Long Bullion Poems
Long Bullion Poems. Below are the most popular long Bullion by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bullion poems by poem length and keyword.
...For four years he wandered, a human scourge,
throwing in with the worst type of dregs.
He robbed from so many without a thought,
and when he slept, he saw only red.
He soon was wanted in countless counties,
but he felt no remorse for his deeds.
They didn’t understand their laws were bunk,
that life was nothing but anguish and need.
He threw in with Black Thompson along the way,
a killer who would slayed all inis path,
they had a plan to knock off a train,
loaded with gold bullion and greenback cash.
The robbery went off smooth and easy,
Black Thompson didn’t have to fire his gun.
The gang rode away into Nebraska hills,
dreaming of the haul they had won.
At a small hill they dropped their masks,
and began dividing up the big haul,
when they heard a whinny, saw a rider,
not far off, on a horse rather small.
“Get that bastard, he’s seen our face!”
was the cry Black Thompson gave out.
Anders and two others, Barton and Bill,
charged at the figure with a shout.
The small figure rode and they pursued
for three mils up to a long ridge,
Barton got ahead, cornered the rider,
drawing near they saw it was a kid.
He shook in his saddle, lip quivering,
be could not be much older than eight.
...about the age that Chester would be,
had he not been stolen by fate.
Bill and Barton whopped and hollered,
but Anders felt a cold, surging chill.
“Best not to wait, do the job Thorn,”
were the words of the rustler Bill.
Anders looked at the boy on his pony,
and then slowly he removed his Colt,
he lifted it up, then turned on Bill,
the pistol round made the thug jolt.
He fell from his horse, and Barton gawked,
so Anders shot him square between the eyes.
“Run boy,”he cried,”Ride, do not stop!
I am going to buy you the time!’
The child took off, bawling out in tears,
and Anders turned back to the distant gang.
They had heard the shot, and rode near,
four of them mounted on painted mustangs.
Anders said,”Lord, what have I become?
If you’re out there, listen just this once.
I do not care what happens to me,
but you better protect that little one...”
CONCLUDES IN PART III
Two wolves went for hunting,
they found no pray.
A tear came down from their eyes.
Two bears went for fishing,
they found no salmons, but a river full of tears.
The pray not found was in the burnt wild.
The salmons not found were in the polluted rivers.
The tears they cried made an ocean where two men caught them in a net.
The two men had nothing but tears and they went searching for gold. They found lands of gold
They cried glory tears
The gold's mine that made them rich killed the salmons.
They've got dollars to spend around.
Searching for gold bullion, we have no wolves howling to the moon but spreading metals to the woodland.
Looking for salmons, the big grizzles will be a tear in our subconscious.
We will be eating gold medals and wining burnt woods.
Ashes in the air, many tears to cry.
Tied wings to fly to another level, that it's in everybody 's mind.
The two wolves found not rank to get their pray to hunt.
The two bears found no reason to search for a river.
The two men digging for gold,
found no ground to dig on.
We keep on digging into the wrong mine. Instead we should dig deep inside on ourselves.
Not gold worth living beings
Wasting time in a right clock
where the hands move without stopping.
The seconds will make you dock in the harbour where it will be a big tear in your eyes when you have to say good bye to what it really matters: the wolves howling a secret message to humans not to be heard.
A secret song we will never have the chance to listen again.
A mine of gold beings that worth nothing to many.
It doesn't matter, many people think t's a way in the moon we can settle down
Far from the sea, far from everything we raised, far from the land we know.
A tear came out from my eye straight to my brain.
As an indigo child, my tear went into the imposible, ending up with the feet on this Earth
04/14/2023
Constance La France
Writing Challenge - 'T' Words - Poetry Contest
Written: November 06, 2023
___________________________________________
A swarm of herring gulls amassed
Nexus Nautilus nabbed by zealous winds,
whitening the black soil
we hold spears in our hands.
blood-stained thorns on the side
sullen squawks a skirmishing sporophyte,
dubious, grayish rumors must be buried
drave in a drizzle, drape to deities.
Installation of sentry fences
Sisyphean stones
anchor down using seal and string
flaws in the swings used by blacksmiths
Unborn burning bullion bludgeon
Savage sunless swords embryonic
Edgeless, with no reflections.
Each peak over the Edenic Steppes is sprayed,
using torn paper candles as bait
climbing scaffolds with lumber rungs
pounding of leather-heavy boots
darkened, grimacing features
Flocks failing feathers or flight.
Our hold slips on windswept
Windswept updrafts carry us away
as offspring of the royal family.
