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Long America Poems | Long America Poetry

Long America Poems. Below are the most popular long America by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long America poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Xander Martin | Details |

The Lights ft Edgar Allan Poe


See the phone towers with the lights- 
Glowing lights! 
What a world of mischief and sorrow their pattern foretells! 
How they twinkle, twinkle, twinkle
In the icy air of night! 
While the clouds that are gray
And so boring, seem to snicker 
As they watch over the street known as Gay; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Philadelphian rhyme, 
To the long-word-I-don't-know-what-it-means that so visually delights 
From the lights, lights, lights, lights, 
Lights, lights, lights- 
From the flickering and the twinkling of the lights. 


Feel the ominous Morse Code message of the lights, 
Incandescent lights! 
What a world of tightly packed buildings and traffic their harmony foretells! 
Through the balmy air of midnight 
How they ring out their delight! 
From the creepy redden lights, 
And an insight, 
What a lot of lost sleep I once owed
To the white light reflected onto a certain window making it look 
Like the moon! 
Oh, from out the dormhouse cells, 
What a gush of imprisoned restless students wanting the night to end voluminously wells! 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
On the Future! Now we face 
The crushing reality that is this place 
To the shining and the lining
Of the lights, lights, lights, 
Of the lights, lights, lights, lights, 
Lights, lights, lights- 
To the electrifying coolness of the lights! 


See the now visible sources of the lights- 
Stacked lights! 
What a tale of terror, now, their position tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the city, 
In a fit of desperation from a phone line seeking pity, 
Climbing higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor, 
Now- now to sit or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the lights, lights, lights! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Urban Society! 
How they flash, and spark, and repeat! 
What an inconvenience they defeat 
Riding the electrical current of the atmosphere with glee! 
Yet the eye it fully knows, 
By the pondering, 
And the wandering, 
How the danger ebbs and flows: 
Yet the eye distinctly tells, 
In each tower's tallness, 
And my smallness, 
How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the lights- 
Of the lights- 
Of the lights, lights, lights, lights, 
Lights, lights, lights- 
In the unique ability and memorability of the lights! 


See the final flash of the lights- 
Evil Lights! 
What a world of greed and lust their monotony compels! 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy coldness of the air conditioning! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within our throats 
Is a groan. 
And the people- ah, the people- 
They that dwell up in the buildings, 
All Alone 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 
In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 
On the human heart a stone- 
They are neither man nor woman- 
They are neither brute nor human- 
They are slaves to the system: 
And their Internet it is who rules; 
And he pulls, pulls, pulls, 
A meme right out of his arse! 
And his jolly news websites discuss human rights
With the guidance of the lights! 
And he dances, and he yells; 
Fighting crime, crime, crime, 
In a sort of cheesy rhyme, 
To the mysterious melody of the lights- 
Of the lights: 
Keeping geeks, geeks, geeks, 
In a stupor which the Internet seeks, 
To the throbbing of the lights- 
Of the lights, lights, lights- 
To the sobbing of the lights; 
Taking in, in, in,
All the sights, sights, sights
Of this pathetic tourist trap rat-hole called Manayunk, 
To the rolling of the lights- 
Of the lights, lights, lights: 
To the tolling of the lights, 
Of the lights, lights, lights, lights- 
Lights, lights, lights- 
Oh, the mystery and the history of the lights.

Long poem by Gary Fields | Details |

Will A Divided House Stand In any Land

@one must have lived
on both' sides of
justice to be fully

There are so many
There are oh! So
many plans'
But, in this day of
Can it really
Their are those who
live in the shadow
There are those who
are on top!
Many have faith in
the interest of
I say some-times' it
is merely just a
   ----- Now think
about that ----
Do you live in a
state of justice
Or in a state of
Where your strife is
And pales' beyond
Can you go out at
   ? ...night!
With-out subscribing
of your plight
Hence:  the fear of
going out at night
This reflects' the
type of judgement
That which you

A issue shrouded
in black and white
A deadly combination
of the many social
wrongs' or
         Where the
truth comes' to the
As a human body lay
riddled in the heat
and stench
of the night....
If you are stopped
in a store to-day
Do you expect to
make it home?
Are you subjected
to the night?
Where justice is
swift a constant
     - Only...
To end up at the
business end of

To the end of
contrary to
your life.... 

