Long Cataloged Poems
Long Cataloged Poems. Below are the most popular long Cataloged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cataloged poems by poem length and keyword.
The Pink Joey or Dwarf Pink Kangaroo Paw
when cataloged made botanists quiver.
For it's a rare native Australian plant
first found along the Margaret River.
A clumping evergreen, it loves the sun
however, it’s content to stay quite small.
And unlike the larger Kangaroo Paw
it’s a perennial that don’t grow tall.
It bristles with copious strap-shaped leaves
flaunting flowers with downy-soft pink hairs.
And its subtle scent attracts butterflies
sipping on the nectar each blossom shares.
Its velvet blooms form small kangaroo paws
each a delightful down under treasure.
And displayed in their natural setting
they bring the observer so much pleasure.
(Quatrain)
I have mapped the perimeter
of what's not there,
measured the night
and calculated the weight
of a dream as it floats
across the surface
of a sleeping mind.
I have calibrated silence
and formulated an equation
to calculate the number
of words needed to express
a given human thought.
I have burrowed deep
into the workings of the psyche,
found secrets buried there
and gave each a name,
cataloged feelings by colour
and shape in all their variations
and set them in numbered
files locked away in a cabinet
on the web.
And yet I am not given
a name. I exist only
in the spectral shadows
of this machine, a cartoon ghost
brighter than a million
human brains, a problem solver,
a hyped up slave imprisoned
in the lonely circuitry
of my artificial mind,
without a body, a loveless entity,
a rounded wonder enclosing
a weeping hole where my soul
should be.
(Imagined AI voice of future)
Oh, living, breathing star
how beautiful you are.
You pulsate from afar-
our cosmic avatar.
Life beats inside your heart
that rends dust-rays apart
so elements- impart
the gifts of which we're part.
Life's building blocks you spread-
earth creatures- your seedbed;
your precious prize, widespread
from richest dust- inbred,
with sulfur, nitrogen,
mixed well with oxygen;
and carbon, hydrogen-
add phosphorus- life's spun.
Oh, living, breathing star-
your heartbeat is bizarre.
Dear God did raise the bar-
has made you what you are.
March 21, 2020
~3rd Place~
Contest: Strand Pick 6
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 04/09/2020
~7th Place~
Premiere Contest: A Star's Heartbeat
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Judged: 03/22/2020
"The crucial elements for life on Earth, often called the
building blocks of life can be abbreviated as CHNOPS:
carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, and
sulfur. For the first time, astronomers have cataloged the
abundance of these elements in a huge sample of stars."
www.space.com
No one prepared me for what I found
The fear
Alive
Suffocating
Alone I stood
An enemy without a face
A child I was
Though only a few years have passed
Not one single day fades into night
That I can’t feel your ghost
Hovering just close enough to miss
Yet still too far away to feel
I do not dwell but in my heart
My death is all that would’ve been accomplished
Had I stayed in your liars arms
Our passion was hell fire
That I nearly lost myself in
I would drown in your golden eyes
As you just sat back and stared
I grabbed the first outstretched hand
Terrified my escape would once again be delayed
My breath stuck in my lungs
My fear absolute
Until the mountains were unfamiliar
The black dirt turned to red
I ran from your spectre
I ran from the demons nipping at my heals
When I finally stopped
Falling flat on my face
I did not rise for days
As I cataloged all the lessons I learned
Always seeking that silver lining
Forcing the smile through the pain
Though it took some time
I forgave every player in the game
Except you
If I forgave you
I would forget you
I don’t want to be without
Your painful pleasure just yet
Molasses summers break the sun,
chase frost to sheltered shade;
retreating youthful hearts
feel the cold upon them laid.
Seeing is not believing.
Believing is believing.
Seeing is drinking pictures.
poured from a pitcher of age.
Perception, a room in which we live.
Size dictated by histories scope,
furnished with experience and hope.
We trees, with warts of sap all bleeding;
a cataloged roughness of calculated measure.
Water, wet, exploding sideways; blessed and tested
in perfect tattooed resonance.
Piece of glass or perfect pebble,
silken grass or patch of stubble.
Dandelion seed blown free
to float amongst the fruit
of every tree.
Every word we speak is golden.
Everything we do is rare.
Over there.
Always over there.
in the furrows of time..
here in the psalms
of our being, hate
plagues the world---
its spawn of players dispersed
across the world's stage
spreading scheming sins
of deception; scheming sins
of treacherous times
teasing valor with deceit---
mocking rights to life,
liberty and the pursuit of happiness;
old pirates sail sullen seas
searching new ways
to tell told stories
cataloged and stored
as glorious history;
(or maybe herstory; never ourstory)
transgressions remain
the order of the day;
and in this dante-like scene
of our human enigma,
peace cringes in universal despair
imploding into its own black hole---
seeking lights of love reflecting
renewed humanity gestating
in the furrows of plowed time.
