Long Contagion Poems
Long Contagion Poems. Below are the most popular long Contagion by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Contagion poems by poem length and keyword.
In amongst the burning trees
Stood a creature still as breeze
In its eyes burned a fire
Its contagion was its strange attire.
There about its godly perch
I lost all senses as it chirped
its vessel bore the marks of greed
Its beak inscribed a slave's decree
And when it suddenly spoke to me
My heart came empty, skipped a beat
For shock was not the words there spoken
But of its tone and raw emotion
There I listened to its pain
How man had made it feel disgrace
Instead of healing or pain erase
Was forced to bid man's selfish gain
And as Lady Star drifted away
so to the phoenix burst into flames
Carnage in a cloud of ashes
Memories left were subtly passive
Was I to quiet my soul to sleep!
Pretend next lifetime explores peace
These thoughts left me in shock of dread
that all things living must grovel and beg.
Loved by the many within their own state,
Loathed by the few who agitate from the gate.
A pattern repeated, a tale overplayed,
A judgement delivered before facts are weighed.
To the in-state, a father – steadfast and wise,
To the out-state, a tyrant in disguise.
A chronic affliction the Middle East knows,
A fever that silently festers and grows,
A contagion now Africa silently grows.
From Iran to Yemen, where old embers flame,
Through Libya to Uganda – the script stays the same.
From Burkina Faso and others whose names fill the scroll,
Branded rebellious by powers that patrol.
To more nations yet named in the fray,
Rebellious, dangerous – so headlines will say.
Declared by the US with sanctioning tone,
Echoed by the UN from its towering throne.
And others who gather where verdicts are spun,
Crowning a villain when politics is done.
Condemned in chambers where distant flags fly,
While praised at home beneath their own sky.
Rest in Peace: Ali Khamenei, Muammar Gaddafi and many others.
No ... there would be no happy end to this story ...
No shining horizon or shimmering visions of tomorrow,
No joyous rhapsody of angels to greet us at the end of THIS tunnel.
The Big Apple was behind us now, fallen to the horrors of the epidemic ...
A gestation period of merely thirty seconds,
Which meant half the globe - half of humanity -
Could be firmly in its grip within 48 hours ...
Just two days! (And that was an optimistic estimate).
I worked for the CDC, but was on vacation with my family ...
My wife, two daughters, one son,
In Manhattan to see "Hamilton" on Broadway.
We were headed back to The Plaza when it happened -
When the first infected folks started to turn.
Whatever it was, it increased metabolism in the host,
As though giving people super powers,
Making them faster, stronger, more erratic, more deadly ...
One bite to the skin, and within half a minute, the person would change ...
Transform, into these ... monsters, crazy eyes and gnashing teeth,
With only one drive and purpose - to bite flesh and spread contagion,
(And the possibilities of mutations were nearly fathomless).
Nature always protects itself ... always finds a way,
And diseases and microorganisms are PART of nature.
Like good bacteria, viruses seek out highly beneficial environments,
And this one had selected the most deadly and formidable of hosts - humans.
On the other end of this long tunnel under the Hudson, was New Jersey ...
We were headed south to Atlanta and CDC headquarters,
But that was an eternity from where we were,
With untold dangers and obstacles ahead,
And in the midst of this horrifying and virulent plague.
The tunnel was empty, thankfully, and dark,
But with a tension-filled quietus that seemed ready to explode.
Our one blessing? It was very early Sunday morning,
And there was little traffic on the highway.
Still, there would be surprises coming, we knew not what ...
Surprises and trials, at the end of this long underpass AND beyond.
We could see the light of the entrance as it drew closer,
We could envision the stress and danger, and feel the cold breath ...
Of doom approaching.
~ 4th Place ~ in the "Tunnel Vision" Poetry Contest, Kai Michael Neumann, Sponsor.
I have too much sense to have too much sense
or should as enough sense is enough sense,
quite enough perforce because the strings
of pure logic invite a wide
and open-hearted composition,
or always should as common sense to excess
could mean a lack of comic mirth
which is really quite inane because
our periodic folly,
mine and indeed the world around us
as human beings, adds lustre to one’s life
and the lives of others we encounter on and off.
One's frequent social circle notwithstanding
Those little eccentricities that stray into the
luscious meadows of magic mishap that spread joy,
that most magnificent contagion,
the universal crying requisite whose absence
connotes a risible dull void.
Posted ; 12th May 2022
I have watched tree-giants
in deep forest-cathedrals
declare glory, speak of heaven
in sanctuaries where birds rejoice
between branches
under leafy-windows
– green and gold.
I have seen where roots
pierce stone.
Then, glazed December
cracked. Empty
summer storms
thundered,
stabbed lightning
straight through giant-hearts
to the dirt floor.
Fire:
raging fever, contagion,
pain, death, loss,
ashes.
And afterwards,
the once-burnt feet of a lone koala,
a soothed survivor,
were clinging anew to the arm
of a tree, waiting
for more disaster.
We heard the next thing coming
on the weather-report
and put the bikes in the shed.
Here it is!
One cloud, like a fist,
hits hard. Leather-dry-sky
splits into a dark stampede.
Invading gales
rip bones from trees,
pelt rain at dust,
dust that leaps up,
surprised to fall as mud,
mud that tumbles, twists
into bubbling brown
creeks, rivers, dams;
overspills,
smothers,
kills fire,
drowns.
It’s all been on my screen,
along with the newborn grandchild
un-kissed.
When will I tip-toe
to see new growth
on the charred forest giants,
hear loud cicadas chant,
and celebrate – singing
with lorikeet lunatics,
and a first kiss?
