Long Birthplace Poems
Long Birthplace Poems. Below are the most popular long Birthplace by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Birthplace poems by poem length and keyword.
This is a beautiful place that is dry and sunny.
It’s an historical region dating back to antiquity.
We are on the Mediterranean island of Sicily.
It is the very southernmost tip of Italy.
Two men who wanted to see my father dead,
met their own demise with shots in the head.
Each body lay in a restaurant devoid of a soul.
I was the one who played the murderer’s role.
As a war ended here, another began back home.
Clandestinely, I was brought here to roam.
My father’s enemies would like to see me dead.
Because of this, there is a large bounty on my head.
I am hiding near a small village called Corleone.
This is the birthplace of my ancestral family.
My bodyguards and I walk through the country.
As far as their loyalty, there is room for doubt.
For a high enough price, they can sell me out.
The sight of a beauty started a fire burning.
For this maiden, there is now a strong yearning.
This chance encounter has begun a new game.
I want her now that I know Apollonia is her name.
Based on the novel "The Godfather" by the late Mario Puzo
We needed one more day in Bangor for three simple reasons why…
to see Stephen King’s House, take a photo with Paul Bunyan
and to eat the first of many a Whoopie Pie.
At Stephen King’s house our photo was taken by Molly a three year old girl
because it is our objective…
as we grow ever older never to lose sight of a child’s perspective.
Next it was on to the a 31 foot high statue of Paul Bunyan
where he stands taller than some trees
Bangor claims to be his birthplace…
(although Akeley, Minnesota disagrees.)
Our photo was taken by a man a little older than us…
because it is our objective…
As we grow ever older…to see the world from both perspectives.
Last but definitely not least…is the one reason that remains…
why we’ve driven from Washington and chose to end our trip Maine.
It’s because we’re on a quest…we’ve decided we will try
to search the state of Maine for the perfect Whoopie Pie.
Tomorrow we head even farther east…
after driving our rental car from the farthest west….
which means we have 5 days before heading home
to complete our Whoopie Pie quest.
Our plan is a simple one…without Stephen King here to guide us
on this quest…this journey…this climb…
we’ll face this challenge as Paul Bunyan did his trees…
one Whoopie Pie at at time.
Motherland…
I am a desert, barren and hot.
Hoping for the rain, which I forgot.
Once, I was green, golden, and bright.
Nightingales singing night after night.
My fresh breeze at dawn was ever nice,
Showered me blossoms like paradise.
Year after year, I dressed up in green.
Green and reddish with white in between.
Until I became older than old,
All I have now is darkness and cold.
I lost all of my glory and youth,
Hope death is not the end or the truth.
I had so many kings that were tall,
Now, I am filled with filth that they crawl.
Tired of being a desert that’s old,
Thousands and thousands of years to be told.
Cyrus and Darius lived within me.
Now I am barren; how could it be?
I am now desert far from the sea;
They burned my soul so no one can see.
Empty and lonely, thirsty and dry,
hope for the rain and generous sky.
Hope for someone to answer my cry,
Wash up my tears, and don’t let me die.
I need a hero like the old times,
Come and wash me from all the crimes.
Come to me, my love, my lovely rain,
shower me with love, get rid of pain.
If you come back and shower me, fine
promise I give you, I'll drink your wine.
For me, rain is love; love is my life.
To live without love is endless strife.
I want to become a jungle of love,
making love and being free as a dove.
I am now dying, dying of thirst,
Hope for a drizzle; first thing is first.
1/28/20 Haloo
Note: Motherland is Iran, the birthplace of civilizations, a country with thousands of years of history. In the past forty years, there is a great tension between the government of Iran and the United States. This tension has escalated recently to the point of an imminent war between the two countries. The people in Iran are suffering from an authoritarian government on one side and sanctions and pressure on the other. This humble piece is written to give you the understanding that under a millimeter of skin, we’re all the same, the same humans, and humanities are the same regardless of religion, culture, and geographical background.
Long live the USA, my native land, the birthplace
of my granddaughter, Shelby Renae.
Let's teach our grandchildren how to be kind.
To be thoughtful is a talent well-defined.
Don't wait until the Fourth, start today.
So many dynamos here keep up a steady pace
Let's say, "Thank You, USA!"
We disregard people, they feel left behind.
"Ingratitude is treason to mankind."
Say, "Thank You, USA," ev'ry day.
This Fourth honor your fellow citizens just because...
you can, Thank folks for their time,
was "Forty Hour Week", Alabama's catchy phase.
Overlooking people is an offense, a thoughtless crime.
A smile gives credit and helps to crush malaise.
Busy cheering every step, where'er your networks cross
happy is the heart that eyes the climb.
Some hearts, running on empty, are laboring in a daze.
Let's fuel them, they are drained-out pumps we can prime;
Make this holiday worth the effort; celebrate with praise.
line 9: quote by James Thomson, Scottish poet, 1700-1748
http://www.worldofquotes.com/author/James+Thomson/1/index.html
line 13: song title, http://www.lyricsdepot.com/alabama/40-hour-week.html
Now I am, while first I wasn't,
Now I have become.
From whence first I was,
I now know I was not.
I sent forth my whole being,
My arms to reach out and grasp,
My legs to stand or run fast.
My head to ponder what I saw and heard.
Leaving behind my torso which became a barren place,
in need to share its empty space.
A broken shell,
discarded like a cicada's birthplace,
a butterfly's cocoon.
I grow within,
from whence I was first broken.
During shattering death,
it knew no life to be within its womb.
The long ascent,
my birth coincides with my end.
Light and dark,
Alpha and Omega,
All colors in the spectrum,
There is no white or black.
People are so blind to where they stem from.
