Long Across Poems
Long Across Poems. Below are the most popular long Across by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Across poems by poem length and keyword.
In the Dark Night Sky
In the Dark Night Sky, a “Pale Moon” now arises suddenly,
With clouds of ice sparkling in a frozen-cold ring around it;
While your bright, rosy-cheeked face appears as a paste-like
Image of a grinning and laughing White Dwarf so happy!
A Million-Times-Brighter-Hell-Hot Supernova emerges now,
With a colossal colored-array of jewels firmly fixed upon the
Trajectory of a brilliant star trailing and exploding its waves,
As it shakes its cosmic dust on all of your light-filled dreams!
Divinity travels through my veins like warm blood free-flowing;
And as one radiant supercharged beauty kisses God’s very face,
She finds His divine and infinite picture—His view of our Cosmos,
Where the souls of Mankind seek the final spirit of their being!
Wild Moon Dogs howl joyous echoes bouncing into an infinity,
As they choose to dance to an ancient song of peace and love.
This is the final message of the pale moon’s image cresting now
Lonely across the Dark Night Sky as it reflects God’s Starlight!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – November 17, 2015
(Unrhymed Quatrain)
Happy Hunting Ground
David J Walker
I wonder
If a campfire is
Burning bright
In the Yellowstone
Tonight
Two men
Buckskinned
Fur hats
Made of martin
Black powder in a keg from
The trading post
A sack of beans and
5 pounds of cured bacon
Sitting cross-legged
Across the blazing pit
Swigging whiskey
From a crock
Telling stories long into the night
If the tales are tall and told by
The light of a campfire
It might be
Father and Jim Bridger
After a day of hunting elk and buffalo
In two feet of snow in the
Shoshone forest
As he was leaving
Father told me tales of
The happy hunting ground
That’s where mountain men go
My family is a car,
It runs smoothly if all are present
My dad is the engine, strong and smooth
He runs the car and is the powerhouse.
Without him, the car would stall
Because he makes the decisions
And he runs the household
My mom is the wheels
She drives the car
To wherever it is needed
She checks the decisions and has her say
So to question her is a nay
Because without the wheels, the car can’t go
My grandmother is the windows
She gives us advice
Whenever needed, she lets the air flow
So we can think clearly
Thanks to her wisdom
My brother is the brakes and accelerator
Because he’s the youngest
When he’s hyped, the car speeds across
But when he’s sad, the car slows down to a halt
So, that little mood meter is just as important
Then there’s me
I’m the other stuff
The seats, the lights, the comfort
Without me, the car won’t feel like a car
Because I help make the car feel like home
So my family is in a car,
Run’s smooth if we’re all present
We need each other, just as much as ourselves
The sharp, silent clang of light on dark,
the subtle infiltration into the enemy,
another bright arrow hits its mark,
dissolving stars into transparency.
The bright flash of orange, the glimpse of red,
the armor of the good and right,
sensing a loss with impending dread,
desertion thins the ranks of night.
The final soldier of dark is all that stands,
the crescent of the nocturnal moon,
retreating slowly across the lands,
he knows his end, he feels his doom.
The battlefield sky is swept clean again,
the light, hopeful for a bright clean day;
the sun wishes for what might have been,
as humanity throws the brightness away.
The sun then falls back toward the ground,
the darkness once more takes control;
the protectors of light, where they may be found,
watch for sunrise, accepting their role.
