Long Whites Poems
Long Whites Poems. Below are the most popular long Whites by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whites poems by poem length and keyword.
the paddy fields are ready to be harvested,
green crops sparkle freshened by clear early dew,
water lilts its way through channels time tested,
first of South Indian harvests, brings hopes new!
the time of the year that sees a weather shift,
Sun in its northern ride moves to Capricorn,
ushers an yield of plenty and nature’s gift,
cheer grows in the village as the year is born!
far further afield swinging in the warm breeze,
stand tall succulent crops of sweet sugar canes,
cultivated in rich soil they grow with ease,
watered by the monsoons of previous rains!
the farmers have a special joy in their walk,
God gives in plenty when one has worked so hard,
bags of different lentils they load and chalk,
time to celebrate! festivities on card!
14th January Pongal is celebrated,
where everything harvested makes a special meal,
rice, lentils boiled and with black pepper grated,
jaggery from sugar cane is tasty deal!
women wear bright coloured silk with gold jewels,
men are dressed in clean whites for the festive day,
children fly kites, anointed cattle wear new bells,
celebration of Pongal cheers all the way!!
10th Position
Written 14/January/2021
Completely your choice (40)
Brian Strand
11 syllables each line
to introduce others to this beautiful festival
that celebrates harvest and thanks God for the yeild!!
Before we left this morning on the next leg of our journey
there was one more place in Spokane I felt we had to see.
It’s called the Indian Painted Rocks Trail…so before we left for Idaho
we drove to see these rocks…painted over 250 years ago.
Since Deborah is a rock painter…
(she loves to paint messages on those little spheres)
we wanted to see how the art of rock painting has changed in all these years.
It was amazing to see the reds and yellows painted over 2 centuries ago.
What they depict have been lost with time…as no one seems to know.
The artists are no longer with us…having long ago expired…
but sometimes art doesn’t need to be explained…only to be admired
Because there remains an inherent beauty
in how these colors still bright and strong
absorbed into rocks so many years ago…have survived so long.
Next to these ancient paintings we noticed a trail…
It’s path shining in the sun
so before we left for Idaho…we thought a short hike would be fun.
To our amazement this little path…before we even had time to think
guided us through a rainbow of flowers,
purples, yellows, greens, blues, whites and pinks.
Walking through these colors brought us joy and pure elation
and it made me wonder if these same colors…
didn’t give those Spokane artists inspiration.
And if this wasn’t enough to leave the two of us without words
as we walked we were serenaded by a multitude of birds.
Which also made me wonder the more we walked along
if this was where the Spokane people got the inspiration for their songs.
We made it into beautiful Sandpoint Idaho…still talking about our walk…
where…at this wonderful little cabin we spent the night…
Deborah left a painted rock.
Then the man without a name
Approached me, from the crowd
He looked me in the eye
And I heard his say out loud
That what happened there that day
The spirits of the mound
Have finally found a way
To recapture scared ground
I broke down into tears
As I felt I must confess
"Listen to me Shaman,
I'm more guilty than the rest
It was a dozen years ago
When the Army was my life
And we came and killed your people
I was part of all this strife "
"But you were something different"
As he reached into his pocket
Holding in his hand
Was a shiny silver locket
As I took it from his hand
And looked inside to see
A picture of a Squaw
Standing over Me.
"When your mother died
You were taken from her hand
You were raised by whites
Then returned to take our land"
"So, why was I spared
Why me and me alone"
He just pointed to the mound
"Cause what you've written on a stone"
The END
Spring, early morning.
Sitting beneath the half-arch
Of the bayleaf tree,
On the old wooden garden bench -
Early morning, the first full day of Spring.
A cup of warm coffee,
A smoothie bowl of banana,
Avocado and chia seed, topped
With walnuts, golden raisins, goji berries.
Cool, crisp, and hazy—
Soft sunlight breathing
Seasonal new life,
A quiet awakening.
I sit apart from it,
Yet quietly within—
Still, observing, serene,
Flooded with innocent memory.
Jewels of dew on the lawn
And the broad-leafed tulips,
Long-stemmed and short—
Reds, pinks, yellows, whites.
Bright daffodils bow and sway,
Primroses bring gentle colour
To a forgotten corner
Behind a moss-covered standing stone.
Tips of green unfurl
On the red boughs
Of the Japanese maple
And the three hibiscus.
