Long Flatland Poems
Long Flatland Poems. Below are the most popular long Flatland by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flatland poems by poem length and keyword.
Attorney General William
Barr black marker in hand
kept promise to censor vital
details of Mueller Report
swift as Usain Bolt candidly,
grandly, lustrously, roundly
youthfully blocked out more
rapid than an elegant eland
vibrantly, regally, magically,
and gracefully skirts borderland
which favored topography
constitutes grassland or woodland,
far more pleasing to observe,
than reading adulterated brand
of aforementioned compilation,
distillation, edification, fortification
zeroing questionable activity
upon head of trumpeting brigand,
whose arrivistic, bombastic, caustic,
demonic, electric broadband
outsize ego still convinces
me, thee commander in chief
delegated one or more chargehand
perhaps while delighting as
gourmand savoring chateaubriand,
where his best buddies imagined
themselves in seventh heaven cloudland
every so often taking siesta sans repast
or golfing with grisly handicapped clubhand
non verbally communicating,
in viz sub bully taking a peas zing
cues from presidential high command,
which coterie (i.e. den of thieves)
manipulated social media with nefarious,
insidious, deleterious, et cetera
analogous to "FAKE" contraband,
maybe even milking innocent cowhand
unwittingly planting GMO electronic
bugs amidst future bovine fodder cropland
to allow, enable, and jackknife demand
that moost every eligible voter tricked
induced by virtual reality dreamland
with sinister motive for thee "Apprentice"
rule his kingdom, and expand,
realm asper Medieval days
declaring himself chieftain of fatherland
and/ or North American motherland
where naysayers guillotined
by uncontested firebrand,
who without provocation
very likely bomb into Stone Age
formerly edenic, lush, verdant
geography into flatland
rendered hostile, poisonous and uninhabitable
nonetheless radiating for miles with gangland
forced labor tilling barren, desolate, fissured
landscape erecting unsightly grand
standing room only (cause he know Shylock)
terrain (reign) vast highland
manor as poobah, and husband
to his only heiress, the former
a kooky monster from foggy bottom marshland.
Flight of the Ptarmigan
By Reg Rhodes
The Ptarmigan emerges from his snow nest; and takes flight.
It's wings quietly fluttering; carrying him into the silent night.
He carries his message of inner peace on his angelic wings; shrouded in white.
Illuminated by the full moon; his flying form shines bright.
Only those who can relate to his plight;
will observe this awe inspiring sight.
I watched him appear from deep within the snow;
and followed the flight of the Ptarmigan; pondering where he would go.
Far, far from his mountain home he flew.
Only to seek answers to the questions that he already knew.
He couldn't adapt to the warm weather, noise or people; like the flatland brown Grouse.
Upon his return, he discovered that another white winged bird had come and stolen his snow covered house.
He took flight once more, to a different side of the mountain; to build a new and better high elevation nest.
Once again, comfortable in his familiar surroundings; the Ptarmigan was rewarded with a much needed rest.
The flight of the ptarmigan ended where it began;
and he returned back to his high alpine home, once again.
Where God intended him to be.
Where he can once again live happy, and be free.
Oh, beautiful ptarmigan; take me away.
And show me yet another wonderful day;
but, please never let me forget to seek Gods guidance whenever I pray.
Thankfully, my trip has ended; right where it began.
Like the Ptarmigan; I have returned home once again.
.
I'm back up in the mountains; where God intended for me to be.
Home; where my soul is complete, and once again free.
Rolled about a bit I’d say
Since Nell and I first met
Denver down to Old Fort Lauderdale
Flatland fever hit one day and
Drowning in our sweat
Mountains pulled us up a dusty trail
Cut down trees and nested in
The Hills of Carolina
Dogs and cats and serendipity
People there talked funny and
We soon ran out of money
Greener pastures called from Tennessee
Love to gather Moss someday
Like other rocks we know but
Moss comes with a price it sure ain’t free
Far off places beckon
That’s when Nell and I must go
Life’s too short for stones like us you see
Too short for rolling stones like Nelly and me
Bogging down in Tennessee
The itch began returning
Folks stopped buying what I had to sell
Call from California came and
Set our hearts to burning
Westward roll might ease this itching spell
Packed it in and mapped our course
For warm Pacific shores
Winter snows brought some anxiety
Would be rough we knew it but
We’d plow our way right through it
Dreaming of the opportunity
Novato, Rohnert Park and then to
Morgan Hill down south
Loved it here we hate to have to roll
Push to shove you forfeit love
Living hand to mouth but
Leaving leaves within our heart a hole
This time we’ll keep in touch for sure
That’s what we always say
True love’s here our hearts must still entwine
Every new U-Hauler sees
This world a little smaller with
Email, faxing, texting folks online.
