Long Cast Poems
Long Cast Poems. Below are the most popular long Cast by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cast poems by poem length and keyword.
Dark clouds gather
high overhead
bright lightning flashes
deep thunder roars
growing wind does
blow about me here
catching up my clothes
tugging at me
cold hard drops
of rain hits me
bringing quick shills
as I would flee
squall line approaches
with drenching rain
and lightning that
comes crashing down
I look for shelter
where I can be
keeping me safely
from raging storm
trees promise shelter
and call there to me
beneath them lurks the danger
does the lightning does bring
with fear I tremble
and cast about my eyes
seeking for the shelter
to save me from the storm
THE MAKING OF US IS NOT RIGHT FOR US
I am not for that
Though I do not remember giving of suck
From my mother’s breast
I was not made to be drinking, ingesting cow’s milk
THE MAKING OF US IS NOT RIGHT FOR US
Not supposed to was purposeful to eat vegetation
Not raw nor cook burning meat
Processed rephrased chemically altered
Though I be melanin we of the dark persuasion
Not created to be subjected, cast off and enslaved
I for be a King mine soul mate a Queen
THE MAKING OF US IS NOT RIGHT FOR US
I AM of I AM
Not your tool, servant, animal
I AM melanin man
Birthed from the heavens, a temporary visitor
Residencies abiding on vacating world
Where we’re supposed to toil
Not judge by fellow man, not to abuse womb-man
Birth spiritual placed temporal in a vessel
We alive
Only our matter dies
We are incarnate energy
WE Rise
THE MAKING OF US IS NOT RIGHT FOR US
12/16/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
It was the work ethic that did it.
He just couldn’t get enough.
He would sit for hours and hours
Just contemplating the stuff
Until suddenly it was home time,
Getting on for half past four,
And he knew that in the morning
They'd have delivered plenty more.
After nearly a week they found him
Slouched dead in his swivel chair;
He'd been hidden by all the work
Piled up in mountains there.
They gave him a long service medal
Posthumously I should think
And following his last wishes scattered
His ashes by his favourite old golf link.
Thus an illustrious career was ended
Without a hint of any shame
For the company couldn't afford
Any slurs to be cast on its name.
And all the work that he'd not started?
They just shovelled into a bin
Knowing if any was important
A client would write again
Who is Not the Liar
By Franklin Price
1/17/2016
Who is not the liar
It's really hard to tell
When it comes to politicians
You should really know them well
Their first and main intention
Is to get your valued vote
If they have to lie to do it
It is not a thing of note
They're kind of like the internet
Because they said it, it is true
You better check up on it
It's the least that you should do
Don't vote and follow blindly
Don't just go with party lines
Evaluate the candidates
To see what's on their minds
And when your own position
Is as theirs that you perceive
Then look closely at their record
To see if that's what they believe
As I said at the beginning
If there's truth it's hard to tell
If they believe it, can they do it?
If they can it would be swell
But definitions of positions
For which politicians run
Make comments often meaningless
To get your votes and just for fun
When making your decisions
Taking votes down from the shelves
Cast for ones who think somewhat of you
And a little less about themselves
Take all the way to death and took that car to the West to that car, all the way to the ing best place in the world and that was the bar where they got ing blessed with a beer. Two beers, three beers, four beers, and tequila, and they drove home drunk.
And they were feeling fine and they survived. All right, But they were black ass drunk when they got into a fight with their ing selves. You know when they hit, Bad. They were hot as hell. Anyway, that wasn't two boys. I was a boy and a girl. That wasn't too girls.
That was a boy and a girl you thought it was the point of girl world and boy. Boy girl boy boy girl world ing you know whatever toy whatever toyed with Whatever is foiled with and soy, we ing trust and soy. Plants is a must. There must be some sort of Kevlar.
He has a bulletproof uh beans. I think you put that beans in here and you ing come clean. The tanks, the bulletproof vest fall off my chest, slice the chest. Need to hear. No there. And either here, or there live before you cast out for your cast. Found welfare town.
Welfare, rapping like that. You come rap, rap rap share. Hahaha, I call that . She didn't ing want dick. She wanted him. Uh, get used to it.
Now, that has got it ing hard and it. And that was probably all it does. For her entire life.
Some es are like, Good. , in my opinion. I thought it was a brilliantly, statistically good book, but it was only 15-20 minutes. But we ed the entire time. And it didn't even come out and didn't come out for good.
Well, you know, two people, they get close enough to each other. Their clothes come off in this short ing before they even know it. Sure. Yeah, so true. What do you know that?
Animal of the Night
The animal of the night has an evil courage as its defense,
And with simple lies it now catches the filthy beast easily,
And can now stand and bask in God’s purest of sunshine,
Whilst valor and glory speak all power to one’s destiny!
Darkness doth now pervade and drinks slowly from that
“Chalice of the Faithless Heathen” who hides among the
Soulless Ones who are consumed by their hateful actions,
And spit thoughtlessly at your good will and human pride!
