Long Watching Poems
Long Watching Poems. Below are the most popular long Watching by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Watching poems by poem length and keyword.
Don’t criticise me from this poem
You’ll understand once I bring it home
I used to love DIY I was a fanatic
But it took me a long time and drove my wife spastic
She used to curse and say you not finished yet
You’ll end up leaving it half done I bet
I got so flustered it end been true
I could not see anything through
So I’d lay there and would not budge
Watching TV stuffing my face with fudge
She’d scream at me and says get off your lazy ass
Get the lawn mower and cut the grass
You know the saying “you can lead an ass to the water but you can’t make it drink”
I’d lay on the couch staring at the TV and wouldn’t blink
Now I was not this sort of person
But she was impatient and her attitude would worsen
I was a perfectionist in my minds eye
When it came to the thing I loved doing, DIY
Now I lay here a couch potato
Watching her face go red like a plum tomato
Know Your Enemy!
Look at me, eye to eye,
I am not your friend, I am the enemy.
You don’t see me….but I’m out there!
Inside the darkness, inside the watching wood.
I’m a gravestone, all colour bleached,
a shade of shadow… that’s different… dangerous.
Not even the trees are aware, I’m there,
as their branches just sway, away, the day.
You draw your curtains, you stiffen
the night pushes closer, you listen.
It whispers dark secrets you can’t hear,
your thoughts hold tension; cold, weighted stone.
Branches and leaves, my partners in crime,
as they fracture my outline.
The wind tests my balance
slides my jacket, pulls my resolve
but I have learnt the language of… stillness;
the understanding of… watchfulness.
I perceive the rhythm of your house,
sense its window-eyes drift to sleep;
your weight of experience drains you
so therefore I have the power.
Nature now feels my thoughts,
thoughts that don’t belong in these woods.
Insects avoid me, unsure if I am alive or dead
while animals swerve and curve away
and the sky rolls ponderously by,
pulling the night's solemnity with it.
No, you don’t know me….yet
but I know.. who? You..
now in the tar of night I move,
the ground feels my weight...but holds its silence.
Your mind hears a bully of footsteps
but I am not there, I can’t be!
But you sense a menace of energy
from someone moving towards you!
Then the cold grasp of silence
coiling itself around the room
and you know I’ve definitely, defiantly arrived.
Zig-zag, jig jag, slip-slow, tip-toe,
My name, Fear, a relative;
sometimes distant, sometimes near.
Too late you realize, I’m already inside your mind.
Know…. your…. enemy!
Ian Souter May 2026
Falling, falling, forever falling.
We know of nothing else.
Our lives are formed by attraction.
Something draws us closer
It is a pull we feel.
The grounded feel it also
growing in them all their lives
until they stop
to be a part of some much larger
heartbeat than their own.
We do not mind this quiet life at times
watching our brothers and sisters
falling by our side.
We were all born to fall.
We come from the same Father
falling jointly to those who have gone before.
We will rest inside each others’ memory.
Side by side alike in our falling
but different in so many ways.
No two of us alike.
A lifetime given to us all
however great, however small
until we land.
Some will land in the night
some will go to the light
the luckiest of all
are those who fall
to a child’s out-stretched tongue,
what better way
for snowflakes to be done.
"If you dream for a mind at peace and a heart tranquil seek that
old rusty gate that opens wide into your childhood memories ...."
Quote by _ Constance
There was a huge park at the end of our street,
and I keep a precious memory within my heart;
of going there with food for the ducklings to eat,
at the pond- a memory that will never depart.
Father told me to never, ever feed them bread,
so, I would bring them lots of leafy lettuce greens;
I loved to hold a baby and stroke their little head,
and watching them eat made for sweet scenes.
I recall with joy of those wonderful childhood days,
of the tranqulity and joy those little birds brought;
over and over in my memory the vision plays,
the ducks, the park and pond, I have not forgot.
Even, when I am old and frail laying in my bed,
I will recall that little girl of six and ducklings on the pond;
perhaps, in my last gasp it will be the last thread,
of life, and that childhood memory that I find so fond.
RIVER U.B.IN
Watching from afar, he looked as gentle, sober and harmless as always.
His bright smile, color and promising future was still present to see.
