Long Water tank Poems
Long Water tank Poems. Below are the most popular long Water tank by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Water tank poems by poem length and keyword.
The brindled drop tine bull
Brings his herd along the fence
He steers the steers and leers at me
His look not quite intense
We ponder life, each his own strife, this old cow boy and me
He clears the gate with one old cow
They amble past the here and now
And take me back to the woods by the creek
And the hedgerow post pile by the birthday tree
And the chicken coop and my first chores
The mem’ries flood
To the water tank and the crawdads there
In Holstine’s pasture, way in the back
Not far from a line of walnut trees
Black and tall against the breeze
Each straight as a sentry at his post
Who walked this land
Bow, rifle, plow in hand
It connects me to the land my feet
Negotiate in the autumn heat
I’ve drifted south, as things seem to go
Yet somehow in my soul I know
I’m tied to the land in a way not seen
By those whose mem’ries aren’t so keen
For the ground they trod when their feet were bare
But my mem’ries warm… and it takes me there
He don tey
Ma guy he don tey
Wey monkey dey work
And baboon dey talk
Chai! No be today.
Make I tanda
Gidigba like Balogun Thunder
Drop some verse like vaseline
Put ugwu meta
And land ponmo like four
Untop dis mata.
No be today
He don tey
Wey money dey fly
From we country purse
Man pikin dey hungry
Man pikin dey angry.
Dem say money
Don turn bird
Our leaders dey sleep untop water bed
While we dey yawn untop pako bed.
Yesterday na inside soakaway
Today na inside water tank
Dem keep all dem money.
I tire for dis kontri
Agbero boys no dey gree,
Even dem omo onile own get degree.
And even danfo drivers dey sing song of lamentation
Inside police station.
Na which kain palava be this?
Dem say skool no be for all of us
Say make we try ignorance
But school self na one chance.
Professor na gramma
Even dem first class na crammer
To pass na big wahala.
I beg who be that
Wey talk say stealing no be corruption?
I beg who be that
Wey just commot kirikiri
Talk say him be joseph of our time?
I beg who be that
Wey kidnap so tey
we hear say him wan sue govament?
I beg who be that
Wey dey dance
Untop say him get thirdclass?
Dem don chop national cake
So tey dem no even wan remain beancake
I tire for this nation
I hope say dem go leave our ration.
Muyideen Ayinla ©2017
The beauty
Of
Namatjira
White haired
Bark painter's
Of fish
Wandjina
Feathered man
Full sunset
Corroboree
Pintubi
Dancers
In watercourse
Colours
Of hills
And rangers
Near Henbury
Or was it
Kings canyon
South
Alice springs
Dome like peaks
Of Olga's
Stark landscape
Barren
Barkly
Near Soudan
Where
Dust storms
A common hazard
The faces
Of William Richetts
In the Maelstrom
Those colours
Of time
And day
House Wife's
Bushman
Children of the
Banka, Banka
Old hats
Tin shacks
The Southern Cross
Spinning
Creaking
Just there
In the sky
A Rhyme
To its own time
Wonky
Old water tank
Those proud
Spearman
From
Emily Gap
A shared history
Not us
Them
Just the
Layers of life
Turned sideways
Like
Krichauff Rangers
Somewhere
Out west
Where Echidna
Thorny Devil
( my favourite )
Freshwater tortoises
Swimming
Crocs
Beauty
In birds
Of flowers
Palms
In valleys
Secrets
Of bushman
Ringers
Dreams
Of its people
And fading
Its
Fading
Memories
It’s one of those days when my stomach is pressing against my chest, and my lungs is playing tick tock toe with its own breath. My adrenaline is running a hundred miles marathon per hour and my arteries are bouncing up and down the trampoline from the sound of the heavy metal pounding in the background.
This closely knitted community with all its clarity is composing its own rhythm but you cannot tell from whence it begins. The story about the crop and the young maiden wearing the new frock with the billiard balls positioned on the table waiting at the corner to make the first shot. I still have this strange feeling inside that makes me want to move but there is nothing substantial to choose from so I wait for destiny to propel me along.
