Long Airs Poems
Long Airs Poems. Below are the most popular long Airs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Airs poems by poem length and keyword.
(Continued from part one.)
Afire not his thoughts, the Devil sees,
He soars and roars, in his physical might.
His bears’ hug, his warmth, could melt you;
Into joys and tears, in willing submission.
Treat him not, to your portions of love.
He grows cold, is lost in erotic rage.
Wiggle not mermaid, in bouts of passion,
The dough you kneed, may turn love to hate.
Dare not the wile witches’ craft;
Lest he banish you to the earth’s folds,
To burn in hate, love and desire,
Forever and ever, in eternal penance.
Spurn not his love for the unknown,
With frivolous, eyewash camouflage.
He watches behind the scenes,
Your tremors in the curves and the lips;
You innocent, blooming seductress,
Holding the Mega-staff, letting reptiles sing:
You bore the man, the crowned lord of vice.
Rip him, Independence, to his natural doom.
Haven’t you learnt, you Hollywood menace?
Ever seen Javed Jaffery the Tellywood, Bollywood
Lollywood and Mollywood a few dozen like you?
Tent walk dove-eyed, bumps to the moon.
Kanjiwaram, the Casanova Frenchie,
Break dance in airs to the Eiffel Tower.
Red herring you to the Spanish bulls.
Joy ride Rolls on BMW’s track.
Con the Germans and the Japs.
You, wonder android, generations ahead.
(Forget the Merc-E, TELCO ties,
Or their Sumo-ing the Japanese pride.)
Take care you fool, Govinda could snare,
Rap tap the Seghal to his toe’s.
Golden Eye the double O’s latest dream.
Kung-fu Steven’s at his own game.
Anti-gravity NASA, with mental fields.
Stealth fly you out, from the Pentagon.
Biotech you back into American laps,
Genetically engineered, Gene cultured, wreck.
Brain-virus Microsoft, in config-trees,
Space walk you to the final frontiers in enterprise.
Dance away the foxes of your clan.
Ultra culture, the real London breed.
In knacks of, how to wink and blink.
Lifting eyebrows? Take care you oaf,
Run you goat! and don’t turn your head.
He is the cool cat, really looking his English best.
Flee, before the gambler, he is still there,
Smirnoff you to the Hustler`s care.
Toss you around, under Playboy’s thumb.
Floor you with his catwalk fun.
Cradle you, to the American roost;
Chickening out, not now KFC hen.
He is “She selling sea shells on the sea shore.”
In wizard glee, those Colgate teeth his real hope.
(To be continues in part three.)
Let our hands interlock into a
beautiful zipper of prayer and
take pride in being african!
"What is the pride of being
african"
Asks a girl- unknowing of the
roots from which her family
tree grows ..
The lines on the palm of her
hands resemble the veins of
the african leaves she was
born into. Her
Bi-racial hair curled up in locks
of african beauty
Nd yet she asks " what is the
pride of being african?
An african woman whose only
pride is the curve of her hips
and the natural arch of her
back- ignoring the map with
which her mind can make- or
the different shades of brown
her skin radiates into the rich
airs of africa..
In the middle of an undeclared
war
We uncounciously submit to a
mental slavery ..seeking
comfort in the pains of the
past.. Slitting our rists with
resentment and self pity..
Handicappin our minds -
moving forward but still
arriving at the previous
destination!
Such wounded nations!
Why do we scrape the african
tatoo in the arteries of our
hearts by poking the the past
makin way for its venom to
make us bitter...
Perpetually impregnating our
minds
Only to give birth to a
vendetta!
Is that the pride of being
African!
Adding insult to injury
we duck and cover
Hidding from the touch of rain
Shieldin ourselves from the
sun's smile
But then.. Then we embraced
the weather and posed in the
sun as if God was takin a
piicture..
Then children with no toys
believed they could transform
oxygen into gold
Then a mother through trials
nd tribulations could still find a
corner within the circle of her
mud hut
Then the diamonds of Africa
lay in the sparkling eyes of a
new born -raised to the
heavens as an African
declaration
I listen to the invisible wind
chimes made by mother
nature
Singing songs of praise
Painting african countries on
this canvas we call Africa!
I see the poetry that lies
within future Nelson
Mandelas.. Seretse Khamas..
