Long Banked Poems
Long Banked Poems. Below are the most popular long Banked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Banked poems by poem length and keyword.
Breath again
A man keep running
Yet no man can run
Faster than it shadow
It could have been better
If you were truthful from the
Beginning
Your community would
have been a beautiful
Place for you to stay
If only you did not
Deceive your people
Breath again
A man keep running
Yet he cant run
Away from his soul
As the bitterness he rained
Unpon his people never stop
nemesis to chase him
So he keep running running
And running to no where
Breath again
A man is on the run
After he has banked alot
Out from his community
After he has played a smart
Deciet on the innocent
He is now on the run
On the run to safety
Yet he cant be safe
With nemesis
Breath again
A man is on the run
This running man is about
To faint
To faint where his shadows
Will deny him
Where grief are the wind
Of each moment
This running man
Is at the edge of destruction
He is about to fall
I wonder who will held
His back
For even the angels
Are not at peace with him
Breath again
A man is on the run
I hope this man
Could only realise
He cant run to nowhere
I hope he could be better
Smart to stop running
And gave peace a chance
I hope he could realise
He is at the edge of an end
Where the air are never same
A man keep running
Yet he cant
Run to a place of freedom
Where only the innocent
Can
Breath again
Note! This poem is about a trusted leader who deceived his people and ran away on exile! Real life story translated to poetry!
A death I have carried since youth—
not the grave’s hush,
but the slow unfastening
of all that was false in me.
Each dawn, a small surrender:
the tongue bridled,
the anger banked,
the shadowed thought laid bare
before the Father of Lights.
I have walked with this inward dying
as one walks beside a stern companion,
learning its counsel—
that faith without its burial
is faith without breath.
For the world woos with crowns
that fade like grass in scorching wind,
but the soul grows only
where it lets go.
So I have lived with death
as with a discipline—
its quiet blade
paring away the double mind,
till what remains can stand upright
and call itself whole.
If this, then, was my long death,
blessed be the One
who taught me to lose myself,
that I might finally live.
The journey, long, at last is o’er,
safely I stand before the door
of those four walls I call sweet home,
a simple place. For when I roam
home calls, a map within my heart,
not unlike a seafarer’s chart,
a guiding star, beckoning beam,
whispering softly like a dream
reminding of its happy charms
enveloping, like loving arms.
When I am sent away from you,
dear home, my life tasks to pursue,
I sense your pleasant spaces, all,
indoors and outdoors sweetly call.
I will return to your sweet pay,
treasures banked for reunion day.
March 30, 2022
Theme: Home
Form L - Lay - New Poetry Contest
Constance La France, Sponsor
Happiness is the whirl of lyrical runes,
voicing of raging monstrous stories in loons.
Happiness is the rough silence of the heart,
that cries in loneliness of love torn apart
Happiness is a prodigal daughter that,
swims in the rainbow of her abductor's cart
Happiness is like sleeping in milk sea foam,
intoxicating deep embrace in risk loam.
Happiness is a fear tickle that brings cheers,
a belly full banked in the depths of our ears.
Happiness burns pure like the sax of cigars,
a remembrance for how we soar in the stars.
Happiness is the screeching of our lost soul,
a ride that fondles a tender name in whole.
Happiness is harmony clocks of sour wines,
serenaded in Sunset play, Red Tide Whines.
Happiness is the smile of a sealed deadline,
that strokes our creative sane, ego hairline.
Happiness screams, a colliding in your name,
a chasing of moon and stars, a racing game.
Magdalen longed to become a Parisienne
Unfortunately she felt more like a prairie hen
Working earnestly for the county’s aldermen
Tallying hydrogen nitrogen oxygen
Overseeing regimen and specimen
All lined up under lights of halogen
At times she closed her eyes and said amen
Holding her magical fountain pen
Writing poetry about way back when
She dreamt of being a beautiful Cheyenne
Canoeing down the river Darien
Banked by miles of green magnificent glen
She had countless fantasies since she was ten
Flying as free as a sweet wren again and again
But Magdalen always longed to be a Parisienne
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Fate Of Mankind...
(this prognosticator ordains,
which if came to pass no brains)
necessary to impress any
goo goo dolls, nor swains!)
Cited in crosshairs of thermonuclear warfare
quite an about face from bursts of creativity,
yet omnipresent palpable threat everywhere
unlike sangfroid hermitage within Abbey air
habitués hosting religious peacemongers care
ring about spiritual well being, nsync by prayer
regular quotidian discipline dissociating scare
re: global apocalyptic genocidal holocaust sear
ring significant sinister malevolent electioneer
macabre mushroom clouds vitiating atmosphere
burnt offerings charred flora and fauna cohere
glommed together undifferentiated pulverized
conglomeration bespeaks devastated biosphere
survivors (if any) few and far between gallows
humor, sans mockery former Amazon billionaire
irrelevant wealth superfluous banked nightmare
*****sapiens like mummified zombies blinded by
light, eclipsed contaminated heavily sheltering sky
succor solemn deliverance bombed appallingly revere
inescapable damn earth bottled genii raiment austere
foretold prophecy regarding Doomsday clock spare
ring extra crispy char broiled ribs aplenty profiteer
awaiting her/him able to make a killing apprenticed
savvy entrepreneur opportunity, though no cashier
to pay, hence former Trumpeting strictly volunteer
job with bone fried benefits superior than Medicare
accompanied by death as fine companion buddy sincere
need not be grave concern, so minus annihilation and air
choking stench, viz total extinction moonscape sphere
flora obliterated only scorched landmarks thoroughfare,
humongous bajillion shades of gray cremated vaporware
vague hint former edifice Taj Mahal wanting consigliere
so opportunities galore to look as smoking hot fleshpot
overactive imagination helpful to conjure all in the
family Maude Lynn good times MASHup of yesteryear!
