Long Far flung Poems
Long Far flung Poems. Below are the most popular long Far flung by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Far flung poems by poem length and keyword.
My head spins as the noise from the crash echoes in my head. I sit up in some kind of terminal with strange trains bound left and right for places I don’t understand.
One is gold and ornate but the trappings are fake with cracks that filagree in its façade the train reminds me of a serpent-like Leviathan.
The next is sliver and clean with white and sliver cravings blue accents and the train looks sleek streamlined like it's from the far-flung future. Bright lights gleam. Chrome.
Is that blood I see dripping from the golden cracks along the tracks. I feel the frost of the sliver train's exhaust. My head swims and lay my head back to let the world catch up.
The terminals lights are harsh here, harder than Fluorescence More brutal than incandescence the building I find myself in, is like no glass and armature skeletal structure I have to seen before. An architecture unknown in my life. On earth or anywhere. I feel the infernos of one and the chill of the other.
In this Terminal were these mechanical beasts are cradled. This terminus stretches into infinity. I see pail figures drifting up and down the platform faces all a blur like failed dreams I have dreamt once before. My eyes focus but the faces don’t, a little chill runs my spine.
I look around the depot, it is staggering. The architect must have been mad or on some mind devastating drugs.
I look to the right the building fades to a brilliant blue sky with regal clouds and a sun low on the horizon but never settings as occasional clouds pass before it shooting glorious rays of light my father call the visions of divinity. I think I see wing shapes fluttering like butterflies, but that can’t be? I rub my eyes nothing changes.
To the left, I look to see a dark horizon with thunderheads miles high of endlessly thunderstorms churning and crimson and violet lightning lancing the rim of a cityscape on fire. Dark industries tower and burn. A jagged broken land of fissures like rough-cut skin and bleeding lava, belching smoke. The worse nightmare of a demented god.
I stand lost in my own translation. I fell the screams of a car crash echoing, the rubber screeching, burning; in my head like a lingering bad dream. Fading in my inner mind's eye. I am forgetting the time. I must go. I feel I should go but I stand there for a while.
I go to church each Sunday,
God warns ‘there’s much to fear,
the world is decomposing,
the final end is near’.
I go to church each Sunday
and taste the wine and bread,
though elsewhere on our globus
raw hunger reigns instead.
I go to church each Sunday,
hear preachers’ words rebuff
repentant pauper’s pleading
‘enough is not enough’.
I go to church each Sunday,
watch candles burning bright
although they don’t enlighten
the demons of the night.
I go to church each Sunday
to wash away my sin,
while prophets make their profits
with wars that do us in.
I go to church each Sunday,
think thoughts incessantly
of all our planet’s peoples
denied equality.
I go to church each Sunday,
sit peacefully in the nave
while folks afar seek, grieving,
throughout a boundless grave.
I go to church each Sunday
to view iconic forms
alive in lancet windows
that hide unholy storms.
I go to church each Sunday,
discharge the weekly tithe,
while others pay the piper
when Reaper whets his scythe.
I go to church each Sunday
regard the holy bell,
reflecting on the wastelands
where day and night they knell.
I go to church each Sunday,
hear persons of the cloth
disguise the hell hereafter
with wartime victory froth.
I go to church each Sunday,
half perched upon a pew;
with everything so hopeless,
what else can one but do?
I go to church each Sunday,
and gaze upon the steeple,
majestic as the rockets
that plunge on placid people.
I go to church each Sunday
to hear the choir’s song
keep time with banshees shrieking
within a world gone wrong.
I go to church each Sunday
(above, doves fly in flocks),
while far flung realms are flattened
beneath the wings of hawks.
I go to church each Sunday
and pray so oft for peace,
but still the death continues,
it never seems to cease.
I go to church each Sunday
to sing sad psalms of praise,
while distant drones are humming
o’er bodies burnt, ablaze.
I go to church each Sunday,
a quest to save my soul
’gainst warfare’s pride and plunder -
prayer never plays a role.
I go to church each Sunday
my errors to confess,
while countries keep on killing
and suffer no redress.
I go to church each Sunday
the future for to see -
a man-made Armageddon
that ends humanity.
Years go by and memories dim and fade
Many, once so close and familiar are gone
Most of them have faded into oblivion
But those of whom one can never forget, stay on
Oh, dear Appa (Dad) and Amma (Mom) in Heaven
As the days of Christmas draw near, memories parade
Not in an orderly queue, but in a jumbled mass
And your loving faces, before our eyes, flash, and fade.
Leaving inerasable memories, you departed in silence.
When sick or unwell you always wrapped us up in prayer
Now you stay in a place untouched by stain or strain.
From there, you watch over us with tender care.
