Long Was Poems
Long Was Poems. Below are the most popular long Was by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Was poems by poem length and keyword.
It was raining
When I chose to sit in total solitude
And pray
To the God watching over us all
To ask for answers
As to why our world
Was shaped like perfection
But still resonated with flaws!
It was raining
When I could no more bear with His silence
And decided to do something about it
To prevent myself from getting into a situation
Which would bring me to talk to ghosts
And to invisible spirits out of despair!
That was when
I chose to walk out
Soak in the cold drops of rain pelting upon my skin
And open my soul to the marvellous world
Of Poetic Inspiration!
Yes,
It was raining
When I became a poet,
Ringing with anger, resentment, regrets, laments
And so much of sorrow
That acres and acres of crows flew from me
And got etched on paper
For one and all to read and to take note of
Or even to be reminded of
So that they learn to live with good intention
Instead of wanting to keep bringing
Each other down!
It was raining
When I got shaped into what I am today
It was raining, yes,
And I am now waiting for when it shall rain again
To plant in my seeds into the lands of our world
So that others may follow in my trend
And find their own way amidst
The heavy jungle that has invaded us all!
Yes death was an awakening
We did not realize we carried it with us
Until our smiles were wiped clean
And the laughter had stopped
It did not take long.
Vietnam was life game changer
We had been thrust into jungles
As GI Joe’s, ready to kick some butt
Instead, we were the ones being kicked.
As trigger explosions were going off and our friends were dying
We realized that death was waking us up
Begging for our full attention which we gave
For there is nothing like the horrors of war
To shake an eighteen-year-old out of his cocoon of innocence
To take his invincible attitude and twist it behind his back.
War is hell and death is the rude awakener
It was an age when
bread was delivered
by a baker in a horse and cart
and carried to the house
in big wicker basket,
and the milkman left bottled milk
on the doorstep before the sun
was up, and old men
kept an eye on the street
and raced out with a bucket
to shovel up the manure
prized for giving a backyard
vegie patch a jolt.
It was an age when the rabbitoh
would come along the street
with rabbits hung in rows
in the back
of his beat up truck
and women in pinnies
would come out with a plate
to take a bunny or two
to bake that night.
It was an age when groceries
were delivered once a week
in a wooden box shouldered in
by the grocer and placed
on the kitchen table
to be unpacked over a cup
of tea and bit of banter.
It was an age when lollies
and biscuits were sold unpacked
and children walked to school,
when serials and quiz shows
kept families huddled around
radios on cold winter nights
and held a generation
of kids captive to the Saturday
night countdown
on the top 10 hit parade show.
All said,
the age no longer matters
yet seems to find its way
back here.
We all carry our own,
ingrained like play dirt
in the hard to reach places
of the soul.
Perhaps that's what
poetry is about, or at least
that part of it that some say
points more towards
a pedestrian end,
the sad preservation
of the oddities of an age
by an ever diminishing few
and before memories flicker
and finally go out.
When I look in the mirror and I see
That old man I never recognize
He's just staring back at me
Wonder just what happened to the young man that I always used to see
Did he cave in, or did he fold?
Did he die or just get old?
What ever happened to that young man's hopes and dreams?
Did they fade away with time?
Or does he still believe?
I can't tell because I'm too afraid to see.
And the old man never has a thing to say
He just looks at me and shakes his head
And then he looks away
Like I've lost a bet with him
And he knows that I can't pay
What ever happened to that young man's hopes and dreams?
Did they fade away with time?
Or does he still believe?
I can't tell because I'm too afraid to see.
I lie in bed at night
And I dream about that young man now and then
He's in Winslow on a corner with a guitar in his hand
And that old Ford rolls to a stop he waves goodbye as he climbs in
And I smile as he rides away
He was such a fine sight to see
And now I only see him in my dreams
What ever happened to that young man's hopes and dreams?
Did they fade away with time?
Or does he still believe?
I can't tell because I'm too afraid to see.
And now I only see him in my dreams
He was such a fine sight to see
He was such a fine sight to see
They shuffled as an angry group
Eyes averted, as if they were ashamed of themselves
My daughter never used to be like that
But she had been ushered in,
She acted like she was one of them
Her Pollyanna side rarely came out these days.
She was wearing dark eyeliners, and had painted her room black.
I had not heard of Goth yet, for it was only the middle seventies.
Her friends began hanging around, wordlessly, on my couch.
If I came into the room and tried to converse, they left.
So I came in the room quite often.