Now, life has almost passed us by,
and peaceful resignation reigns;
the beach, a spawning ground of old,
shrieks mournfully in sea gull tones.
The neap tide’s come to lull the shore;
crab moltings own the water’s edge.
Forewarned, am I, of nature’s course
in grains of gray and casings banked.
Now hand in hand, we lovers walk-on;
each throbbing with the pull of tide.
We sink in sands both wet and warm
soothed by the skies now overcast.
As faithful as the moon on high,
between the water lines, they spawn;
in estuaries at peace, they nest;
eggs as small as grains of sand.
Will you come when the moon is round
and leave your molted shell beside me?
Will you sense the celestial call
or let the scavengers find me?
First Published by Page and Spine
Volcanic Myth
Hard hitting hammer
sparking pyroplastic flows.
Blowing bellows stoke
billowing pillars of fire.
Ash and cinders, remains
of dying white hot coals
pushed violently skyward
cover all in a drab gray.
The earth trembles and shakes
as mighty Vulcan grunts
with each swing of his
muscular arm.
Fiery jets of flame
spew from his pot
as he anneals iron
in the bubbling cauldron.
As he works, torrents
of sweat flow in to the
fire, hissing and steaming
clouds of vapor vented to the sky.
When he tires, or the last
iron has been cast. The fires
are banked and temblors
cease.
Mighty Vulcan rests for
now. Waiting for the next
call from the Gods. Waiting to
vent his wrath once more.
“On the Beach,” we sat,
to enjoy the “Sea and Sand,”
“A Paper Full of Fish and Chips”—
our plan to eat that day.
A “Bird on a Wire” was watching,
his “Eagle Eye” on the prize.
Mum spied the gull.
“Not This Time,” she said.
We “Won’t Get Fooled Again.”
Beyond us, the “Oldest Surfer on the Beach”
grabbed his board and headed for the surf—
“Catching a Wave,” his plan today.
He rose.
He wobbled.
We cheered—we thought he had it tamed.
He “Wiped Out!”
His board shot sideways through the spray.
Then wings.
A flicker of white and grey.
A chip was gone.
“Hands Off The Goods!” we yelled.
But the boldest gull banked over us,
the last hot chip clamped in his beak.
He flew beyond the breaking waves
and called, “I’ll Be Back.”
“Bye Gull Bye”! we cried.
Song titles and artists
“On the Beach” — Chris Rea
“Sea and Sand” — The Who
“A Paper Full of Fish and Chips” — Danny Kaye
“Bird on a Wire” — Leonard Cohen
“Eagle Eye” — John Mayall & The Bluesbreakers
“Not This Time” — Kate Bush
“Won’t Get Fooled Again” — The Who
“Oldest Surfer on the Beach” — The Beach Boys
“Catching a Wave” — The Beach Boys
“Wipe Out!” — The Surfaris
“Hands Off The Goods” — The Undertones
“I’ll Be Back” — The Beatles
“Bye Gull Bye” — Deliveroo Chipwatch
Reverence affects yours
truly with unmeasurable
infinite jubilant zeal,
sans unbeknownst world wide
(web stirred) fans enamored
with me poetry induce
cogs of mine
noggin to wheel
write (thru the roof),
thus I feel impelled
to spell out
appreciation to those
die hard regular followers
or one time cyber reader,
who (minnie mull lee)
move mouse or gingerly
(collude) manipulate trackpad
motioning qua thumbwheel
scrolling thru each
rich text chord
line figuratively aswarm
with multisyllabic words planted,
cultivated and harvested,
where eyes feast
visually soaking up
mine magic charm
(albeit wrought by
this modest male),
whose virtual crafted
figurative humble Georgia based
Orwellian animal farm
revels with euphoria
more precious then,
(you guessed) bajillion
banked bagged loot
(of quartz without
taking for granite)
die hard aficionados tub hoot,
these stalwart re:dears,
asper scratchings
of this ole coot
oft times curious what attracts
dedicated trooping veterans
(undoubtedly war re:)
like avast horde of
buzzfeed ding flies to fruit,
or motivated students
subjecting her/him self
partial to mental taxation
(without representation)
i.e. (trying to make sense
of confounding poetry authored
by Matthew Scott Harris)
at the select particular institute,
the very same college (within Lake
Woebegone) this alumni
made popular upon being
recognized as a verb hose,
re: noun sub bull
("FAKE" Norwegian bachelor) guy.