Long Zags Poems
Long Zags Poems. Below are the most popular long Zags by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Zags poems by poem length and keyword.
Midday sometimes in class instead of learning algebra
While she should be calculating and figuring a formula
Her mind wanders aboard a moonlit gondola
Serenaded by a musician and his viola
She follows the enticing aroma of hot lasagna
Zigs instead of zags, could be seen as a faux-pas
She glides around a peninsula soon in terra incognita
Traversing a nebula not a care in the world, she’s in Utopia
Atop her head a diamond studded tiara
Below a ball gown of the finest taffeta
As she gracefully waves and cheers at the orchestra
Who is playing al dente a capella for an al fresco opera
Such fleeting moments garnered as bouquets of ephemera
She weaves in and out of daydream during algebra
AP: 1st place 2021, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on June 8, 2018 for JUNE 2018 STANDARD CONTEST sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 2ND
Life’s Timeless Driftwood
Peering back at the shadow stretching,
continuance knows well the peaceful silhouettes from horizon's light,
ancestral sequences having frequented one’s shore many times.
All is as it has been.
One’s longevity holds firm,
like isolated fingers protruding in protest
from sequestered driftwood blanketed by sand,
unready to move on,
just yet.
Just as sandpipers scavenge wet bubbles along the beach,
furtively running zigs and zags,
avoiding swooping wings overhead,
we too avoid termination,
with luck.
Destiny continues to lap the shore,
its gentle hands tugging
into tomorrow’s warm waters.
man’s stubborn endurance.
So mighty…
This evolving limbed-strength,
accepting of journey’s tempest,
willing to ready again for the next leg of one’s odyssey.
Even as…
White caps thunder applause,
at the elongated shadow of remaining branches
fading into the day's dusk,
signaling a tide ready to lift
to carry to the next shoreline and beyond.
Roots have withered,
growth's ever changing leaves and bark
have become morsels of love and loss,
an existence mixing peacefully toward ghostly remnants.
At some point…
The water rises,
the fiber and strands of resistance soften,
dissolving into a new connection
as birth's salt and brine prepare the next iteration,
the next surge upward,
another tenacious wave of purpose
exploding its final power
into a mist imploring remembrance
before the oneness of completion
cycles again into its new existence.
Such is the gift of time and space,
the requisite condition for permanence,
where presence once created
evolves unfettered in perpetuity.
Christopher was the first person we met in Seattle.
after driving our rental car from the airport though a detour with its zigs and zags
Christopher was at our hotel to greet us, to make sure we were safe
he even helped carry our bags.
Christopher told us how we loves Seattle.
How he’s lived there all his life.
We learned where he went to school, how he came to work at this hotel
about his family and his wife.
Nathan was the last person we met in Maine.
We had a lot of time before our flight so we stopped to enjoy the view we’ve come to adore.
When we saw Nathan carrying a bucket making his way up from the shore.
We knew form the sign that somewhere in the flats below
is where the mud worms live…and where the mud worm diggers go.
So we asked this old man walking toward us in waders
If his bucket had mud worms inside…
He smiled, set down his bucket so we could have a look
then, as the two of us felt his pride….
he told us about his family, how his daughter has a place in Florida
how he’d been digging up mud worms for over 53 years,
and how mud worms aren’t as plentiful as they once were…
how they’re dying out…he fears.
We asked him why, at 80, he’s still at it…
He smiled as to his bucket handle he clung…
then with a youthful wink of his eye said,
“All this exercise keeps me young!”
Christopher was the first and Nathan was the last person on this trip that we have seen
but there were hundreds of Christopher’s and Nathans who we met in between.
Years form now when we look back on our trip from Washington to Maine
we hope the memory of every Christopher and Nathan we met…will, in our minds, remain.
Reminding us wherever we go
there are people whose kindness shines…and whose smiles glisten….
Reminding us how everybody has a story…if we take the time to listen.
