Long Crowds Poems
Long Crowds Poems. Below are the most popular long Crowds by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crowds poems by poem length and keyword.
Abundances is not a promise to everyone,
Live with joy today and love someone.
Do you know the places we shall go?
When we are not sure what form to follow.
Natural incline is filled with swift transition,
Many personalities now demand action.
Beyond the beautiful banks lies the orphan.
A Psyche in waiting on the abating strand.
To banish childish acts and nurse the old,
Maturing years that makes our wings fold.
While we had moments of light humour,
We sing and dance in spritely demeanour.
Watch pretty blossoms flourish in the garden
Grow with crowds until the edge is broken.
Then looking around for all the branches,
Only an Orphan is left to take the chances.
With softer shoes walked into status decline,
The symptoms of life are so hard to define.
Evening silhouette faded into dreary clouds
Since only joy and triumph memory holds,
Another nightingale dream begins to dawn,
Leave empty showers after rainbow withdrawn.
Welcome the Orphan into a foreign home,
Drove back the fears and tears still to come.
Longing for someone to receive as a friend
And start the journey again to make amend.
But when opportunity comes upon tired brow
The illustrious crown becomes too heavy now.
In a room where shadows hide,
Life is held by a thread,
To a wooden finger tied,
Waking up the sleeping dead.
Carved in wood and polished sleek,
Porcelain faces and painted eyes,
Never allowed the freedom to speak,
Bound by subtle, silent ties.
Stages carved on party lines,
Falsehoods masked in paint and plaster,
Crowds seduced by staged designs,
Dancing for an unseen master.
A gentle flick of the wrist or palm,
This one fights, the other one weeps,
A tempest held within a calm,
While the master, his secrets he keeps.
Voters cheer the staged debate,
Crowds react to every pull,
Blindly marching toward their fate,
Told the ballot box is full.
Cast the spotlight on his brow,
Rip the shroud of myth away—
See the hollow monster now,
Painted iron, cold and gray.
Glassy eyes that never blink,
Cogs that churn without a heart,
Teaching men to never think,
Tearing living souls apart.
Strings above and soul below,
Every step a scripted grace,
Only he commands the show,
Stepping back to leave no trace.
But then,
The heavy skies begin to part,
A blinding light breaks through the dark,
To shatter every wooden heart
And strike the gears with a sacred spark.
The God of glory will reveal
The grand deception of the stage,
And turn the tables and set the seal,
To snap the strings and break wide the cage.
The grand deception falls away,
The false control is stripped and bare;
The clay was never meant to sway
The One who formed the breath and air.
Who is the master, who is the puppet,
When the final curtain falls?
Wooden heart or human spirit,
Silent in the empty halls?
A bitter, bitter, bitter, blow,
As Coronavirus shuts down Padstow,
Nurses wear masks and patients wear gowns,
As the global pandemic attacks Cornish towns,
Just a small virus which decides to invade,
Means empty beaches and not much town trade,
With locals afraid they might succumb,
Tourists are told, stay away, do not come,
Once happy throngs in the streets were seen,
Now a ghost-town patrolled by Covid-19,
No ribboned Obby Oss’s parading this year,
No crowds enjoying a pasty with beer,
The fishing boats stay within the harbour wall,
As restaurants stay closed and fish prices fall,
With 20/20 vision and hindsight combined,
Padstow’s ‘new normal’, it will have to find …
Life's wheel stops spinning
only when we stop giving and feeling;
the confusion that the world has created
can be so easily changed.
From the time I started believing
in love, I've been getting glances of trust...
hoping that there would be happiness sparkling
in unhappy eyes and lift pain from their chest.
Life's wheel stops spinning
only when we get rid of desperation
and find kinder words of consolation;
tomorrow we'll hear those crowds cheering.
Life's wheel stops spinning
only when we don't trust in our intuition.
Follow me, take your lovely dreams along...
we'll find a sky without clouds:
where every bird is free like us;
move fast, the day won't last for very long.
Life's wheel stops spinning
only when we show a waning feeling;
put in all the strength and grit you have,
how wonderful is to be brave!
a
Thoreau found solace in his pond…trees made Joyce Kilmer quiver
but yesterday I found our comfort…floating on the river.
We paddled and floated in our kayaks…you know…boats…the quiet kind
gladly leaving our computers and technology behind.
If we wanted to watch a video…all we had to do was look around
If we wanted to listen to music…we were inundated with sound.
We had a constantly changing video right before our eyes
we had the slowly moving water, the trees, the clouds…the sky.
We didn’t need a remote…no need to switch the channel being shown
because nature is always changing the view…subtly…on her own.
It’s like a panoramic 3D movie that is shifting all the time
It’s beautiful..it’s breathtaking…and it doesn’t cost a dime.
And if it’s music that you crave…stop and listen as you float
There is a rhythm to the waves as they brush against your boat.
Then music sung by countless birds from their nests in endless trees
finds its way into your heart as it drifts upon the breeze.
You drift along losing track of time…you flow without a care
feeling the coolness of the water…smelling the freshness of the air.
