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.
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
Tipping in 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
The television began to tremble.
I was not paying attention
but I liked the sound of female voices
and the rumble of traffic
as the news was trucked along
numerous ethereal routs
across a homeland that I had been taught
was the only place locatable
by a news watching public.
The plasma screen was dissolving,
was actually weeping
I could not tell if its tears
were of joy or sadness.
Something had happened,
something had shocked the television
out of its usual studio-based blah.
A voice attached to a female
was announcing breaking news,
a team of scientific explorers
had discovered the almost unbelievable,
they had found other dead countries!
We, the viewing public, like the experts
had assumed we were the only
dead country that could be found
on any atlas,
but now whole continents
of defunct, dying, and dead lands
were emerging out of a once living past.
Naturally, I was tremendously amazed,
tremendously confused,
tremendously upset
though I was not sure why,
but because I cared deeply
for the female voice of the TV
I also began to cry.
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
I lifted the lid of an old wooden chest
found in the basement of a house
being readied for sale,
furred with years of forgotten dust.
Cookbooks freckled with flour,
a travel diary telling of steam-train journeys;
an atlas whose borders
had altered beneath its cover.
Not treasure, exactly—
only the weight of lives
no one had thought to keep.
At the bottom, beneath the atlas,
I found a novel wrapped
in a lace doily.
The author was familiar.
Arthur Greensmith.
I thought I knew every title.
This one, I did not.
Where the Silence Flowers
I opened it for the date,
the edition, the print line—
to learn what I had missed.
On the flyleaf, an inscription:
Dear Annabelle—
I have tried to be faithful to what you told me.
Forgive what I had to imagine.
With love,
Uncle Arthur
Beside the first chapter,
where a girl walks alone
from the railway station,
someone had written
in pencil:
Not alone.
It had faded until the words
looked less like an answer
than something trying not to disappear.
I turned the pages slowly.
In the gutter of chapter four,
the pencil returned—
not to correct a name,
or alter what had happened,
but beside a sentence
about the girl’s mother
forgetting the colour of her eyes:
She always knew.
The handwriting broke there,
its final letter thinning
into the yellowing paper,
as though even certainty
had to be written lightly
to remain.
Behind the counter,
I opened my old bibliography
and searched for Greensmith,
running my finger down the years.
The early novels were there:
Funeral of Fireflies
Room at the Water’s Edge
Timeless Patience
But not this one.
No Where the Silence Flowers,
no first printing, no small press,
no note of a book withdrawn
before it could become
a title anyone remembered.
No record held the book.
No name claimed the correction.
Only the fading graphite
refused to let the story
belong to Arthur alone.
I closed the book over Annabelle’s words
and wondered:
when a story outlives the one who told it,
whose voice is still speaking?
On the wings of her 21th derail
Of Shakespearean and Vigil's asked thee her name
Who is she?
Bolder she is a clemency!
Of her atoms glowing her frontier
Arena's of fortune teller
Seized no name
But she's living now in literatus gleam
She the metaphor and irony
In expressive ways of stylistics
Carry herself like Atlas above all ages
And yes bolder she is a clemency!
She the five foot iambics scheme
Thats her height in rhythym
When she'll be the ancient?
Of William's midsummer nights dream
The Iliad of an epic events
Calling her to a narrative scenes
Believe her in
Bolder she is a clemency lies within.
Despite emotional, financial, grammatical...
any woe that doth assail
whereat early in the
morning until late at night tub bail
sinking craft, not possible
(essentially 24/7), I bewail,
where the fickle finger
of fate stationed me in life,
as if groping in the dark
unfamiliar with Braille
at heart though - directly predicted
on how yours truly did curtail
requisite healthy development of
body, mind, and spirit, yes analogous
to a train tragically did derail
in a near fatal
(scores of years ago) accident
(sorry no gory detail),
yet the impact still sorely felt
(argh...eek...ouch...all pains dovetail
actually more like subduction,
(way more powerful than deleting email),
sans plate tectonics geomorphism process
(a lengthy missive would entail)
full scale explanation, okay
in a figurative nutshell this, male
long (winded) fellow cannot Atlas
shrug off the belief he did fail,
and hopelessly embarked on
impossible mission to secure the Holy Grail
this state of mind linked to many pursuits
that metaphorically did fishtail
many objectives abandoned
finding me to flail
convincing myself at a
tender age incapable NOT gale
lent academically, athletically, avocationally...
thus many personal enterprises
witnessed a scared boy, hence best to hightail
further progress without testing potential,
I often ruminate, how aye did hobnail,
viz self imposed aversion to risk
on par with the most fortified jail
and one circumstance that
expunges burdensome junk mail
occurs basking under spray
as warm water doth prevail
cleansing, kickstarting, and
rejuvenating (albeit temporarily)
though some hours later...
back to choppy waves and torturous sail.
Thoughts about how to be adequate flow through my mind like relentless waves,
Persisting in their demands as they echo my name,
This world, a wild beast that cannot be tamed.
