Didn’t we go over that already?
~09/10/15
"Inside My Head" contest by John lawless
It was in eighteen eighty-six in the streets of Chicago,
where the greatest miscarriage of justice people would know
transpired in an infamous labor-police rendezvous.
Albert Parsons led eighty thousand people on revue.
The strikers marched down Chicago’s Michigan Avenue.
The Knights of Labor were sponsors for the work stoppage venue.
Demands for shorter work hours and no child labor were made.
This would be regarded as the world’s first May Day parade.
Thousands nationwide would join in with the activities
In the next few days, the striking workers stopped whole industries.
On the third, some strikers and police engaged in melees.
These actions resulted in two ill-fated fatalities.
The struggles also caused some severe hideous injuries.
The fights took place at the McCormick Harvester Company.
Many held the police for murderous culpability.
Organizers from the Knights of Labor held a mass rally
at the Haymarket in Chicago’s West Loop vicinity.
They would assemble there in the early part of May.
Thousands crowded there peacefully on the month’s fourth day.
Leaflets were passed noting the police for murder to the crowd
as anarchists urged the mobs to join forces and shout aloud.
A bomb thrown at the police catalyzed an altercation.
One officer was killed and others hurt in the explosion.
Matthias Degan was the officer fallen in duty.
Seven other policemen died later from an injury.
The police opened fire on the people immediately.
At least eleven of the strikers were shot at fatally.
Eight men stood trial for the death of police officer Degan.
They were Parsons, August Spies, George Engel, Samuel Fielden,
Adolf Fischer, Louis Lingg, Michael Schwab, and Oscar Neebe.
All eight were tried and found guilty by a judge and jury.
Neebe got fifteen years; the others got the death penalty.
Schwab and Fielden were commuted to life; then got clemency.
Lingg took his own life before his scheduled execution.
The remaining four men were hanged in public exhibition.
Since then, there have been enacted many labor reform laws
The men who died are considered martyrs to a noble cause.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for the information I obtained to write this
poem.
Let’s fly to the celestial fiesta of the cherry blossom,
In the North Eastern Region of Shillong, named, “The Scotland of the East,
The abode of the cloud,” in the lush mesa of the magnetic Meghalaya!
The wheezing Pine forest of the whispering waterfalls in the Khasi hills,
is bustling with the nature’s fairytale of pink, white and ivory!
As far as the eyes can see, the rolling tableland is ringing, ridden by the radiant petals of cherries!
Neither Japan, nor Paris, a mere remote region of Indian plateau,
Glowing in nature’s sublime glory of pellucid picturesque pinks!
Nicknamed, Prunus Cerasoides, the cherry blossoms,
a delightful boon of Himalayas,
are blooming profusely in the magical
verdant highland of the East Khasi hills!
The November is rippling with
moonlit music, plethora of flamboyant folk dances,
pageants, stalls to cater to the globetrotters’ penchant for the ethnicity
of the fur-flung region’s tribes’ cuisines, wine, arts and cryptic crafts!
Such bedazzling is the serenity of the panaromic platonic plateau,
As folks of the vicinity, are traversing despite the rampant pandemic,
to glimpse the shangri la of the richest biome of the floral magical lane!
The resonating frolic of the chirping and twittering from the cheerful cherry bushes
are teeming with the twirling bliss, intoning,
in winters whistling whiff!
A nature’s bounty, a pamphlet of picturesque hamlets’ terrains of aromatic sensuous purity!
Blessed are they, who have witnessed the once in a lifetime scene of crystal clean roaring rivulets, murmuring brooks, the ravishing orchids, quirky root bridges, aesthetic lakes and rills, scented wild flowers, encompassing the enigmatic cherry blooms of the mystic land of the majestic mountains!
An euphoria to have a ride amidst the clouds of the misty moorlands,
gliding languidly to take the signature of the mementos of the moments;
to kiss the plateau of wild orchids, flowering Cherries and sacred woodlands of those Khasi hills,
crackling with the sprouting, cherry blossom festival of the far East!
I'd have loved to see the bluebirds fly
above the white chalk-cliffs of Dover--
and as they were blithely soaring over,
immersed in thought I'd lie
in calm repose upon that beach,
admiring their swooping forms,
evanescent, in fleeting storms,
like ballet ... far beyond my reach.
Frisking, fragile, carefree birds,
symbolic through intrinsic meaning --
like sterling hope and freedom's words
light English springs, forever greening:
while England fought the bitter fight
to hold at bay the 'fall of night.'
Author notes
November 20, 2004 - approx 112 words
What makes Britain great? The entire world would be speaking German and Japanese right now if not for British courage in the face of overwhelming adversity.
Setting, approximately June, 1941, Dover Beach, immediately following the Battle of Britain.
This is a published poem, copyrighted, and it takes you to a specific place as well as a specific time, when the world was at war and the fate of all mankind hung in the balance. It is relevant because we are fast approaching another such time. Bluebirds are not found in the British Isles, but I wrote the poem before I became aware of the fact. The curator at the Dover Museum said I should just leave it that way, as bluebirds, since the song, The White Cliffs of Dover, specifically named bluebirds.
Update: BLUEBIRD is an old country name for swallows and house martins, which have a blue sheen to their plumage. These migrants arrive from the continent in spring and leave in autumn, crossing the English Channel. So these bluebirds appear at least twice a year over the white cliffs and no doubt many spend the entire summer in the vicinity of Dover. As portents of improving weather, swallows and martins are traditionally believed to bring good fortune.
The poem, a quasi-Petrarchean sonnet, is being archived with other writings about Dover and The Second World War by the Dover Museum, in Dover, England.
This sonnet was published in Sonneto Poesia, Volume 3, Number 1, Winter,
2003-2004
Written July 20th, 2003
Jesus am down here right on my knees in your
holy sanctuary
To speeak to you through my prayers cos I don't
want to be stationary.
I ain't a mercenary who has the love for money,
But Am here to pray for my foes and the devil's
obituary.
Am like Hannah who went to Shiloh
To pray without laying on a pillow
Her prayers weighed more than a kilo
And samuel became her hero
Am here like Hannah with a heart that is heavy
with so much burden
I don't know how it came,but it came so very
sudden.
But still am here with a contrite heart,my words I
ain't gonna chew,
Am going to say it out as clear as the morning
dew.
Please forgive me my sins and my iniquity,
Disregard how big or small and its propensity,
Your vicinity is where I wanna be cos of its
transparency,
Give me a change of heart and also a new identity,
Lord help me not to speak profanity and wish for
vanity,
Cos vanity upon vanity will always yield vanity.
I pray my goals and aspirations you help to
proliferate,
And not for my visions and dreams to begin to
emanciate.
Though the hard times is kinda giving me a great
K.O,
Your strenght is all I need so I can challenge them
blow for blow.
Lord I know I've been asking for so many
wishes,like riches,
But all those riches have come with so many
stiches.
Lord help me seek first your kingdom,
That will come in the next millenieum,
Cos the reality of it is left to my own wisdom.
Lord the enemy never stop strategizes with his
devices,
Guide me from all his vices,
And all those spiritual crisis.
Cos I get scared sometimes I don't know what will
happen tommorow,
I pray is not something bad that will bring me so
much sorrow.
Jesus,I have friends who might not stay,
I want friends who'll stay come what may,
A friend in you who,ll make my life turn blue,
Aam waiting for the day to lay my eyes on you and
be more like you.
Lord I want to go so higher like you,
And shine so brighter like you,
I want to be so greater like you,
Am on my knees now speaking to you,
Cos right now this my prayer at quarter past two.