Futures You's and Me's
I inhale the soils and all the
memories imprinted on them
jus as Africa is imprinted on
me -
I rub off hurtful footprints of
hunger
slavery..
All for the pride of being
african
Let our hands interlock like a
beautiful zipper of prayer- nd
take pride in being african
It is amazing how many super important people there are in my hometown!
At almost any intersection, I will be eclipsed by at least 2-3 individuals who are cooler
Than I could ever aspire to think to become.
Lately I see them everywhere!
They look just like the people on the covers of those high quality magazines I see
In line at the grocery store when I am buying my crate of ramen noodles, and
The 4 for $5 Bar-S brand hot dogs.
I can't help but to think, "WOW! Why haven't I seen any of these people on t.v. yet?"
My adulation for people like Newton, the Incas, Brahmms, Klimt has been misplaced!
Just when I felt like a wart infested slug for my lack of awareness,
A gracious miracle occurred:
This girl/woman/tranny pulled up next to me at a long traffic light.
She wore those wonderful Jackie-o knock offs that almost cover the entire face,
Making her nose look like this teensy-weensy little button!
The a.c. blew her hair around like she was in a photo shoot, and
After removing the cell phone that had neurally implanted itself to her head,
She stared straight ahead, as if in a trance.
I was sure that she was probably in deep thought concerning ways to feed starving babies,
Or contemplating the lines for her next secret audition that only she knows about.
Once the light turned chartreuse, she accelerated like a photon;
This is when I noticed the scintillating rims that resembled the UFO that I communicated with
Down by irrigation ditch the day before.
This was a sign... I had to catch up with her and share this knowledge!
I followed her the length of the city until she finally pulled
Her behemoth into some swanky day spa that had no airs of pretentiousness whatsoever.
It was weird because as I approached her vehicle, I began to sputter and stammer
All of my words; I even began to inexplicably lurch as I walked towards her.
When she saw me her eyes widened to the size of coffee saucers, and
The next thing I knew was there were these wires attached to my chest!
Suddenly I was dreaming of the time I ate mushrooms and touched a frayed cord
On an alarm clock.
When I awoke on the hot asphalt, my seraph had vanished into a mid afternoon haze.
I had to give a toothy smile though- I knew that my body just couldn't handle the intensity
Of her heavenly nimbus!
THE LAST STAND
Where have all my people gone, the Navaho, Lakota, and the Sue,
Smothered beneath the white man's blanket,
Chocking for a breath of airs life's sustaining oxygen.
The beating heart of native drums, are stilled frozen,
In the middle of it's rhythmic thumping, no pulses echo,
Can be heard on the open plain.
The weeping women kneel on sacred ground, shedding
A river of bloods tears, burning a permanent scare across,
A baron landscape.
Death's black raven shields itself, under it's crimson soaked wing,
Against shames immoral injustice.
Greed's insatiable hunger for land and riches fuels lusts desire,
Behold exterminations holocaust of the native inhabitants,
Nothing remains alive except ignorance blackened shadow.
How much blood can mother earth be forced to drink before,
She drowns herself or spits up everything undigested,
With sheer disdain and hatreds malice intent.
On a black and white chess board the winners takes it all,
Strategies grand masters playing with living pawns.
Treaties written in vanishing ink, promises disappear in thin air,
Revealing a liars sharpened tongue.
The odds have always been stacked against those believing in fairness.
A rogue tidal wave of humanity has wiped out a nation,
And it's culture within the blink of an eye.
Flights appendages are clipped on the dove of peace, leaving it
Unable to soar above it's own habitat.
Wreckage’s refugees stumble in the ruins after math,
Rapes victims of civilizations civilized,
Are left devoid of their heritages lineage and legacy.
Elders chieftains representatives of a great nation,
Smoke peace pipes in the white mans hunting lodge
In Washington.
As human beings are hauled like cattle's cargo,
Taken to reservations burial grounds.
Ancient ancestors lit up the heaven's vast expanse,
By torches flame,
To guide the souls of the dead unto their great spiritual
Plain beyond.
The pale horse gallops forward without a rider,
And the red people become a phantom tribe vanishing
Upon the winds shifting tides.
Giving one last final tribal battle war cry,
Why my father but the great spirit answers not.