When festive days arrive, we miss you so badly
Though days and years pass, we feel you so near
But we know, you cannot come down from your sphere
To be with us on this day to give us cheer
So, transcending the boundaries of space and time
Our hearts rise high to your loving presence
Where you stay secure from all sadness and sorrow
And abide with your Heavenly Father in perpetual jubilance
We see you celebrating Christmas with Jesus
Along with the ethereal throng in great joy and mirth
Kneeling by the throne surrounded by angels and seraphs
Listening to their celestial choir, glorifying the holy birth
On this festive day, we send you warm Christmas wishes
Wrapped in memories of the times we were so deeply loved
With loads of gratitude for the warmth you gave to last a lifetime
With an assurance that we will live up to the ideals you avowed
Though gone, every day we feel your presence,
Especially when lonely and lost, unable to find our way.
At the rim of the far-flung sky, we see you as two stars,
Blazing our path with the trail of light you shed on our way!
_______________________________
(My parents made a compatible pair
Being together for long 57 years, as man and wife
Far from perfect, yet complementary they fared.
One’s weakness compensated by the other’s strength
One’s rigidness indemnified by the other’s light heartedness
Graced with a rich sprinkle of compassion and piety,
With their strict adherence to the lofty ideals of life,
They set the solid foundation for our value system.)
_____________________________
Dec. 12. 2022
~Placed Second~
Christmas in Heaven Poetry Contest
Sponsor. B.J. Legros Kelley
Dawn, when silence falters
And the trees of the range-
Are tucked in a bucket of fog
Marching dawn, whose beauty never alters,
I tuck myself in blankets like a log
At the Treetops Hotel upon the range
Dainty dreams upon dawn’s altar
The dappled peacock dazes the dawn
While the African crowned eagle
Will soar, prowling for prey
And tourists peep and picture the fawn
While their eyes prowl the breakfast tray
Jacaranda festooned fashion regal
Its blue flowers blue snowfall upon dawn
Elephants trudge to the watering hole
Buffalo follow, even the bush buck
The warthog always walks silly,
The big five will steal your soul
At the Ark's perch, you will be stuck
The water adorned by the pond lily
The range's serenity, waters your soul
Pristine streams gush from the moorlands
The Hagenia, decked in velvet green
The sword lily, sheathed in fibrous tunic
And as the Karuru falls hit land
True love will pierce to the gene
For pristine nature, is the true cupid.
Breaths bated as lovers hold hand
Further, nestled nigh in the blue skies
The Kinangop peak, peeking through
The closer I get, the further it hides
A sun bird chatters, along my trail's high
My eyes in tune, such wondrous hillsides
I sweat as I head towards the bamboo
I am among the butterflies
Ringlets in a dance, oh! Surreal world
Monkeys swing, tree to tree, a trail of imagination
A reed buck is openly grazing
A canvas of the grassland in its gold
I spot a Serval cat, in hiding
On a safari truck, the breeze is an inspiration
Beauty flows in the altitudes that I behold
At dusk the steeped villages prepare for sleep
The Nyandarua range, yawns its last
Fabled home of the Kikuyu god
Curtain like shadows befall the steep
And this wonderland begins to nod
As the women fluff off days dust fast
Men’s ears wide open as it darkens deep
Wild animals are known to visit
Roving around, excitement for the young
But the animals are known to visit hungry
The locals know too well, memories vivid
An elephant’s wrath is meted out bluntly
Protection for man and beast not far flung
Conservation and nurture is the spirit
As Mount Satima watches her watered floors,
She knows the heart goes deep
Collaboration with njeri hunjeri who is a wonderful poet
Dawn, when silence falters
And the trees of the range-
Are tucked in a bucket of fog
Marching dawn whose beauty never alters.