She had lost her way, so to speak.
I knew it, but we were new in town.
She was glad to have friends, even if they were posers.
We had moved a lot. She had given up much.
She needed them at this time,
For pretend friends were better than no friends at all.
I was relieved when she decided to trade them in for the service.
The day she joined the Air Force, I rejoiced,
Figuring this bunch of angry downers would not follow her.
I was right.
They didn’t.
After basic training, she began to smile again.
And she had new friends.
God works in mysterious ways.
*title is Ralph Waldo Emerson quotation
Enthusiasm often is the reason
behind much-needed change and happiness.
Add zest to common sense and careful planning.
You hold the recipe to great success.
Though just the word “contagious” makes us fearful,
some things we spread are much to be desired.
Just think of how a smile and lively manner
spread through a crowd as others are inspired.
******************
The Bible speaks of our approach to living.
What gems of wisdom does the Word convey?
Do not be lacking in enthusiasm,
but serve the Lord with fervor* every day.
When Paul and Silas, jailed for their convictions,
sang hymns at midnight, hearers found The Way.*
Good works and labor, do with verve and spirit
to please the Lord; that’s what some Scriptures say.*
*Romans 12:11
Acts 16 Jailor became believer, then family became believers.
The Way—Jesus
Col. 3:23 and Ecc. 9:10, are examples.
June 17, 2020
entered Caren Krutsinger's contest, Write a Poem about Enthusiasm
Placed 2nd
Date: October 20, 2020
Poetry Contest Title: Completely Your Choice (30)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
The
snow is
falling fast,
raging pure white,
the car is buried.
Winter weather warning,
shut down of public transport,
the power is out and stores closed.
It was one of those winter mornings,
only the neighbours dog was enjoying.
It was a delightful . . . beautiful day,
the sun was shining, flowers blooming,
birds singing sweetly, bees buzzing,
blue butterflies were drifting,
and squirrels were searching.
I felt like dancing,
must rise and shine.
Oh sweet cat,
in the,
sun.
____________________________
March 4, 2016
Poetry/Etheree/It Was On Of Those Mornings
Copyright Protected, ID 16-764-000-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, It Was One Of Those Mornings,
sponsor, Sara Kenrick
Fifth Place
In a scary nightmare, I woke in a mystical place
where my old Singer floated next to your face
You wore that smirk that always made me twitch
so I used that old machine, and I began to stitch
your lips together to prevent you from lying
and your eye lids shut to keep you from spying
Were my shears too sharp? Was it I who beheaded you?
OOPS! Not a slipsy. It was something I meant to do.
I was able to find a bobbin, and a needle to thread
and my seams will assure that you remain dead.
I used your hair for hemming black fabric scraps
and fashioned a sort of shroud without holes or flaps
I'll not take a chance that this nightmare might return
so I will set you ablaze; your ashes sealed in an urn.
If this is only a dream, then I've not committed a sin,
but thinking about your schemes and that hidious grin,
I confess I am considering it to be a very cunning idea.
No more nightmares about a deadhead will I need to fear
*With apologies for being a bit freaky, but the photo took control.*
9/17/2017
Image Me A Poem~Image 2
Host: Mystic Rose
No more than a toddler when I was,
Old enough on own that can when chill—
To play with siblings an option still,
Pleasure still to play with mother was.
‘Hay look Ma, where am I?’
Pretending when to hide
I'd stay close on her side,
A ruse to get her eye!
Earful of her sweet words, or any,
A touch of loving hands upon me;
It was no jealousy,
Nor sibling rivalry,
Well, a seed ah of love and well sown,
I still feel that love— a grandpa grown.
____________________________________
Musings from far | 13.03.2017 |
Poet’s Note:
1. There are certain toddler memories of the family, siblings, and of mother that remain fresh for long, long till one becomes a parent and even grandparent.
2. The poem is set in anapaest meter, lines are a combination of three and two-foot meter.
Again she sees those vibrant sleeves of green
And hears those gentle whispers and soft sighs
Alone beneath a willow lost in dreams
An old woman reflects through misty eyes
To see her now so deeply scarred by time
A beauty once now buried in the folds
Upon that road of passion left behind
The bitter price she paid for growing old
The park where they first met is much the same
Where those two hearts she sees again entwined
Engraved upon the stone that bears his name
Upon her soul forever in her mind
A barren stone awaits her by his side
Beneath those gentle whispers and soft sighs
Author: Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
Author's note:
The title is from a quote of Shakespear which
inspired this sonnet.