The area around me is cluttered but I can still find a breathing space and water to wet my tired face. The threads on the tire are screaming, and my shoe laces are reeling, my dinner plate is waiting at the gate and the wood cutter is composing a new symphony with logs and aluminum pots.
All fears are boiled out of me and water is boiling at three hundred degree. There is always a story to tell even if you are trapped in the darkest hell.
The days are getting longer and my patience is getting shorter. I am surrounding with walls and trees and a big water tank leaning against the wall and if you stand against it, it will make you feel small.
Two concrete structures and a board house trapped inside its own middle are waiting on top of the hill for the drill, and the bushes around makes the board house look like a clown a long night gown.
The sky is turning blue and the crickets are composing symphony number two. The sound is celebrating with the sky and the trees are waving goodbye. I am pressing towards the finishing.
in the haze i fix my gaze
to the burning tree in front of me
what a sight in the fading light
burning so bright
the orange glow burning so slow
now it is night the forest is alight
the earlier sight now filled with fright
the very loud roar scares me to the core
the sky is red so many animals dead
the forest land is burning grand
amazing site that is filled with fright
we run from the hills our water tank spills
not looking back at the monsters attack
we run we run from the burning sun
our land is on fire this is extremely dire
tomorrow we pray for a wind change day
as we pay respect and feel our neglect
we ask the sky to listen to our cry.
He was always in and out of work
It wasn't that he liked to shirk,
he didn't keep a job for long
because his attitude was wrong.
Then one day early in the spring
he started doing conjuring,
until he had a chance to go
to a top magicians show.
He quickly took in what he saw
and seized his chance to take the floor,
a straight-jacket lay on the ground
the challenge offered all around.
His reputation quickly grew
and all the people round him knew,
that in his field he would be king
he could escape from anything.
They locked him in a police cell
but he escaped from that as well,
they dropped him in the icy sea
bound in chains but he broke free.
For many years he reigned supreme
he was the greatest ever seen,
but then one day while racked with pain
set out to play his deadly game.
When lowered in a water tank
chained hand and foot he quickly sank,
though filled with pain, he showed no strife
but this stunt was his last in life.
The day Harry Houdini died
many many people cried,
he said he would come back one day
but so far hasn't found a way.
You continue to play the game and looking for someone to blame
You continue to play the game when everything around you is so lame
The days are sprinting by with a profound message from the anxious sky and frustration is circling around the fence, and the lion is running around in its den with blood twirling in its vicious eyes and aiming at the strangers as they walk by. You have moved the game from the street to penetrate my heartbeat; you have invaded my backyard privacy with grown men shouting from the bushes as I struggle to stay alive.
December has come and gone but you have left me standing alone on the dried up lawn, with empty guts and nothing substantial to fill my growling stomach. You said that January I should get ready but January has expired already and I am still here counting down the days when I will break through the iron gate. I cannot move left or right because of this endless sacrifice. I still cannot understand what you are trying to accomplish and how I should handle it. No one is talking to me and this sometime makes the days and nights completely unhappy. I don’t have a proper place to lay my head and if it wasn’t for my will power I’d be dead.
The peeping Toms are scattered throughout the town and they are watching me everywhere I turn. I thought that May would be the day, but nobody comes my way, you continue to revive the show when you know that destiny is getting ready to go. How much longer must I wait? The trees are still and the clouds are riding with the wind, yet there is no sign of when this pappy show will end.
I enjoy quiet moments in the early mornings but just before the break of day an intruder climb to the top of the slender coconut tree loaded with water coconut just to see what I was doing. And the Chinese business at the top of the hill with its humongous Satellites dish, big water tank and a little a tiny apparatus structure on top to see what is going on. They have taken up residence on top of the hill but the trees stand still listening. My eyes are getting weak and my body is running out of heat. Destiny is coming to a close and you must recuse yourself from the crown and end your age old romance with the coconut tree,
Little adobe house on 160 acres
She grows flowers. I grow corn
Tomatoes, watermelon, etc.
