Long Steele Poems
Long Steele Poems. Below are the most popular long Steele by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Steele poems by poem length and keyword.
“come fluttering words, come drifting words to me…”
A Rambling Poet
A mere housemaid awakens before morning light.
Eyes wide, she bolts upright to the bed’s edge, as if late for work, though she
never is.
Another beautiful day to labor away.
Polishing silver all day has its advantages.
Each piece polishes to a looking glass, each a porthole to her dreams.
As she stares into the final polished vase, her weary face transforms into the face of
a lovely, fair skinned maiden.
Soft red lips highlight her perfect cheek bones and straight nose.
A simple pink ribbon holds her long, auburn hair in place.
Sparkling green eyes and a happy smile portray her excitement as she admires her
floor length pastel summer dress.
“Oh my, It’s time for my evening stroll,” she reminds herself.
Twirling once, she heads out the door leading to the apple orchard.
Barely noticing the orchard’s beauty, she strolls toward the stone steps leading to her favorite place, the stone rose garden.
Making her way down the steps, she immediately notices someone has placed two arrangements onto the platform from the stone cabinet.
As she bends to smell the flowers, she accidentally brushes some petals off, sending them floating to the platform and moss covered stone walk.
Closing her eyes, she lets the essence take her back a dozen years to a young girl
planting pink roses with her mother.
“There’s not a lot of room to plant,” her mother would say. “Two inches of soil between all this stone is what we have to work with.”
She opens her eyes to find herself staring into the polished silver vase.
Her tired, smudged face reminds her it’s time to go home.
Something different catches her eye in the polished looking glass.
Her long auburn hair is no longer neatly bundled under her cleaning bonnet, but held in place by a simple pink ribbon.
Randy Steele
July 25, 2011
"What Is She Thinking?" contest
Such Innocent Madness
Listening to KHJ with the Real Don Steele,
playing it straight and loud on Boss Radio, with an
Elusive Butterfly wafting about, inside the tan ’68 Caprice,
when his secret journey of a thousand eye blinks,
commenced painstakingly and torturously,
like a dead glacier on fire.
To the left there, by her brown-skinned sternum,
with her young heartbone cleaving through snail-paced determinations,
he found her tender button throbbing,
beneath the cotton cover and the bleach,
there, in the excruciating darkness of teenage intensities;
You and he were reaching for the soul of an hour,
not stopping until constant time achieved the impossible stare off,
between them and it,
between the air, and the touching;
between the voicing of electronic controllings,
and the perennial reaching for another red apple,
served au jus, with croutons, earwax and studied leanings.
Now, it is just another pause in the exertions of young existence,
another heaving mindmelt in the suburban fog,
where you and him once sat fifty years ago,
at the big oaken table beyond the archway there,
inside his mother’s old musty house on Hoover street,
amidst the closed bedroom doors, the bougainvillea,
and the tacky green carpet with a dozen dog stains.
You sat there alluringly and decidedly silent,
with your long smooth legs opening and closing,
like a panting mouth, sucking in cigarette smoke in the dry wind.
But it was such innocent madness,
what was done and said that distant night in 1969,
with you and him sitting decidedly close in the darkness,
within the secure, locked confines of the tan ’68 Caprice.
Listen. Can you hear his bellowing voice through the speaker?
The Real Don Steele said it was April, when
all elusive butterflies swarm to the beat of the night,
the elusive time for young lovers to learn, and sigh.
.
.
“I open the door and cross the threshold of imagination”
A Rambling Poet
One path finds the door
Traveled only from the heart
Through the eyes to life
Hovering about
Dragonflies of all colors
Dancing with sunshine
A mystery world
Sparkling glass dimpled with life
Guarded by cattails
Nervous chatters above behold
A strange sense of company
I watch a miracle unfold
From behind a red oak tree
I hold my breath, don’t make a sound
Slowly peeking bit by bit
Tugging, jumping and playing around
Four unaware fox kits
The wind became my enemy
My scent from it they stole
No hesitation, instantly
They scampered down their hole
Astonished, I ponder what a rare sight I had just witnessed.
The tranquility of being surrounded by huge trees envelops me as I walk around the pond’s edge.
Led by a bullfrog’s ballad, I hone in on its stage location.