Weeks later
After I first strolled by in the February snow
Strings of fruit
Left out across the park
For birds and all sorts of wonderful creatures
And after I wrote a poem
And speculated
Who this mysterious park shepherd
Might be
In the unspoiled hunger of my mind and heart
Feminine Giver of Life
Was my hope
I see her far ahead
Yes
I knew it
A woman
Though it’s hard to tell with all our winter burdens
Wrapped around us from head to foot
She wobbles in a tattered squall of snow
Bent over a trail
With a breadcrumb bag of apples and oranges
Opened
To her mittened hand
Spreading stems and juice and sunflower seed
In the winter
With so few of us around
We own this park and make our own rules
Drawn
From we the few souls
Who have no need for words or direction
From above
Or below
But only share the lonely air and wind
Snowflakes
I note she now has a long stick
And way ahead
Appears to be writing a message on the trail snow
O SMILE
I do
Toward the end of our walks
I catch up to her since she stops
Often
Like me
Our existence is but nose chin and lips
Protruding under our wool hats sunglasses
Puffy coats
Boots
I like what you do I said
Thank you
“Just trying to get some people off their phones
Find nature”
She shrugs
“Some people call me the Horrocks Lady”
I hesitate then as usual
But with little filter
And desperate for the possible discovery of magic
I reply
I wrote a poem about you
It wondered who you are
“Thank you” she says and with that
Gives me her bent back
Reaches into her bag
And sweeps the palm of her hand
Atop the frozen ground
As another snow squall separates us
From our
Or really
My
Momentary hold on reality.
chieftains trade their loyalty behind the clouds
high mountain king Carrantouhil commanding his Macgillycuddy Reeks
men of begotten rank, scheming skulduggery
secrets hide out of sight, Comeragh mystery shrouds Coumshingaun
flighty earls flee from the Lough Swilly shore
priests conspire, a king, a queen, a lord-protectorate exact revenge
imported evil stalks the land and soul of Ireland
near-on half give way, massacre, starvation, transportation and slavery
annexation by stealth, abomination
exposed Shannon artery, remorseless draining through lakes of tears
solidified karst corpses dissolving
into central mireland, ringed by coastal ramparts and remnant towers
turloughs disappear where the ground is leaking
playboys drink from black frothy pools of humour where the craic is good
where sad refrain gives way to rhythmic distraction
where song, stories, poetry, plays and dance merge in murky island brews
native chiefs are stripped of their Ulster lands
to control, anglicise and civilise a rebellious region
the area most resistant to English rule
official and private plantation, top to bottom colonisation
Gaelic hands across the channel disrupted
Scottish and English incomers, presbyterian and church of England
town and country, protestant domination
Irishmen uniting for briefest moments on higher ground
descent into cold depths of history
the Cliffs of Moher plunging from The Burren's bald barren bleakness
disfigured fingers pointing blame, shame and guilt
like the peninsular lands, Beara to Iveragh, Mizen to Dingle
stretching out to a new land of migrating hope
escaping hunger and abuse of long-robed men and women
the stifling heavy hand of implanted culture
two main layers of tradition now overlaying an unfathomable past
Inspired by "Under the same sky". This is the theme for the September Edition of Cultural Reverence. Thanks to CULTURAL FIESTA and Sukanto Roy for your inspiration and support.
We live under the same sky
(We feel our love and light fantastic)
By Michelle Morris
19/08/2025
There's a revolution happening
It's happening around the world
Enlightenment and evolution
The raising of our souls from the void
The spreading of joy and hope
The spreading of love and light
The spreading of truth and Integrity
The spreading of beauty and kindness
We all live under the same sky
We are all connected by our moon and stars
We are all kept alive by our special sun
We are all unique souls in this universe vast
Look up at the stars tonight
Look up and see them shine
Look in and feel your heart warming
Look in and know our connection divine
For you and I are a part of it
You and I are connected in light
You and I are connected in love
You and I are connected in right
We are the revolution
We can break free from the matrix ways
No chains can bind our hearts and minds
It's time for our leadership to be brave
So, keep shining your light each day
Keep being part of the miracles for which we pray
Keep being the difference you want to see
Keep elevating your soul's ways
Yes, we live under the same sky
We share the same universe and the same magic
We are connected across space and time
We feel our love and light fantastic
© Michelle Morris, 2025
Barbed wire seems a 'thorny' subject on which to opine,
But there arose a need for such for people and beasts to confine!
Cowpokes cussed as they worked with it mutilating their hands.
