Long Beast Poems
Long Beast Poems. Below are the most popular long Beast by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beast poems by poem length and keyword.
Written By: D. Collins 6/21/25
The longevity of hate has a wide-ranging girth.
It lies dormant for a while then has a drastic rebirth.
Since the 12th century hate has destroyed many populations.
The glimmer of gold, theft of land, and complete annihilation.
Anyone that is different are categorized as lesser men.
Yet, those responsible claim they're devoted Christians.
A skin color, your religion, or whom you choose as a mate.
Will certainly expose you to the longevity of hate.
It's a multi-tentacled beast that goes into foreign lands.
After not controlling the Poppy trade they fled Afghanistan.
Rare earth minerals is now top priority on their list.
Should you choose not to concede your life is at risk.
Beating Blood
Strangled by the pain of the bitterness within me
Blinded by the jealousy and resentment as I try to flee
Burdened by the weight of never ending wants and needs
Hungered by the blood lust as the animal inside me breeds
Forgotten and damned by the hand that healed
Withdrawing as the animosity in me becomes unconcealed
My stomach wrenches as the agony coils up inside my being
Shaken am I as I transform into the eyes of the unseeing
The heart within the hollow chest no longer feels
Murdered by the anguish and the concrete resealed
Beating blood, it supplies the veins
As I keep the beast unwillingly restrained
Lying in bed, the light of my computer bright
against the still images slowly changing on the silent TV across the room.
Despoiling the image,
nine seventeen, pm
stands out on the bottom of the screen.
My tired head resting from the day's turmoil, unthinking,
unfocused.
In front of me I find myself back on some poetry page.
It appears to be a contest.
Yeah, me writing poetry, much less entering a contest,
what a joke.
I reach over and slip my headphones on,
“All I Ask of You,” from Phantom of the Opera is playing.
The room is dark. The room is quiet.
In the dimness on the wall in front of me
I glimpse a surreal painting my daughter painted.
The lower portion, that of a young woman,
changing to trees and clouds and blue sky.
No eyes to see.
The images imagined in her mind.
In the dimness the homemade gesso,
creating Bas-relief against the canvas, is imagined in mine.
The dark wooden frame stands stark against the rose grey wall,
the matted canvas surrounded by white.
Only sixteen and able to create such
mystery, such allure.
Ellen Greene,
“Stop and See Me,”
such sadness and longing in her voice.
Her giclee print smiling at me to my right, she was eight,
her older sister's, at age three, frames the large window.
Strong and independent, she makes me so proud.
She will likely be moving out soon.
I don't want to think about that.
“Run Away with Me,” Michael Arden,
I lose myself in the music,
“Evermore,” from Beauty and the Beast
(the Josh Groben version).
Loud and all encompassing,
surrounding me in another world,
letting free my emotions, calming my mood,
“I Dreamed a Dream,” Ramin Karimloo,
what's that sound?
I remove my headphones.
It's the dog.
OK, Oliver, I'll take you out.
I turn off the music.
On the screen I see
eleven forty-six, pm.
So much work I've neglected for tomorrow.
07/07/2018
sun …
glints off sweaty trickles as
they plop … plop …
little lad’s littler fingers tickling a
tide pool’s papery face
things of mysterious intention, darting
there to here to there …
wide eyes wider in amazement
tiny thrums quick’ning
dividing breaths
like swells divide the time
and tides …
a splash and a grasp, tightening
some small watery beast
cold-red cheeks blooming wide to
parody the dazzled bay
grins and giggles to mock the black-backs
for this shrimpy monster, squirming
is the prize of a wee fist
gamboling its way to
proffer some mad-mommy shrieks -
slimy and squiggly and
oh, so wondrous!
hunter, home from the hill
Ahab and his white sea demon
perfectly prideful,
invested surety of a silly smile
warmed by the sooty
afternoon …
sun.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 9, 2024
“Inspired by a Native American Legend using a story of
‘hunger unfed’ as a metaphor for inner conflict.” ~~~ The Poet.~~~
"The Grandfather spoke in a gentle voice, calm and clear,
As he described to her, the two beasts without fear.
The first beast you have inside you my darling child,
This animal is sullen and untamed, a persona that is wild.
It's a bold animal, who exist alone and ignores other’s feelings.
It goes about, suiting itself and choosing its own dealings.
It is strong and defiant and never does what it’s told to do.
It fights with the other beast that also lurks inside you.
The second animal is calm and pure, and does as it should.
It will obey you and choose to do what is right and good.
Its desire is to protect you and look after you all day long.
This animal has a righteous nature, although it is strong.
It will be loyal as it’s a passive beast with a side that’s meek.
These two fight each other, as to live within you they both seek.
Both hunger, as they are unfed, the winner is important indeed."
"Which one will win Grandfather?" "Child it will be the one you feed."
Written By: D. Collins 1/18/24
A beast doesn't wear vengeance on its sleeve.
It lurks until the prey thinks it has a reprieve.
Then it springs into action exposing animal traits.
While taking prey down with intellectual grace.
A beast takes retribution to a whole new level.
Where payback comes from the wallet of the devil.
The switch turns on and pandemonium is unleashed.
Consider yourself sustenance in the belly of the beast.