Startled, the frog leaps into its safe haven and disappears into thick vegetation.
The setting sun glimmers in the wake of the bullfrog, as does my reflection.
I watch until the water’s surface is smooth again.
A rustling in the brush directs my attention to a doe and her fawn wandering in search of a tender morsel.
The long shadows of dusk begin a tale of nocturnal beauty, a revelry to the nightlife to dance with a miracle world.
Content, I find myself back at the threshold of my heart.
Leaving the world that will some day surround me, a horn blaring taxi barely misses me.
Haiku, Rhyme, Narrative
Randy Steele
Three Gems contest
August 7, 2011
Who told you that I was worthy of your loyalty?
Who told you I needed someone so desperately?
Who told you to offer your affection to me, a broken carcass?
A long dead, lingering soul, embodied briefly in words on paper?
Me, a forgotten shadow, clinging to hope that someone out there knows my name?
Do not lie to me, as I once lied
Do not lie for me, do not let falsehood dirty your youthful lips
Sweet child at my side
If you tarry here, near me, as I die,
You will break as I once broke
I will not let you fade like that
Sweet child at my side
Who told you I needed the company?
Who told you not to fear me?
Who told you that I was not the monster, the witch that the others called me?
Do not lie
Child, sweet child
Who sent you here, as a godsend, as a sunbeam in my loneliness?
Sweet child, not mine
Are you, perhaps, an angel, sent to bring me rest?
Or more likely, the chosen child to nurse me, swallowing your fear in my presence.
Do not lie, as I lied
Do not lie sweet child,
Sweet child at my side
Why do you watch me writing, why do you stay so late?
Do you not fear the darkness?
Have you no nightmares of my company?
Sweet child, ever near me, always at my side
Who told you that I was in need?
Who told you that I sore perished of solitude?
Who sent you here to give me peaceful rest?
Who sent you, sweet child, asleep on the hearth?
Who sent you, my angel, do not lie
-Maria L. Steele
©Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.
Connie's Daughter Ran Away
To mama,
I'm sorry for the grief I'm causing.
It's not everyday a daughter runs away. But I must.
Forget my bunny hop, and the tangibles. I just
couldn't deal with the intangibles of being left
off the team. It hurts.You were right. I am so
very reminiscent of dad. However, I regret,
not proudly at the moment. Mama I'm sorry. I'll
be okay. I have Rule, Sheldon, Steele in my
brain pockets ... I'll find my way around on the
streets. Don't fret, I'll keep in touch. I know
I'm only eleven. But I'm a big girl. Mama if you will,
forward letter, please. PP.
To my softball coaches
You know who you are,
You're a bunch of roaches
Your brain's off par
Off tracks
You are far worse than bums
A pitiful bunch of crackerjacks
Drinking moonshine rum
I cry at my loss
But I can laugh at you, you
For I'll even die on the cross
To make you coaches out as fools
By the time mama read this
I will be long gone
She will be run heartbroken, amiss
But sadly my life here is done
I leave behind in memory, pops
A Mama that loves me
Forever she'll be tops
I need to be going, set free
In the end Bobby Sox got my goat
With hillbillies running the show
Sorry mama for my lost hope
I say with sad tears, I must now go
Love you dearest mama, Paris Pachecho
connie pachecho
12/28/16
“New Life”
according to the power that worketh within you
I was the streets bait
The hustles mate
And my addictions degrade
Now #89451 Im writing, reading and flipping through my own book of life pages
Although withholding my dreams and goals that had never left my side
This robust heart for my family was my concrete reason to provide
It was the instant thrill & pleasure from fast money and renowned hood fame
Everyone from Toledo to Houston had grown to know my name
Now its the prison systems checkmate
While I sit in a cell behind these steele gates
Praying for a redo, eagerly anticipating my date
Presently taking this time to evolve and resolve my past old perspectives
Today I have a renewed mindset and all my choices are now selective
Looking through clearer lenses with new visions at bay
With God all things are new and he provides the light that paves my way
And suddenly all my past character defects are fading away
Go on ahead and go astray
Allow me to continue to shed my skin and walk into this new being
Hello new day
Transformation is the only choice to win
And finally that is what I am now seeing
An unfamiliar refined identity I could have never foreseen
Out of the darkness and into the light
My worth could never again be demeaned
Hello New Life.....