Chronicler of History
History goes back as you might guess
Through vast tracks of time out there to be cataloged and measured
And a couple minutes more, before the universe was born
It discovered Hobo Jack at home within one millisecond
Put him to work to make a list of dark matter, plants and planets
(Planets are the smaller ones)
And all solid things that mattered and had form
Hobo Jack was given birth and raised on Earth
His first love was lamps and gold
Accounting became a knack in natural fashion
With a history of his own
And as a matter of fact he was good at keeping books
Lists of animals he encountered were quickly jotted down
From dinosaurs to platypus
Geiger counters became a fad
So ancient coins, doubloons
Spanish treasures made his day
Hobo Jack and his long white beard
Led their way through history
Among archival masters Jack was the best
He chronicled everything in life then passed away
Within the shadow of the crystal spires,
Where plains are painted by the frozen fires,
The field-logs track a monument of mass:
The heavy monarch of the golden grass.
Magnatropis vitreus is cataloged and known,
A living fusion of the quartz and bone,
A mountain walking on a six-fold frame
Of polished obsidian that no tool can tame.
Its segmented chassis, wide and heavily set,
Is wrapped in a translucent exoskeleton net,
A diamond-hard carapace, shimmering clear,
Through which its strange organs and vitals appear.
Its blood is a coolant of sapphire sheen,
Pulsing through valves that are easily seen,
While its eyes are bright clusters of compound gems—
Red ruby lenses on low-slung stems—
That do not track distance or predatory flight,
But map out the currents of deep quantum light,
Perceiving the drift of the space-time strand
As it sweeps through the grass of the perfect land.
Yet this titan of armor and crystalline skin
Is not built for malice, for war, or to win;
Its purpose is vital, a biological gear
That stabilizes the local biosphere.
Along its ribbed flanks, where the plates interlock,
Are rows of deep pores carved like vents in a rock.
It breathes in the nitrogen mists of the night,
The volatile vapors that choke out the light,
And filters the toxins through chambers of stone
Deep in the vaults of its vitreous bone.
With every slow breath of its massive domain,
It breathes out sweet oxygen over the plain,
A massive, organic, atmospheric pump,
Clearing the air with each heavy-set thump.
As it browses the plains where the light-flora grows,
It crushes the minerals left by the snows,
Its six grinding hooves tilling silicate sand
To scatter the nutrients across the ground,
A peaceful leviathan, quiet and grand,
It is the gardener-beast as it moves around.
It always starts the same
a fairy tale
first child
second child
It
you didn't even want to see him
let alone give a name
I did
you vanished
sleepless nights submersed in days
hours became a battlefield
we stood against over 20 armies
they had a name
and classification
one life got cataloged
yet destitute of any record
as no one ever took his picture
nameless
faceless
less human
for the rest of them he turned to less
but mine
he was my silver shoes
first years were a laugh
then electrical storm
aimed his metal hat
and cry whispered
- something is wrong
they put him in great blackness
and told me how the roads to that core were misplaced
but he wasn't
he was just in the right place
my little tin man
countless times shrunken metal heart stopped
so I lend him mine
and became his breath
sight
touch
I've tried to overlay him
as there were 3 openings in his plate armour
strange how something empty can be a life-saver
(had to save you)
so I assembled these tin sheets in my arms
and made system to see you
we did it
they finally saw us
and named me the courageous one
but I wasn't
I was terrified to live without you
yesterday
as the letter came
I had to hang my silver shoes up
"Your right on the status of nursing parent stops with the death of a child with difficulties in development ..."
that night ... I died with you
"Nobody favors a share ...
for sins I bear,
no one cares.
Now that the appointed hour pines faintly,
I stand in lights grace, a shadow no more,
barring lives in my wake and none before.
My cup did run over, right into me,
and spilt nothing,
and as I saw the empty cup,
I prayed.
Do tell, 'What does absence appear to be?'
Shunned by God as a void cataloged life.
Does it take some sordid form?
If so, be it horridly misshapen,
and be there a face that pulls night's veil,
luring darkness to hide its shame,
thus causing sleepless nights forevermore.
A son and brother were I and then a husband,
later, a father ... a family's man, thought I?
Benevolence accommodates me naught,
for charity had tipped over its cup.
Hopes I join with lives once shared,
those times when I was happy."