Peace, love, hope, and joy
Grow themselves
Porch faces orange blazes
Draped over the rugged Mules
And a barn owl hoovers over
An old water tank with a bunny
In her talons for her
So-ugly-they're-cute hatchlings
Ladder leaned on it
to climb up and see 'em
Brothers and sisters drive from town
For Bible Study
Every Friday night...
After the Word there's coffee and treats
And men load up the truck
Armed rabbit assassins
Patrol Charlie's alfalfa fields
While back at the house
Women laugh and
Children play
Extra rooms
For friends who want to
Spend the night
Saturday mornings
Coffee and bacon waffles
In Charlie's pond across the road
Bass to catch
Beautiful, glorious days
Last night I dreamed
That in this economy
Where shelter's scarce
I was back at the ranch
With a hundred millenials
All of whom, knew me
The adobe house was remodeled
Terracotta with green and red
Lots of black wrought iron
Railings, fences, and gates
Rooms added onto
Big as a mansion
Dirk came to weld more iron
With his crew
And I was trying to make everyone leave
Then I went out towards the pond
And got lost in a huge coal field
A stranger appeared and I asked
How to go back to the road
And a sheriff stopped me with his gun
We, (well it felt like you)
Took his gun from him
But you wouldn't let me shoot him
And I didn't
I woke up... missing all that we had
Your home-made bread
Love by the fire
After kids went to bed
It was incredible
What we did
What we made
What we grew
Our little boys in their cowboy hats
Playing under the giant cottonwood
Our big sprawling porch every evening
Watching the orange purple fire
Spread itself over the valley
And fade into embers
Sparkling the big black night
Like those sunsets, we raged and died
Time after time after time after time
Until we didn't
My dear, sweet,
Warm, loving,
Beautiful
Ex-
You're still so good to me after all
Praying for your family
In that little old church
Where I lost my faith so long ago
Quit being the man you used to know
Something I still believe in though
And always will
It was once the pride of a prairie farmer not too many years ago.
Now, long abandoned it stands forlorn on a wind-blown plateau.
Its rusting blades slowly turn at the whim of every passing breeze.
It has weathered the storms of summer and the bitter winter's freeze!
It leans a bit askew and a couple of blades are missing from the shaft,
And it squeals a lot as it laboriously turns with each passing draught.
The rusty weather vane dangles lifelessly having served its vital role.
No life-sustaining water doth it draw for this once busy watering hole!
A couple of stately cedar trees grow nearby as if standing guard,
Over the old windmill's enfeebled frame so twisted and so marred.
The water tank that once over-flowed with cool waters from the well,
Now lies in a corroding heap where not a living thing doth dwell!
A once sturdy barn leans in upon itself nearby in a terrible shambles,
Nearly hidden by ancient oaks and creeping blackberry brambles.
What was once a prosperous farm, alas, is now torn asunder.
Who once dwelt in that archaic homestead, I am left to wonder!
The once beckoning oasis sated the thirst of a multitude of creatures.
A well-worn path is seen leading there - 'tis one of its lasting features.
The verdant prairies for many years with working windmills were replete.
Graceful windmills that graced the landscape are, alas, nearly obsolete!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
With a drippy drip drip steady into the tank,
The tank slowly fills like a pond,
The tank with red rusted rippling sides,
Wants to fill to the top and beyond,
And it steadily drips throughout the whole night,
It drips right into the day,
Forming a sea with beautiful waves,
The tank stores it safely away,
And the water is gold when the drip finally stops,
The sun bakes everything dry,
Leaving the old rusted tank full of clear water,
The water that fell from the sky,
To be used in the house every day of the year,
To cook, clean and wash, and to drink,
The tank’s the most important thing to be on the farm,
Well that’s what I honestly think.