"To God* be the glory" indeed
For granting gift of wondrous worth
Eternal life by Gospel seed
Assuring bliss of heaven’s mirth.
I say, “It is well with my soul"
To God be the glory indeed
For achievement of divine goal
Reaching-out to meet other’s need.
Propelled by the Lord Who does lead
"I’m pressing on the upward way"
To God be the glory indeed
Inspiring my faith every day.
"Victory in Jesus" --- that’s right!
Such is true to me beyond creed.
Privileged to carry His light
To God be the glory indeed.
*Jude 1:25 KJV To the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen.
1. To God be the Glory by Fanny J. Crosby- Hymn sung by CBBC Choir; Ira Sankey had introduced it during Moody's 1873-1874 evangelistic campaigns.
2. It is Well with my Soul by H.G. Spafford-Hymn sung by CBBC Choir; also by Sandi Patty and Mahalia Jackson
3. Higher Ground by Johnson Oatman, Jr.-Hymn sung by CBBC Choir; also by the Smucker Family
4. Victory in Jesus by Eugene M. Bartlett-Hymn sung by CBBC Choir; also by Band Steele
2nd place, "4 Lines From Any Song" Quatern Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May; judged on 2/10/2024
George The Animal Steele
Back in the 80's in the WWF there rose up one out of the rest
A master actor with many children in which to cheer
Brought along his manager Lou Albano to the ring
Like a lone mouse in a heavy maze he was in such a rage
His long hanging tongue was very green like his insides so mean
Looked to fellow wrestlers like a chicken on a string
He often fought with the famed Jimmy Snuka
Chewing the turn buckles like it was his late night snack
Working for him would have given any other guy an instant heart attack
I guess you can say he was wrestling's Wavy Gravy
Although the many years have passed still having a reason to grasp
The real deal was none other then George The Animal Steele
I saw him at my old high school when I was a kid
He rushed into the ring and so often would skid
Touching the many hearts to his loyal fans
Often was quite hairy yet with nothing quite scary
He would grunt & grumble then stare at the crowd
We are still in a shock cause your theme was so loud
Proud memories of our past having so much fun that it would last
Steel is happily retired at the age of 79 but man did he ever shine
I was in-processing my Army unit in Germany when the fortieth anniversary of D-Day happened; but, alas, I couldn't leave. I wanted so much to be there to meet the old surviving veterans, to shake their hands and hear their stories. I had read accounts of D-Day-- June 6th, 1944. I had already seen several times the film The Longest Day, based on the book by Cornelius Ryan.
Eventually my family followed me back to Germany, and we later took a vacation that included Normandy.
We visited Sainte-Mere-Eglise, and I pointed out the manekin of Private john Steele--the paratrooper that had gotten stuck on the church's steeple.
We visited the upper German fortifications of Point Du Hoc, where Army Rangers fought their way up impossible cliffs.
We paid our respects at the US war cemetery on Omaha Beach, and my sons and I walked where so many Americans had died to free Europe.
My wife was very somber and respectful at these sites; she is French, and grew up hearing stories of the German occupation.
I often still watch on June 6th either The Longest Day, or Saving Private Ryan, and try to imagine my forebears on those beaches.
the wind blows golden pellets of heat carving out a figure
spotted gaurdians pace as the sculpted body transforms
once dry granuals of earth morphed into soft mirages of beauty
a trick perhaps to the untrained eye look deeper still ..magic
she stretches her golden liquid body across the dune
testing the boundries of this new found transformation
an uncontrollable desire to reach across the plains
to touch all that can be seen to be touched by all that see's
a keeper of the sands of time now wanting to be kept
the silloutte of a child steeling a glance,deciefering reality
feeling the warmth of the desert wondering what tricks it plays
the dunes holding her beautiful form as the cheetahs pant
even the meerkat struggles with this vision
this goddess of sand and time naked before them
the steele wisdom of the great cats glance confirms
the open mind trancends,opening a new chapter
to believe what is seen to see what is believed
reaching out to feel what is or is not there
the child races to her side wanting to be held
looking down his hands fill with the sands of time
T.A.L jr.