Long Catastrophe Poems
Long Catastrophe Poems. Below are the most popular long Catastrophe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Catastrophe poems by poem length and keyword.
WE THE PEOPLE of the United States are the American Militia
We are the ultimate first responders
We confront the criminal, the weather event, the catastrophe
We as law abiding citizens own the Arms to save lives
While waiting for needed, professional first responders
We as American Militia may assist our professional
Law Enforcement Officers who confront
The challenges to life
With their lives
For our lives
We are eternally grateful and indebted to them:
OUR HEROS
In clamor continuum
noise navigates
decibel waves
beyond discernment
numbed,
voice of frenzy
feels the caress
of hushed calmness,
halcyon sentiments
sink slow
in solvent serenity
unexpressed
in remote recess
of mute mind,
fluidity swamps
sonic impulse
insensate.
Corrosive cacophony
finally ceases
compelled,
the unsaid composes
sonata of silence
echoed,
finds nascent niche
tranquil,
strikes reticent concord
sensuous
in concerto cord
of harmony,
vivacious voice rises
serenades
lilting lyric
unsung
in sanctum of silence.
Strident storm
spite spent,
stops consumed
on catastrophe
contrived,
sheathed placid
by stalled silence,
spreads
where it finds
muffled manifestations
smothered,
beguiled spring breeze
incites
taciturn emotions,
floral feeling
sprouts fragrance
in sanctuary of silence.
As ashen storm clouds brew above his head,
his furrowed brow denotes catastrophe.
The lash of his tongue like fire brings such dread
a broken heart is all she can foresee.
Heated anger joins the howl on winds misled,
a wild child of tantrum's misdirected decree,
his glacial heart disperses rocky scree.
As ashen storm clouds brew above his head.
Mother melts beneath his glare, few tears shed
for him to see, her child she's failed by degree.
Oh, all the signs of madness she'd misread,
his furrowed brow denotes catastrophe.
His wrath unleashed, now gone his kinder creed
though she still sees his arms widespread,
perhaps, a mother's love can intercede?
The lash of his tongue like fire brings such dread.
Unless his anger's dampened it may spread
destroying the bonds of sweet felicity,
if she can not hold on to love's thread
a broken heart is all she can foresee.
Son can't you see the sun high overhead
upon his cheek a tears falls silently,
with her arms outstretched his mother plead
and on her shoulder he rested sullenly,
as ashen storm clouds brew.
AABA/Bebop
------------------------
By:Bannock and
Montreal "Smoked" Meatez__
------------------------------------------
I think I just met my wife
it is just that simple
her smile her and devilish smirk
that pretty dimple
I think I just meet my wife
I can't believe I said it
it's probably cause I deserve this
I believe I just met my wife
We don't need no catastrophe
we don't need no havoc
our emotional behavior iss fine
please don't try to change my mind
no were not desperate
no revenge or that what they get
we are just a perfect fit
we belong together
I think I just met my husband
I am mature enough to know this
a real expectation
I know what I'm saying
I just met my husband
and I want the world to know
the prevalent issue in marriage
me with the baby carriage
I know what I am saying
I believe I just met my husband
We don't need any naysayers
habitually negative and critical
nothing polished or political
some clown using words that'll
significantly impact relationship
aint no journey or adventure
or someone tryna find words that fit ya
We like it when it's
me for him and him for me
aint no words that
indicate something different
the harmony is smooth
and the melody is suffenant
grooving through us too is coeffeint
more onever the less
thats the difference
I belive I just found the one for me
On threads of wispy air,
in breathy undertones of political wind,
I can hear the quiet catastrophe,
the quiet ruination of our commonwealth.
I can hear the sleepy madness, turned avalanche
between my ears.
I can hear the quiet catastrophe,
the whispered words of terrorists,
guttural phrases taunted as political incorrectness,
flaunted vacuous nihilism fomenting insurrectionism,
the quiet convulsion of our self-rule.
I can hear the sullen invocation, turned torrent
within my mental models.
