Long Beneath Poems
Long Beneath Poems. Below are the most popular long Beneath by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beneath poems by poem length and keyword.
ONE SHOULD NOT MAKE PLANS FOR TOMORROW, LIFE IS UNPREDICTABLE, THE UNEXPECTED CAN HAPPEN IN A SPLIT SECOND. “QUOTE BY POET”
I woke up to a brilliant sunny spring day,
The flowers blooming, the birds were chirping,
The tree leaves dancing to a gentle wind blowing,
Rustling their young leaves, our chime tinkling.
The jacaranda trees which looked so dashing
Giving us a glorious show, their flowers tumbling
To the ground beneath, resembling purple carpeting.
Our annual optician’s appointment was today,
So off to mall we go, reluctant to leave our patio.
We were right on time, and the optician saw me first,
All good he said after my consultation, go have fun
And choose your specs.
Whilst choosing my funky frames, a petrifying noise
Surrounded the mall, the six of us froze.
So scary ,surreal, horrendous and mind boggling,
Loud shots, automatic gun fire, people shouting,
Shots fired from where no one knew, people screaming,
We huddled under the counter, shots still ringing,
The brave receptionist ran to shut the glass door and locked it
Then ran back to join us under the counter.
Normality returned all too soon, as an elderly man who
Seemed shell shocked and disorientated, stumbled in as the
Receptionist cautiously re-opened the door. He told us the
Robbers were professionals, and were in and out in 5 minutes,
Well-rehearsed he added, and the almighty thunderous
Bangs we heard, were from hearsay, that the robbers
Shot and broke the glass display cabinets, taking
All and every piece of jewellery with them. A getaway car, revving,
In the open parking on the third floor all ready and waiting.
The jewellery shop was just above us. The ear shattering
Sounds were thus inevitable.
My thoughts however went to those terrified people shopping,
In the corridors of the mall,
Who had no shelter at all.
What happened to that wonderful sunny spring morning that I woke up to, flowers blooming, tree leaves gently swaying in the breeze and majestic jacaranda trees carpeting the ground with their purple flowers.
We are mere mortals who live on a very turbulent and troubled planet, a planet called earth.
Miraculously, no one was injured, to my knowledge.
THIS IS A TRUE STORY - IT HAPPENED TO US ON THE 30TH SEPTEMBER
In the darkness of the midnight,
A messenger draws near.
Bringing solemn tidings,
Spreading tales of fear.
Black-hearted little demon.
Against the darkened sky.
Spreads lies and confusion,
To make the people cry.
Death sets on it's wing-tips,
We are sure of that.
But where did it really come from?
That little Chinese Bat?
Were you sent out by the Devil?
Or a rich man in his stead?
Will we struggle with confusion?
Till everyone is dead?
The Newsman tells his story,
His heart is filled with glee,.
He loves to tell the story,
Of this little joke on me.
In my life I have known kindness,
Even more than I could ask.
Till a bat flew in my room.
And made me wear a mask.
Should we give up work and living?
And jump into the sea?
Just what is the answer?
For folks like you and me?
The line is very hazy,
Between what is right and fear.
What is the proper answer?
When the Bat draws near?
The truth is somewhere hidden,
Beneath the darken skies.
But how are we to find it?
Beneath so many lies?
Sailing in a ship,
To the round trip,
With a pearl in my hand,
Leaving behind the sand,
Looking at the prussian blues,
Lead taken by the airs,
Watching the salty drift,
Needle-less compass in my fist,
Unmapped of the destination,
Sun starts spreading cerise reflection,
Glossy moon orders the darks,
Crying beneath the shiny sparks,
Fear of losing the pearl in my hand,
Stellar winds aware of that man,
Me craving for pure and supreme heartland,
Reaching for giving you the pearl in my hand,
Wishing the pearl is forethought by you,
Pacify with cuddles under the hue,
Dispelling unhappiness from the pearl in your hand,
Relieved by my auspice of my life-span.
Beware half-measures in next year's stern embrace.
The specter of failure is what we all must face.
For calendar year 2026, is clearly divided in two—
with two half-years, set to fault whatever we do.
You'll lose if you pause mid-breath, to grasp fresh air,
caught between two halves in unfinished despair.
A road taken half-heartily becomes a roundabout,
spiraling nowhere, lost in fear and doubt—
Half-built bridges crack beneath the weight they bear.
Belief alone can't span the gaps left way up there.
When effort falters mid-stride, the ending slips away—
Half a dream casts a shadow, that haunts you day-by-day.
So step into this half 'n half year with a resolute stride.
Let nothing be done in half-measure, hidden, weak, or set aside.
If you start on shaky footing, the year will call your bluff—
For 2026 is to be a ruthless year, when half done is never enough.
November's winter sun is bleeding low
where cold Thames makes a tidal run
and also gentler pewter flow
towards the city docks, the sea,
towards the rising of the sun
A single coot beside a tethered boat
paddles nowhere with each nodding scoot,
to pace the passing stream and bobbing
here and there to duck for silty scraps
beneath the polished surface gleam.
Gulls face to worship low sun's last
and warming rays. They stand upon
Lord Beefington, on Topsy Sharp, on Rhos
and fairy Meagen, all with their canvas
winter wraps white spattered with white birdy craps.
The path beneath old Richmond's bridge,
arched dark before night lights come on,
is crowded at its ends, boats beached
upon the towpath. Here pilgrim Turas sits alone,
now tethered to the rails, awaiting suns
with higher arc and boarding of much newer oars,
unfurling of much brighter sails.
