Long Berm Poems
Long Berm Poems. Below are the most popular long Berm by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Berm poems by poem length and keyword.
i stood there on the berm of a cliff
like juliet in the absence of romeo
feeling dim, as night fell
in a breathless mist
my thoughts lurked
in the ebon hole of mind
as the stars settled in
looming in and out
of the milky way
i looked at them
as they glistened
remembering that look
that once twinkled
within your eyes
when i caught your glance
now mind only sees
the crimson edges
of flames burning out
as i catch the glow
of shooting stars
trailing in glimmers
on a downward spiral
as they burn out
just like love...
August 12, 2019
Shooting star contest
Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron
N/A the day away
Sponsored by Lu Loo
Awaken to sounds of flight, machines in the distance
Muffled sounds from fire watch
Bellowing to arms to arms
Planes humming, men rising from their slumber
The sky was dark, silhouettes dimmed the stars
Unapproachable rays and milky ways faded
As the Reaper flew over way
With tools of trade
Squinting indistinctly it had begun
To my feet, roused to the berm
In celebration I danced with wolves of war
Marines gathering for the kill
Then I recognized the sound of Thunder
In the distant flashes of light, insidious it was
Thump, Thump Boom
Thump, Boom
The feeling of black, the approach of stillness
Where nothing exist
Such a sight, watched in awe as the sand shook my feet
Would we be brave?
Leathernecks cheered
And the Sentry yelled, “To arms to arms”
In innocence I encouraged death
My thoughts trapped in haunting recollection
I bear in mind, If only we knew
I died with them
If only I knew lost I was that night
My soul hidden in the desert
And in my dreams to arms, to arms, to arms
Lake Wollumboola is intermittent.
A coastal dune lagoon, enclosed by berm of sand.
Its basin a drowned creek-scoured depression.
This tiny lake is perched above high tide, vulnerable.
Its survival lies at the whim
of wind-blown and sea-thrown sand.
It's long term fate short-lived as its filling up
with sediment, weed, detritus and muck.
This little lagoon among the dunes
is mecca for migratory birds.
The curlew and buff-breasted sandpiper,
The long-toed stint, pied oyster catcher and little tern.
These vulnerable birds depend on the vulnerable lake.
They arrive on-cue from long-hall flights.
Alight and feeds in the shallows.
Mate, breed and lay eggs in vulnerable places
on the open beach and shore.
They squat on eggs and fledge their young,
and when the time comes, migrate back
with young yearling in tow,
to whence they came.
They book return migratory flights to
Lake Wollumboola each year,
hoping it survives vulnerable
for another year,
and hoping its time is not yet up.
Did you know Johnny's walking
Did you know Johnny's walking
walking hard, walking long
across the gravel roads in the north
talkin trash, making out
everything coming out his mouth is last
Now I'm here standing firm
Standing on this here berm
Feet encased in shoes
Johnny don't know what to do
He's been here
He's been there
Johnny walker everywhere
Been up, been down
Been turnt been bound
Now I know what Johnny knows
and that his shoes now have holes
His toes and the heel of his feet
Are blistered red from them streets
And when he dies I want to keep
The rest of Johnny's shoes what's left of them
Mystical ghost of night
Of pale death’s milky glow
On sun’s life, contingent
Neon-gray you sketch black
Soothe the belligerent
Mystical ghost of night
How you shine subterfuge!
As the captious eye sees,
dead dreams behoove none
Opal wanes on jet seas...
Mystical ghost of night
Wax with light-avarice!
Mock shadowed reflections,
oft morphing as your form,
on nightshade convictions...
Mystical ghost of night
New moon’s temerity
Sacrosanct nothingness
How you foreshadow Earth
as fried out emptiness
(9/17/2021: '85 Bluewater 51 Willow Berm. Was titled Mystical for M contest by Constance la France)
Berms rise high to the left and right,
they’ve created a wide gully,
another berm squares off the back,
so no stray rounds ever get free.
There’s a metal spinner back there,
sits just short of two hundred yards,
I squeeze back and the bullet flies,
recoil jolts shoulder and arm.
I hear that small, metallic ping,
and thrill that I’ve gotten a hit,
may not be hard for a marine,
but I am quite happy with it.