On threads of wary air,
in stealthily vengeful murmurs of pretenders,
I can hear the casual, softly spoken demise of justice,
the grim sabotage of governance by principle,
and with it,
the slow dripping blood of all those who died,
all those long forgotten.
The fading ink on parchments spelled out ideals
never attained or practiced in a nation’s history of enslavement
and genocide.
Yet can the people’s ambit even begin without the
enshrinement of these principles for all?
I can hear the quiet catastrophe,
the reckless, feckless conmen concocting hallucinogens.
Conspiracy contagions so easily playing upon, confirming
the jaundiced eyes, so easily validating the invectives of the addicted.
On threads of wispy air,
in breathy undertones of political wind,
I can hear the quiet catastrophe.
Are you listening?
They brought me the child
long before he became a man feared for his deadly silence.
He sat at the edge of the chair
like the edge of the world itself,
watching fingers twitch,
watching mouths bend into counterfeit smiles,
watching fathers slam doors
two seconds before the storm arrived.
The others called us “too sensitive.”
But sensitivity is merely pattern recognition
without anesthesia.
He learned early
that love could arrive holding flowers
and leave carrying a weapon.
That footsteps in hallways
forecast weather better than television.
That a tightening jaw,
a shifted glance,
a laugh half a second too sharp
could predict catastrophe
with mathematical precision.
So the nervous system adapted.
Not badly.
Brilliantly.
The brain became a lighthouse
spinning across black water,
searching endlessly for wreckage.
And eventually
the search itself
became the illness.
Because when humans survive enough fires,
they begin smelling smoke
inside rainstorms.
They read danger into pauses,
betrayal into fatigue,
violence into ordinary human clumsiness.
The amygdala, overworked old sentinel,
no longer distinguishes
between a wolf
and the vigilant rabid memory of one.
This is how extremes are born.
Not from madness—
but from repetition.
A person cornered too many times
stops living in the center of the room.
One memorizes exits.
Studies eyes.
Measures tone.
Dissects every syllable
like a bomb technician clipping wires.
And the tragedy—
the terrible, clinical tragedy—
is that that child is often correct.
Just not always.
But “not always”
is where relationships come to die.
Because eventually
the loved one says:
“You think everything is an attack.”
And the wounded mind whispers back:
“No.
Only the things that look exactly like the last one.”
In my profession
we give this elegant names:
Hypervigilance,
trauma response,
hostile attribution bias.
But beneath the textbooks
it is merely this:
A human being
who learned survival then fare well.
COVID-19, like a snare
A hidden trap
Which catches its prey
Each and every way
COVID-19, like a wildfire
Consumes in every way
Spreads quickly every day
Dry and woody land
Furiously spreading like sand
COVID-19, a disaster it stands
A natural catastrophe inland
Causes great damage
As it goes
COVID-19, virulent
Extreme severe
Harmful in its effects
Bitterly hostile to the touch
Hard to describe
COVID-19, viciously
Deliberately cruel
Unable to control or endure
But God, deliverer uncovered its snare
If you dare to have courage
to trust His care
COVID-19, broken from its cover
Delivered from its snare
The touch it spreads
God’s Love its care
You can’t go over
You can’t go around
You can’t go under
You just have to go through
a deliverer its cure
God said, Listen!
I stand at your door knocking
If you hear My voice
And opens the door
I will come in
And dine with you
The deliverer of this disaster
Delivered from its snare.
Cant lift my eyes beyond half past seven anymore
Nay! I do not wish to see...
Past hyphens and inverted commas
Lies and more catastrophe
Ambidextrous clock with appalling brevity
The second hand throws away society
Caught on the hook of an apostrophe
Hit and run humanity
With what shall I beseech thee?
Amix with soot and grime am I today
I painted me....! I mascara'd me!