Behold America's legacy, a world trampled beneath
It's heavy iron fist, all in the name of progress or for the cause
Of Manifest destiny.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Twas fortnight before inspection 2021...,
Not a human creature stirred, nor seen
throughout Highland Manor,
property carpeted in lush green
gently hilly terrain,
(a deathlike stillness descended un keen
quiet and quite cool April 26th,
deux thousand twenty one).
Vicious rumors circulate wrenching
hammering, and drilling psyche
where mailer demons invade,
that immediate hell fire enfilade
natural hair color made
gray follicular shocks amply pervade
instantaneously turning
Janus faced with Machiavellian
mean streak inlaid
(how word some would say)
"stern", any previous
housewarming aura
experiencing welcome spiel,
nor iota of politesse present,
but Trumpeting her entourage,
asper self important capering escapade
taskmaster known to abrade
even the most stalwart macho,
gung-ho, brave heart appear afraid,
thus oft time tis most
advantageous and optimal
prospective mutineers betrayed
Princess Ja***n Ge***r
harridan de jure ushering tirade
akin to a petit grand mal one
woman banshee masquerade
hoop puts on be preyed
upon switching pretentious airs
dead ringer give
away (immediately
points gnarled finger
sentenced to clinker visage),
non verbal charade
hence unstoppable mounting
anticipatory anxiety manifests
as disabling, impending,
oppressing fate
cannot be delayed
if insubordinate tenants
try with futility to evade
officials with truncheons flayed
doth rarely give surcease
renters passing grade
she, the consummate
de facto grande heiress
of Gr***e & Qu**e
inherited plum deal,
where lifetime employment,
and generously paid
analogous as born
(that way) portrayed
maintaining poker face
into royalty made,
now as single mother
to biracial heir
purportedly inhabits castle
abode with parents,
thus no child
care costs paid
expectant heavy foot
falls getting louder,
(oh...no that jist
my heart pounding
whence approaching raid
so please inform this jade
did troubadour if privy to let
(me and the missus) aid
i.e. a safe and sound
place to call home
with this hole in the poetry wall,
I would immediately
make thee a fair trade
in lieu of living, where
mercilessness doth parade
expenses property upkeep,
teaching (two
door ring) English,
or even employed
as a mister minute maid.
...inspired by 'Portrait Of A Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it always was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and fathom its eternal meaning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay for now, trapped in the cold.
...inspired by 'Portrait of a Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally in your heart,
you cannot break the bond, the sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings pure to art.
Your friends are true disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the screeching of the violins,
the humming of the basses and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the bass drum then begins
to pound a loud crescendo of its own.
I listen, is there something out of tone?
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our differences didn't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and follow its eternal yearning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay forever in the cold.
Why do I miss your voice? Is it because it’s one I should, and want to hear, or am I being selfish, thinking I’m entitled by length of my years. Or is the answer within? A heart still beating, sheltering a place unaware of the distance, now existing between staying in touch decided by conscious thought. Created not by choice, but by situations we have had to face, and choices made because of them. Never explained to each other fully, at the time they occurred, or over the years, for clarity and understanding. The nature of man contributes to the lack of willingness between two voices. Putting on airs, to impress a woman, not comfortable just being himself, not revealing all, in his mind, To avoid loss of respect, and not wanting to appear weak, risking her condemnation. Not realizing this only guarantees in her eyes, he will, thus dropping the ball, from programmed ignorance. Personally, I can only hope there is help from above. I certainly need it, for the rest of this day and not just for one Holy Week on the Christian calendar, when long ago, the story goes, kindness and portrayed weakness, by another led to the ultimate price he had to pay. My errors have contributed to no longer hearing voices, once they seemed automatic and accessible without effort. Now, if I hear those voices again,now distant, unforced tears will flow, inside a cleansing vibration imparting a warm glow. Knowing something has changed beyond my control. Wouldn’t it be like all the holidays rolled into one, if our cell numbers were dialed, a few words spoken, from past residents of hearts, seemingly long ago. Emotional baggage could be left intentionally at the turnstile, lost for the chance for a new time and day. When two voices, not just one, now felt free to say, how was your day?Wouldn’t spirits lift unexpectedly? By a gesture not seemingly to hard, even after time has passed? It could be the start of something, I would come to realize, a man could actually be stronger and feel better, by embracing, and revealing,his weaker side, and putting kindness into play. Then others could would? consider, participating as a second voice, reversing reluctance and finding a way, to demonstrate any time in life, two voices reinvented, could mean, and actually be, better then one.
