Long Air space Poems
Long Air space Poems. Below are the most popular long Air space by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Air space poems by poem length and keyword.
Hello. My name is Spring and I make an appearance every year.
People have often made comments of me like, 'Spring is in the air'.
For Daylight Saving Time, many will say 'Fall back and Spring forward'.
Well, they can say that, but sometimes I am early and other times late.
Sometimes, Old Man Winter hangs around too long, taking up my 'air space'.
And sometimes, I can't wait to 'Spring forward', attempting to push him aside.
That's right my friend, there is more going on up there than meets the eye.
And when cold clashes with heat, especially in my season, there's always
trouble in the sky. And usually, when there's trouble in the sky, it's not long before there's trouble on the ground. I might show up before I am officially
due or I may come after I'm due. It's another way of saying that I might be in the air but not on the ground in your neck of the woods. I may be in the air, but you do not see, hear, or even feel me. You take this winter of 2019 for example. I don't rightly know what's going on out here, and I don't know how long Mr. Winter is going to last, but things are definitely much different.
Anyway, I want to say that each of us seasons has to show up and do our job, and I'm hoping that, as you might be also, Mr. Winter does not overstay or infringe upon my responsibilities. I have to show up on time to restore life, create beauty, and get things growing again. I can't do that if Mr. Winter wears out his welcome, and it is absolutely unthinkable to try pushing him around because he's much stronger than I. So whereas I might be in the air, I might also be there cold and covered in snow, just waiting my turn.
03052019PoSoupContest, Spring Is In The Air, Emile Pinet
How romantic, the fall, so far above the pleading waves.
The heights, the depth, to look the deep in eye and weep.
Air space between the lovers’ arc and shallow graves.
The tangible singsong of wedding bells and tragic leap.
Imagine it, the harp-like spray, the call of gulls, the fangs
that scared it up - the fade of white, of pearls and lace.
The cleft, the crags, the foaming ebb and flow, the overhangs,
the rage and misery one cursèd night, of love’s erase.
Romantic and tragic body of sea, a bride set free.
for she’d not live eternity of blood, thus spills her own.
He has no heart, but tears. Before his fate - a honeybee.
The heaviness of weight, the sea frothing with moans.
The scene has wings that fly and dive and sweetly catch
the widower’s debris. Invisible, the flight of ghostly light.
From precipice, how many tears do claw and scratch…
Hell laughs, but jealous witch wished bride to be first bite.
Where do teardrops go, a taxing question,
Suitable for a sturdy champion;
They well in our eyes, a soft salty plea,
Then spill down our cheeks, for the world to see.
Do they fade in air, like morning mist thin,
Or gather aground, where lonely hearts spin?
Do they nourish weary roots, or flowers
Or drip down into the earth like showers?
Do they join rivers, that rush to the sea,
Carting sorrows far, setting spirits free
To turn to rain, that washes over pain,
A cleansing gift, to make us whole again?
Do they soar to the stellar starry sky,
Simmering bright, with memories up high,
Each shining bead, a story left untold,
A tribute to life, as precious as gold?
Do they just fade, unseen, unheard, unknown,
Absorbed by space, on pathways overgrown,
A momentary trace, a fleeting art
That marks the inner depths of every heart?
Do they reside within a hidden well,
A spring of grief, a secret we can tell,
To rise again someday, in laughter true,
Reflecting brighter suns, skies of hope blue?
Do they trace downstream, a path of sour brine,
A silent, soft sorrow, a moan divine,
Damping the ache that settles, down the soul,
Seeking inner peace to make oneself whole?
Do they cling a while, then dry and depart,
Leaving behind space for a shining heart
A gentle grace, a moment of release,
From burdens borne, that steal away our peace?
Where do teardrops go, if not in thin air~
In their silent flight, they lay our face bare,
Teaching us darkness and light, to endure,
Mend our broken parts, carve our futures pure.
No logical place for this line in another scribing on the
same theme, so I put it down here, looked at it for a moment.
Decided to let it stick, not raise the bar or ante because there’s really nothing more to it.
Yet, I wonder if you might like it or if you think it needs a different treatment.
Perhaps it only deserves a parenthetical mention in a margin somewhere,
a fringe note on someone else’s clatter?
(But I try pretty hard never to criticize another’s work.)
What more to it than this desire to judge and be judged,
compete for air space and time?
After all the world seems to be getting
quite crowded with talent or advanced ideas.
Mediocrity just isn’t cutting it any more.
So, if a neck sticks out for you, perhaps it is only because
it’s dog tired and don’t want to fight you anymore,
mastered a waste of time,
it seems, to some degree, a pedigree.
Does this consummation constitute a talent?
Perhaps patience requires waiting for the virtuous topic to
suggest itself, but if I lay in wait I might never write anything at
all, and then who would I be?
How to begin…
Trying – whole thoughtless years, then,
Boom compulsive composition.
Perhaps there’s something –
Here, what do you think?