 Only to be pondered
upon as a
creature in that
laboratory of
Where you your-self
have just payed
The supreme price
from a flash of
That threatens' to
end your life...
Where some-one else
in his unique 
......since of
justice amend to
take your life
(Some-call it a snap
decision only... it
such a snap to take
another life) later
to be call a mishap
in the name of
protecting life
I still say' maybe
we are
acting on a little
bad advice
justifiable murder
In the name of our
Needless too say,
Is this the best

Who's constitution
dare I choose?

Your life
filled full of
With a truth slowly
only God knows'
just exactly
What has just
     .... And the
reason why so many
should die....
Who's brand of
justice would you
survive...  In that
vain' instance
Just to stay
 which do you
care.... to defend?

Would it be
attributed to the
feat of justice 
Or will it be just

Or to the
determination of the
life of just another
Young innocent
man..... Or that
breath of justice
From which he did
truly depend...

To abide and to
trust in....

The accomplishment
of man... Awh! Yes,

The truth depends'
on the end of the
That which is in
your hand..... With
the meter
of justice that we
willing to

That brand of
justice that which
you may call upon
for the sake of your
fellow man!

Gary Fields
Censored in Contrast

Long poem by W. L. Said | Details |


I grew up in Poortown 
A mile down the road 
From hard topped streets 
Where Miss Eleanor lived 
She sat on the front porch 
Smoking ready rolled 
Eating brought on peaches 
And she would hide in back 
When she took a dip of snuff 
She wore nice dresses 
With zippers on the side 
And her stockings both
 Had seams and no holes 
Her shoes were shiny
As a brand new nickel 
Miss Eleanor was not poor 
And she made it a point 
To let everybody know it 
She always had a new 
Cadillac car to drive 
And the sweetest smelling 
French perfume… 
I was just a boy when she 
Called me in her yard one day 
Told me how she watched me 
In my ragged old overalls 
Passing by her gate each day 
She asked me how a boy 
With no visible means 
Could afford to go into town 
Most every day and stay 
From morning till dusk 
She had no understanding 
How life really was in Poortown 
So I told her best I could 
The particulars of my day 
How Pa was sick in bed 
And my Ma had passed away 
I told her I was working for 
For the wealthy folk in town 
For my dinner and to get my Pa 
His medicine he had to have 
It felt as though she had 
A special kind of glass 
That she could use to look 
Right on through my lie 
Made me feel so small and petty 
Then she told me not to go 
Into town anymore 
But to come to her house 
And I would work for her 
I show the next morning 
To a brand new pair of overalls 
And some shiny Brogan shoes 
Not new but unlike any I’d ever had 
She took me to the back yard 
And gave me tasks to do 
I worked as hard as I could 
Just to make a good impression 
Miss Eleanor brought some iced tea 
To the settle in the shade 
Under the old apple tree 
Where we began to talk 
All about life and our lot in it 
I learned from her and she from me 
And when the day was over 
And she paid me from her purse 
For the work I had done 
And not a penny more 
She told me plain that the 
Money I had earned was mine 
And mine alone and if my Pa 
Wanted his “medicine” he’d 
Have to work for his own 
Same as I did for mine 
Years passed by and I grew up 
Miss Eleanor is gone on now 
But she left me all she had 
Which to my surprise wasn’t 
Very much… You see she believed 
That appearances could hide a 
Myriad of deficiencies from 
Prying eyes, but not the heart 
She taught me while appearances 
Were important they meant 
Little in comparison to character 
Honesty and integrity… 
So I sit here on the front porch 
Smoking ready rolled cigarettes 
Enjoying a brought on peach 
Watching the endless parade 
Of poor and destitute young’uns 
I think back to the days 
When I would pass by and 
Imagine the mystery and beauty 
Inside this little stone cottage 
And who Miss Eleanor really was… 
I like to think when she passed away 
That she passed down a little 
Of herself to me…