This river i speak of ,although, capable of helping others
Felt inferior as always
River U.B.IN watched on as people passed him by to fetch his friends
He beat himself up and saw himself as worthless and useless
What is wrong with me, he asked.
Am i not good enough?
Does my content not produce beautiful taste ?? and satisfaction?
Why do i not receive constant praises as my friends do?
River U.B.IN could not fume any longer:
He had been distracted
He looked up and saw a man bending down to fetch him
He carefully listened to the man's words as he fetched him
"You may not be liked by everyone, but to me you're the best alive
Your friends are not better than you because what you do, nobody can do same.
I felt happy for U.B.IN because i loved him too
But just like many others, he was unique (U) but(B) felt inferior (IN)
Form:
( An old poem, slightly modified)
How I wish my poems could,
soar higher and higher
like a bird of limitless wingspan,
dashing into horizons far!
But they skim like web footed water birds,
tilting their wings in vain,
unable to fly to any desired destination
helplessly watching larks and eagles
flying to the far edges of the sky.
How I wish my poems could,
sail across the limitless expanse
like parting ships bound to distant lands
carrying my fancies to the ends of the Earth!
But they remain like paper boats
set to sail by mischievous kids
that drift hither n’ thither on muddy puddles.
How I wish my poems could,
wind their way down slopes and dales
like a fountain stream running down
to join the sea, travelling miles.
But they slither like snakes,
struggling to move on polished floors.
How I wish my poems could,
grow out from chrysalis to butterflies
to flit around flowers and feed on nectar.
But they ever remain such creepy worms,
destined to hide behind blades of leaves.
How I wish, like an inspired artist,
I could paint on my canvas, with deft hands,
the luster and glory of the setting sun,
the freshness and beauty of the spring flowers
the scary grandeur of the mountains
the silence of the lonesome lagoon
the dark majesty of the unlit groves
the sunlit glades of trackless forests
and scenes and sights, so varied and myriad
that I could array before you in magic shades,
the wonders of an unseen paradise!
But, Alas! What I leave on my canvas
is just a banal scene!
My poems, like kites tangled,
among the branches of trees
are denied forward movement!
Still I don’t regret my efforts…..
Like the lyrics of a half forgotten melody,
my poems delight me,
in my sequestered hours of loneliness!
There is a parasite made of pure gravity
lodged behind my breastbone.
The room dissolves around it;
the world turns to cold, uninteresting ash.
Nothing exists except the itch under my ribs -
the sickening, urgent demand to align the dark inside my head
with something I cannot reach.
I am pinned flat.
Sweat drips down my neck while my teeth click together,
a quiet, violent vibration in a completely motionless room.
My skin has been peeled back
and the exposed fat and muscle are boiling in open air.
My organs are being crowded out by a single, agonizing form.
It twitches. It drags its rusty edges across my lungs.
I am choking on the air I haven't breathed for hours.
This is the fever of fixation:
a quiet execution where the blade moves a millimeter at a time.
I lie here, a heap of dry, useless clay,
watching the ceiling fan slice the darkness into strips.
My mind is a meat grinder turning on empty air,
screaming for the precise,
elusive click that will let me draw a breath again.
It moves inside me, writhing, resetting my bones incorrectly.
It burns. It tears the wet lining of my stomach.
I cannot move my hand. I cannot turn my head.
I am forced to watch myself rot,
trapped inside the convulsing, invisible machinery of my own skull -
shaking, weeping without tears,
waiting for the agonizing pressure to snap into place
and finally let me go...