Byte size food begets best bedeviled egg head benefits
re: visited today April 12th, 2023
Way before aye knew
the name Fletcherism applied
family and friends even
Smetana's bartered bride
would (tongue in cheek) chide
tummy uncommonly
(recherché) atypical dyed
ded if the letter “y” one did elide
in the wool feeding
and/or slaking thirst guide
did precepts sans hungry
deaf eating beast impossible to hide
(the ferocious growling harassing imp -
armed to the figurative teeth ready to pounce
viz casus belli sans reeling off
a pseudo say id dish us vicious jeremiad
me, this unrepentant conscientious masticator,
who re: lied
on self control unbeknownst
to this pumpkin eater
(me not named Peter)
unwittingly followed
the basic tenet of Fletcherism - custom made
modus operandi vis a vis exercising okayed
mandibular metered (when famished),
eyes kept closed while tongue gently played
adhered to practice of eating small amounts,
which discipline stayed
engorging self, and as a result
(consuming sustenance
only when hungry avoiding
(wolfing like an instantaneous blitzkrieg flash)
found me aware visa vis master car ding
marginal increase in pounds meaning
thy body electric weighed
approximately for long stretches
to enable safe passage for sturdy brigs
when a habitue at one or another dining digs
stuffed nibbling on hors d'oeuvre figs
adequately satiating with with oomf
when contra dance caller Scott Higgs
announced "hands four," which signal
helped get my mojo back
and reel lee deuce home jigs,
which indeed kickstarted and syncopated,
oft times espying Bobby Riggs
who years gone back whiz Vic Tory huss
e'en when donning apparel of Whigs
like colluding trumpetting molecules
that via tiff Fanny doth zags and zigs.
Canopy’s aperture, spilled light’s nuance, tinted,
as my eyes arrested, to attest fall’s saga…
A tree proclivity, had me stalled in Ashland,
watching the leaves succumb, leaving stark limbs barren…
Those with temerity, plunged at high speed, head first
Others spun dizzily, tornado-bewildered…
Few flew in gradients, of sideways-sloped descent:
wishes on air sustained, just a little longer…
Some seemed to ride gentle, invisible, sleep-chutes,
touching down easily, with wizened acceptance…
My marrow slowly chilled, as damping moisture crept
But cheer was soon bubbling, as merry maples fell:
swaying in zigs and zags, frolics of to and fro,
to come to a smooth rest, on the glassy brook’s face
Alighting sans ripples, their fate in water’s hold:
floating on a mirror, reflecting their past life,
ere being swept by currents, to their next journey’s start…
(11/4/18 - Repost of Ashland Autumn for P contest hosted by Constance la France)
Zig-zag, zig-zag, what’s coming next?
Just corners, twists and bumps,
No glimpse, no signposted clear path,
Just loads of holes and humps.
Day after day, just up and down
And twisting round and round,
No indication anywhere
Of where the end is found.
So much of life zig-zags around
Surprising frights and fears,
Uncertainties, anxieties,
And even desperate tears.
But stop! Just look! A bright new light,
With path so plain displayed.
And there’s a sign, a lovely sign,
So clear, ‘This is the Way!’
Jesus there is always waiting.
Yes, he alone’s the Way,
Troubles he turns to singing,
Transforms the worst of days!
Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” John 14:6.
As I gaze out upon the blue ocean,
from my perch, on the cliff above .
The incoming storm, hovers close by,
I am watching battering waves, smash
the rugged coastline shore below.
The blue waves blend with the distant blue sky.
The once sapphire ocean now becomes steel blue
As the storm rolls in, the ocean, ever changing hues.
The waves smash, blend and churn creating
Cauldrons of undertows merging with rips
Battering with a powerful gale force.
As lightning zig- zags across the deepened sky
I head for shelter from the incoming rain
Knowing I will return again to look at ocean blue.
Francine's contest- blue on blue on blue
Phyl the ocean
thanks Francine
I thought of you with love today,
But that is nothing new
Because I thought about you yesterday
And days before that too.
I think of you in silence
And often speak your name in my sleep
But you never notice though you sleep next to me.
Seven billion smiles around but yours is my favourite.
Your smile leaves me defenseless
But I never told you because you think I hate women.
I have been drawing zigs and zags on a sentimental notepad
Of unchecked emotions and mismanaged feelings.