Long poem by Jesse James Forster | Details |


I remember that day and never looking back
I said goodbye to my family and grabbed my duffel bag
Im off to be a hero just like my grandfather and my dad
Im going to fight for America Im going to become a man 
I will make you all proud by protecting all your dreams
Generations of battles war nerve pumping throughout my veins
Familiar echoing war drum beating inside from my angry heart
No sooner than I am deployed the blood shed and death will start
Nothing could prepare me for the violence I would see
I met death with my first kill, and made a deal with inhumanity
My first experience of occupation I fired at every moving car
The rules of engagement were simple kill everything both near and far
Giving candy to little kids all named Michel Jackson, but not to win hearts
But to use them as human shields against  the enemy insurgent charge
Women and child seperated from their husbands and father
We were lethal shepherds in armor hurding the lambs into the slaughter
Still to this day when I close my eyes their screams become my ghost
Eight months inside the hole, I lost myself, I lost all of my hope
My dreams become a horror for my nightmares have now over filled
And from my cup and my eyes their blood will be poured and spilled
I look at a tattered picture of my own family back at home
But can not smile or remember or I too will come undone
Numb by design, programmed in fear, and not to feel
Compassion has left me alone, I am cold organic steel
Casualties of war are corpses I ran over in the valleys and the fields
Im a killing machine a 1014 an M16 are the swords that I weild
A modern day holocaust ordered to kill anything posing a threat
But when getting fired upon from a crowd its hard to identify a target
Lock and load Little Elvis once again it's time to kill
Weapons forged against us lay in the terrain and hides in the hills
RPG fires into defending walls as bullets fire screaming past my head
Machine gunners leveled that f@@#ing building while my comrades are laying dead
Adrenalin pumping fuels the plans for my next attack
Hot flashes of steel pierces my skin as shrapnel shreds through my flak 
People who were in prayer were no safer from their deaths
Bodies still burning, in pieces, or taking their final breath
Children run through my site with tears inside their innocent stripped eyes
She was no older than ten as she watched her little brother die
Deafened ears fall upon me, blood now is my fate 
Hell is abroad in this desolate God forsaken place 
Soldiers took trophy pictures of their faces with the dead
Who is the enemy I wonder, this doesn't make any sense
The boy who left home to become a man he never did come back
His soul still wanders the Tigris River lost forever to Combat

For all of my fallen friends, heroes, and families. You are always with me and will see you soon

Long poem by River Greene | Details |

From a Black perspective

It's Black History Month, we all celebrate our Heritage,
come together and speak about the Greats of a past age.
Talk about how far we have come, and how far we've yet to go.
I think to myself, I feel inspired and enraged.

I think of my Neighborhood, the hustlin' on the streets,
I think of all the single mothers, making sure their babies eat.
The Asses of the Masses, sees these titles as derogatory or criminal.
I see it only as another Brother or Sister, making sure ends meet.

I watch the news a lot, look at these congressmen in suits,
defending shady police procedures, another polished up excuse,
They never mention how real the struggle is in our neighborhoods,
quick to label us as repeat criminals, they never trace the roots.

Martin Luther King, Maya Angelou, and Rosa Parks the legendary greats,
knew how to organize successfully, To fearlessly and Peacefully demonstrate.
I think to myself further, I wish we could once again stand tall until we are heard.
we've made progress but we are fenced, oppression leads to hate.

The politicians say that we are granted equal opportunities,
But looking at the budgets for our schools, that's not what I see.
half of our teachers barely care, the art programs are damn near gone
limited access to education, with economic expectations of a college degree.

Yes, we have rights now, no more segregation,
all races welcome everywhere, diverse population,
permitted to run the race, but they never even gave you feet.
I feel like we were more pacified than Liberated, that's my frustration.

Maybe if our neighborhoods weren't spots for cops to meet their quota,
Maybe if they'd approach with a smile, respect upon approach given not one iota, 
they always assume I'm up to no good, when I'm just walking home from work.
walking with a white friend they still stop me, all I say is "see, I told ya"

I can't help but wish and dream of change, of another futures day,
when our grand kids will think of us, with as much admiration as we give MLK,
I know one day we will all feel equal, no more labeling us by our skin color.
the neighborhood won't be so depressed and oppressed, our kids can safely play.