I’m a civvie with iron sights
on my Winchester ’94,
I don’t get out here that often,
so or me, I call it a score.
Around me, on this low platform
others folks are working their guns,
two boy scouts shoot their.22s,
are plinking away, having fun.
An older woman sports a Glock,
a pistol, it’s for self-defense,
seems hesitant, she’s new to this,
but rightly fears criminal men.
A guy that I know hunts big moose
shoots slowly, sighting in his scope,
he gave me some ground meat last year,
will he give again? (I can hope!)
Blasts come from a much wider field,
shotguns destroying sporting clays,
after they’ll brag about their scores,
as some boast about their golf game.
Behind it all is a clubhouse,
there is a big elk-head in there,
a meeting room where they teach class
for new shooters still unaware.
They sometimes sell hot dogs inside,
or chili, when they have events,
mostly it is a hang-out place,
a space where men still can be men.
And of course the good ol’ 2nd
hangs above the big fireplace,
what are other rights without it?
Just notions evil will disgrace.
I cycle through my magazine,
pick up the brass for my range bag,
I’m reloading much more these days,
with inflation prices are mad…
I.
Ode the thrill of a tango
curled in clutches sleek
Elegance, a prerequisite
Add on a spun euphoria
Nimble is a turgid swoon!
Arms conduct to the aria
New skin, feels no tocsin
It's deeply in a you and i
Glazed, to the tightening
and a strangling organza
Necked into a suffocation
So go the tunnel deaths…
(1/27/2021: '02 Silverton MY; Alameda ...contest theme was murder in the tunnel)
II.
Ornately, I gild over my days a’ la fresco
Carefully, I wield molten gold, enigmatic
Elaborate must these life undulations be
as metallic sheen screens all insipid aura
New cantankerous crack? Just weld upon
and smooth the jagged with flowing flora
Now the feckless plaster sparkles golden
I spurn mawkish, like the silvered literati
glossing my craven, to caverns gleaming
Aurum weaves, in its narcissistic miasma
Nothing malodorous in self-love / loathin’
So imperious my bombastic art, it glazes!
(8.17.21 Redone at Willow Berm and DBW; theme was Craig’s Broken contest relating to Kintsugi)
There was an old man who disliked the world
Anyway, he pretended it because he was soft.
If a salesman was selling igloos, he would buy.
So, to protect himself, he had to fence himself in.
His wife always said, “he is a sucker for everyone”.’
His heart was so kind, people took advantage of it.
She closed him off from the world after a while.
Because he would go broke giving to others.
An artist, she had a gift with concrete.
She designed them a berm house with a look.
A gruff, mean, nasty old man with a beard face.
He dislikes the world, she motioned to her man.
Salespeople ran off, fleeing for their lives.
Most never knew they missed their easiest sale.
Husband was content too, for they had money now.
Keeping enough so they could retire comfortably.
Where the Lesser Nature Reigns there Hell knows No Crowns
where Unguided Men follow crowds,
where the Spirit is Dormant and Obsolete
where Frenzies Run amok like Pacified Sheep,
where the Fruits of the Spirit are nowhere found
held captive by external bounds,
tethered to the Berm of the Unholy paths
where all Wither, where the soul Dithers, and Truth never lasts
Yet, by the High Road we find pastures So Sublime
through the Lands Of Penial where the Great Torch Shines
Upwards by the Fire unto the Higher Mind
there, we Travail Electric Paradigms
by Knowledge comes Ascension, by Ascencion we are Freed
by Freedom we March through the Passage of Sovereignty,
Ever Upwards from Gate unto Gate
Into Valleys and Highlands that Liberate,
7 Doors Yonder to find Thy Light
Ever So High, we Blitz into Paradise
A baby salamander
In the middle of the road
Seemed in danger of a horrifying end,
So I thought I would transport him
To the grasses on the berm
Or a car would squish him coming ‘round the bend.
When I placed a leaf before him
He resisted crawling on
So I prodded just a bit ‘til he came ‘round,
But he wasn’t quite secure
Because when I picked up the leaf
That little creature fell right off and hit the ground.
After several more attempts
He’d made it safely to the side
And I left him where the traffic wouldn’t go,
Yet I wondered if perhaps
He wished I hadn’t interfered
Though, of course, there isn’t any way to know.