Sill dressed in beauty -
this weary world patiently waits
for the next.
................................................
Written after 2019/2020 'Black Summer' bushfires and floods, and Covid related news and lockdowns.
I grope gossips
and chamois if chargrin
and sense like there is forlorn
and there is gruff and chide
oh! if love be a centre
of human life and existence
why call for cracks and grudges?
why profane like a night waves?
can it behold to make excuses?
to haunt and hallow ever?
what contagion is a nightmare contempt?
what conspiracy and blue contest?
what went wrong last blue?
or could it be a factor of woe or foe?
or still it be contemporary air to so rely?
to seize and hold , ay! to damage?
oh! Broker tell me when love
has tis become flame?
that thou is blind to reason
at least to answer imagination
suppose there is a trick
like there is a supposition
suppose there is false
and implication to act
now, tell me the leaving
the unimpaired or the unsuspected for get
thanks be to process of law
for it could never allow
supposed
so is a problem of a
poised.
IN A NOWHERE LAND
I feel like a crazy, mad woman,
chafed and losing my patience.
Feeling so bad, ready to explode
or needing desperately to explore
and get lost to point of no return
or to find a nowhere land.
The nowhere land that is hard to find.
The land where there is humanity
with humaneness, benevolence.
And there is togetherness and unity.
I want to be a nowhere woman,
in a mystical or nowhere land,
living and wandering like a nomad,
a gypsy, a rolling stone, a vagabond,
where I don’t have to witness the divide,
and the selfishness of humankind.
When is this troubled time going to end?
This point of time full of unrest, discontent.
Ongoing protests on multiple causes,
opportunists trashing businesses,
looting, stealing, damaging properties,
the law enforcements’ brutality
and now the deployments of federal
forces to deal with ongoing protests.
There is also ongoing uncertainty.
The contagion with it’s sweeping upturn
with no sign of slowing down or downturn.
Everything around is so out of control
with unmasked people walking around,
group gatherings and no respect of others.
Life just goes on with no direction,
it appears fuzzy with no explanation.
You cannot even go down the bend
without feeling exposed or guarded.
Days, months passed by and gone,
like they were snatched, taken or stolen
without a trace, like we are in a trance.
Life goes on; but missing any substance
like no importance to remember or embrace.
No color, without depth, meaningless.
I yearn for all the things I used to do,
I long for my freedom to just go,
I miss the friends I used to see regularly,
I’m longing for the fire and feeling zesty
that dancing with gusto brings me.
I miss the poetry readings that move me.
I want to be a nowhere woman
in a mystical or nowhere land,
a land free of the chaos going on,
a land untouched by the contagion,
living and wandering like a nomad,
a nomadic, free-spirited woman,
safe and at peace.
8/31/20 Completely Your Choice Brian Strand
any form any theme
judged on 9/1/20, received N/A
9/28/20 N-A Re-Run 11 Poetry Contest John Hamilton
There was an orange tanned douchebag called Trump
Playing hero on a bicycle pump
When inflating his Ego
Before sorting the Lego
The great wall crushed with a flatulent thump
London BoJo called Muslims a post box
Surely they spread contagion and small pox
We must rule the waves
Or else we'll be slaves
In isolation stranded on dry docks
Blame it on Putin and that Xi Jingpin
Produce a fake red yellow catarrh spin
Those bastards won't mind
Just one of a kind
Virus Vodka in a chop suey tin
Mexicans count their left over last grace
With Europe a mere historical phase
China meets Russia
As fake news' crusher
Xenophobes leave their vile virulent taste
Poets scribe of idiots in power
Just ink on sheets no Ivory Tower
Peace from a kind pen
Once more and again
United in truth and scripted power
05th April 2020
Imparting wisdom which is dumb but isn’t
obvious once it’s within your vision
though something before you had always been missing
You were young once, sexy and thin
but as you grow older the biggest you’ve been
it didn’t matter when the mirror did flatter
now you don’t recognise the old man getting fatter
parts hanging lower and not ones that matter
a contagion of flaps that evenly scatter
And it’s a cliche but you understand more
wishing you knew what you know now before
but you don’t dilly dally no flip and no flap
doing what you didn’t even though you look ca-rap
Age may do less while knowing much more
without all that judgement you’re not insecure
yet age doesn’t last it must stop and snore
but if you adjust life’s better than before
Across the daily bridge I stoop,
to gaze upon the world,
always with the option overhead,
two faces of the same mint,
or just as likely liquid mirror,
in the very widest sense,
but such ad hoc aspects wanting,
further clarity as time unfolds,
ripple of the passing current,
flutter from a proud human voice,
stir in the second musings,
the sort that flit erratically,
with side to side dawn chanson,
Am I lost to early groundswell?
when observing without ruse,
at the recess of each bend,
as I journey through the morn,
with that omniscient perk,
one hailed as living wonder,
which far too few revel in,
despite its spectrum burst,
those clouds of energy,
magically arouse contagion boundless,
catchment hub without a catch,
spiral vim catcher taking hold,
keep that thought circulating,
hold that second, clutch that minute,
grasp the hour, stake your day,
season doesn’t matter at this point,
exhilarated cluster like a roundabout,
whirring, spinning, care free,
vortex, suction cup, tantaliser,
ample flourish latest vocal trend,
inhibition, tight restraint, closed lip,
inapt, not welcome, not here,
if only life zest would prevail,
magnet for enthusiast of whom,
the myriads exalt subliminally,
I swear an oath to cosmos,
unswerving in my fervor