I have an dream, Like MLK Jr., I will pray for it out loud.
I wish that my children too one day, just blend in with the crowds
a day no Black child dies on his neighborhood streets by badge or by gangs
where all children receive adequate education, graduates college proud

It's Black History Month, we all celebrate our Heritage,
come together and speak about the Greats of a past age.
Talk about how far we have come, and how far we've yet to go.
I think to myself, I feel inspired and enraged.


for a contest : writings From a Black Perspective,
in honor of Black History Month.

Long poem by Christine Phillips | Details |

Riches to Rags

I have heard of it,
I was in it,
I have imagined it,
But I am yet to experience it.

What is this dream?
Who is this dream for?
Is it a dream for the wealthy and the powerful?
The politicians and the Gangs?
The Cartels and the Mafia?
Drugs and substance abuse?

Is it a dream for organized crime? 
Child molestation,
Sabotage, and hopeless?
What is this dream?

Is it a dream for big cars?
Credit card debts?
 Foreclosed home? 
And joblessness?
Is it a dream for freedom and justice?
Inequality and racisms?
Or is it a dream for peace, unity, love and compassion?

Some people have been dreaming too long,
 And it’s time to wake up to reality?
Everyday hundreds of people are killed in the streets of America,
Children are murdered in the schools
Businesses are robbed,
And illegal schools, and colleges are established on a daily basis,
Innocent people get hurt every second
And the security system is tainted with bribery and corruption
What is this dream?
Rags to riches or riches to rag?

Aunt Mary is a successful doctor;
She left her beautiful home by the beach;
She resigned a good paying job; 
She leaves her husband, and children
 behind in search of the American dream 
But she ended up in a rat infested brown stone, 
apartment in lower Manhattan. 
She works three jobs,
 flipping burger and scrubbing floors to make ends meet,
 And at the end of the month she can barely pay the rent,
 She cannot eat a proper meal
 she has to pay it back to the American dream.

My ink has been dried up for many years,
The weather was perhaps too cold for my ink to flow,
I have resorted to the computer 
but the keys were frozen too.
What on earth had gone wrong?
I might have been in America too long
My creativity was put on hold 
 because I was too busy trying to achieve my dreamless goals

Everyday thousands of people from across the globe
 landed on the shores of America;
Thousands of people have lost their lives
 in sunken boats, and extended journey across desserts
 some people have spent months travelling from country to country
 with the hope of reaching America 
only to be subjected to the materialistic dream.
A dream that will one day reduce them to nothing,
A dream that will make them work night and day,
A dream that will cause them earn their bread the hardest way.

Somewhere along the road
 the real essence of this dream has been destroyed
 And new meaning has been added to i.,
What happen to the ideals of America?
Where is the success and upward mobility?
Where is the fuller,
 and better life that everyone anticipated?

Can we still achieve prosperity and success?
Does this dream exist at all?
Is it a dream for some?
 Or is it a dream for all?
Open your eyes and recapture the American dream.