I tuck myself in blankets like a log
At the Treetops Hotel upon the range
Dainty dreams upon dawns altar
The dappled peacock dazes the dawn
While the African crowned eagle
Will soar, prowling for prey
And tourists peep and picture the fawn
While their eyes prowl the breakfast tray
Jacaranda festooned fashion regal
Its blue flowers blue snowfall upon dawn
Elephants trudge to the watering hole
Buffalo follow, even the bush buck
The warthog always walks silly,
The big five will steal your soul
At the Ark's perch, you will be stuck
The water adorned by the pond lily
The range's serenity, waters your soul
Pristine streams gush from the moorlands
The Hagenia, decked in velvet green
The sword lily, sheathed in fibrous tunic
And as the Karuru falls hit land
True love will pierce to the gene
For pristine nature, is the true cupid
Breaths bated as lovers hold hand
Further, nestled nigh in the blue skies
The Kinangop peak, peeking through
The closer I get, the further it hides
A sun bird chatters, along my trail's high
My eyes in tune, such wondrous hillsides
I sweat as I head towards the bamboo
I am among the butterflies
Ringlets in a dance, oh! surreal world
Monkeys swing, tree to tree, a trail of imagination
A reed buck is openly grazing
A canvas of the grassland in its gold
I spot a Serval cat, in hiding
On a safari truck, the breeze is an inspiration
Beauty flows in the altitude that I behold
At dusk the steeped villages prepare for sleep
The Nyandarua range yawns it's last
Fabled home of the Kikuyu god
Curtain like shadows befall the steep
And this wonderland begins to nod
As the women fluff off days dust fast
Mens ears wide open as it darkens deep
Wild animals are known to visit
Roving around, excitement for the young
But the animals are known visit hungry
The locals know too well, memories vivid
An elephants wrath is meted out bluntly
Protection for man and beast not far flung
Conservation and nurture is the spirit
As Mount Satima watches her watered floors,
She knows the heart goes deep
With the onset of advancing age, so I find,
A man grows weary of all mundane talk;
Occupies his every spare, idle thought
With that of the slow, reflective kind.
Regretful of many a squandered hour,
Turning his back on the squabbling nations,
Their woeful, self-serving deliberations,
Dreams wistfully of his own starlit tower.
Should he hopefully find that blessed stair,
Wound insides of the ancient, dim lit wall,
Where tread from unseen feet sometimes fall,
He could but elevate himself above his cares;
There, throwing his soul upon the night,
Lift his gaze upon a tumultuous crowding!
His thinning pate adorned with a crowning
From a far-flung, pale, distant light.
And if he was to fix his mind upon that point;
To that moment forcefully bring to bear,
With every ounce of fibre when stood there,
An unremitting will to somehow exploit,
That, which, the mystics so jealously guarded...
Then, perhaps, he might too ascend?
For, in all reality, at the very end,
All is thrown off...the very body discarded.
Therefore I will choose my own finality.
I give my remaining days to old worn steps
Enclosed in rock, a turret that silhouettes
Against an endless sky; and if it should be
That I find such hallowed battlements
Give aging legs the strength to slowly climb,
To praise the celestial and sublime,
When reaching up where my God frequents.
For though those stars seem out of reach,
Unattainable by grand, omnipotent design,
Nevertheless I am thusly to be inclined
To offer up a prayer and unto him beseech:-
"Immortal father who created mortal man,
Ye who sits above all earthly thrones,
Give unto me old tools and rubbled stones,
And I shall endeavour to do what I can...
To rebuild that abandoned, crumbled tower...
For, Lord, be it only by dreams men are
Truly empowered"!
{For Nelson and Winnie Mandela}
You, me said I to my honey bitter
When like the windy aether,
Blows us hither and thither
Bursting bubbles on elevating air,
I shall sleep dreaming with one eye open
Set you and I free on a chilly rest,
Virtually recalling the immure moments
I shall tell you of inborn pain.
Hence, that in these moments, hours
Days running in weeks, months into years
And coming to these moments,
It's love I suppose so
That I should be waiting, waiting and waiting
For you on this thing that like the windy aether,
Has blown away, blown away till this moments.
I shall sleep through to another day
Because of you, I and the offspring
And watch you through, though my heart is spilling
Could it be my strength has withered?
Or my agility has disappeared?
So when the night comes to eyes
And the silence deafened ears
In those moments, hours, days, weeks and months
And the years, O the years!
Which I have slept through just remembering you.
I have looked your face through,
When you are slumbering, thinking silently
Of your vanity, tells of enchantment saliently.
Let us lay on the lawn
And make sweater nothing of love,
Let us float upwelling in delight for the ocean,
And make sea-wine sip among arteries rejecting behoove.
It is love I suppose so
That I should be waiting,waiting and waiting,
For you on this thing that like the windy aether
Has blown away, blown away till these moments,
And you insinuate without times, whether
That ours prophesy shakable love lust,
It has not gone through the last
Of consent; well, it's all sentimental
Even though, I have gone and mount the pedestal
Like the Baboon drumming
Out his chest so loud;
My head had gone white shouting so loud
And the children care clamoured for
My greater loftier ladder,
Aged head has gone white like cloud.
You would say then, I have waited for ages,
I have trimmed the lamp for ages
I have fumbled with the candle for long;
But then flop;
Fell out of one uniting rope
I went so far flung,
Even though thinking of you then
As I now thinking of you so,
And you have on, on and on thinking then
I would wait for you so.
Then the guns roared!! and it was hard to distinguish the
Hush from the roaring; the two seemed almost
Indistinguishable.