And still beside the river's path the coot
is paddling, back to sun, still nodding,
beaking passing weedy bits one by one by one,
still pushing hard against Thame's flow
to bob for scraps and then let go,
still going nowhere, nowhere to go,
while Father Thames makes haste
below webbed feet, below the tethered keels,
below each bridge and arches where they span
to meet the river's stream until, with sea,
the journey slows to journey's end,
the flow complete where Father Time
must take his seat around that final bend.
Here I wait to greet my Father,
and my Father waits for me.
CALIFORNIA CALLING
Living my dream!
Surmounts any scheme.
It's like heaven on earth.
No long faces nor dirth.
When your decisions are
where your heart is.
Love finds you, and your
dreamy lightness.
That lightness of being works
like magic for me.
Sitting here beneath my aromatic
pines and the aroma of my beloved
orange tree!
Meditation, music and transformation.
Brought me to this point in
my life's station.
Joyful in this blessed California nation!
3/26/2021
~2-~
POETS NOTES...the picture above iis our entrance to the gated, community pool!
It has a lovely jacuzzi and more. Lovely lounge chairs, peaceful place, if there ever was one. Having lived in gigantic cities...this is perfect.
Peace and I get along!
A blueberry stand in rural Maine
Sold pints and cakes and pies
But after hours, I discovered
Quite a nice surprise.
A money box was left beneath
A price list; it was filled
With coins and bills. We added ours –
Such honesty instilled!
I thought that such a thing would never
Fly where I reside
And yet today I saw a sight
That couldn’t be denied.
A fruit cart in my neighborhood,
Well-stocked, displayed a sign
Announcing it was “Closed for now;”
No berries could be mine.
No cash box, sure, for after all,
Manhattan isn’t Maine,
But all the fruit was there, a fact
I really can’t explain.
Perhaps it’s just a simple truth
That when we’re met with trust,
We’ll like return the favor
And leave no one left to bust.
Farmland
David J Walker
I am
The dreamland
Of the farm
The zauberhaft/magic-craft
Found in the brown dirt
Beneath the feats
of farmers
I am
The farmhand of
The sacred farmland
Often found
Ground into dust and
Blown by the wind
Into the next county
I am the dirt ground into grime
and found
beneath the fingernails
of farmers
having coffee
in town
at the corner
coffee shop
eating eggs and
smoking unfiltered cigarettes
I am the pungent perfume
Of turned earth
Wetted with moisture of
Morning dew
The balm that soothes and heals
the sunbaked brown skin of the earth
I am packed caleche printed in
Tire track dirt road ruts
That leads farm families from
Rural isolation to
Civilization
Covered in asphalt & concrete
I am the mound
Covering the graves
Of long-gone farmers
That Jesus saves
For Himself
...He spotted Jones, and three other rough men,
digging at the ground beneath a large spruce.
Jones was grousing, “I know it’s buried somewhere,
if if it’s not here, I’ll beat it out of that youth!”
It was them Elias spurred his horse on,
emerging from behind a smallish grove,
they all spun and saw him, pistols ready,
said Elias, “I had wondered…now I know.
“Why a criminal could care much for me,
they say there is no honor among thieves,
you didn’t care for you old pardner’s son,
you just though that I might have what you need.”
Trigger Jones stood up with a vicious grin,
said,” Well god damn, if took you long enough.
Who would’ve thought the preacher would buy the land
where old Kerwin used to hide all his stuff.
“I’d hoped you could tell me, show us the loot,
that’s why I bothered toying with your head,
but I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way,
if you know, speak, or I’ll shoot you dead.”
Elias just laughed, “I would never help you
even if I knew, don’t you understand?
You call me Kerwin, but my name is Jensen,
my father raised me an honorable man.”
Jones just said and said, “Well ain’t you a daisy.
I guess you’ll die a stone’s throw from your home.”
Elias just smirked back, said, “Do you think
I was fool enough to ride out on my own?”
At these words six others rode into view,
surrounding Jones and all his bandit scum,
the sheriff led them, six shooter in hand,
barked, “You all throw up your hands, or you’re done.”
Jones looked like he might make trouble for them,
but around him his men threw up their arms,
and the old crook realized there was no escape,
he dropped his pistol, saved himself from harm.
There were rewards on all the bandit’s head,
the sheriff rode off quite happy that day.
Elias rode back to his home relieved,
no longer could anyone doubt his ways.
For all the past, his temper, his worries,
none could ever now doubt he had honor,
he wasn’t bound by a bandit long dead,
and now could live the life that he deserved.
Steep, sharp, split, and, as an abandoned architecture, weak
How I managed to get to its top, I truly don't know.
Fear, frustration, angst, awe, and helplessness were at their peak.
Over the sea beneath the cliffs, worn-out yachts slowly row.
On whom should I put my faith at this hour of nullity?
What a fool am I who could go up and couldn't come down?
Amidst tensions and terrors, thrills find no utility.
In the circus of existence, have I become a clown?
A tinge of pain and despair mingles with my loneliness.
Avalanches of aches fill and drill my physique and psyche.
I pray to Neptune, Najm, and Xama; crawl down in coolness.
Though well-drowned and dead in dread, I touch the fringes of Nike.
Each precipice venture is one's inner soul's exploration.
Midst the loss of self, there's divine identification.