               ©2013 Christine Phillips

Long poem by James Fraser | Details |

Hiroshima, Theodore Van Kirk, RIP

On that day, in Aug 45 Bomber over the city that's very much alive Nervous crew, cloudy day Pilots instructions, open bomb bay The words above as the pilot has said What happens next the World dreads The catch releases as Little Boy goes Are they really enemies, are they really foes? As he lands without a sound As he plummets into Japanese ground As he ignites his awesome power As he sprays his atomic shower An eternity clears in hours I hear No City which once was here Where are the people, no where near In Oppenheimer do I detect a tear If that's the worst the USA tells Nagasaki is next as the death toll swells Lo and behold that day has come The second city is indeed gunned down This Uranium gem as the Yanks declared Our troops at war will all be spared Not to think of these Japanese folks Who in Atomic ruin, their lives now soaked Buildings gone where they once were Populations vaporised without a care This Mushroom shape will shadow forever This day in History will never sever The following day as I look around A bustling city which has no sound I stand here bleeding from burns and sores Skin dripping my family torn All around me broken burning shapes Trying to make sense of what this all makes What could have created such destruction as this On these cities where yesterday was bliss I limp down my street in imaged spree Shadows of neighbours I will never see Silhouetted in shape in many forms Is this my World, it's not the norm Weeks have passed as I start to feel ill Once I was ten, now I feel nil Body sored with lacerations and boils This human life now entering it's toil As I look to the sky some birds still soar Those lovely doves I will see no more My life fades as my eyes gently close Should anyone receive those blows Now I'm gone as I look down, where once a city, now no more a town Once there were dots all running around Most are gone, blown from our ground Where mediation was never met, discussions were never said Two cities, many dead ( Lyrics by Queen ) Teo torriatte konomama iko Aisuruhito yo Shizukana yoi ni, Hikario tomoshi Itoshiki oshieo idaki Let us cling together as the years go by Oh my love, my love In the quiet of the night Let our candle always burn Let us never lose the lessons we have learned Are our lessons learnt, time will tell Berlin Wall, barriers fell Is it a start, or a start to come Is this race always on the run We need to look and look around No more we hear that whistling sound It's seems to be a more silent kill Typical Human, in it's typical will Re-posted in memory of 'Theodore Van Kirk' the last of the 'Enola Gay' ..

Long poem by Apostolos Kizilos | Details |

After the Vietnams and the Me Leis

After the Vietnams and the Me Leis
Steel skull
Stone eye
Blooming jungle rot
Itching on the crotch
Jack scratches the trigger of his M14
Kisses the golden egg
And throws like the Babe.
Jack is now back from hell and trying to cope
In fourteen breathing, and moving pieces
Held with a pound of steel and ounces of hope.
Sitting a seat apart from me on the redeye flight
When all was quiet and both of us were tight
He was heading back to hell after a brief home stay
I asked him why do soldiers fight, and die
It’s such a lost cause, such a waste of life.
“You don’t do it for your country or for freedom
Or for that crap they howl about on TV.
You do it for your buddies,” Jack said.
“They offed three of us out of twelve.”
He looked out the window into the hidden fears,
“We got them good,” he said, “We got nine ears,”
And didn’t glance at me; no cheers for the loot, no jeers.
That’s the mathematics of war, the logic of the battle
Figured out on an Ohio porch, some California night
With Arizona heat sprouting cactus thorns for guilty souls.
Some rickets-ridden urchin
Lurching behind a bush
Probably ahead of a burly Charlie
Around and around in the mind
One muddy foot
One G. I. boot
Lordy-fordy, how devious and sly –
This Charlie pair has to die.
So, Jack kisses the butt of his rifle
Tickles the crack of his grenade
And down goes the child
Down by the bush only the child
Crafting nightmare and despair
On every porch of this land of care.
Jack is on his thousandth retake:
Tries to miss, inserts distraction with a hiss
Tries on glasses with bulbous lenses
Fingers flat, fat, knobby and arthritic
That clumsy little rat
Not too good at bat
Everything you can do to derail
That fatal launch of death and fail
But there is no escape going back.
Jack didn’t aim just to maim
He aimed to kill and blood to spill
But he did miscalculate, and can’t undo what is done.
Back then he scuttled around the fated bush for ears
And now, walks back and forth in the backyard
Shedds tears for his wrongs and dodging fears.
For a while, the radios clarion lyndons
Nixon away despair with a blare: “My fallow Amuricans . . .”
He is tired but hides his horror for the here and now
“I want to make this absolutely point . . .”
All night Jack listens to disoriented roosters crow
Tries to unglue shirt from sweaty skin
On the prowl for Constitutional comfort for Me Lei
A clause, or some amendment that justifies the way,
The basic facts of blood multiplication in the U.S.A.
Ah, but there hasn’t been a blessed massacre yet
Nothing like that was ever justified for any threat
And let us pray that it never will. We must not forget.

