Long Afoot Poems
Long Afoot Poems. Below are the most popular long Afoot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Afoot poems by poem length and keyword.
One Parent Thin.
Its the day he's awaited, the day we've dreaded
His unit deployed once again foreign situated
It's Helmond he tells me and I think, thank the Lord!
Once enlisted its so hard for such to be ignored
A training exercise I say, wow! to the Netherlands
I've heard of Helmond and how pretty it is
It's history rich in textiles for centuries I believe
When you think of the World, what an achieve
Erm! its a little farther in fact, about 75 hours away
Deployment is in Helmand Province, Afghanistan
I so wish it was closer being near to you and the twins
Our unit always recite before leaving, begin our begin
Yea, Kandahar we're based, that place, Helmand
It's no holiday camp, not the best area to be posted
Why we are there I have simply no idea at their call
We call it insurgent activity city, Opium, their wonder all
Front door we are as we await once again our waves
In the hoping his posting we're toasting his return
Minutes lead to seconds and he's out of our sight
Stopping tears of twins, mine, and family yearns
Days into weeks pass with minimal contact
News channels I limit hearing, thank goodness!
Seeing happy, frantic, erratic kids oblivious to
In thank you to no news as a family, God Bless!
When shopping, parent hopping, twins afoot
I'm told, stories unfold, that there's been
Stricken, panic, again thinking of the worst
Home, heading, thoughts shredding, family thirst!
The night passes thoughts recede my previous
Overthinking like before thinking so serious
Our morning blends into the twins nursery
Blanking out negativity bordering deleterious
On leaving, seeing, his Staff Master Sergeant
I fall to my knees, prayers, thinking, life sinking
Knowing our twins don't win, one parent thin!
PSYCHEDELIC
There was a decade, it was the 60’s I’m sure
When everyday things were just a little bit off
As if there were rumblings in the earth’s core
And when scripted lines gave way to improv
There were plans afoot, some quite nefarious
A Hippy time, with weedy substances to share
And was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius
Minds set free and wearing flowers in the hair
Rainbow colours swirled to the sound of sitars
Free love, at least it may have been for some
And a coming of age of good electric guitars
Whilst others just sat crosslegged acting dumb
Psychedelia was a mind state and the fashion
Radical changes working through the system
And all things anti-establishment, the passion
Rules got lost and older people missed them
The time when all free expression took a lift
We may look back at it with little veneration
Not only tectonic plates that began to shift
We still hear echoes of that Beat generation
I sat on the edge of the roof, studying the horizon
Waiting for the do-gooder, who makes me wretch
He will not be ho-ho-ho-ing after I get finished here.
I feel something protruding from my left incisor.
Remnants of last year’s Santa.
The night is still, the ambiance makes me giddy.
There is an evilness afoot that delights my black heart.
I imagine what I will be doing to this year’s cheerful idiot.
My teeth gnash hard, practically breaking.
I am ready for the fool who dares approach.
“It is Krampus!” I hear someone yell.
Three midnight friendly humans begin throwing hard things up on the roof.
I will return fire later. Right now there is only one victim.
I watch for him, hoping he will be nauseously joyful.
Those are the kinds of Santas whom I enjoy slicing and devouring the best.
A wolf howls, feeling my excitement.
I lie in wait, sitting on the chimney now.
I can practically taste salty blood.
I salivate in readiness.
The cream esteem my winter coat,
a mink nearby agrees,
temptation wiles beyond the gloat,
a warming gentle breeze.
The juggernaut that Arctic blinds,
the absence of my food,
of barks and twigs and other finds,
the breath of Spring feels good.
Our ashen whites will prompt away,
to chestnut furriness,
we'll blend right in without delay,
Earth tones are more than less.
The thawing out of wintry days,
the freshness of the spring,
revealing plants and shoots neath rays,
the wealth this season brings.
The game afoot, who'd be the prey,
the predators are loose,
a field of grass now on display,
sweet green blades, flags of truce.
A mumbling heard neath weights of snow,
a pair of eyes are slushed,
two ears pop up to words of woe,
it's just a dream, I'm crushed!
Here is cross-eyed Eagle Stripe Dog Mongrel
Luckily he cannot see his own donkey like face
consternation galore when he is afoot
nonsensical war paints make other braves snicker
squaws consider him a smoking warm bird roost
ceremonial nightmare when he enters the sweat lodge
no one shames him, for he is son of the chief
a steady excruciating embarrassment to his tribe
laughing stock of reservation until he learns English.
The only Wallawalla who can bring his nation
The steady conniving lies of the paleskins.
He shows them treaty after treaty
But of course the paleskins keep none of them
for there is no honor there.
In an old-time real-book-with-pages feel in his day,
Robert Louis Stevenson wrote 'Treasure Island',
in his own inimitable way,
and tho' I know I may be wrong,
he could not have been pulling Long John Silver's leg,
as John would not have had a leg to stand on,
for, with his crutch (plus parrot), and I quote,
'He had still a foot in either camp.'
is that which, in 1883, Stevenson of Silver wrote.
Was it black (spot) humour to write of Long John so,
as I dearly need to know,
and it clearly goes to show,
we need much more input,
with that said, putting my best one forward,
it begs the question, 'What's afoot?'
