Long Count Poems
Long Count Poems. Below are the most popular long Count by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Count poems by poem length and keyword.
waterfall from skies compete with my thoughts
must be doing something else,
yet here I am,
Here. I am.
Again.
Why do I keep coming back here?!?
A mental shake,
as I chastise myself
I shouldn't be here, don't belong here anymore.
Most likely, I never did, just pushed myself in this place.
But I feel like a homing pigeon,
where this is the only place I know
that I can be and not be.
Where I can hide and expose myself at the same time.
With repercussions? Maybe.
I sit in my own corner and immerse myself
in the chatter, the laughter, and other matters
Nobody really notices me,
but that's ok.
I'm getting used to it.
I guess I keep coming back here
for that sense of familiarity, of a somewhat home,
for the memories.
Of myself in happier times,
of a chapter in my life that I have written
yet somehow botched up. Badly, so badly
that the words are all swimming in their own tears
Oozing ink, drowning.
But it shouldn't surprise me anymore?
This is me?
Of course I will always somehow manage to mess things up.
Some ways more than the others,
'my-esque' askewness
For some, that chapter in my life
is of course negligible. An erasable footnote perhaps?
It hurts, but we all have our own worlds,
where you may not be as important to others
as you thought, as you wanted to be.
There I went, pushing myself again,
only to be pushed away with a
thousand mile barrier of silence.
All along, being dust in that corner.
I gulp a bucket of tears,
because I will not deny it--
how much it hurts. Still.
But like what I say,
have to get used to it.
My hands are cold,
and I wipe snot from my nose,
a dainty trickle of snot, but snot nonetheless,
have had my snot-in-sheets phase,
so this is progress, that trickle.
1234, my clock says,
12345678910, I count to myself
collecting, breathing slowly
needles in my feet and shivering
Gosh, can I get any more pathetic?!
Yes, I have and I bet I will still be so.
No, this is not a pity-me thing,
more like a slap-myself thing
So I can look back, read this
and say to myself:
Others have it harder than you,
yet they stand,
I'm here sitting,
yet others stand.
...
the sky is still drumming the earth with water
and my eyes are threatening to do a duet. Again.
I chide myself, Enough now.
For my bags under my eyes are already so smooth, too deep
Too weathered and soaked for a year.
----> 'slap-myself thing', remember??
Remember.
In this time the cloth is unwoven, the threads laid bare.
Most of the dung removed, cleared, given no fare.
Massive steel plates hold back the uninvited from boarding the train.
Going and coming returning from far, how special the precious Saved Ones are!
Not as many by count, as expected to be, go only the accepted glorified in He.
The One by name Jesus Christ is He, by birth our Savior, God’s only Son.
The rapture has started transformation begun!
“Multitudes Missing” is what is said both of the living and of the dead.
Glory shone at the uniting above as Jesus ascended taking the Throne.
Angels and Saints at the table were there, celebrating the beginning
As promised by some, in the Book it is written the time has come.
To those uninvited still sinning below Tribulation unending they endure
Because death is not given for the unforgiven there is no cure.
Now that The Holy Spirit is gone replaced by the unholy one.
Three and one half years his reign will be before his anointment as
King of the land, then after another one half and three
From his throne he gathers his forces to make his stand.
In Jerusalem, after the Temple’s complete, is the place Armageddon has come.
Many the forces pressing the land foul and dirty sinners are they.
Angels from above sweet music they play, as their swords slash, many they slay.
The rest are all gathered sorted like sheep the wicked on the left and thrown into the deep
Where welcomed by him unholy for sure cured not forever burning in hell.
Be it certain, known for sure, Jesus has returned all hail the King.
For a thousand years he will reign all living forever no sickness or pain.
He is my God the only pure one born of a mortal, Spirit raised, God’s Son.
On the cross our sin debt He paid glory forever so easily gained
Not by good works impossible to do only in accepting as Savior, our Lord, King.
In living and doing such a small little thing why do so many risk certain despair?
Is it that we tangled in our lives, mundane as they are, have little care
For those less willing the truth to be know spread the message they must be shown!
Think now of forever the price they bear become an ambassador in Jesus’ name!