Leaving the children of the light also blind!
And so the light is obscured from understanding,
so close at hand, but still not seen.
Light is coming, and when it does,
it shall phase everything together.
(In collaboration with Darren White)
Lord. There are many prayers that I could offer
this Christmas, but here is just one of them.
Lord. I want to be a spreader of good news.
I want to be like the SHEPHERDS who
encountered the angel who then informed them
of Jesus's birthplace. They did not hesitate
to go see for themselves and spread the good news.
Lord. I want to be one of your guides to a seeking world.
I want to be like the STAR IN THE EAST
that was obedient to The Almighty and
guided the wise men to the baby Jesus.
Lord. I want to be able to go the extra mile.
I want to be like the WISEMEN who did
not mind going the distance or the extra
miles but came from afar to worship The Christ.
They both worshiped and gave Him their best.
Lord. I want to obey, even when I don't understand.
I want to be like MARY who, even though she did
not understand, was willing to let God use her His way.
Lord. I want to obey, even at times when I am confused.
I want to be like JOSEPH who, although confused about
a young lady he loved, obeyed and followed through.
Lord. Allow me to point others in the right direction.
I want to be like THE ANGEL who warned the wise men
in a dream to go in a different direction.
Lord. May I and millions more, be peacemakers.
I want to be like the HEAVENLY HOST
who praised God and declared peace
on earth and goodwill toward men.
Thanks for listening, Lord. Amen.
121722PSCtest, A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE no 55
A land of virtues with cultural grace
For myriad religions, a home place
A peace loving paradise by nature
Honoring traditions, its grand feature
Many a scholar hailed from this blessed soil
Reformers made it renowned with their toil
Assorted branches of knowledge flourished
Awe-inspiring arts and cultures cherished
Invaders tried to grab this divine land;
And aimed to deface its glorious brand
The brave leaped into the great freedom fight.
Protected its legacy with much plight
The soil, water and breezes are pious
Adorned with the crown of Himalayas
Handles all hardships with no compromise
A true faithful friend to all its allies
Truth, justice, kindness and love are its stands
For global peace, it always stretches hands
Evergreen is its heritage story.
With a lot of joy, I praise its glory.
Place: 4
If Your Birthplace-country was a poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Date:02-06-2023
There is something in us
that imbues landscapes
with substance or senses
what is there hidden beneath
the camouflage of form.
It finds voice in myth
and survives in the shadows
of the imagination,
birthplace of our being.
It enters this world
through ancient fissures,
openings in the mind,
sacred places and in the crevices
weathered in lava outcrops
spewed out of a volcano
more than six million years ago
halfway between Melbourne
and Bendigo.
Hanging Rock rises up
out the plain like a cathedral
but houses no familiar god.
Here, something primal
breathes out of the lava pores
and sleeps within.
In the mirror of our smug certainties,
it is never seen
but festers in a fear
that we may awaken it
from its ancient dream.
Note.
Hanging Rock features as the main backdrop
in Peter Weir's haunting film,
‘Picnic At Hanging Rock’. Would suggest
a viewing of the trailer on YouTube to get
a sense of how this rather strange rock
formation sets off an interference pattern
on the imagination.
Palatial building of my Grandma, once in grandeur and pomp
ran full of kith -kin -cousins on extended family.
The staircase leading to roof with shiny banister
on polished brass coating attracted all visitors.
Any one ever met Grandma got charmed with her pleasing persona.
The residence was my birthplace.
So far, I remember on my visit, when I was four,
Grandma put a flyer under porch of the house.
Flyer was a dazzling golden satin cloth
designed and stitched by herself with sparkling red spangles
showing ‘Welcome Little Princess’
Onward whenever I visited, I saw that flyer in same gorgeous glow.
She died when I was seventeen.
And that was my last visit on her cremation.
After sixty years I revisited the decaying house.
Doors ,windows almost in broken condition:
Rusted creaky latch in gate.
Garden Once bloomed mostly in white fragrant flowers
spreading pellucid placid calmness,
now , no remnants left.
It is full of feral ferns, wild weeds and thorny bushes.
Most unexpected scenario : I was not shocked yet sighed.
Whelmed to see the dusty bland flyer still hanging
and showing ‘Welcome Little Princess’.
Spangles embedded on pale flyer still in shimmering sheen.
That four year old pretty princess now approaching eighty.
Sun rays are making network of shadows through cracked lattice .
The abandoned house greeted me
through zephyr whispering ‘ Welcome home.’
I felt warmth of the soul of empty house.
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
I didn’t wipe off the flow but silently wept.
Leaping over nettle bushes,to clear becks and streams
picking fruit from orchid trees, children in our element and dreams.
Building dens in rainy woods,our warmth and shelter clear
raindrops dripping from oak leafs,like a shedding tear.
Swaying cornfields upon the old farmhouse,animals grazing
an overall panoramic view, outback Eston Hills so amazing.
The summertime offers such, an array of beautiful sights
from the hares dancing the fields,to kingfishers in flight.
North sea a mere stone throw,from the pastures that i dwell
calm waters see children building sandcastles,boats tossed violently when it does swell.
Fishermen unload their catch,seagulls lurking for a feed
the high pitch cry babylike,scraps for the need.
Captain Cooks` birthplace, named Great Ayton Village
a very proud community,sporting a collection of spillage.
Of his treasures and necessisitys,held in Stewart Park Museum.
Attracting visitors far and wide,to get a chance to see them.
In wintertime when the cold and snow does test
hanging out the nut nets,for the robin red breast.
Also the animals, so vulnerable alike and rare
building pole houses, for their warmth and care.
Paul beadnall.
Sponsor Francine Roberts
Contest Name a Nature Tale.
7/10/11.