The weight is immense and unyieldingly harsh,
Weakening my once tested stature,
Turning me into another Atlas,
Bearing a suffering that knows no cure.
How much longer can I endure this trial?
Feeling so inherently insecure,
My life shrouded in obscurity,
Am I destined to hold on, chained by destiny?
I fear that my strength will wane,
For if I falter, I’ll drown in my sorrows,
Seeking solace in bottles of emptiness,
Quenching my unquenchable thirst,
Fooling myself with tomorrows that softly whisper sweet lies.
I must not let go, for some depend on me like Apollos in celestial dance,
I yearn for strength, for inspiration to borrow,
To continue bearing this heavy, unrelenting yoke.
In a world tangled in the net of doubt,
I carry the burden like a tree bent by merciless winds,
Branches outstretched like the arms of an invisible titan,
Each leaf, a hope waving in the winds of change.
My thoughts dash through oceans of pressure,
Where the waves of ambition crash against the rocks of reality,
Their foam, a mist of confusion and fear,
Yet beneath the surface, currents still carry dreams bound in resolve.
I often wonder if the ground beneath my feet is solid,
Or if I will fall, a shooting star, into the abyss of misfortune,
Working silently under the weight of the world,
I find strength in the eyes of those who stake their hopes on me.
Though the path is overgrown with long, dark shadows,
The inner light still flickers, fragile but tenacious,
Finding solace in the unsung songs of the future,
An unwritten poem, a symphony of possibilities.
Thus, I keep walking this melancholic and mystical journey,
A solitary sentinel of my own thoughts,
Crushed under the weight of relentless trials,
Yet always hoping for the strength to endure one more day.
Open sesame
An arm of Cern watch
Related to the eight pointed star
Sharing light
unto the mainstream
where no one
is even guaranteed a tomorrow
Truth never hides away
facts always remains
An old babylonion Queen
arises scarlet spilling blood of the innocence
Standing at the gates of hell
Venus guarded by a pride of lions
With a symbolic staff
on an eight pointed star
Begins firing up a ceremonial ritual
deciphering the clay tablets
Cernunnos horned one
You claim to be master hunter
half man mixed with beast
Holding the snake in one of your hands
with a gold torc around the neck
Signifying a person of high rank
Disturbing the normal order
of nature and things to come
Including religious beliefs
and the general code of conduct
In this awful state
that harnesses it's own power of attractions
Balancing the heart and mind together
can tip with scales
Those heavily influenced by the serpent
on an eight spoked atlas detector
with coils running into a circle
Inside the middle houses an ancient world evil
Used in the past
from right angled arms drawing out
from the centre
Embodies a paradox of witchcraft
in an eight world region
at the dawning of history
Where it was written
in the skies falling down stars
Sons of anarchy
Your entrance was sealed in the ibis
An underworld into the bottomless pit
Destroying souls your aim
through the rock of faith demonic locusts
A co written piece by Liam Mc Daid and Maria Mc laughlin it's related to research on Cern and the symbols used
the abandoned house, so lonely
and desolate. The wood cracking like
cardboard shredded by a cat. Its
windows opaque with grime, where
they are still intact. A roof caved in,
finally succumbed to the weight
of the world pressing down upon it,
its frame envious of Atlas. Ancient
furniture, pallid now from an
unyielding sun, strewn about by
vengeful winds. The house stands
watch like a colossus, its body broken
but ever watching, a stranger here. As
I am, when I walk its barren hallways
kicking up decade old dust with each
heavy footfall on carpet sodden with
filth. A family full of life and full of
love once roamed these hollow halls.
Breathless now, it waits patiently.
Where the roof lost its fight with time,
moonlight shines on broken chairs and
rain dampens old wood, filling it with
rot, mushrooms acquire the air and
multiply. In a house long deceased these
persistent fighters, with soft fists
punching through the soil, cling to life,
an existential curiosity.
1/12/23, An Existential Curiosity, for This or That contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh
It has long ceased to rain here.
The embers of drought are fanned by the merciless
Hands of hell.
The air is stifling,
The heat insufferable.
I cringe from a long wait on a queue in the narrow
Trench at a fast-drying
Brook.
I wait from the crack of dawn to vespers time,
But not an iota of liquid
The size of miniaturised Sri Lanka in a children’s atlas,
Has creased my aching tongue.
Not one drop.
My chances are scuppered by the returning terns
Who must refuel in readiness for
Another chaotic Atlantic crossing.
A mild squall renews hopes for a pluvial onslaught,
But clouds chose not to weep.
The petulance of spring tempts our fortitude.
As the days stretch with sloth’s speed
In the face of a prickling drought,
I could only drink from an hourglass....
The jaw of Time has broken.
Waves of seas clash on each other and welter
By way of crimson froths.
Bleached by salt,
They taste like mordant fruits,
Biting and scourging my cheeks to the
Fulfilment of stalking and waiting.
There should never be any time that matters
More than any season, no matter the name of
The Calendar — Caesar or Gregory.
As I wait, I finger my hair,
Now whittled by damnation.
I dream according to my visions....
If only opportunities came as regularly as the
Milkman!