Long Atoll Poems
Long Atoll Poems. Below are the most popular long Atoll by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Atoll poems by poem length and keyword.
“Pondering is, in my feeling, a form of prayer.” – Marion G. Romney
Oh, where and when may I choose to ponder
the many things most vital for my soul?
There is so much I can find out yonder.
Might I explore a beautiful atoll,
where coral sparkles in the summer sun?
Ah, to gaze upon florescent splendor
and feel the spirit of the Holy One.
Think of all the places that engender
glorious poetic contemplation.
The plains and valleys, mountains and the seas!
Oh, to feel deep spiritual elation
and know how to experience it with ease.
Yet I know anytime I may seek God.
And in my own back yard I can be awed.
All things you have made fine in their season
the tendernesses of Love the razor of our reason
hollowed out the canyons where the waters fall
celestial lights above beneath the crickets call
the tilt of cattails swaying in the wind
golden heads of grain awaiting harvest to begin
Dressed you have the cosmos ever so brilliantly
every tree and snowflake no two alike will ever see
no man within his lifetime has every star he named
surrounded by this beauty and still your name defamed
without amino acids no living cells could form
repeating fractal multiples are natures patterns born
From the Rift unto the alpine equator to atoll
hot spring forests to tundra artic ice to freeze the pole
from furnaces of volcanoes rises and archipelago
diversity in all nature is geologies creative goal
Crystal caverns outback deserts to our rolling dunes
around the planets circuits are orbiting their moons
Every color many hues pastel to iridescent
architecture in every room the making of life pleasant
but mankind is filled with anguish and acrid bitterness
the things they've chosen to pursue is causing such distress
where character is more bankrupt than a homeless man
the individual only ego subjective is the every plan
Suffering among the nations its depth difficult to express
world wide is the concern we shall not escape its death
counting all the ages man has butchered his own kind
to control the the masses do religious leaders blind
It is your euology we are seeking in our mind
seeking every path of truth you wish us to find
Like our heartbeats pulsing from within
driving the force of visions to their final end
made you have us from the dust of earth
every living thing here from this ground
did give its birth
Songs of your Sons ...
COPYRIGHT © 2012 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Bull eve me (Adam, whether existence
fact or fiction),
his immediate legion heirs whole
heartedly partook
to regale no Joe king paternal prominence,
sans legendary, fraternity,
and consanguinity subsequently implemented
faux pas threatening Nittany Lions role
attested by this papa, a curmudgeon
resident of the North Pole
burrowed deep within tundra
necessitated drilling permafrost black hole
son, which boring task found me dissatisfied,
asper penultimate existential goal
thus, I decided to sell coal
to New Castle, transported
within loco motive conveyance
doubling up as fish bowl
decimated crossing Arctic
great barrier reef Atoll
lauded me with mouthy gift horses,
(one Mister Ed, adore
hubble hoof only high saddled
Equus caballus neighing boar)
feted me, a hay er raising chore
followed by Mister Barns Noble encore
generation standing ovation,
a deafening applause
resonated across the floor
then an electrifying speech
by (plan net fitness diehard) Albert Gore
describing raping, pillaging,
And looting dip lore
able incursions as heath n (moor
or less opprobrious upon poor
sacred Mother Nature
whimpering and softly doth roar
ring, now treated like a whore
telltale global devastation
impossible to ignore agog
pollution extant across
entire world wide web bog
gulls restorative legislation,
when offal debris doth clog
estuaries, where watersheds habitat
choking with despair,
thus imperative to grab hold collective
figurative (corny as this may seem) ear
cuz jackknifed, irreparable,
horrible gnashing fear
fully betokens catastrophic
environmental fractured glare
ring hooker impailment here
and everywhere.
Interviewer:
What is the original name for your island chain now called Bikini?
What happened to it?
What has it become here and now?
What is your future?
Bikini Atoll:
Well where do I begin?
We have been assaulted from the very beginning.
The name for the island is 'Pikinni',
meaning a "flat surface of coconuts".
German colonials corrupted this to the offensive name 'Bikini'.
Less than 200 people lived here originally.