My dark thoughts of horror nights on the red couch told me
To press mute on feelings and see how loud hurt sounds.
I am slowly becoming a violin with broken strings.
Each time they strike my chords the song is how beautiful you are,
But I am running out of words so I end up groaning in discord.
Your personality is a cast of characters unseen even in a mystery movie.
It is a collaboration of sanity and hurt;
Requiring the most careful focus on details if you are to understand.
Agnes, you are turning into a bad and dark thought I wish I never had.
You are a work of art;
I am not the first to say.
You are as beautiful as a Victorian orchestra symphony.
The gently formed and polished image when you stand
Is as unique as the perfect hands that assembled you.
You are a form of molten fire that erupts like a volcano
Each time my thoughts meet you in Dreamland.
Wired to the present reality,
You are Mary and I am Joseph.
We could make the messiah
But since nothing happens that first time,
We will make a James.
It would be a knotty outcome –
And truly I will love you much more deeply than I dare try to express.
Agnes, Maria was my crime,
You are my sentence.
Ace of Spades
THE TENTH WAVE
The rain drops prick the skin of the sea
Tumble with the urchins in the water,
The black water, so heavy, tired--
Watching it tic tac toe in millions of tiny rings
Tic tac toe, three by three by three
Up until infinity--
As scores of seagulls watched from buoys
Red sky at night, sailor's delight
Isn't that how it goes?
All hands on deck! All hands!
Until then came, out of the night sky, a wind
With the sound and fury of a thousand black horses
Pummeling down on the water, the great, fearsome ocean
And stirring it up like a bowl of soup
All hands!
The great boats all groaned in protest,
Their wet, wooden bellies full
Reeds choking shores uprooted and flew at the storm
The whole world seemed to be feeding the storm,
Which would not be satiated, but howled for more
Chunks of earth, wood, sail, even human souls
Would not appease such an appetite
And then, in the pulse of three hours, a brief
Quiet...
...an aching silence
where the sun deceived them
By shirking off the clouds for a moment
Hear the call of the birds...
Red sky at morning, at morning, at mourning
It was then that the waves began--
Undulating at first, feel the water breathe,
Soon rising, rising, black towers
Into walls of water no one could scale,
Ripping across the top in violent zig-zags
White madness, the open mouth-
-and they came, they came in rows
As tall as nightmares, even hungrier than the wind
And they ate up everything they touched,
Swallowing lives, swallowing that which made them
Pulling our dwarfed armies into the deep, deep
Dark, black salt water
Until then, after the herald, and the birds didn't sing anymore
A tenth wave, which rose colossal over the rest,
Moving like a lost city,
Over the darkness, a shadow covering this world
Silenced what was left to be silenced
Little sailors
Little sailors
All sailor's songs end
And On the Land
Your little wives
Will catch your songs on the wind
Will pick up those songs on the winds
She sprinkles a jumbo box of Rice Krispies all over the ground,
in a beautiful garden, where red and yellow tulips surround.
When they come to trample on her flowers they'll make a sound,
then she'll march right up and yell " Hey you there, put that down!"
Tiptoeing through the tulips he sings, "crispity oola crispity yay,
found me a pinecone, why leave it alone!"
He is hunting for the best pinecones, smelling out calorie filled seeds
inside Mrs. Russo's lovely garden, there's more than anyone needs.
Crunch crunch goes the squirrel with his highly specialized little paws,
munch munch goes the little rodent, without taking a breath or pause.
Tiptoeing through the tulips he sings, "crispity oola crispity yay,
found me a pinecone, why leave it alone!"
She comes out wild and matted with a broomstick in her hand,
"Shoo Shoo" she yells, as a cheeky rugrat gets the upper hand.
Because he's small and fast and in a hurry to hide one or two,
he ignores her and zig zags through the tulips like a jumperoo.
Tiptoeing through the tulips he sings, "crispity oola crispity yay,
found me a pinecone, why leave it alone!"
Poor Mrs. Russo had no choice but to go inside,
leaving the little fury beast alone, to eat and hide.