Not this... warpaint for smudges
A discard of society
Sunk in dank mediocrity
Left to dream on the periphery
Sacked and sold with all their niceties
And pensioned off into obscurity
Cascading through the fingers of our hands
Groans the running Namib sands
Camel plods along ignoring facts
Dali's clock is molten wax - a mystery
Certain as Terrabyte and Megabitten memory
Omits to call- forgets to visit me
Barely weeks of seven of the orgy
Space crash of 117 people in a Bellview
Tragedy came knocking
This time harder with anger to
Ginger blood off its hunger
Unto the street of heaven came the commotion
On the Flyers descendant to the open
Field in the Rivers of Port-Harcourt
Emerge the Sosoliso Tsunami
Sixty future seeds of the Nation with
Fourty eight others including the Woman of God
Who churn out words for the Bachelors and Spinsters
Burnt into ashes as the Flyer caught fire with power
Before their very eyes they got burnt with
The Sosoliso bird of 1145 providing the
Shield to which the fire fired in Port-Harcourt
Parents of the future seeds of Ignatius Loyola Jesuit
Were garbed with the toga of helplessness
Other loved ones waiting at the open field
To receive them, had the cap of loneliness on
But for one survivor they had all perished
Burnt for their Negligence
Burnt for their palpable Levity
Burnt for their Greediness
To whom shall we point accusing
Finger of Sosoliso Tsunami?
Unto whose neck shall we hang
The blood of the Innocent lives of Bellview 117?
Unto whose head shall we heap all these
Garbage of calamity and catastrophe?
Who shall replace the three shinning
Future seeds of the Ilabor family?
Unto them that sold the People’s
Fliers for surplus value
Unto them at the top of the Rock
Who loot and siphon cowries meant for the People
Unto them I say ,Unto those who shirks their
Responsibilities and hang it on Private mediocres
Unto them whose insidious desire is to sell
Our land and the inhabitants
Unto them whose long throats and wicked eyes
Is driven only by profit
Unto them all who shall be burnt into
Ashes of Filthy history and memories
Alayande Stephen .T
14th of December,2005
11.23pm
For Victims of Bellview 117 and Sosoliso 108
Those that Nigerian Government sent on a
Mission impossible on air for their negligence
And looting galore in the Aviation Industry
Form:
With women the heart argues, not the mind.
MATTHEW ARNOLD, Merope
1. The stand of old growth Melalucas, graces the lowlands of our farm.
For over fifty years, accumulations of leaves have formed small soft islands.
“With selective clearing,” my husband says, "larger areas of grassland will grow.
More grazing for the cows and less hay we’d need to buy in Winter."
Inwardly, I lament, not wanting to lose the beauty of these trees
with branches that rise like huge broccoli bunches against bright blue skies.
My husband, much harder, by necessity, over-rules my sentiments.
2. Conveniently, earth-moving machines appear early on the first day
of the New Year. They cut a long swathe
but on the dam are left a large row, marked by me,
for sanctuary.
They cast reflections on the still water.
3. The felled trees are piled into rough heaps. Prophetically, the car
of the Inspector for Primary Industries appears.
“You must know, these are protected trees.”
He asks for permits (not granted) and orders a ‘cease and desist.’
His scowling looks are an indictment.
4. For months the operation was on hold
and, then the rains came and the floods—almost our undoing.
Flocks of water-birds occupied the flats, nesting on the islands
formed by the grassy hummocks. When these waters receded,
an overgrowth of young melalucas sprouted, where the old trees
had once stood. A network of roots underground had signaled
a catastrophe. New nodes erupted along all the root-ways.
Dumbly they announced their guardianship of the swampy land.
“Give us back to time,” they said , but the un-relenting slasher
leveled them again, so grass could grow.
5. I go back into my house now, secretly pleased the trees are speaking.
The topaz flames from the fireplace, warm my bones.
The hoary frosts have come. The envelope containing the D P I’s
decision waits on the mantel shelf, propped by a row of grazing, ceramic cows.
From the window I see our cows enter between the Melalucas.
They graze on the new growth pasture.
I warm my hands, as the flames lick firewood.
The scent from Melaluca smoke haunts me.
Suzanne Delaney
365 words