Long Atlas Poems
Long Atlas Poems. Below are the most popular long Atlas by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Atlas poems by poem length and keyword.
You came with quiet courage,
In the soft bloom of May,
Eyes like ocean mornings,
And waves that softly pray.
Named for one who held the world,
But born to chase the skies,
A gift from your mother’s heart
You’ll learn the art of rise.
Inside of you, an echo,
Of your father’s silent might,
To cradle every passing storm,
And carry it to light.
There’s patience in your presence,
Like rivers in no rush,
Moving through the world with grace,
In a quiet but certain hush.
Your brothers lit the lanterns.
That glow along your way,
Their laughter keeps you tethered.
When night forgets the day.
So grow with grace and wonder,
Let laughter find your name.
For love is in your making,
And purpose in your frame.
Alone, yet not completely alone, drifting in the labyrinth of my thoughts,
The tiny fingers of my soul reaching through the void,
Yearning for the solace of your guiding hand, a lighthouse in the stormy sea of my mind.
So I dash, swift as a shadow through the tangled woods,
Legs straining under the weight of dread, like Atlas bearing the heavens.
Each step, a Herculean struggle, each breath, a battle against unseen titans,
Bearing the enormity of relentless fears, ancient phantoms that haunt every move.
Every turn in this sylvan maze echoes with my yearning,
The once enchanting allure of nature now a distant memory, lost in the mists of time.
The once cheerful woods now wear a veil of melancholy,
Unveiling a strange and haunting portrait, as if painted by the ghosts of forgotten dreams.
As twilight's fingers gently caress the land,
An awareness of your restless quest rises like a whisper in the wind.
Your frantic search, a mirror of mine, reflecting our shared solitude,
Impelling me to embrace patience and calm, like a monk in silent meditation.
"Take courage," whispers the wind, an ancient and wise voice,
A beacon in the enveloping night, guiding me through the darkness.
Strength found in stillness, calm in chaos, like the eye of a storm,
A plea, a promise, a resilient resolve, echoing through the vast expanse of my soul.
In this mystical dance of shadows and light, I find a strange solace,
For though we wander lost and alone, our spirits are intertwined,
Bound by an invisible thread, woven from the essence of our deepest desires.
And in this shared journey, we find not just each other, but also a part of ourselves,
Lost and now found, in the endless labyrinth of our intertwined destinies.
I did not ask for the weight I bear,
Yet here I stand, beneath its stare.
A world of futures, unshaped, untamed,
Balanced upon the fire I’ve claimed.
With hands that tremble, yet never break,
I carve the path that none will take.
Not by force, nor fate’s demand,
But by my will, by my hand.
Yet with each step, the air grows thin,
The weight is crushing from within.
The bones beneath my flesh now groan,
A titan cursed to stand alone.
I see the lines where progress leads,
A gift, a curse, the planted seeds.
To build, to shape, to change it all,
Yet fear the height from which we fall.
For every dream, a shadow looms,
A whispered fate of endless tombs.
I ask myself, in quiet dread,
Do I create, or have I led
Us toward a grander pyre,
A world consumed by its own fire?
I am no god, nor meant to be,
Yet what I touch reshapes the sea.
And though I long to set it down,
To rest this weight, to leave this crown,
I know too well—should I let go,
The heavens crack, the world below
Will spiral, lost, without a guide,
And I will drown in wasted pride.
So I, Atlas, stand, though shadows grow,
The burden mine, none else may know.
And if my soul should wane, should break,
Who then will rise for heaven’s sake?
The fields, barns, and farms,
the dirt roads that seem to go nowhere,
all these are familiar.
The map of this part of Ohio
is engraved like blood vessels
crisscrossing his brain.
He’s an interloper, but all the same
knows these roads and has no need
to find one way or another.
All this journeys details
fit like jigsaw fragments
into a subliminal atlas.
He drives a mindscape,
one copied from a known reality,
hands and eyes free
to keep him from the unexpected,
but there will be no unexpected.
This is a world without
traffic or people to move it along.
The grazing cows and horses
may be at the far end of their fields
or near the road fence, but
the mind accommodates
these minor moving chess pieces.
A pebbled parking lot,
a Farmers Market.
He has a magical shopping list
that has written itself
as the tires turned the miles over.
Now he crosses between
one elapsing mindscape to another,
a place where he must linger
as a stranger once more.
The young dream of a perfect world, atlas it is not to be.
The old look back at what could have been to only realize
it has always been the way it is supposed to be. Do dreams die
in rage or softly fade with age. The world turns around and around.
Dreamers come dreamers go and this world keeps spinning.
With life find love or let love find you. Two souls can dream together.
comfort one another and awake knowing dreaming the dream is half the fun.
Hear the voices of the new generation, in their music, art, culture.
Do you ever hear the echoes of a young dreamer of long ago? Advice falls on
stubborn ears, pig-headedness who can do it right this time, they are better,
they are special, they know more than those of before. Smile as you see your self, bite your tongue and any doubts or fears. Shout at the wind as it
blows back at you and hears those dreams of yesterday again.
Those same dreams still
circling this big spinning world so another young generation can slowly
realize it has always been the way it is supposed to be.
Shout at the wind, shouting
at the winds of time.
A garden sun chases our ginger cat.
Dad watches World War Two
up close on the TV
he grinds his teeth,
a general forced to take a back seat.
Mother in the kitchen,
not her natural territory.
She opens cupboards exploring contents.
It is a blue and white kitchen
made of trees that died in 1964.
She shakes a martini like a
blind cardsharp. Her wrists
heron bones
that click a gold-toothed chain.
Flashes of recollection
follow me up beige carpeted stairs.
Small bathroom-toilet to the right,
where once I saw mum naked.