Was it the roaring, I wondered, or was it the hush that was
The more fragile?
In truthfulness I was disappointed when I got home and
Watched more of the same on the telly.
The British army is not what it was I have to say; the
Gun-Salutes did not appear to be well orchestrated to my way
Of thinking -- left one feeling all rather...unsatisfied.
Gone are the days of bright red tunics, golden buttons and
Tall, glossy white hats; and gone the long stylish sideburns...
How magnificent those lads must have looked on the march.
Gone also the days of the glorious campaigns. The valiant
Battles. The desperate, heroic actions defending some hopeless
Situation or some far-flung outpost that was deserving only
Of camel dung and fleas...and certainly wasn't for the lack of
Thanks we only ever got! ...same now for the Yanks I suppose.
But glory fades along with the ages...just as our long-gone
Age sank, ages back, into the fullest, mellow glow of the
Whistling scythe's last Harvest Moon.
For I am unapologetically an English man; and will die as
Lizzie died...
As English as sausage, egg, chips and peas.
And to hell with those who decry Empire and Nation Building.
We saved the best of it, and created many a Sovereign State
Out of nothing but mud and straw.
Lately I have pondered, that perhaps we sucumbed to what was
A natural culmination of too lofty an ambition?
Or maybe it was nothing more than a simple case of
Over-acheiving?
And if so, how do we arrive by the 'Grace of God' to all that?...
Could it be an inevitable fate which was pre-ordained?
But for the fact we had good glue we should have come unstuck
Many a long year ago;
But good glue we got...and still more to come I might wager.
Tomorrow, no doubt, the crowds will line the hilly miles;
And later we will have our pomp and ceremony...
But what has gone comes but once.
Then the whole world will watch, gawking, when an entire
Race holds up their hands as a hurting child reaching up
For the comforting arms of their firecely protective Mummy.
In a royal antibacterial waste machine one must wait for the willing vibrancy of the whistling seal. Dressed neatly in a three piece suit he sits on a rock and calls to the breezes on which there are so few. In the era of expunging elitist effigies there exists far less than in a previous era so dimensions have developed a more triangular appearance. Seal looks on. Temperate falling skies bring all weathers and still not too many feathers on a beaded wind. A cloth can move around to bring alterations but altercations are caused by many plastic helmeted men who proudly hold the spray. And spraying is often located even in a bread. Or a small currant. Or sultana. Managed mainly manufactured. Measly mass monstrous movements. No moccasins here then. And thus the page is turned until the avenue is in sight. Roll roll roll. Here comes the square car. Beep beep. Out of which comes a giraffe, a penguin, a sea turtle with bright lips, and a monstrous fig tree complete with a very tall hat that reaches to Jupiter. When that is wiped the flight paths of emus sail to even the most far flung regions of the globe. And travesty is not travelling it is trapping and taming. Should one really place ham in a sandwich when pork should be free to roam? All aboard then. Is everyone ready? Comfortable? Enchanted? Good. For time is short. And a boom boom boom is arriving to stunt even the most strongest of plants into an oblivion of a scale. But not a scale of C. A scale of 0. No charging buffalo could ever stand true if the prefered angle is in a skirt or a bosum. And a bohemian's car is a secret castle. Watch out there is a lady who spews curd. Mongoose style of neck. So a mongoose and a buffalo do go to dinner to entertain for great plans are being made and a global economy has an appointment at the gym. So hahaha to all that. And place the 900 nappies in the bin. For the 890 children will surely mean that the £ will pay the way. House heating. And a heavy wide load giggling with a small town. Xxxxx high heels mooo looping. Xxxxx kittens kitty xxxxx belligerent buffer bluffing xxxxx done. And that was the p y q who was reporting live from a dinner hall in 1528. Z.
Form:
The tide of life is turning
and rushing back to sea
Footprints on the wet sands
once left by you and me
Washed in tides
long swept away
In youthful quest
Of olden day
Those frolics with our
Children
The roaring of the sea
Our rushing toward the ocean
Hand in hand, it's you and me
Where love, has our youth fled to?
As we slower walk along?
And where has the wind taken
Our breath of joyous song?
But darling though the seagull's
We knew, long flown away
A far flung hope is rising
On the wing of a new day
And would I be, how could I be
That bride of yesteryear....
Washed way in earthbound vessel
Hiding every precious tear
But precious are the promises
And hopeful in my heart
One day will bring a world of joy
In heaven's sweet rampart
For now I'll hold you tightly
Beholding waves at sea
We hear the seagulls calling
Treasure coves of memory
Until that precious promise
Of that sweet new golden day
Our footprints in the desert sand
Till westward wind blows them away