Hot is the pit with its flame burning bright engulfing a loved one what a terrible sight.
The time is at hand the cloth becoming bare; Jesus is the answer show you dare.
Goodnight my dear boy and what's that you say?
You want me to chase the bad monsters away?
Well, I'll tell you a tale that may just be true
And if it's made up, it is done just for you...
I know you're afraid of the dark and the gloom
When you lie wide awake all alone in your room
'Scardy cats prowl and their tattle-tales pester
Goose bumps may prickle and worry-warts fester
Shadow-ghosts creep up and crawl to your cover
You roll on your side but then you discover
The thump in your pillowcase whispers too loud
So here's what I've done and I know you'll be proud...
I've met with the monster man under your bed
He thinks you will find he is not much to dread
He just needs a friend and to know that you care
So if you reach down he'll shake hands from his lair
I've found where that boogie man hides in the wall
He's cramped and alone and he waits for your call
He believes you're convinced he is ugly and mean
And hold him to blame when you have a bad dream
Your monster man's fierce and has razor-sharp teeth
But he understands things that may stir underneath
Your boogie man knows what you don't want to find
And what's around corners and hidden behind...
They'd like to come out and tell you a story
(Perhaps something scary but nothing too gory)
Sit up and talk with them late into night
Come morning they'll gladly slip back out of sight
But at night they'll grow strong to protect like they should
To face down your fear and show evil what's good
Stand watch while you sleep, they will stay by their mark
If you wake you might catch their eyes glow in the dark...
It's then as you grow you may find you walk bolder
With two fearsome friends striding close by your shoulders
They'll go anyplace as a general rule
(But maybe you'd better not bring them to school)
If witches and dragons can streak through the sky
Then monsters and boogie men surely must fly!
At the edge of your sleep (when you just start to doze)
Whisper the password and wiggle your toes...
And they'll sweep you away to soar like a dove
Over the rooftops to heavens above!
Up into orbit to your own private place
High on a mountaintop floating in space
Sit back and relax with a satisfied grin
Laughing and singing as you watch the earth spin
Hum along while your boogie man growls a brave tune
Count stars while your monster man howls at the moon
life has it's ups and downs
it's highs and lows
with it comes a lot of crap
but what's most crappy?
Action speaks louder than words
now thats crap.
when you are in a mess
and four men are set to give you stress
only words can placate their vex.
To err is human, to forgive is divine.
iI know men that make it an habit to err
all their faults, in one day they bring to bare.
When they say sorry
you should be worrried
cos when your back is turned
your heart they shall surely burn.
Old wine tastes better
i have never heard a sillier chatter.
Give me bitters, ale or lager
whiskey, cognac, all even the better
inebriation the sole aim
whatever the taste am game.
Your vote is your voice, let it count.
I can't even be cynical on this
their's always count more.
The patient dog eats the fattest bone.
My ***** just had a litter
and with every litter their is a sickler
he was the grunt of the squealers
he never got to mama's breast on time
and with time he died
a bone, he never had to dine.
Dress the way you want to be addressed.
It was visiting day at the prisons
on came a nun brighter than the sun
pious in body and soul, her gait straighter than a pole
she left their third leg rigid
am not kidding.
Every disappointment is a blessing in disguise.
Now this is no lie
am still trying to figure out who was behind the mask
when i got robbed on pay day.
A stich in time saves nine
I love this line.
when you try to take what is mine
believe me it wont be fine
even when you run to the court and get a fine
I will cut you up to bits.
and the stiches wont be nine.
The pen is mightier than the sword
reader, the above is one hell of a crap word.
when am with my big gun
you better drop your pen, cower and run.
Every day is for the theif, one day is for the owner
this is a no brainer.
The governor embezzled our money and left
he got all the praises... you should know the rest.
Make hay while the sun shine's
this should shed some light.
it was Norway inthe middle of the night
when the morrow came, there was still no light.
Make hay while the sun shines
is one hell of a crap.
cos when it should be lihht,
the sun is never in sight.
Let sleeping dog lie
i tell you no lie.
When all your Mutt does is to sleep and eat
when burglars come in to take and keep
you let the ungrateful beast suffer a bit.