Sheepherders fussed with cattlemen as it spread across their lands!
'Tis said back in 1874 Joseph Glidden, who 'bristled' with the idea,
Was awarded a patent for barbed wire to provide a cure-all panacea!
Split-rail fencing to outline boundaries was rapidly becoming passe',
To keep neighbors' straying goats, horses and other critters at bay!
Sheriffs found barbed wire handy to enforce a judge's firm dictates,
To confine hoss thieves, cattle rustlers and other such reprobates!
Inmates trying to scamper through the wire were apt to rip their pants,
Or worse, might end up in 'boot hill', caught trying to scale the fence!
Alas, sinister uses for barbed wire were found beyond bucolic meadowlands.
'Twas used to enslave thousands of innocent souls behind its menacing strands.
Thousands of men, women and children were consigned to death at Dachau,
Triblinka, Buchenwald, Ravensbruck and Auschwitz-Birkenau.
Among its many other diverse uses it has even marched off to wars,
To protect gallant American soldiers on far too many alien shores.
Mister Joseph Glidden was doing mankind a great favor, he thought.
Were he alive today he might say, "My gawd, what hath I wrought!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Standing looking across sweeping thoughts and hopes
alone crying into distant faraway hills and valleys
dreaming I saw before me a big white puff of smoke
Drifting low circling from out of chimneys pots high
slowly moving creeps inner vision dancing with me
candy floss happily towards the glen sweet aroma scent
Scenting turf fires the nostrils with wild scent upon air as
a sun melting her warm fingers into one's back soothing
pure in a baby blue clear sky setting, rising high feelings
Upon a cool caressing Autumn breeze Mother Nature
arrives with songbirds singing sweet clearly with echoes
and most beautiful tunes carried ever so gently in the air
Within a quite stillness silently whispers gasp and cry
splitting down the middle a teardrop falls always slowly
in love with this forever dream, and to the end sighs
Standing on the edge of a pretty crystal cool blue pond
while watching the presence of beautiful fairy elves
and their most wonderful laughs and smiles so ever true
Smelling the wonderful aroma of pure mountain air
with that assured feeling the all is fresh, crisp, real
and flowers, plants, and grass talking to one another
Dreaming many perfect dreams of mermaids sitting
grouped in a green water pool at the waterfall’s edge
and sensing their joy, beauty, laughter, and smiles
This is what dreams are made of as we sense and see
most wondrous things and objects of perfect symmetry
as we feel mountain rain and a most delicious soft wind
Mother Nature and her magical world of treasures and
such beauty indeed make all gods of centuries past and
present stand up and applaud graciously our Dreaming One
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 20, 2014)
(Terza Rima in Unrhymed Tercet poetic format)
Bagpipes in short high sounding squeals
that loudly play to the ears appeal
some haunting distant melodic foreboding malaise,
stretching across an isle of green-blue ways,
freed open and gingerly
along the lochs and rivers Clyde, Tay, Tweed, and Dee;
a glistening jewel of history unshelved
with ghosts, monsters, fairies, and elves
upon the southern shore of the Bay o' Skaill swells,
over the West Mainland parish of Sandwick's silent bells,
the Neolithic village of Skara Brae - indelible granite white
Orkney's most-visited ancient relic sites;
islands set apart where the Scottish bagpipes sing
of the clan's immortal heart on the wing;
the lull and lore of older memories fades and wilts
like colors sewn within the Tartan kilts
Glasgow and Edinburgh ring truly filled
as kilts swing in the whistling wind unstilled,
"We’re a’ Jock Tamson’s bairns!"
cries aloud in wails and shrills of Scottish yarns;
come ye rustic castles and pastorals
listen to the swish and swirls, legends rural,
in the rush of bagpipes and flaring kilts
along the cobblestones of Donegal dark silt
and all the island shores gleaned
greetings from the Scottish lore imaginings.
Julia Ward's contest
Theme of Scotland
3/17/21