Oedipus lives down the hall
as a young teenager.
From my window
I see the long narrow garden
with its back gate.
Passion-flower crosses
entwining pine boards.
When the Nazi Storm Troopers come
I will fire down at them
lobbing hissing grenades
that land like angry cats
onto their fleeing backs.
Charley company lives in Vietnam
they shoot from the hip.
I am not sure which side
of this on-going war they are on.
In my British school atlas
America is colored, blue or yellow,
not Empire red like us.
A patriotic gas stirs vague imaginings.
A knock on my bedroom door.
I can hear myself breathing heavily,
as I jerk off. Keep out!
Mum pauses to catch her breath.
She is out of uniform,
and speaking in Slo Mo
to a camera in my head.
It is becoming obvious
that I need to take a vacation -
from myself.
I have become too serious, too earnest,
and not ridiculous enough.
The world will keep turning
when I am dead, surely that is a truly happy thought.
I should not want to be a burden to anyone;
ask any autumn leaf.
Atlas needs a break, maybe a trip to a spa,
or too an Olympic size swimming pool
an empty one with no water in it,
there I would be happy to be a fish out of water
to swim in all that happiness
and if the world climbed onto my back again,
I would shake it off me,
for the world is just water
and far too heavy to be carried around.
I most probably need to blow my nose hard
to see if my brains fall out;
now that would be a happy moment!
And so it begins, the end of all love;
The destruction of a universe, once so cherished, soon to be gone.
If all that came before was just a war on the senses,
Then is that why I am left blind to seeing where it all went wrong?
Let the world implode to show the pain inside my soul;
Another being gone from this black hole that you call Earth.
It feeds upon rejection and pain is all I have known.
Let me be gone to a place of reckoning;
This life has nothing left for me to earn.
The world is empty now I have taken away my love;
Your planet is just a porcelain figure of Atlas standing tall.
There is no feeling left for me to go and discover,
Because your land of the living has left me dead to you all.
You send your thoughts out into the atmosphere,
In a vague hope that somebody or something out there will hear.
But the mighty are deaf to the thoughts of us all;
They will not reply to a human, because they will only watch as we fall.
You can ask all the questions, but the truth shall remain unknown;
You can pray to see the answers, but they are still hidden.
You can discover everything, but in the end you are still lost and alone.
Your thoughts are yours, your thoughts are taught;
Your thoughts are simply mistaken.
No chance of redemption for a fallen species;
No spaceship coming to save us and take us away.
No hand from the sky to lift us up from this land;
No hope left for a future and nothing more to say.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Awakening From Pleasant Dreams...
No matter scant details recalled upon
arising from slumber, this even though
submerged into deep unconscious - (as
ifmine being plunged bajillion miles
subterranean catacombs) thoroughly
saturated with inaccessible facets of my
person then Poof – like a magic dragon!
Every last detail vanishes without a trace,
whence each eyelid slowly opens (never
jarred out sleep) - only my own Circadian
clock determines when (no idea how) body
electric (temporary property of mortal
christened Matthew Scott Harris) returns
yours truly to state of consciousness, or
thee closest approximation thereof, where
by sense and sense and sensibility minus
pride and prejudice immediately severed,
no longer linked tin (analogous to Internet
Error Code 404 - page not found) finds me
straining with might of Hercules - all in vain,
yet lingering drowsiness (torpor still main
training strong toehold) dissipates ever so
slowly, thus rendering ability impossible to
cogitate - quite helpful when reading or write
ting, and when cerebral clarity becomes
manifest...nary a whisper recollected, when
mean drama exploded within pitted cranial
fifty plus shades of gray matter parameters
suddenly vibrant rattletrap quiescence, a
proxy armistice snatching at lightspeed any
recollection rendering sleepyhead (non talking)
befuddled, confused, dazed... numbskull pre
vented (even with proper clearance) access to
top secrete, potential mutinous, juicy fruit
confidential data, which necessitates one
bushy eyed and bright tailed primate to scratch
his noggin with futility although well rested
fitful without ways nor means to dredge up
sunken treasures briefly uncovered during
stretch of time hide nave hoar did blink, none
zee less..., an enjoyable shuteye state of being -
allowing, enabling, and providing short lived
respite bearing down as if trying to shrug off atlas!
Two rats can have over a million descendants
In eighteen months, talk about prolific
Don't know about all youse guys out there
But this guy finds that quite horrific
You'd produce enough gas for an atomic bomb
If you farted for 6 years and 9 months
Know a guy that could produce enough gas
For an atomic bomb by farting just once
Tigers have striped skin as well as striped fur
Now how damn interesting is that
A Ronald MacDonald once robbed Wendy's
I would guess he got his order fast
Tipping at Iceland is considered an insult
Sounds really civilized to me
The longest flight of a chicken is 13 seconds
It crash landed and broke a knee
Ribbon worms eat themselves if they can't find food
Now that's pretty desperate to me
Guess they start at the bum and work their way up
Don't think I've ever felt THAT hungry
Bob Hope and Billy Joel were both once boxers
Now I don't mean the doggy type
Chained dogs are 3 times more likely to bite us
Guess they have a reason to gripe
Clocks made before 1660 had only an hour hand
The world didn't have seconds back then
A jiffy is the time it takes for light to travel
One centimetre in a vacuum, I'm overwhelmed
Mahatma Gandhi wrote for advice on diet and exercise
To strongman Charles Atlas, I kid you not
Whoopi Goldberg's real name is Caryn Johnson
That can't be, we all love Whoopi a lot
Who said "I’ve watched a lot of baseball on the radio"
Yup! Good old President Gerald Ford
Way back, people threw eggs at the bride and groom
A custom that today would be deplored
© Jack Ellison 2015