Down the fervent aeons Buddha’s sagesse,
casts its august shroud on benign witness,
shades, shadows, subtle symbol shift,
encompass cosmopolitan and temporal,
incongruous to flaccid predilection feigned,
astute statue of nuance and nicety,
crosses annual acme’s snowflake whirl,
Christmas that propitious seasonable fount,
amid the merriment and jubilation stirred,
can wry dispensation be somehow drowned,
sculpted mould epitomising solemn pearls,
to counter spartan sparkle an uneven match,
for the blissful bubble oft recurrent judder,
though evaluation oscillates on this thorny subject,
palatial gift as lavish token bountiful toward,
unswerving fellow pilgrims of our jagged journey,
despite the avalanche of advertiser’s counterfoil,
triumphant warm rush Burra Din advantage,
can engender migrating episodes deft mutual,
as the Buddha manifests a dovetail harmony,
strained coexistence with December frolic
in the most enshrined but unforeseen locations,
where Buddha influencer might drop wry hints,
juxtapose amidst jollied Christmas victuals,
where bear necessity bordering on martyrdom,
is gratuitously extolled in quaint quintessential quote,
that arrant caustic jibe at the apparently trivial,
the importance of recurring benchmark scope,
as that valid institution built on solid query,
might be seen as an awkward encroachment,
to the much pilloried fanfare of modern life,
changes are afoot when blind pursuit exhales,
has in zoom of instance been Buddha fostered,
if one probes forensically profound into the furore,
where future life burden is an exponential angst,
so abundant amid a sinister spiralling pessimism,
the seeds have been planted in a sprouting urn,
for above the shoulder carry torch consciousness,
a synchronous embryonic Buddha ethos at the core,
one is cognisant of this in zealous online sweeps,
where a budding spirit Christmas mosaic adjunct,
is a Buddhaesque nod on foot of wellness kinship
to concatenate shrouded inkling o’er enduring quest,
on the universal isthmus of humanity plagued by panacea,
one suspends as Buddha meets Christmas on a jubilant,
December day exuding generous exchange across the globe,
it’s a down the centuries dilemma entangled in time,
Black and white, black and white
notes savoured
tickling the ivory
flights of the bumble bee
teased
a delicate flower of desire
unfolding under skies of blue
petal by petal by petal
revealing more and more and more
of you
entranced in romance
I've been dreamin'
firmly believin'
day drinkin' ev'ry flavour
absorbing ev'ry scent
winds playing in electric fields
of trust
a harmony of feels
drawing near, a wanting to disappear
step by step
don't stop don't stop
life is afoot
sun shines her silky ray's
lifting of the haze
greens gather at her grace
silhouettes longed, now traced
together face to face
reaching deep, lingering
kisses to the soul
of the universe
our universe
becoming one, becoming whole
honey dripping into the night
a ritual stinging to the heart
blackened tongues twist and glide
side by side
destinies confide
to be continued ...
Act Eight, Chapter One. Part One
Part of a Grander Play.
A Holy War is afoot!
The lines are drawn in the sand, in blood
The plans are conspired upon,
priest gather like scavengers
in the pallor, in the rooms,
cracks of the home.
Their cloaks flapping like wings of ravens.
The generals buy time
with there little black books.
Pages from holy grimoire flutter
My little girl is dying,
No. That is not possible.
Just yesterday she was running
….playing… BUT!
That is not my child, the hair, the lips…..maybe
However the eyes, the eyes burn with infernos fire.
Can you believe? No….
I slam my fist again the stone and only crimson rains.
I fall to my knees!
I cry to an absolute absent adolescent GOD!
Can't think about that now.
Feeling hell at my back.
Have to make my mind clear,
keep sanity in place,
can’t let the moorings break…My thoughts?
I must keep straight,
peace with my creator,
my god what have I done?
Are you in that sacred space?
That place, people call heaven?
Or are you dead, gone?
Lost to this madness of the universe.
I of III
Imagine Earth itself to be just another Troy, from which, after having raged
In countless battles from Tyre to Megiddo has not been conquered, only aged
And now, having defeated the Spartan race, destroying Priam’s home
Odysseus is captain of a spacecraft with the direction of Ithaca not known
On land to land, world to world, asteroid to comet, sun to galaxy he will wander lost
With endless delay, look askance-or with wanderlust-be unable to define a host
Of angels, like the first home, who—with celestial sound—closed God on a throne
Only future starmen will proceed without God's advantage, in empty space all alone
The victory of God against Satan, here, unproclaimed with all men lost, in between
The endless battles of lucifer and the deity; heaven's splinter to the devil's spleen
The past ages of travail, a mere testing ground of efficacy, the master's saving grace
With the bulk of humanity, like chaff of wheat, having been sifted, as if only a race
Mankind, having run as a race, a race, quite long, the original cause forgotten
How corruption had entered, how the fall began, when Eve traipsed the garden
Yet the race of man; his nature, his spoke, his mind, like a wheel intermingled
Along with the path of the gods--their flight, their call--the Seth of Eve first jingled
How could he not but cry out, from crib, in inter-mixed and complex strain
Since so saith Adam's wife, doting upon her first real child aptly named
Appointed to replace her prior kind, one stricken and one banished
Shepherd Abel first, died, from blight of Cain, latter, whose soul famished
If not his body, since fed with fruit and till of the land, in parched curse
His work distilled into nonsense, and measure as much less in worth
Then the gentle, strange and loving work of the Shepherd's hand
From Shepherd to shepherd, the Maker gave not to Abel land
Since he roamed from brook to brook, or down into gentle meadow
With his staff in hand, and flock afoot, only the caves like ghettos
Learning manly ways and singing with chest open and bare
Under open sky, canopy misting light, and all of life seeming fair
The Lord, himself, culling Abel's rapport and favour, giving him trust
Rather than partition acres, cubits or parcels of land, if only just just