The herb garden—sage,
Savoury, lemon balm, verbena,
Parsley, thyme, oregano, chive—
Waits for eager culinary hands.
Flowering strawberry plants,
Rose-coloured rhubarb stalks,
Fresh mint—
All hinting at summer puddings.
A cockerel in the distance,
Nature’s alarm clock—
Wake up. Wake up.
Hiding in the branches,
A little red-breasted robin sings
His bright, insistent song,
Just to say: I’m here.
A blackbird lands on the fence,
Briefly surveying the ground
For slimy morsels
To catch his beady eye.
Ducks rise from
The dark green canal,
A woodpecker drums a steady beat,
A collared dove softly coos.
Tiny pale mauve butterflies—
Parma violet sweets on wing.
The first shift of bees emerges,
Focused on the day’s work.
And on the window ledge next door—
The neighbour’s cat.
Petroglyphs scattered
All over Hawaii
Carved on black volcanic rocks
Mysterious they are
Stoke human curiosity
Unendingly
Human and other forms
Numbers and writings
Carved by the island’s ancient natives
Long before the Whites entered the scene
No one can gauge
What they truly meant
We are left with guesses and conjectures
Lots of touristic balderdash
Me, a frail, wavering human frame
At late seventies
Walked across the blackness
On cracked volcanic lava rocks
Defying winds and sun
The past bloomed
In different forms
Carved on solidified lava
A human form here
Elsewhere a human thought
In an unknown alphabet
Or a secret number or sign
Splendorous indeed
Are the stone writings
Showcased across the island
A tourist’s paradise
They dragged me back to my teenage
When I climbed a rocky peak
Close to my village home
Laboured hard on its head
And chiselled my name
Alongside my heartthrob’s
My name and hers
Set apart by a heart
Pierced by an arrow
In the middle
Sweet, bleeding, passionate
Perhaps, the monsoon rains,
Winds and sunshine
Have undone my petroglyph
What else can I expect
In more than sixty years
Of my residence elsewhere
Away from my native nest
How much I wish
I could again climb that peak
To view my sweetest script
On its unthinking pate
Alas! Am now close to eighty
Can’t climb that height
To view it again
And sing to my past youthful glory
Stars and planets!
Look at it please
Read it aloud to me
The song of my youth
Engraved on the rock
The whole sky will join in
In full-throated revelry
The universe has no choice
Glory all the way petroglyphs
Wherever you are
On the surface of this earth!
Scars can be the sky
The unpleasant pleasantries before I ever tried to please,
One's initial impression,
Pressurised to press against my very mind,
And selfishly dissolve my very sense of self
But scars can be the stars
A dancing dissaray of swift strokes
coordinated like a swift's inordinate slicing flight
In their cumulative crowd, countless in their layers
Swallowing the serene sight of the stationary sky,
Beautiful and bountiful, fizzling- fading out with time
And scars can make up the moon
A collected culmination crisscrossed into a crescent
Calling the collapse and crashing armageddon,
b'tween self and selfless sabotage.
For as tainted tissue fades with age
The unfused flesh skirts the sea of scorned'n scarred skin
A sea of reds, whites, purples
Red as the ragged retch as fresh flesh is surfaced
White as the teeth of a two faced sheep gnawing on a frail fawn
Purple as the bruised hue hailing the eve of the eventide.
Select solitude calling the collapse and sudden relapse
For selfish selflessness hath torn my scorn'd soul to shreds
See not past the unsteady smile marring my malformed maw.
Though, see to it that,
My scars may make up the night
But I will shine unselfishly as myself, during the day.
7//9//2026
Mutilaem K.M.P.
Try as I might,...I could not get it right
My small fingers that fumbled over the ivory whites
While scowling her face with that crabapple frown
One, two, three, four...one, two, three four...., her eyes looking down
"Try once more..." she repeated, and I would struggle, so hard....
She would point at the notes, with a yellow Number 2 .....
And circle the flats, and would circle sharps too
One, two, three, four......one, two, three four...
Don't bother to look at the exit or door
The room was too warm..." I keep the thermostat at eighty she'd say"
It helps old bones, , rhumatism, you know..it keeps the aching away"
A scent of Vick's Vapo Rub when she leaned in too close
"For my horrendous allergies".... she'd boast
A Kleenex all waded, a ball in her fist,
Her glasses hung from a nose,
That constantly dripped
One, two, three four,...one, two, three, four...