Fields where the bondman’s toil
No more shall trench the soil,
Seem now to bask in a serener day;
The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs
Of heaven with more caressing softness play,
Welcoming man to liberty like theirs.
A glory clothes the land from sea to sea,
For the great land and all its coasts are free.
From “The Death of Slavery” - Poem by William Cullen Bryant
On this August day unclouded and drenched by sun,
Millions gaze back down history’s road of red dirt
For a testimony in memory strong enough to assert
The four-century path of great wrong they had to run.
All men are created equal…that famous creed…
Spoke by the founders in bigotry and greed
To buy them a selfish liberty and us a silent grave,
To make narrow-minds reign and tolerance die,
And to raise their banner over the head of the slave,
Adding their mark of racism to God’s clear blue sky.
In our heart our souls await the Lord’s avenging day
And for the winds of heaven to waft and play.
Thank God for legs able to march four hundred years
And for arms strong enough to make the enemy flee.
We now plead by the Psalms of David to be free,
With words so grave as to not be eluded by ears.
No longer bewildered by the curse of Cain,
Undaunted we march with God’s justice to gain.
Our steps have caused the infringed land to quake,
As we roll on dreaming of our liberty to seize
A treasure that generations assayed to take,
Knowing deeply that nothing less will appease.
This four-century trek has mitigated our dread,
Preparing us to raise our banner over their head.
Though our wisdom can enable us to vilify injustice,
We must depend on God to defeat its monstrous sins--
For it is by His wisdom that the arc of justice bends,
And continue to show our faith for Him to trust us.
Four centuries we have called on God to break the chain
And return to us our strength and passion once again.
The day has come for us to stand and face the sunrise,
With a new spirit and a shout of joy for the new day.
We must now escape this virtual yoke of lies
And standfast in the liberty for which Christ did pay.
A hymn of thanks we sing for a long-awaited deliverance
And for the glorious liberty of the children of Providence.
Beauteous lass Thy wounds are bleeding!
Crowning crowning where thou go on?
Mothers weep and babies feeding
Crowds on crowds and trumpet blow on!
Wearest thou thy wedding garments
Then which grief thy heart thus torments?
Darkling darkling lonesome pathways
And between them Thou were standing!
Train of stars with Moon and all fays
Goddess Dream on earth is landing
Wondering heart His beating ceases
Blood from veins this scene squeezes
Smoke in vale from hearths is rising
Winds in dales and woods are whistling
Kids in yard folk tales are listening
Bird in feathers wrapped her nestling
Smoke is rising from the clay hearth
Clouds are pouring tears on wet Earth
Candle flames in gloom are flickering
Sailors all boats row and row on
Niles Queen thy story listening
Souls from heaven come and go on
Play in childhood thou in thy meads
Waves of Nile by Hamlet flow on
Gathered thou sea shells and sea weeds
Wild wild airs meanwhilist blow on
Sea mermaid on water floating
Boatmen sing songs as they row on
Lord is focusing cameras at thee
Writing fate on heavens while He
Pipes and timbral thou are hearing
Whilst tears from thine eyes flow on
Saddest pain which thy heart bearing?
Filled with tears wherest thou go on?
All maids of king on thee wait on
Beauteous soul on Nile shores come on
Crowds and crowds of people on shores
Head to toe thee eyes are watching
Bowing heads all queens and all moors
Chairs on chairs on shores they launching
With thy feet they stones are tieing
Whilst clouds and breezes sighing
They are leading thee to high waves
And all roses on thee throw on
Watching thou thy wistful heart caves
And thy love with thee now go on
Fling they thou in holy Nile waves
Thy pure love on banks for thee wails
I can't see thou come out goddess?
Beauty Queen tell are thou Hearing?
I'll help thee in thy distress
Silent stars and meads are listening
Hamlet folk's all hearts are bleeding
On the banks thou see them kneeling
I know all that wherest thou go
Stars on ways for thee are standing
Goddess moon and death in boats row
Bands of angels on waves landing
Watery Queen , come on don't be late
Eden Lord for thee on Skies wait!