Long Column Poems
Long Column Poems. Below are the most popular long Column by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Column poems by poem length and keyword.
The Phoenix Column was invented
And patented in 1862 by Samuel Reeves,
Vice President of Phoenix Iron Works.
It consisted of sections of rolled,
Flanged wrought iron, riveted together,
Creating a hollow structural column
That was lightweight, but strong.
It enabled the Phoenix Bridge Company,
An affiliate of Phoenix Iron Works,
To design structures that set world records
For vertical height and distance spanned.
They built Phoenix Column bridges, trestles, and such
All over the United States and all over the world.
Until the day they didn’t anymore.
Eventually, everything changes.
The Phoenix column was made obsolete
By the steel I-beam, which is easier,
And cheaper to manufacture.
Foreign competition took its toll.
Phoenix Bridge Company and Phoenix Iron Works
Both went out of business.
Condos now fill the space where
The open hearths and rolling mills once stood.
But the history remains.
And I consider the fact, with no small sense of irony,
That I compare myself to a Phoenix Column.
I'm lightweight and strong, but hollow inside,
And well along to being obsolete.
Hope I'm not putting a big hex on myself
But till now I've had no serious medical problems
Don't know how many can say that at eighty-seventy
But you can place me in the “fortunate” column
Haven't done anything out of the ordinary
Thinking maybe I've inherited some very good genes
My whole family before me all lived to a ripe old age
So what's this guy... a can of baked beans!
Seven sisters all lived longer than eighty
A pattern seems to have been established here
Don't want to break the spell or cause any problems
I'll just motor along and have another beer
Don't think I'd like to be around at one hundred
Soiling my jockeys and mumbling away
Just wheel me out to the back veranda in the sun
And forget me for a couple of days
So, from birth we’re taught to aim high.
Not the height of the garden fence, the side wall, the house but for the stars in the sky.
So, we’re indoctrinated to believe that the acquisition of power and wealth is the meaning of life!
Slaved to the pound all our working lives.
So, the new car, the new house, the new kitchen reflects our success in this ‘life’!
My shoes cost £800 pounds you know and they fit just alright.
The killer instinct in business is the gold medal that’s needed to survive!
What about kindness and compassion… oh, I’m sorry those the spreadsheet does not a column or row provide!
Work hard, work fast, work harder, work faster and work until you die.
Good luck if that’s you, but for me that’s just not a life.
Down in hell, that stronghold of sin.
strange things stir, but let me begin.
I'll get to the point. Some details I'll skimp.
I tell the tale of a mischievous imp.
Of two imps in fact, to be more precise.
If trouble occurs, it may occur twice.
If on earth bawling kids cause a terrible mess,
why should imps in Pandemonium do anything less?
The Devil at last said in a voice low and gruff.
'I can stand it no longer. Enough is enough.'
The Devil's secret agent went on a search
so as to place the imps in a suitable church.
'Lincoln cathedral will make an excellent choice'
said the wily demon with a whispering voice.
And so it was that the imps were sent packing,
a bagful of tricks and pranks never lacking.
At Matins and Vespers funny noises soon sounded,
pews, the lectern and even the high altar got pounded.
Such nasty smells could no incense repel.
In the belfry at midnight who tolled the bell?
Bad things increased, becoming day to day eerier,
till monks and nuns were slapped on the posterior.
The archbishop exclaimed 'Enough is enough.
Holy water must end all this devilish stuff.'
The church warden's face turned stony and solemn,
when he saw one of the imps perched on a column,
where he remains in full view to this very day
if to Lincoln cathedral a visit you pay.
There he squats, leg on knee all alone,
without any motion, now turned into stone.
The second imp sent a draught dank and chill
around the cathedral and, some say, does still.
?The air gently rises, I'm called, I'm called
"Spread now your wings, fly free, into the sky"
My wings impatient to ride the wind soaring
Softly call me to take the rising thermals
I spring away and fall before my wings
Gracefully open wide and strong
And bear my weight and break my fall
Spiral, around, around, rising on water
Driven air, rising from plunging water
Gravity fuelled, spring driven, seaward bound
It powers me up on wide spread wings.