Oh how I wanted to run straight out the door
"Now, try it again", she'd say, as I glanced through the glass
Out to the sun and the summertime grass
With the sidewalk so ripe, for my playing 'neath trees
For some hopscotch, or jump rope, or roller skate keys
A day, ...not for Mozart, or Bach, or Beethoven...those guys...
What could those grim, long dead, wearing wigs in disguise
Understand of a little girls heart? One, two, three, four....One, two, three, four,
Oh how I wanted to run out the door
But now................My dear teacher....I wish you could know
How I grew to love music, and remember the days
When you gave me the knowledge and spirit to play
This beautiful gift, which I cherish today.........
One, two, three, four.....
May I play you a melody?......
And then, if you don't mind...
I'll be happy to play you one more....
__________________________________________________________________________
Miss Ella Mae Engle.... Rest in Peace, God Bless You, and Thank You From My Heart
I sit here in the park amidst a carpet of green speckled with buttercups and daisies
A pale blue sky above ceilings my room as I close my eyes
as I open my ears to the Summer sounds surrounding me
Buzzing encircles me as bumble bees in picnic mode
collect the rich nectar from the sporadic yellows and whites
To my left in the distance I hear the distinct sound of children playing in the parks
swimming pool
Shriek's that would cut glass are consumed by the vast expanse
Water splashing resonates through the air as if carried on the Summer breeze
Chimes appear from the distance as a frenzy of screams shout
Mam, dad it's the ice cream van
Suddenly a quietness descends as I picture children and adults
licking their ice cream nectar like thirsty hungry bees
To my right I hear the distinctive grunts of my daughter and her friend
emulating Flushing Meadow on the local tennis courts
The odd yell of congratulations from watching spectators breaks the scene
As I turn my head again in radar like fashion I zoom in on the aviary where gorgeous
budgies are kept
I can picture their greens, yellows and blues through my closed eyelids
This little community chirp endlessly as they flutter in organised commotion
Delights of aw echo across the flower beds as they are absorbed in my
consciousness
Modern man interrupts this tranquil scene as metal birds noisily
roar overhead whilst bodied engines reverberate reminding us of the mechanical
world we live in
My own little world this Summers afternoon comes to an end as my daughter and her
friend return with vociferous tones
I open my eyes as normality returns
We gather our belongings as we head of home listening to the cacophony of modernism
The things which make my blood rise
surge and boil, bringing a witches cauldron’s
of hell fire, to the for…are not the natural things like sunrise
or the beauty of a pasture green, or golden
No, for me it is all, the daily injustices that men promote
as women implore…
Beauty soothes my heart and calms my ragged breath.
But, a man who thinks he’s better than another
bringing his ‘truth’ to bear, with the force of power,
stepping on the crowns of those, seen as lesser,
now that…causes blood to pink the whites of my eyes
as a woman, I explore..
In a universal culture where men hold sway
with swaggering strides and violent threats,
the smaller, finer, delicate things like diatoms*
in water are crushed, destroyed, forgotten, in the roil*
of war…
Man who must focus worship on themselves
denying the wet, warm, womb of the Mother,
men who mouth protection, as the reason for their gore,
men who would have more than their fair share
and tout* dominion* as their just deserts*…
men such as these..these men, encourage war..
and return to us our dead children
wrapped in the flags of nationalism..
for with the self granted pride of man
they bring war..
Bring us back to the days before,
before we saw ourselves as separate
to the interlocked and laced days,
when each form was blessed.
Let my heart ease, let my blood calm,
take the taint of pride from me and mankind
and let each and everyone see the value
of peace through unity..
*untoward / causing misfortune *diatoms/ one-celled alga *roil /make somebody angry
*tout / praise somebody or something *dominion / ruling control
*deserts / something somebody deserves
The force is catter-balled inside of it's own redemption,
you are not meandering without,
or even tempered to non-survive the site-
they told us in many more trials that we don't travel in far as much as we can keep being more than what was told is for...
So many wines and gatherings of the eclipse,
so many new tides you might wonder how they all fly when really it's nothing to attack.
"So fly like a G-6"
"Never guide the high it's all alike and its..."
No ask why,
no internment bite,
just the waltz of the mountain goats and whites..
The flutter around after strong size,
weathered mime and together light.