The hustle of the
Khyber pass
Dusty
Dirty
Traffic chaotic
Pori’s border
Like the ground
Soaking up my foot prints
We move beyond
The bus is silent
In this barren landscape
I look upon the discarded
Shells of war
Interesting
I identify shells
From many wars
Like a walk
Along a beach
After a storm
An high tide
But the storm
Still thundering
The vision scape
Has pockets of green
So many gums
I could be back
In Oz
A brief stop
Jalalabad
The men Decant
I stay
Watching
Looking
Out the dusty window
Engrossed in what I see
The woman and children
All start talking and laughing
At once
The sudden noise
Makes me Jump
I look around
But all I see are ghosts
But free
The influence
Of men
The men return
So does the silence
We move on
We pass a check point
Then stop
Beside a green river
I sit on the bank
Smoke some hash
With old Coco
He looks just like
The old cameleers
From the pioneers
We can’t converse
But I feel
A gentle heart
War tired eyes
Mountains loom
Around us
We are about to make
The push up
To Kabul
We join a convoy
Of trucks
So many trucks
All going up
And up
And up
Never been on such
A huge mountain
And such a narrow
Road
I look down on the
Shells of trucks
That didn’t make it
Up or down
Horns blare
Dust stings my eyes
But I want to see
If I am
About to die
We plateau
And loose the convoy
Cruse toward Kabul
We stop at the
Biggest refugee camp
The atmosphere is
Stressful
Angry
Suffocating
Claustrophobic
Like a humid
Wet season day
I can’t wait to leave
Continue we do
The end is here
The infamous
Soccer stadium
Blocks an blocks
Of rubble
The end
Of the road
To Kabul
Two Thousand Twenty-two
By Franklin Price
03/05/2022
As the year was turning over, from two thousand one to two,
God was watching down from Glory, knowing what he had to do.
You had fought the cancer valiantly, since the decade had begun.
It had taken 'way your joy for life. It had taken 'way your sun.
You could not walk without assistance. You were riding in a chair
I was doing all I could for you. Your will to live just wasn't there
The cancer took away your appetite, you were not eating any more.
It was time to take away your pain, Your weight was down to sixty-four.
I knew that you were hanging on, by the love within your heart.
You did not want to leave me, by myself, and to depart.
I prayed to God to take you, to relieve you of your pain,
Or to save you by some miracle, there was nothing else to gain.
On January eighteenth, the decision had been made.
You were sleeping when it happened, and your breath began to fade.
Danielle and I were holding you, as breathed your very last
God reached down and lifted you. Your life on Earth had passed.
The days, since then, have been a blur. Dani left on Sunday morn.
I was alone, adjusting, feeling sorry and forlorn.
I went about the busy work, that was the ending of a life
After more than fifty years, I had lost my darling wife.
Two weeks went by, I heard a voice, early on that Sunday morn.
“Barbara's with Me now in Heaven, and you know you've been reborn.
You believe I am your savior. I died on the cross for you.
You will join us, up in Heaven, when your days on Earth are through”.
I got up, went to my closet. I put on my suit and tie.
I felt a peace within me, was no longer asking why.
I went to church to worship; not feel sorry for myself
I got blessings from attending, put self pity on the shelf
Tamera came to visit. I know she was Heaven sent.
She stayed a week, helped me along, and then away she went.
I've been to church on every Sunday. God has blessed me every time
Friends and family are here for me. Feeling sorrow is no crime
I know that I am moving on, now that these lights have shown
I say a prayer to God on high, when I may feel that I'm alone
The love of Barb's still in me, and forevermore will be
My prayers ask peace for all of you; my friends and family.
When was it, we all learned
That soon we would find
In order to get "Ahead"
You had to leave some folks behind
And measuring success
Simply by your bottom line
Against all of the rest
And counting every dime
Reaching up To Grasp the stars
Is certainly not a crime
Just remember all those who
Helped you with your climb
The King Of Spades
I've played against hands
with many faces
Dealt with other cards
In many cases
Fallen in love
with the queen of Hearts
Always there, when the party starts
Sometimes I feel
a flush coming on
Or holding on a pair
with with 3 cards drawn
Other times I'm hoping For a inside straight
Then folding the hand
Cause it's not great
If the right cards are dealt to me, and no one is holding Aces
And all of the cards I see are just numbers without faces
I'm gonna bust out
NEW
Every Friday night you can find me at this bar
Watching her strum a tune on her guitar
Singing a tune that helps me to forget
All of my problems and my many regrets
It only takes a minute and a beer or two
To drown out the memories of me and you
Her voice like a honky-tonk angel cries
And a little piece of me will start to die
Chorus
I'm not lonely if I can't feel anything
Another shot of whiskey with the words
That she sings
McGee
After Last night
McGee was feeling guilty
He thought he should go
and see Father Finn
As he walked to the church
His head was hanging low
But he really didn't know
If he had sinned
So the father said " McGee
Why don't you share
your thoughts with me,
It'll maybe help the guilt go away
So McGee told of his plight
As it unfolded late last night
He met a woman at the pub
And they had drinks
Then after a few
With nothing left to do
They went up to her apartment