The morning soars with skylarks singing
o'er the greening meadow and the pliant pasture,
the ocean sighing, gulls aloft on wings of prayer.
A sudden shower would see me running
fancy free between the rain drops,
I cried 'Excelsior!' and set the hills alive;
I skittered, happy, crisp and clear,
like God's first measure of a holy hymn.
The air alive with songs of praise,
the gentle winds a sacred message,
His grand prescription like a dream
that streamed out from the pillows of the heavens.
I liked to wander by the sea shore
skipping stones, disobeying laws of gravity,
as a lamb on shaky legs and tumbled freely without care,
'til gasping, I would stop to catch my breath.
The halcyon days of youth came true,
when I would race forever 'neath the tawny sun,
bedaubed in Autumn's blood, the flame
a blend of hues the likes of which
would make a young boy doubly blind,
and lead him into kingdoms where the battlefields
would blister scarlet, happy times
that made me see my childhood clearly.
The weather turned again, and shanties
high atop the hillside loomed like castles drifting
in the sea-blown mist, the noise of boats,
their nets pulled, nudging at the jetty.
From the sand the village was a hazy spectre,
the chapel steeple peeking like Rapunzel's lair,
her hair a daydream falling soft,
O fanciful imagination!
I thought to when my mother took my hand.
We skipped the cobblestones and shopped for wishes,
toys which we could ill-afford;
a Batman cape, a red fire engine.
The lanes were thick with merchants and the joy of life,
haggling, chattering like crazy seabirds,
loud, and mouthing their wants and wares,
and then we wandered home exhausted.
I never lost my youthfulness,
my joy at seeing herons gloating, eagles floating
high on zephyr'd breezes free as spring;
hallowed times, in Jesus' presence.
I measure now my moments as the hours shift by,
thirty years and blissful, regrets are slight and few,
I count my blessings, feel content
that tribulation never came to bother me.
A birthday cake is waiting for me,
candles flicker, frosting beckons, hope eternal;
my wish the same, for peace on earth
to all men, greetings and goodwill!
I lie down in the close and holy quiet
while the village sleeps, and slips toward a new adventure,
safe in His keeping, perfect day
with promise of a bright tomorrow.
The morn's alive with skylarks singing
o'er the greening meadow and the pliant pasture,
the ocean sighing, gulls aloft on wings of prayer.
A sudden shower would see me running
fancy free between the rain drops,
I cried 'Excelsior!' and set the hills alive;
I skittered, happy, crisp and clear,
like God's first measure of a holy hymn.
The air alive with songs of praise,
the gentle winds a sacred message,
His grand prescription like a dream
that streamed out from the pillows of the heavens.
I liked to wander by the sea shore
skipping stones, disobeying laws of gravity,
as a lamb on shaky legs and tumbled freely without care,
'til gasping, I would stop to catch my breath.
The halcyon days of youth came true,
when I would race forever 'neath the tawny sun,
bedaubed in Autumn's blood, the flame
a blend of hues the likes of which
would make a young boy doubly blind,
and lead him into kingdoms where the battlefields
would blister scarlet, happy times
that made me see my childhood clearly.
The weather turned again, and shanties
high atop the hillside loomed like castles drifting
in the sea-blown mist, the noise of boats,
their nets pulled, nudging at the jetty.
From the sand the village was a hazy spectre,
the chapel steeple peeking like Rapunzel's lair,
her hair a daydream falling soft,
O fanciful imagination!
I thought to when my mother took my hand.
We skipped the cobblestones and shopped for wishes,
toys which we could ill-afford;
a Batman cape, a red fire engine.
The lanes were thick with merchants and the joy of life,
haggling, chattering like crazy seabirds loud,
and mouthing their wants and wares,
and then we wandered home exhausted.
I never lost my youthfulness,
my joy at seeing herons gloating, eagles floating
high on zephyr'd breezes free as spring;
hallowed times, in Jesus' presence.
I measure now my moments as the hours shift by,
thirty years and blissful, regrets are slight and few,
I count my blessings, feel content
that tribulation never came to bother me.