Long poem by Shanity Rain | Details |

young American days

                   To be in a young America ~
           visions of a ship upcoming statue of Liberty
               the young lad holding tightly to his Mothers leg
             in all excitement of a new Land to call their own
      celebrations of apple pie and fireworks on the 4th of July 
             thoughts of the old Hollywood on screen 
                films without 3-D costing less then a dollar
        Greta , Monroe , Betty Davis eyes tantalizing blue glare
       The Wizard of Oz or books written by Steinbach, Capote, Mark Twain

             exciting new visions of creating new concepts 
                 before Capitalism bought all little ones to bigger
           songs came from the hills of Virginia to the black Mountains
               surfacing in Tennessee for all to hear and wish to see  

          The day when one travelled by car on the road travelled
             every town a story told , learning history we once shed blood 
         American Indian tears to the British man whom choose freedom of taxes
            Boston held a tea party , now wishing they threw out marmite instead
         The day when we knew our neighbors and bought homes with a paystub
             Everyone had a chance to make their own with pride , even through wars
        When Martin Luther King stood proudly as did President Lincoln for Freedom 
             How many streets have been named after the man whom had a dream ?

             When milk was delivered on doorsteps in Glass bottles 
                 Babies wanting the very first of the top being cream 
             leaving doors open , watching news with your family at 6pm
                cartoons were shut down and it was now grown up time 

                      Cereal being a cheap snack for after school 
                         school supplies costing twenty dollars 
                      Grandma school clothes shopping for fifty 
                   before the internet , cell phones , and text for hello ~

                         2 week Vacations not afraid to put up Camp 
                Christmas sold in December with the sentiment of Love not money
        a day when if one were sick , you could actually get penicillin without question 
         The Doctor treated everything calling it General Practice no fear of Malpractice 

               Never forgetting our Motor city  
                 Old Ford Trucks Chevrolets and Dodge
                  The city that brought Ottis Reding and Marvin Gaye 

                     What happened to us ?  Where did America Go ? 



Long poem by louise nelson | Details | . You can read it on' st_url='' st_title='I Don't Know About you America But I feel Like A Whore'>

I Don't Know About you America But I feel Like A Whore

I don't know about you America but I feel like a whore
when the Bush Administration wants to give me a $300 score
how many of our young men and women in Iraq will have to die
before they will admit that this war is one big fat lie?
how many more will be in foreclosure and become homeless
before the government realizes this a problem they need to address?
I'm beginning to suspect that 9/11 was a secret government conspiracy
so that Bush could justify an invasion in the interest of national security
where are the weapons of mass destruction they were so desperate to destroy?
It seems like taking the Iraqi oil fields was the only reason troops were deployed

I don't know about you America but I feel like a whore
while the Bush Administration runs out the White House doors
and like a good trick when he's done he leaves money on the table
then has the nerve to tell me to spend so the economy may become more stable
the corporations have sold us out and with the Chinese we're now in bed
more Chinese goods in America even some with paint containing lead
we used to be a country that thrived on production
now all we do is go to war and cause global destruction
the dollar is in the toilet and not worth the paper on which it is made
could it be because we're at a deficiency in international trade?
the Bush Administration has us again in debt to the tune of trillions
yet how is it that Republicans are still raking in the millions?

I don't know about you America but I feel like a whore
when the biggest John leaves us broken, bitter and sore
the Secretary of State believes the propaganda that's she spinning
the Joint Chief of Staff insists this war we are winning
but all we've done is cause chaos and confusion
It seems like America is the problem and not the solution
how many more soldiers will return disabled and lame
before the Bush Administration assumes any of the blame?
they talk in a manner that's most condescending
yet fail to remember that it's OUR tax dollars they're freely spending
let's not mention those "Hanging Chads"
we all knew brother Jeb had the election in the bag

we use one country against another to further our objectives
and when push comes to shove we drop them when there's nothing left to give
after Afghanistan and they way they dealt with bin Laden
why are they surprised that towards us his heart is now harden?
I don't know about you America but I feel like I've been betrayed
at least in the Clinton Administration only Monica got played

this poem took me 10 angry minutes to write

Long Poems