Perhaps because we were so few to matter, and so isolated,
our beautiful island was chosen as the site for
multiple nuclear bomb tests,
including the mighty 'Bravo' which was 1000 times
more powerful than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima,
The Japanese name of which means 'wide island' .
Our beautiful island was destroyed, all but obliterated.
We cannot go back there for countless generations to come
because the dangerous radiation lingers long and fades so slowly.
We tried to go back once, it looked so lovely
as the coconuts gathered again, on the clean atoll beaches
but the hidden radiation made us sick, and we had to leave.
My people of Pikinni want to return to their homeland,
but their hope is frustrated with despair.
The price my people paid is immeasurable and never ending.
Here is their lament:
Why choose Pikinni to blow up with your bombs?
What did we ever do to you?
All we wanted was to live in peace
in paradise here on our
lovely island atoll far away from it all.
Instead you blew us up, left your lingering scourge
of radiation, hidden away and deadly.
While our island has recovered its beauty
and externally became
paradise on earth once again, it is forever unlivable.
Go to hell and stay there forever for
what you have done to Pikinni
and its refugees living in foreign
lands unable to return!
The river of our relentless tears lies collected
within the green coconuts strewn
on the sands of Pikinni atoll,
on our 'flat surface of coconuts',
on our home
on our one and only land.
Subconcious streams flitter through my silty porthole
Ebb and flow through my consciences' filtering scroll
Clogging the interstices and my formative, fragile mind doth control
Perceptions of self flood my sensory console
Pent-up desires breach mind's, shallow levee and over carefree banks roll
Carnal instincts bleach and, over time, corrode my chaste compass's steady pole
My soul's rudder listlessly through the choppy waters doth stroll
Delusions of grandeur and trite fantasies o'er my wayward ship troll
Teetering sails are blown about by truant winds so droll
Faulty navigation beaches my tattered psche on a barren shoal
Battered by the waves of inconstancy paying a penitent toll
Tunneling through the brackish bilge; a frenetic mole
Seeking to escape frollicking tidal waves that my froward, youthful mind did cajole
Sifting through the rancid seaweed that years of cresting tides did dole
Cloaked with guilt, shame stranded on a rocky, desolate atoll
Still vainly trying to justify my hopeless condition; my fleeting worth extoll
My face is in two halves
smashed together in flawed symmetry,
each half squirming to get supremacy,
Oh Two-Faced One!
Split so, halved down the middle,
which side are you on?
Do I see my better half
in the mirror?
Or in the shadowy silhouette,
devoid of details,
that follows me around,
like a faithful dog,
wagging its tail.
Which half-truth should
I believe when spoken from
a forked tongue protruding
half-way out,
from twin lips clenched,
to hide the split slivers
of tongue clef in two,
by honesty to skulduggery?
The beat of the heart
I hear and feel as one,
emanates from two chambers
left and right beating in harmony
but not together simultaneously.
One flows into the other,
and upper and lower halves
beat one after the other
two by two, two by two
a tango flamingo.
But each half, though never still,
feels the ache
of faking a one-beat heart,
halfheartedly, to listeners,
with one half beating memories,
the other longing legacies.
Is half a glass,
half full or empty in quenching thirst?
Is half-and-half ever a whole?
Is the half-light, a fade or surge to the coming?
It's half past the hour:
I'm late, I'm late!
Or too early for the shower?
Is a half-life, the life of those
poor folk on Bikini Atoll
must endure waiting for
their hell on earth to end,
something we all share,
living our
own half-lives,
halfheartedly!