* This poem almost cost a college student his enrollment, as he plagiarized it for his final exam, (the highest form of flattery they say) … I begged them not to expel him, though they made him call me and gave him community service. I was rather flattered by the whole thing, as I’d only been writing a couple of months. *
~
I be a common salty once
no captain's bars, did bear
yet blessed was I to venture
where few a skipper dared
from crow's nest high aloft, I saw
those bright coast beacons wink
thru biting spray's December gale
what shoals and reefs would sink
for countless days I rocked atop
that oaken spar’s good length
as wake and skies conveyed my eyes
Lord Neptune's sullen strength
aye, busy dogs, the mates and jacks
bent hard while tasked below …
as toward the sky, a glass to eye
my post waved to-and-fro
first was I to e'er spot land
my voice, the first to yell -
first to sight a skull and bones
loud-clanged that warning bell
"thar she blows!" was oft' my cry
if spied foamed breach, had I
and "friend or foe?!?" the query barked
when strange sails cleaved the sky
but moments to becalm my soul
as swells tick-tocked the time
were star-filled nights, a bullion moon
and the phosphorescent brine
the darkest times were battlements
when the ship groaned with its might
but never dark, those eventides -
sea and vault - awash with light!
quite rare it was to find this tar
midst the deck or down below
and rarer still would I abdicate
my realm there, high the crow …
well, I'm adrift on shore now
with ol’ brittle bones and gray
yet in this lubber's mind I’ll still
climb masts to watch … and sway
I bounce wee kin on knobby knees
and spin them my swabbie tales -
St Elmo's Fire and scorching skies
fierce battles, storms, and whales
and when sweet angels task me
to that dark and heav'nly crow …
I'll bend gaze to my looking glass
and give a hearty … "tally-ho!"
In the deep valleys of the spirit, where dreams boil in the overflowing cup of consciousness,
I wander aimlessly, seeking countless treasures not in gold, but in scattered words.
There is no money in poetry, only echoes of emotions woven through the fine threads of time,
Like an ephemeral butterfly, flying over the green fields of my soul.
Where minds open, we touch each other beyond materiality,
Through long verses and blind gazes, we hold hands in unheard universes.
Poems are blossoming oaks in the arid lands of our mercantilism,
Their roots deeply embedded, drawing from unseen springs of suffering and joy.
No one has ever been able to buy the sensation of the first kiss of dawn's light,
Or the melancholic cooling of dusk when stars weave light into darkness.
Words are the world's tear, priceless, falling on the square cheek of paper,
Poetry is the song of birds echoing from the hidden corners of our hearts.
In the desolation of cities of gold and silver, the sounds of bullion break the silence of hope,
But in the quiet of a dimly lit room, poems throb with un-lived life.
The poet is an alchemist of emotion, turning the lead of reality into the gold of imagination,
Not for gain, but for the liberation of the spirit from the prison of mundane daily life.
The feeling of love, worries lost among the night's shadows, worth more than kings' riches,
Each verse is a whispered talisman, kept in the depths of our silence;
There is no money in poetry, but there are infinite universes,
Where words dance freely, released from the venal prisons of the world.
In the stream of consciousness, I pour my heart into endless pages,
Old experiences and forgotten yearnings flow through my pen into a river of stars,
My poems are relics of a bygone time, yet forever alive,
What perishes, what remains, in the collective memory of the soul.
We do not earn gold from metaphors, nor silver from complex rhymes,
But in the magic of words, we find the true treasure that never fades.
Poetry is an ancient spell, an eternal song that binds us to eternity,
And even if there is no money in poetry, there is the immortality of fully lived meaning.
Sire she's been sighted
two miles south of Sinai,
our sentinels say she has brought a river,
her baggage train stretches into the ancient sands,
the envoys of her retinue spoke of marvelous gifts,
beasts and creatures of the Orient
gems that glitter like the eyes of children
summer baskets of gold bullion
and satchels of spice from Siam,
our men said they could smell the barrels of balsam Sire...
To travel with such unmistakable wealth
the Queen must have brought a war machine along,
have desert brigands been spotted near the route...
No my King, no raider encampments have been observed,
just the regular rabble and agape villagers,
it's been confirmed that her associates
are passing to the people pouches of cinnamon...
I don't trust the Egyptians,
they may try to incite the Bedouins to foolhardy thievery,
our Nation's honor demands
that not even the dust of the devil's danger
deign to dry upon the clothes of her most distant servants,
if the House of Zion can secure a partnership
with the trading powerhouse of Sheba
our supremacy over the Babylonians will be indomitable...
I pledge my life, and that of my family's
to her caravan's safety Sire...