A birthday cake is waiting for me,
candles flicker, frosting beckons, hope eternal;
my wish the same, for peace on earth
to all men, greetings and goodwill!
I lie down in the close and holy quiet
while the village sleeps, and slips toward a new adventure,
safe in His keeping, perfect day
with promise of a bright tomorrow!
Karen Windle roughly on par...
with being a miniature poodle size dogsend
Apartment B44 one bedroom unit
at Highland Manor low income facility
housing older folks convenient starting point,
to launch poem and invite reader(s)
reason(s) without rhyme
why yours truly (me)
chose to express heartfelt gratitude
toward resident Karen Windle,
which named individual most likely unknown
across world wide web
(hmm... maybe methinks perchance
possibly ye did sound her out courtesy radar,
especially if thee dutiful patrol officer
generously handing out -
not necessarily) winning lottery tickets
within vicinity encompassing
University of Delaware.
We (myself and zee missus) inhabit
aforementioned single bedroom abode,
allows, enables and provides
convenient reference point
upon exiting our dime a dozen quarters
(housing near penniless occupants)
verily orient toward left of hallway,
no need to access global positioning satellite
leisurely amble short distance
just count three doors down on the left,
thee will espy name tag printed
small letters Karen Windle
her acquaintanceship we did kindle,
now greater value when measured with corn,
wheat, or other commodities
approximately equal to three bushels,
but varying in different regions.
Explanation whereby appreciation
toward Karen (spry firecracker, energetic,
diminutive, albeit frail looking gal)
materialized when series of unfortunate events
rendered me and mine spouse
without ready immediate access to automobile
near necessity within quaint enclave
identified as Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
affords absolute zero public transit,
hence necessity for chauffeur de jure arose,
whereby availability to shuttle us
found monetary compensation declined,
thus stymied intent regarding how I could
communicate sincere thankfulness
relieved when she would accept
poetic endeavor incorporating
best college try (mine) to alleviate
imposition if/when opportunity exists
to scrape meager money
and expect to sink a fortune
maintaining, insuring, fueling vehicle,
significant portion of social security (disability)
allocated to sustain reliability of car
dollar figure greater than buzzfeeding
caretaking, duties linkedin to
mental, physical, and spiritual health
concerning this aging baby boomer,
plus his counterpart approximately
previous couple dozen years.
You, me, seashore, one place, one earphone,
Coconut with two straws—one ice cream, two noses.
Cold winds, but your warmth wraps me whole,
Two souls in one sweater, hearts beating slow.
Sitting under the moon, watching him chase the clouds,
And that night, love, I realized how foolish I’ve been,
Calling you my moon in all my poems—
When he borrows his light, and you, you shine without a single shadow within.
Our legs sinking into the sand, always chasing the shore,
Waves kissing our toes as they meet once more.
I’ll show you the pictures—screenshots I took slowly,
Not the perfect ones, just the freaky, fuzzy shots where you’re you, wholly.
I lied when I said I was chasing butterflies in your hair,
You were between my legs, your spine pressed against my chest,
Wrapped in one jacket, sharing warmth, our breaths in sync.
The shore beneath us, waves whispering secrets at our feet.
I told you I was playing with a butterfly,
But really, I was setting your hair free from that clip that didn’t care.
I needed to feel your hair wild, untamed, falling like waves,
As it brushed against my face, soft strands dancing with the breeze,
Every lock sent chills down my spine,
Your scent filling the air, your hair wrapping around my fingers,
And the wind, like us, was making us one,
Your hair, in its messy perfection, said more than words could ever speak.
Your hair blowing, my eyes closing, breath aligning with the wind,
Like the universe itself was folding us together, as if it had planned it.
Let’s forget forever—just be with me tonight—
Until we count every star, holding on to each other tight.
No time, no crowd, just you and me, enough as we are,
I want to bury my ego in the sand, let it go,
In that moment, I’ll be mad, unfiltered,
The way I would be before my mother, no regrets left to show.
We’ll dream of a future, a life we’ve yet to write,
Maybe two passengers might join us—two little hands we’ll miss tonight.
And as our eyes grow heavy, as stars fade from the sky,
We’ll break the chains that hold us, love—eyes closed, we’ll fly.
