Long Crag Poems
Long Crag Poems. Below are the most popular long Crag by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crag poems by poem length and keyword.
We're in the foothills of Revolution Mountain
sharpening swords, packing black and white powder
everybody thinks they're getting the short end
the middle class clinging tight to what they have
the rich and powerful laughing from the high crag
the poor scrambling for just a chance at the scraps
religions colliding in a kaleidoscope of supremacy
cherry-stained hands praying for all the wrong reasons
an octopus of radicals tearing at the robe of democracy
Academia behind a snotty pedestal, igniting dissension
everybody plucking the eagle and stealing her eggs
all the while waving death banners in front of her face
condemning and demanding all in one selfish breath
let's get it on then and begin this filthy cleanse.
A supporter's day happens each July
which we always wanted to attend
so this July we found our way there
instead of good wishes ourselves we did send
Caring For Life has made such an impact
on the lives of many in their care
these souls have been so changed
by love shown often, it’s so rare
This love comes from God Himself
believing everyone’s made in God’s image
created for Him and for His glory
reveals His mercy in turning every page
Such a picture here is painted
in Jesus footsteps, they do go
revealing His love visibly touchable
breaks through every enemy and foe
Crag House Farm has to be seen
to realise the magnitude achieved
all these memories, so memorable
of a vision that’s been believed
Undoubtedly “A day to remember”
so thankful to Jonathan and team
despite the showers we received blessings
praise God for all Jesus came to redeem
(I have written this piece in memory of a wonderful day we had at the supporter's day of a Christian Charity "Caring for Life" in July when we attended this special day.
This charity is based in Leeds in Yorkshire in the north of England where they have a farm where all their work is based, below is a summary of who they are and what they do.)
TO MAKE A REAL DIFFERENCE... FOR LIFE
?
Caring For Life is a Christian charity seeking to "Share the Love of Jesus" with at-risk and hurting people, including those who are homeless.
Through providing long-term support, homes, and friendship, they gradually help people to move on from past heartache and hardship towards a happier future.
From the crag I see the path
descend into the valley
shrouded in the shadows of
doubt, uncertainty, and fear of failure.
I see a white pillar cast in regret's cold salt-stone,
from which there is no turning back.
Even a brief glance back over the shoulder
up into the bright crags of peaks above,
bathed in bright sunlight in the path behind me,
will cause me to fall off the path side,
into the chasm of hell, penance, suffering and retribution,
toppling off the cliff with arms and legs flailing,
tumbling out of control,
screaming through gnashed teeth.
The shadows wreak of tales untold,
of battles fought and lost,
of past losses and retreats on endless repeats.
The mists wreak and stink of echoes
returning, haunting back to
what was longing to be forgotten,
as I step lightly
into the shadows of the valley.
I draw in my collar around my cheeks,
drag my hood over to cover my head,
pull my arms tightly against my body
to retain my bodily heat
to shield against the dank, dark, nagging cold,
I look ahead with steely-eyed determination
to soldier-on with the resilience and resolve
that's deeply forged within the marrow of my bones
I take another step down
to rise above the easy path
to self-victimization, subterfuge and blame.
I succumb without a whimper
to the blast furnace.
To be heated soft to red-white hot.
To be beaten and banged,
by the blacksmith clad in leather,
into an steely shape
only useful when cold.
Wouldst, such mortal traverse the crags of Ne'ermere tails,
tis a grayest hour whence Luna's twilight flits her crown whipped
freed of mnemonic shimmers.
Hail winds bade the cliffs fond too well,
the forest dwelleth quietude, erring not to wake ired beasts.
The Black fog rose amidst digits crag,
gorging deeply in a slithering bout,
its murky poking hazing to edge's where hast steep crevices befallen
debris burdens.
Forgiven enemies miserably hast to but exclaim vapid
excuse faltering, absent of morals that yield despair
heightens.
Invasive spirit's of Ne'ermere hatha steered lost souls to the steppes,
to the moors.
The ambling blood moon followed a selection of bane thoust chose for
dying, fast coming.
Inky's inscript on columbine petals are guarded riddle,
steeped in thine devil's brew of concoctions.
Constant a stirring from tri-conjurers and duo warlocks
of ruin, loss, and havoc--locals all of Ne'ermere.
A daring wraith bidst the gifts amassed of bless souls,
the voids of trifled entities of a doomsday.
Shortening the navigated souls in their mortal state of decay,
their tenuous grasp of wilted massive fibrous veins.
Remnants of a vigorous life surrender to their authentic demise via a
hall between perishing slow or death's blow.
Truly, a proper act of granting reassemblage their formers,
Earth's finality prompt sail to the sunrise of the ancients,
and a warriors welcoming.
It is madness how I write my poetry,
Around me mountains of paper collect;
By candlelight I write with pure insanity,
Until I hang on a cliff of a poem perfect.