Hades’ very own dark demons tilt their evil night shades
While justifying the hurt and depravity of an “Ugly Brute”;
A truly lost soul without any mercy, blind—as “He” throws
Freely a nasty spiteful spirit on your earthly fire of reality!
Hence, Hades’ mark and mask of utter darkness and terror
Descend now into the very conscience of your Spirit World;
Burning hot with the force of “The Furies” seeking revenge:
Tisiphone, Megaera, and Alecto all appear sans Merci now!
As their eternal gorgonesque spirits creep upon you furtively,
Your once handsome visage turns into a sad and horrid portrait
Of an old animal soul in the mirror never to see the Light again,
As clouds darkly shade your horizon and fate in Hades’ name!
In this eternal land of darkness, the dead do not suffer this fate
So easily, and cast not without honor in their chains the notion
That fear itself, vice destiny, cries out now for your forgiveness,
As One-Eyed Beggars seek and see the basic good within you!
Each day now fades into its own doom, into a dark mist of evil,
And hides carefully inside a “Mountain of Consciousness” where
Your ethereal spirit knows who you really are—as black snakes
slither slowly and silently toward your spirit-mirrored reflection!
You—that “Animal of the Night,” wear now your deceptive mask;
The reality of who and what you really are makes my skin crawl!
You can never return from this darkest “Pit of Hell” my old friend,
For thy animal-human spirit is doomed to all this darkness forever!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – November 22, 2015
(Narrative Quatrain)
The British royal family is front and center this weekend. How unusual is that?
The empire may be gone, but it’s time to recall its ghost, dust it off and invoke the ancient spell of monarchy.
A coronation, The original dog & pony show - God’s kingly sinecure. I can’t even remember the last one.
You have to know who your great, great, great, grandfather was to be nobility-class smug or to don those getups, with medals that would have made Caesar blush and Attila laugh.
The cast is familiar, if somewhat balding, The too-old king, his - whatever -wife.
I can’t help mourning Diana. Accident, treachery or karma, grown men cried at her passing, Shakespeare’s darkened heavens blazed in sorrow and, eventually, even the gray queen bowed her head.
There’s no more honor, in 2023, and if there’s any glory, its light has grown as dim as the glitter of gold.
The fact that the royals are better than us, is axiomatic. Not morally superior, of course. That’s the Pope’s job. The royals are like Britain’s Mickey Mouse, and any civilized man, who’d strike at that, would have to be a fool.
Eight embark
passage on
No-ah's ark.
The rains pour night and day,
nine hundred, sixty hours.
Their world judged, cast away,
Eight souls embark earth's sod
flooded with emptiness...
masterminds for their God
Grasp gone, An arc appears - the rainbow,
revered symbol shaped by God himself.
His promise: earth will not undergo
a second deluge over the top.
Seedtime / harvest and summer / winter
cold / heat and day / night will never stop.
So, how do we adapt in this place?
Only one choice for these eight souls - trust
rainbow's gold / glorious gift / God's grace.
July 7, 2021
form: Tesla 3-6-9 poem
In the hollowness of the desolate wasteland
a sun-burnt solitary tree languished for a long while,
cast nonetheless on the parched crumbled ground
a sensuous shadow shaping my secret lonesome sanctum.
A crystal path I’d built to the realm of retreated longing
along the contorted contours of disguised desires.
There the roses blooming amidst the spiculed cactus
allured me alongside the mirage to the oasis of reverie.
In the motif of the morphed vision of my unclosed eyes
the lanced landscape turned into the garden of paradise.
The fleet of sailing clouds captured colors of horizon’s pallet,
the southern breeze whispered the seducing tune of twilight.
Like an angel you came floating on the flair of stardust,
radiant in amorous glow of silvery embrace of moonshine.
You lifted the shroud of secrecy, entered my hidden abode
where I dreamed the magical dream, I was the crescent moon.
The transient flame of the desire trajectory of moonbeam
furrowed in my mind a blazing trail of yearning,
I wished I could make it the track of the spurting star,
even if it was fleeting like the fading flicker of your love.
I drifted onto the forlorn edge of the lonely night,
saw you become a squirting star in my dreaming sky,
sparkled for a while and disappeared into nothingness,
and that’s when I felt in desolation I didn’t dream enough.
If I am given now the ability to travel back in time
and get the power to change what had come about,
I would dream amply to be the full moon till the time
I turned the dream into reality, using my mystic power.
It was our pride and joy, that boat...our prize.
We'd sail to Key West every year in fall,
After summer downpours left the noon.
We made our pact there as we both had suffered
from the plague ungluing all our lives.
Now, I'm here next to his pallid body -
pale blue masque on, jaw aslack, grotesque.
He made the leap; he had escaped, was gone
Upon a journey I could not attend.
He left me all alone to to sail solo.
Yet, he was captain and I his lowly mate.
Who would pull the spinnaker to catch the breeze?
Or talk with me as a person, unaffected?
Now, I was all alone just cast upon the water...
I sold that boat...