So mote it be General,
your loyalty is my blessing,
may it be as strong as the staff of Moses,
dispatch 333 of the Lion's Legion
to reinforce the Queen's guard
and send a circuit of 15 water wagons...
What does a Queen dream of
in the calm desert nights...
I dream of roses melting
into snake bitten hearts,
I've dreamt of citadels broken
by the grips of greed,
I've seen a child walking out of a tomb,
what does a King dream of
in the shadow of paradise...
I dream of thorned stars,
the division of labor and wages,
of priests and Judges
whom wish to rule quietly without blame...
Do you know what thrilled me the most
about the Court reception...
Tell me, my cinnamon Queen...
The seduction of your Servants' silence
as I entered your meticulous throne room...
I understood their awe,
you moved so gracefully,
your body like an ancient lust
your face a flame of royalty...
I think I fell in love with your eyes,
there is something rough about you Solomon,
but your eyes and lips
relay a sweet mercy to me...
Mercy is never free Veronica...
I will pay the price...
We will pay the love cost together...
J.A.B.
Saw the rose open bloom by the blink of an eye
whilst I sit by a blue ribbon sea
love agape in my room all my fears are a lie
with the grace of Your love, I do see
that the sun never fails to return to the sky
like the water returning to sea
as I walk on a shore by an eagle's shrill cry
through the grace of Your love, I do see
little footsteps behind, never leading me blind
doth I swim in the ocean of free
you alone hath begotten my soul to unwind
and through grace of Your love, I do see
as the mollusk un-clams in his lyrical shell
Lufian -light comes to see
that truth is a bullion of gold , all is well
and through the grace of Your love, we all see
that the stars always shine in the seine
while the temporal lights all agree
He's our lifing device, judicious and sane
and through grace of His love,
we all, can see.
Feb. 3, 2019
Could platinum coin deposit
In the U.S. Treasury's closet
Our debts enjoin?
A trillion-dollar coin
Might yield a government profit
Author's Note: Section 31 U.S.C. § 5112 of the United States Code authorizes the Treasury Department to "mint and issue platinum bullion coins" in any denominations the Secretary of the Treasury may choose. This privilege only extends to platinum coins. Thus, if the Treasury were to mint a few one-trillion dollar platinum coins, it could deposit such coins in the general fund instead of issuing debt (lol).
Seigniorage is the difference between the receipts from the Federal Reserve System from the sale of circulating coins at face value and the costs of minting and distributing the coins. Seigniorage is deposited periodically to the General Fund where it reduces the government's need to borrow.
Of course, this might create a wave of inflation. But we should all realize that the value of paper currency eventually tends to zero. In any event, the inflation we've experienced in 2022 is just a taste of what's to come since the politicians don't want to explain a depression to their voters. We're entering strange times.
Little Red Riding Hood took a lunch
to her grandma who liked to munch
Riding Hood liked to play like waiter
until Wolf spied her and then ate her.
Little Bo Peep had trouble with sheep
They'd follow grass. "Stop it," she'd peep.
One got lost, causing Bo to sniff:
"That's it!" and pushed all over cliff.
Cinderella got dressed for the dance
Mean stepsisters said, "Think you have a chance?"
Cindy lost shoe, Prince said, "Yeah,she'll do."
That wasn't hard, she said. (gee, who knew!)
Jack traded cow for a magic beanstalk
His mom was angry, said, "take a walk"
He climbed stalk, killed giant, stole gold bullion
invested in bitcoins, and made a gazillion!
There's surely a moral to the fairytale story
Beware what happens when things get gory!
When all the world is a giant burden,
Banerji sir, my colleague, a true SST Allen.
“Maan ki bat Modi ke Sath; rest other shun,”,
Says always my friend Banarji, never stun
Or stagger or startle, never remains barren.
Best friend who teaches Dhruvi and others Balkan,
Or India with psychology, without an apron.
Kenil, Hari, Bhavin, Shivani had some unban;
With Favourite dish of Dada, a fish; talks on Patan,
Sings hymns, buzzes about Mahakali one.
Says, “Your age is less than my profession.”
Scolds us, “Worst batch of year” – a Pun?
He is Bangali babu, wears dhoti, kurta even,
Talks about SST, and about doors wide open.
He is a Brahman, takes plausible action,
Wearing a chevron, is our Divine’s lion.
Meshwa, Diya, and Pitambar are clearly won,
With Aryan, Harsh, Nupur, Dishal and billion.
Let it be Shakespeare or Keats or Byron
He is through with all, has a great fortune.
Appreciates my Monorhyme and region
Never keeps quiet, but is pure bullion.
Dear to my students, Esha, Jeet or Rohan.
Prosper a lot is my wish, Oh! Aaron!