Short Stragglers Poems
Short Stragglers Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Stragglers by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Stragglers by length and keyword.
there
it
stood
tall
majestic
solemn
facing outward
piercing the night
scrutinizing the horizon
looking out
for stragglers
lost desperate souls
drifting at sea
to guide them home
AP: 2nd place 2020
Green patches
of lawn
surrounded by
flurries of leaves
demarcation lines
peace zones
Occasional puffs of wind
light, easy, unhurried
scatter a few stragglers --
swept along
a couple or three meters
then still
at rest again
they await last rites...
He lays motionless
Amid the browning leaves
his tiger striped coat
More than a disguise
The bird feeder
Drew the combatants
A swaying dance floor
Scattering its bounty
He would wait
Stragglers would come
Eagerly anticipating
A last call
He would provide it
It is late autumn with windswept trees,
Now stripped of leaves
Once vibrant with colorful hues,
Now dull, lacking brilliance, or
Windswept and leafless.
Oak trees, deeply rooted, now
Russet and muted
Stragglers, rarely leafless til spring.
Setting the mood bleak,
It is late autumn with windswept trees.
Steam from fresh ground coffee
Mixes with smoke from cigarettes.
Syrup mixes with butter.
Eggs mix with toast.
Clinks of forks on plates
Mix with clanks of spatulas on the grill.
Last minute bar stragglers
Mix with early morning risers.
Morning crew coming in
Mixes with night crew getting off.
It's shift change at the diner.
Time for me to mix with my bed.
A bloodied sword
found on the battlefield
Corpses strewn about
in the dark and dirt
The fallen lie on consecrated ground
Their eyes blank, their limbs cut
Stragglers walk on this field
Their memories of peace
dying with each step
So the wicked winds of mortality
have come to claim their own
They thought they were.......
But reality came forward
Snuffing out that candle
The last drops of rain
trickle down the roof tiles.
The washed morning does not rush,
much like those high-spirited stragglers,
who now and then play their pranks.
The night still struggles in vain.
The first ray of light dips a finger into the puddles—
a signal for the thrushes to strike up their tunes.
A sleepy street sweeper emerges
from an old, shabby gate.
His shoes creak beautifully.
The ground is thawing,
Winter's demise draws near.
Eagerly I await the first buds of spring.
Snowdrops so tentative
Have raised their faces to the light.
The first green shoots
Have appeared on lilac bushes.
While the sun shines brightly
A handful of wayward flakes
Make their way earthward.
The last stragglers of the season.
As if swept from Heaven's floor
To land at our feet.
I see the small flashes of the last remaining fireflies in the dark September sky. A couple of stragglers, unaware that even in the warm night, that summer is drawing to an end. Apparently they had not received the memo the rest of their brothers had. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one aimlessly flying around, clueless to the enviable change. Goodnight lost little fireflies. Goodnight kindred spirits of the warm September night...
.
As a judge in a poetry contest
elimination,
Look carefully before jumping
into a conclusion.
Printed words may look like black
ants in batallion formation
Or squads of stunned stragglers
crawling out without direction.
Oftentimes they appear as chunks
or slices of random thoughts
Strewn haphazardly on the pages
like burnt wings of moths.
In them you may not see creative
spark or inspiration,
But behind haphazardness may be
imagination!
.
FIRST - ACT I
stragglers,
mad of
pandemic...
introverts,
suffocated and
masked...
we livef
our neuroses
paralyzing...
no antidotes
no shelters...
only poetry in us
comforts like hypnosis
the body and soul
in symbiosis...