There’s a mallard in a small pond,
and I see him sometimes out there,
paddles around the still waters,
bereft of any greater cares.
Sometimes I watch him disappear,
diving down for fish or for snails,
then resurface long yards away,
seemingly devoid of travails.
Cares for nothing but feeding and
impressing this season’s new mate,
sporting a sublime head of green,
existing in a simple state.
The thought sometimes appeals to me,
that basic beast intelligence,
frees them from the stress and worries
that accompany sapience.
No existential fear or dread,
no great ideas cloud up the mind,
there’s no worries for the future,
and no morals good or malign.
Freedom from the weight of it all,
not a single bill they must pay,
I wounder if it makes some sense
to evolve to live in that way…
But then I do remember that
an eagle circles overhead,
and if it cannot find a fish
it swoops down, and the duck is dead.
I recall that the foxes might
sometimes sneak on down to the shore
and eat his children in the nest,
or his mate if they want some more.
I know that he has no real home,
his species cannot plant its feet,
the winter comes and he must fly,
if not he’ll either starve or freeze.
I understand that if he’s hurt
no one will help him to survive,
he cannot make any mistake,
if he does he will surely die.
And no one will remember him,
they’ll just see his carcass as food,
vultures feasting on a body
just seems to me all sorts of rude.
Sitting safely within my house
it points to truth I can’t avoid;
our human world ain’t always bad,
nature heals…but also destroys.
GOOD MORNING
The brightness of this morning is clearer than crystal
Am grateful to God that i was able to see the lights
Slept all through the night hoping to see a new light
The dawn of a new day; another new beginning
To wake up to such a bright day does not come so cheap
Many hoped to see the light of today but were robbed of it at night
Here I am; among the many that were opportune to witness it
Looking back and front; all I could say is; Good morning.
A new day; a new beginning
New beginning; new activities
New activities; a continuation and refreshment
What an innocent morning? Good morning!
They say each day brings new blessings
What about the days that brings forth the curses of yesterday?
Is it possible to begin each new day on a clean slate?
What about the wonderful plans of yesterday hoped to be carried out today?
Many woke up to say good morning; and ended up having a bad day
Was it that the morning wasn’t good enough to make their day good?
Still on still’; many said and heard good morning and the whole day was good
Here I am now; vomiting and swallowing every good morning I come across
In conclusion, Good morning!
...Lordvip... ...D’ Poetic Beast...
2013
My dear ones, years and accounts have passed since we spoke about the New Man, "Le Horla."
From the midpoint of the Reset cycle, it is known to emerge from the mix of slaves and technology.
Rudolf Steiner knew, the beginning of vaccination, non-foods prepared in the shadows of the times.
The control of the masses through technocracy, a vision of the 1900s when the world was slowly transforming.
Under the influence of drugs, Hitler saw prophetic nightmares, screaming in fear before "Le Horla,"
A fearless and cruel monster, a presence deeply haunting the collective social subconscious.
Poe, in 1840, sensed that autistic presence in crowds frightened by the mysterious inexplicable,
And Bulwer-Lytton, through "The Coming Race," showed us the way to a future full of uncertainties.
I merely connected the threads, for geniuses often reveal the hidden truth in the folds of time.
We lament the lack of empathy, the mimed emotional life in public space, a theater of our days.
"Le Horla" spreads, USR, a symbol of technocratic times, an experiment of the present.
A nano-metallic transhumanist nervous system, beyond which only Zombies can survive.
Zombies, USR members integrated into the 5G network, coordinated by towers watching from the shadows,
Soldiers of an unchosen destiny, in a world led by the deepest and darkest shadows.
Remember the '50s, when the danger wasn't in vaccines but in the hunger and fear that reigned,
Today, technological terror and transhumanists bring us times of darkness and fragments of hope.
The worst satanists lead, and strategic starvation is just the beginning of a story.
Under the command of 5G, group intelligence manifests like drones drawing messages in the sky.
A trans 5G USR member becomes an appendage of the Beast, an eye on the ground for its unrest.
And yet, in this nightmare world, there is still a chance, a thread of light in the dense darkness.
I didn't know you ...
not many people did,
phantom of a wakeless world,
the bastard son of mental decay ...
not even a name until recently,
but you existed -
oh yes ... and thrived ...
disguised -
lurking in the dim corners,
scratching at the shadows with
your twisted claws,
and drooling pity like a fiend ...
but …
I know you NOW, beast,
and I despise you with vigor ...
you robbed me of a gem,
(but plundered him first),
the man who raised me -
protected me,
you took that dear man -
that hardworking, devoted, truly
GOOD man, and stripped
him of everything -
his dignity, his grace, his privacy and
peace, his sleep, his joy,
his precious memories,
his kindness and character ...
his MIND ...
you left him empty,
a shell of fear and confusion,
and darkness … heavy darkness -
he always thought it was night,
even when the sun beamed
in through his window,
and out of all of it, that’s what angers
me the most, because he
adored the warm of sunshine on his face …
yes, I DO ... I hate you,
and I am ashamed to use that word,
but it is ALL I have left for the
horrid likes of you,
AND that creature who created you …
that was my last dance with
the careless, cackling phantom I
once knew as "God" ...
the VERY last dance ...
done.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, October 24, 2022