It is desperation that I seek the last line,
Oh, mighty peak of sweet writing bliss;
The ecstasy and passion like a red wine,
My pen drips but I am lost in an abyss.
It is craziness how I write in a frenzy,
Around me piles of books are tumbling;
By dawns glow I pen in mad lunacy,
Until I stand on a crag- words drifting,
It is mania how I write my poetry,
Oh, euphoria when my muse is on fire;
All day I ponder my words carefully,
And all so my poem you will admire.
__________________
May 16, 2016
Poetry/Rhyme/Hanging On A High Cliff
Copyright Protected, ID 16-7911-63-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
A story man will run out of stories.
He's deprived of oxygen
a lusterless butterfly
chained to straight paths
the deadest of ends in sight
a fading dreamer in a burnt-out lullaby.
Funny thing about a story man...
Although he always has the belief
that another story
Nestled deep in the throat
of a mountain top crag
You just had to dig it out.
He moves on down the dirt road
(at periwinkle pace).
Conversing with dusty birds begging for neon crumbs.
Then out of the deepest kind of blue
the puncture wound in his balding tire
turns into an angel of fire.
No longer oxygen-deprived.
Out of chrysalis bondage.
Following the path of hieroglyphs
chanting
"Be grateful- pay attention
this could be your last
story
man".
In the lines of your quarried face
are granite truths and pastel mysteries
part-time jester - full-time thief of hearts
doubting the existence of great gifts,
tears in the fabric of self-worth.
In the violet crag of your word,
the echoes of a billion wizened steps.
Sunflower soul - harboring underground seeds.
Lightning bolt anger marbled with hummingbird heartbeats.
A moth-dusted soul seeking something ocean blue deep.
Something more than shallow phrases and rat-nibbled deeds.
You're a parched rose praying for thundercloud attention.
Yearning for a different flavor of strength.
A heart minted with the firmament of God.
To know for certain that angels tend to your day.
From your ruby colored throat, there are gentle night songs
and the hooves of tragedies approaching.
The thunder reached them well before
it's shadow flashed along the shore
as whirlwinds from the steady beat
knocked fleeing hordes from off their feet.
Thousands sprinted to the surf
except a few who had the nerve
and put up spirited defence
and fell in flares of heat intense.
Fast and low, wings whipped the waves
glistening scales of charcoal, Jade.
Skimming clifftops, banking right,
climbing until out of sight,
then corkscrew dive in view it hove
and settled in a quiet cove.
On rocky crag where beast had fetched
it gazed down on her wings outstretched,
mother of pearl breast warmed by sun
she looked up at the one who'd come.
Crimson eyes met gaze of blue,
"Vanilla's sold out- will chocolate do?"
For contest- 'Dragons', sponsored by Silent One.
October 19th 2015
(Tempo: Upbeat, acoustic guitar and a light tapping sound)
(Verse 1)
Rusty fenders and a seat that’s worn
Takes me away from the early morn
Two thin wheels that cut through the air
Leaving behind all the worry and care
Got a little basket on the front of the bar
Don’t need a map, and I don’t need a car
Just a little grease on my blue jean leg
Pedaling fast down the rocky crag.
(Chorus)
Oh, hear the spokes go clickety-clack
Rolling away, never looking back
Chrome and chain, shining in the sun
Life on a bicycle is never done
Two wheels turn, spinning ’round so free
My loyal bicycle brings out the best in me.
(Verse 2)
Up the hill, yeah, I’m standing up tall
Waiting for the rush when I feel I might fall
Then it’s coasting down, wind in my hair
Chasing the clouds without a care
Round the bend, I’m humming a tune
Under the heat of a high afternoon
A little silver bell says “ring, ring, ring.”
Makes my heavy heart feel like a bird on the wing.
(Chorus)
(Bridge)
It’s a simple kind of magic, a simple kind of grace
Finding the speed in a slow-motion place
No gasoline, just a heart full of fire
Pedaling up, taking me higher.
(Chorus)
(Outro)
Pedal, pedal... just watch me go.
Chrome and chain... moving slow...
Or fast.
(Ring, ring)
(Fade out)
I must have lost my friends,
I should not have clicked "send",
I meant to email you instead
My mind was half asleep,
I called them lazy sheep,
now they cut me dead.
I don’t know what it was,
Maybe just because
The mailing list starts with "A"
Now I'm so uptight
I stared at that screen all night
The screen that led me astray
(chorus)
There is no hack
That can take it back,
No magic “undo” key.
Friends may be sheep,
But the cost was steep,
When the truth-teller was me.
(bridge)
Next time I’ll pause and breathe,
Count to ten before bytes leave.
Read it twice before I click.
Because now I feel sick,
I jumped backwards off the crag,
The cats escaped out of the bag.
In social effigy I hang
No sense of humor in that gang
I've become a hermit living in caves
A wild eyed maniac who rants and raves
I still feel the hurt, still feel the pang.
When I hit that key, and the first phone rang.