I climb up, toward the vast blue sky
Lifted by the rising air column
I'm grace, perfection, control, ease
And above all master of the air
The ground recedes, the dry earth
Expands, stretches, and soon
Way above I fly because I can
Not because I must but
Because I am lord of all I survey.
Islam Burning
In deep purple flame
Stapled to the cross
While the peasants yell below
Demon demon demon
Black flags rise
Hearts fail to beat
Humanity has lost this score
The axe swings in the air
Freedom at last
From Islam’s beasts
My head tumbles into the dust
I am now an icon of the history I so loved
I am Khalid al-Asaad
Your humble servant of antiquity
Aug 19, 2015
In memory of Khalid al-Assad murdered by Islamic cowards.
Islamic State militants beheaded a renowned antiquities scholar in the ancient Syrian city of Palmyra and hung his mutilated body on a column in a main square of the historic site because he apparently refused to reveal where valuable artefacts had been moved for safekeeping.
According to Syrian state news agency Sana and the UK-based Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, Asaad was beheaded in front of dozens of people on Tuesday in a square outside the town’s museum. His body was then taken to Palmyra’s archaeological site and hung from one of the Roman columns.
“Al-Asaad was a treasure for Syria and the world,” his son-in-law, Khalil Hariri, told the Associated Press. “Why did they kill him? Their systematic campaign seeks to take us back into pre-history. But they will not succeed.”
Irelands capital Dublin, it's a beautiful city
Famous for its Guinness and Jameson's whiskey
The Temple bar area for music and the 'craic'
Many say on departing "one day I'll be back".
Molly Malone can be seen, with her wheelbarrow
In busy Grafton street that's so bustling and narrow
The silvery grey water's of the river Liffey
Flows right through the city and into the sea.
Busy O'Connell street with its giant spire
Had troubled times with the sound of gunfire
The spire now stands where Nelsons column stood
A reminder of British rule that's now gone for good.
The symbol of self rule the G.P.O. stands
So peaceful now all you hear is the bands
The Halfpenny bridge is a wonderful sight
Even more impressive when lit up at night.
So come on over to Dublin, do come and see
Do indulge yourself, with some Irish hospitality
When the time comes to leave after your stay
You'll promise yourself to comeback one day.
16 May 2018
From base of spine to medulla
And then rising up to vibrant crown
Dipping down to glistening single eye
Over front enlivening throat and heart
Before grazing navel and sacral centres
The magnetic energy loop splits us vertically
As the higher aspect of self propels body form
Positioned along the spinal column, hence hidden
And so we thus literally witness in-form consciousness
Moment to moment, all moments in flow of time entwined
Our soul transmutation thus assimilated, known to us alone
As our bliss drenched presence breathes gently in equanimity
24-December-2022
awareness begins cognitive action
then pauses midway, initial intent
our innate vibrancy gaining traction
simply cognisant of the life current
nodes within gently stir, boundaries blur
vaporised presence looks on in wonder
soma nectar flows, bliss throbs within purr
we sense in our heart, the soundless thunder
benign magnetic currents pervade form
spinal column alive from root to crown
ensconced in pulsations divine and warm
within the bliss stream, we willingly drown
delusion drops, as the false falls away
becoming a bliss mist, earth life a play
19-November-2021
On Sunday night, for years,
When it was time for us to eat,
We piled into the car to get
Some Chinese food, a treat.
My parents did the ordering
And mostly, they’d agree,
By choosing things from Column A
And also Column B.
The Family Dinner had those lists
But first we all had soup,
With crunchy noodles that in bowls
Of duck sauce we would scoop.
The next course would be egg rolls,
So more duck sauce we’d request
And following would be fried rice
And spare ribs to ingest.
My mom liked lobster Cantonese;
We also had chow mein
And never, in my memory,
Did anyone complain.
Some fortune cookies served with fruit
Would end our Sunday meal,
A far cry from home-cooking
But, to us, it seemed ideal.