Good morning, whenever we wake from that sleep so deep,
Now four hands and two rings—two hearts that forever keep.
The rest of the story, love, I’ll tell you in a language only we’ll know...
When we leave this seashore.
There is never an ending
to the spending
a world of paper
and plastic to collect
and horde
clothes
and cars
and homes
and jewelry
and fine wine
and paintings
stocks and bonds
vacations
and expectations
entire vocations
devoted to
disguising the numbers
the Caribbean masquerade
to volumes of recorded
purchases and voices
of invoices
making
discreet
choices
all
to extend
the accumulation
of dates
and names
places and faces
communications
and connections
at breakneck
speed
must fill the need
must fill the need
a shouting browbeating
broadband
handing over
fistfuls of cash
to make sure
make certain
only the best
the finest
the rarest
of air is not available
for
the underwater martyrs
the silent box dwellers
the empty bottle collectors
the wheelchair drifters
the SRO limbo sellers
the workers at
the bottom
of the
fast
food
chain
and the indigent gamblers
who line the halls
to knock on doors
of government departments
crippled by reckless
and corrupt state
administrations
choking the dwindling
sources
and resources
that have
nothing to do
but
count the days
and ways
to disappoint
disarm dismay
dispute the reputations
and applications
held in sweaty palms
eager
to begin living
to end the doubt
to end the not having
the counting of pennies
the slow heroin erosion
the unbroken hollowness
the whiskey-soaked
ravages of vacant histories
better-forgotten memories
of cold emergency rooms
to end being
in a world
apart
a world
of resentment
of fear and hate and anger
of dark empty streets
empty recriminations
empty promises
made to themselves
by themselves
harming themselves
or
arming themselves
to rob to steal
to maim
to take whatever they can
for as long as they can
to approximate
the wonder and magic
of having what you need
when you need it or want it
to not have to beg
to not have to humiliate
or be humiliated
to not have to watch
the ease of others
who have a casual
contempt for misfortune
and respect for nothing
but their own wealth
of deception
to breeze through
tall golden doors
to an unbroken string
of shiny bright todays
and tomorrows
to not have to
lunge for hope
and
never grasp it
in all ways
and forever
just out of
reach
Dear Reader,
Greetings! I hope you are having a wonderful day, or evening if you are just reading this.
No, really, from the depths of my soul, my spirit waves a double-handed "Hi!" to yours.
Come, bring your philosophical coffee cup or tea cup or cup of whatever your favorite
beverage is and sit beside me, across the e-ther. May I ask why you are reading this? You
want to read poetry, I understand, and this is not really poetry. Or is it? Could this
count as free verse? I would not call it a sonnet or a haiku, except in the loosest
possible definition, in the way that drawing outside of the lines can be a drawing and a
de Kooning painting consisting of a chunky orange paintstroke can be considered to depict
a woman. But what makes poetry poetry, or art art for that matter? The medium? The
observer? The intent? Surely Warhol's footage of people sleeping would never be considered
art except for the presence of the camera and the eventual distribution. A man sleeping
miles from a camera or canvas would not likely be considered art, so does the camera
serially produce art? Most people would not consider home movies to be art. So is art
merely a stamp that we all carry around in our frontal lobes? Is life a form of art
regardless of what we call it? In this day and age, in which all rules seem to be broken,
rewritten, broken again, stretched like an old t-shirt, ripped, worn as a new fashion, and
then broken again, have we evolved to the point where we see rules as artificial labels,
something outside our own world that no more exist than the square root of negative one?
Is this letter a poem in spite of itself? What do you think? We may never know for sure,
and if this entry gets deleted from the site, I suppose the answer is a thunderclap "No."
In fact, after thinking it through, I am fairly confident that this is actually not a
poem. These labels are an earnest attempt to creates links in the world, without which
this entire treatise would make no sense. What would Petrarch have thought? What would
Warhol have thought? Or Andy Kaufman? Either way, I guess this is probably not a poem. But
thank you for having read these thoughts of mine, swirling like pagan revelers around my
head. Thank you for reading my non-poem which may actually be a poem but isn't. I bid you
a wondrous and blessed day. Or night.
Yours,
-Michael