You instinctively stop paddling…as you drift around the bend
wishing this moment would last forever…hoping this feeling would never end.
and there upon the river…far far from the maddening crowds
reflected in the water…you find yourself floating through the clouds.
I understand what Thoreau meant about his pond and Mr. Kilmer about his tree
because yesterday…as if my magic… the river spoke to me.
Books
I went to the Frankfurt Book Fair the other day.
It was mind-boggling..Books!
There were fat books, thin books,
White books, black books, tawny books,
Paperbacks, hardbacks, beautifully bound books,
Pure books, lax books, learned books, lay books,
Plain books, books of many colours,
Books on every subject under the sun,
Not to mention other books on
Distant galaxies, pulsars, quasars, black holes,
Books on any theme you can think of,
Or on themes you can’t even pronounce, from:
Art to Arthropods,
Bees to Biochemistry,
Cats to Catastrophes
Drugs to Decadence,
Energy to Ergonomics,
French Cooking to Frescos,
Guns to Gout,
History to Hippopotami,
Internal Medicine to Icebergs'
Julius Caesar to Justification,
Kulturkampf to Kinetics,
Lace to Logogriphs,
Man to Manchuria,
Nietzsche to Nonsense Rhymes,
Opera to Ophthalmoscopes,
Poodles to Pollution,
Quantum Mechanics to Queen Victoria,
Russell to Rabbits,
Shaw to Shingles,
Tao to Torts,
Urdu to Ultimatums,
Virgil to Vivisection,
Whales to Witchcraft,
X-rays to Xylographs,
Yoga to Youth Hostels,
Zen to Zola,..
By closing-time my legs were giving out.
A voice, it seemed, was saying:
“Of more than is taught by these, my son, take care.
Of making many books there is no end,
And much study is weariness of the flesh.” 1
I don’t know about making them, I thought,
As I commenced my get-away from the Penguin stand,
But it takes something of an athlete just to glance at them.
On reaching the gates I felt crushed,
First by the crowds, and second,
Under the sheer weight of unfathomable ignorance.
1. Ecclesiastes 12.12
A DIFFERENT DISTANCE
In the depth of my dreams I proceed
On a winding path to a mystical place
Although each world is mostly new
There’s always some hint of similarity
Joyful and scary aim to achieve parity
Yet generally blurred, lacking clarity
On waking I can’t describe the view
As it’s just out of reach, lost in space
But the effects are real, yes, indeed
I have not travelled in a physical way
Just in some lesser part of my brain
Maybe the journey is a pilgrim route
The wanderings restricted to the mind
With no sense of arrival of any kind
And never a name to remember I find
A silent song as Spring’s green shoot
I don’t know the verses, just the refrain
Yet few of those places I wish to stay
Quite unlike this real waking world
Through the crowds to reach my work
I smell the air and hear traffic noise
Where I walk and even run in the rain
I could maybe drive or take the train
Yet when dreaming, I may be insane
Sometimes even the fantasy annoys
As the nightmare serpent is uncurled
Soothing sliding silvered tides, fields of verdant; rolling co-inside..'
Beards of algae flow on wrecks, phosphorescence guilds the whitecap in flecks,
As a mirror shattered myriad shines, to uneven waves that crash in; times..'
Un-counted amounts of wash elapsed, endless etchings have surfs out; scratched..
I see the glimpses I hear that noise, in awe; I observe the power and poise,
Atlantic grey-green, Indian serge, pacific hued, I need to re-visit & become re-clued
The saline reeks, there are nets of fish, tootling tugs, low tide rippling in meek.'
Memories crowds... Of golden sands..' Ice cream, picnic baskets; beer and bands..'
*Just an opinion: Ignore if you choose.
Burn the city down, they yell!
Crowds march chanting, screaming
It’s not like they haven’t already done it
So the threat is real, but goes ignored
Allowed as if this is all ‘peaceful’
Negative comments about them are refrained, not said
The rest of us wait for violence, to break out in darkness
Then wake to hear about what is lost next
The media mostly do not care
Police are mainly told to stand down
These rioters rule the streets these days
Oh, but there are more things to care about…
Like calling infiltrated protesters who entered the capital
- Domestic Terrorists -
Hypocrisy has no bounds while unity cannot be one way!
Heidi Sands
2/7/21
Oscar was a little white canine
Cocker spaniel was in his bloodline
He was such a good dog
Even played with a frog
He was like a heartfelt valentine
Oscar wasn’t like his little brother
Who yapped constantly to their mother
He wasn’t such a good boy
He stole sweet Oscar’s toy
Eager to be one all would smother
Oscar was amusing, such a hoot
Bacon or burger he wouldn’t dispute
He became so chunky
Just like a food junkie
Tried to put him on a fare of fruit
Oscar wasn’t always the silent sort
In large crowds, he became my escort
It’s old news – his bark
Was the life of the park
Where he’d always find time to consort
Oscar was more than just a cute dog
He stuck with me through snow, rain and smog
More loved than I can say
Twas’ with me all the way
He was smarter than the best sheepdog
Children's Limericks Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
November 23, 2022