The ghost of Harriet Harris abhor real
disillusioned, disenchanted,
and disembodied (incorporeal
spirit of mine late mother) doth feel
displeasure toward this sole son seal
ling himself most every day inside
the one bedroom flat, a bargain deal
asper costs pegged to monthly
social security disability as sole
income intended to support me,
and the missus, who does not troll
the internet for employment,
and in fact exhibits no goal
to supplement marginal roll,
out sans unearned income, especially now,
(no surprise I wanna be a bachelor)
cuz finances teeter on cusp of red hole
mainly whereby two sizable
automotive costs (within a
six plus month period) sunk me soul,
and psyche on the point
of despair, where goal
to be alive undermined
nearly being penniless
and this communique not aiming to trawl
for sympathy, nor remuneration,
which latter would definitely draw scowl
upon countenance of eldest daughter completes
University study (housed with her eminent beau
within city of brotherly love), awl
so this papa disinclined to apprise her
meager finances put me the dole
drums mainly aforestated a cup pull
of hefty car repairs
spurs impetus to burrow self like a mole
whiling away hours of each twenty four hour
listening...perhaps for me the bell will toll
(at long last mitigating this
deplorable strait no life atoll
where today hard pressed
upon Highland Manor knoll,
and basically undifferentiated from yesterday),
budget restrictions limit choices, hence I stay
inside, where the brutal cold oye vey
also contributes preference
to remain comfortable at
60?Fahrenheit until April or May
solitary (trivial) purrs hoots
occupy time, to allay
writing, reading, meditating,
exercising... staves off ennui
until...these lovely bones turn brittle,
and shock (wave) of brown hair turns gray.
Women are a treasure, its true the whole world through' made to Gods good
pattern, He imbued them as lifegivers too with the proclivity to nurture,. With emotions so; raw and rife.' At times Headstrong then seeming helpless' intuitive and versatile, i have seen them come smiling through so much strife.' Flawed
Man as i am, i often read them wrong.' Encouragers, provocatures, I find on the
Whole describing them ad-finitum now a job hard and long.' To enumerate all their qualitys, yet also irs such a great blast.' As they are wearers of high fashion, yet don overalls on farms..Some embraced tbe atoll bikini causing almost; world atomic
Alarms.! Some are reserved and
academic cooks and bakers too' seamstresses and
Florists the doctor who cares, to do.? I beleive they are as
A social glue, holding many of lifes facets
true' also homemakers did i forget? They are prominent at protests'
I am trying to be expansive here yet...Maybe its the best i'll
Get.? There is so much they have accomplished
' they're not just cookie cutouts of men ' they hold their
Own inalianable validation. Its been the same since
Way back when.' Just as Rahab lowered the spies
Down, then scarlet cords that Joshua could see' she was
More than just a professional' she had true compassion and
Just maybe.? The need to beleive.? Also the ancestor of Jesus
I'll have to leave it there, a conundrum to the self-righteousness
The world has in oodles.' And it seems
more to spare' a place that takes great pains in promoting
( certain labels? And how to be') in such the
best. Its a sort of feast? A cornucopia
of odditys
That advances humanity to a stage.. Yet
not for the
Very best, there is still war and death and pestilence
Famine fear and doubt, mis-engineered social experiments
And much it seems? to ' hate on and
about ' have i read of this someplace other?
In the past, somewhere before? My mind observes
Lines of ancient scrioture..While in my mouth there
Is a real musty taste for sure.)
I live on an island in the Pacific region
The largest body of water is the OCEAN
Like, can we be more Pacific?
I think Christopher Columbus got lost
Because the directions were not pacific
Oh, excuse me, the Pacific Ocean
Where you will find the small islands (micronesia)
Where you will find the black islands (melanesia),
Where you will find the many islands (polynesia)
Generally, the islanders are like coconuts
So hard on the outside
But succulent on the inside
Yet they always end up wanting Samoa
Get this,
An assault by an Islander
is called a Hawaiian Punch
At times, these islands need a therapist when they are in a tropical depression
Some islands have sunk
Oh no do not laugh
That is not funny atoll
Sea yourself out
Therefore, I live on an island
A small island
I am a MICRO
I mean, how can I get more pacific than that?
Believing We Can
Written: by Miracle Man
2-17-2020
Each day I'm reminded that God's in control,
it's important to notice, things He has made.
From placement in the ocean of each atoll,
to the forest and His placement of a glade.
But we too, are known as a God creation,
made to point others unto his work of life.
But it takes time to lay a firm foundation,
and God won't test our faith by producing strife.
Faith gives us assurance of our salvation,
by faith we experience the peace of God.
When by our own lust we're drawn to temptation,
our feet with the gospel are no longer shod.
We're asked to do things that seem beyond reason,
it could be fear of failure causing us doubt.
We think we'll do it in another season,
it's at this time our faith, needs to be devout.