Air traffic control has spotted a strange object in the sky
Moving at the speed of sound, bright lights flashing by
Radio contact has been made, a request to land on every roof in town
Air space has been cleared, and the landing textbook without a sound
A man in a red suit climbs out to check the flight crew of eight reindeer
A last chance to view the naughty and nice list before he disappears
The elves have reported all the chimneys are clear
Santa has been on a strict weight loss program, no need to fear
Presents are all separated and ready for delivery, must be handled with care
Timeline to get moving, such a big job no time to spare
Christmas comes but once a year, enjoy it spread goodwill and lots of cheer
Thank you Santa for another job well done, and we will see you again next year
The midnight shadows
Stretch and crawl
Across the bedroom floor,
As something heavy
Drags its weight
Outside your locked front door
You press the pillow
To your ears
To drown the scraping sound,
But hear the slow
Deliberate steps
Upon the frozen ground
The iron bolt
Begins to slide,
The rusty hinges trigger,
And through the darkness
Comes a cold,
Familiar, hollow figure
It slips into
The narrow hall
And steps into the dark,
And leaves upon
The hardwood floor
An ash black mark
You hold your breath
And close your eyes,
Pretending you’re asleep,
But through the cracks
Of eyelid light
You see a shadow creep
It towers right
Beside your bed,
A shape without a face,
And fills the cold
And crowded room
With static, dead air space
The blanket pulls
Slowly down from
Your
Chin
Into the
Air
And then you feel
Two frozen hands reach through your tangled hair
The bedroom fades
Muscles freeze
The air goes thin
An attempt to scream fails
No sound comes out
Something touches your skin
A sudden jerk
The mattress tilts
A force pulls onward
The floorboards scrape
The hallway opens
Everything changes
You kick and flail
The rug is ripped
The wall is clawed
The wood splits deep
The grip is iron
The descent begins
Down the stairs
Into the dark
The basement gate
A heavy slam
The lock clicks shut
Time has run out
Have you seen the Hollow Man?
Please oh please
Tell us
We bled for him
We kill for him
To join his clan
I am, indeed, not a worshiper of heroes,
It's because no beings I consider zeroes;
Yet, thinking of some there, within, rings an alarm,
One such human is A. P. J Abdul Kalam...!
An Air-Space Scientist; India's Missile Man,
Who made me to trust in me; say always: I can;
Loved as Peoples President; by nature humble;
From his stern path of truth never did he tumble...!
Silence he loved; sparkling smile he did always shed,
Utilized challenges as stepping-stones; went ahead;
Inner strength should be shield he said; shine like the sun;
Hardest of hardships in existence never shun...!
Children he loved; Inspired them to ignite their minds;
To no child's question on existence he stayed blind;
Fly like birds of the air he said; do not just crawl;
Be in touch with self; give heed to your inner call...!
His words of realization he truly lived,
His biography says, in life, none he deceived;
He was not handsome; yet he lent his hands to some;
To no threat from any, he never did succumb...!
Awarded with Padma Bhushan and Bharat Ratna,
His dedicated life ended like a drama;
A perfect lecturer; While lecturing he died;
Eternity, within her tide, his soul did hide...!
21 July 2022
To Honor My Hero Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
On the frigid wings of the northern breeze
waned winter with frayed feathers flies away,
clears the mist from shining sky out of freeze,
song of birds brings life in ambiance grey.
On silken leaves’ cradle blooming buds glow,
with cascade of color petals unfold,
zephyr ripples fragrance in fervent flow,
but spring also has its downside untold.
Insects crawl out after hibernation,
stinging bees build hives in unwanted place,
allergens spread as season’s creation,
from defrosted ground dust fills warm air space.
Though compared to winter it is tender,
spring is not all encompassing splendor.
_______________
February 6, 2023
Syllable count : 10 per line (HMS)
Rhyme checked with RhymeZone.com
Contest : Spring Is Not All
Sponsored by : Michelle Faulkner
for my gentle handsome son, Keith Andrew-
The young Canadian goose was lost in flight,
Not knowing which way to turn-
Now he depended on instinct and sight,
And what he had already learned-
The clouds engulfed all his air space,
And for the skein his heart did yearn-
They were migrating north in springtime,
Towards their nesting grounds to return-
He was sure he could navigate the course,
But he really needed to see-
For now it was against time that he raced,
Hoping that soon with them all he would be-
He flew at an altitude of 3,000 feet,
the migration height that geese fly-
’but then remembered on some occasions,
they’d go up 27,000 feet in the sky!
He tried to get his bearings,
by estimating their rate of speed-
Canadian Geese cover 1,500 miles a day,
He’d have to fly faster to succeed-
KA, with courage geared up,
and charged right through the distant clouds-
He spotted black feathered necks and feet,
and heard lots honking that was loud-
His father was in the lead,
of the “V” formation that geese fly-
His mother was right behind,
Asking, “Where did he go and why?”
The young Canadian goose remained in back,
Until all of them touched the ground-
Mother emerged from the gaggle with glee,
Happy her son was found-
Mom and father were together for life-
In the geese world that’s how it goes-
Now it was KA’s time to find a mate,
He made it just in time to propose!
I almost see the totem animals.
an almost place, placed before my eyes,
this morn-flushed day.
The red sky that charged the horizon
is shading to flamingo pink.
The storm must have lost its wings.
The light is tattered, but it plumes now
with the floss of broken clouds.
Lakeside, among the dripping weeds,
Yellow Jackets, Dragonflies,
and Yellow Tailed fritillaries
vie for air space.
The water is still, a mirror
turned over to watch
what reflections fly beneath it.
It is there that I see the animals.
They are neither in the water or out of it.
They skim, peering into both,
they observe with wide eyes,
owls, bears, racoons, and Bob Cats,
all observing.
They are the aliens now, and we the
spirits of water and air.
The totem animals, sniff, and eye us
as parents or guardians would.
Familial ties keep them close,
as they feel-out each life-path,
then following, but at a distance
always at a distance, for they possess
this hinterland amidst the glaze
of our daydreams.
A surface tension that echoes
the nearness of water and sky,
yet from an in-between place,
close, yet so far away.