Love to gather moss someday like
Other rocks we know but
Moss comes with a price it sure ain’t free.
Far-off places beckon
That’s when Nell and I must go
Life’s too short for stones like us you see
Too short for rolling stones like Nelly and me.
Just another Warrenpiece
a short memory
There were and still are two airports on the flatland
outside of our town, therefore many German soldiers
where stationed here.
Since roads, and bridges had to be built and maintained
there was good employment for everyone and the payment
was good, but not much to spend the money on
a German military band playing loudly in the park, a cinema showing heroic soldiers saving cats
when not killing Russians, a couple of cafes selling what was called coffee, but made of roasted peas
It was left to people, to go to meeting at Christian sects and that was OK by the Norwegian Nazis who were the moral police at the time
Young Nazis joined a battalion called “Vikings” sent to fight the communist in Russia where most of them perished, those who made it back home, faced long
jail terms for treason.
After the war there was a great upsurge of people joining the communists, after all, the Russians had freed
northern Norway of the enemy, Russia bought our fish
and Soviet “workers” came, and told of how wonderful, the life of ordinary people was
my mother, a well-read woman, small of stature, but vociferous about her new faith organized, with her brother, town hall meetings, until illness struck, and she
was sent to a sanatorium up the mountain, the war had
taken its toll
she, when returning, was still a communist till Russia
invaded Hungary
in our working-class community, my mother cut an odd figure, had a lashing tongue
did not tolerate fools, and lesser people feared her but we who loved her could not scare us
we knew she had a soft heart
Above the roller-coaster rain clouds,
there's a moment when the wing tip of the plane
cuts seamlessly into serene blue as it banks
over Chicago. It's a layover in the sunlit limbo
of the hope island, its tranquil azure meadow afloat
with faux sheep, each one like 'ile flottante',
cotton candy, dessert of the day.
This is lofty communion in the Archdiocese of the Sky,
superior to that of Holy Name Cathedral where you broke
bread with shades of 1870s parishioners, consigned
to the company of of North Side gangster Hymie Weiss,
and two luckless henchmen, whacked to a nonstop flight
across the street from, not the First, Second, or Third,
but the Fourth Presbyterian's Gothic gathering place
where a cornerstone inscription on the church still bears
bullet marks of the murders. Masses of flowers
sent to the grieving widows. Nothing
"personal', you understand--Just business! Ah Yes!
American Organized Crime and Charity!
Outside Fourth Presbyterian's Gothic facade, its carved
stone tympanum a legless man sits in his stations-
of-the cross wheelchair, dispensing Sunday cheer
and greetings, no Tommy gun in sight. So much the pity,
leaving Chicago without violence, just churches, lore
of gangsters, a riveting river, and speakeasies.
As the plane banks into the marshmallow topping
over Minnesota in its descent to the Janus Cities,
the bird-head jet pods still face Chicago. Wind flaps
gape wide in a noiseless scream, and across the sky's
white flatland, ice castles rise in which live
the frosty angels of Yes and No.
SANCTUARY
THE POOL HAS
SURROUNDING GREAT BOULDERS ASSURING AND SECRETIVE,
CUPPING WIDE BUBBLING DEEP BAPTISMAL RUSHES OF AZURE WATER
RELEASES HOT FLASHING PENDANTS IN GLORIOUS JUNGLE REPRIEVE.
THE POOL HAS
MUFFLED SOUNDS FROM NIGHT ANIMALS CALLING GUESTS’ REST RULES,
THE AQUIFER FLOWS UP STRONG, SPRINGS OUT WHITE FOAMING RIPPLES.
SUPREME GREEN WATERCRESS REINS IN DRIPPING OVERHANGS AND COOLS.
THE POOL HAS
A PLACE FOR CONTINUOUS QUIETUDE FOR MEMORIES SWEET AND SOUR,
THAT LACKS POUNDING REMMNANTS FROM OLD HUMAN CRITIQUES RINSED
AWAY IN DEEP DIPS REFRESHING THE MIND WITH A SOFT CLEANSING POWER.
THE POOL HAS
MAGNIFICENT WATERFALLS OF TREMENDOUS HEIGHT AGAISNT GLISTENING SUNRAYS,
SPINNING CRISP REFLECTIONS INTO A TUMBLING CHURNING BOTTOM WHERE YOU STAND.
SWIMMING IN THESE SPECIAL WATERS NEW SOUL AND REJUVENATED BODY, YOU IT PAYS.
THE POOL HAS
THE MASTER’S UNIQUE CIRCUMFUGAL TOUCH OF BEAUTY IN EERY MOSS COVERED STONES,
SLEEPING LEOPARD, RED PARROT, ELEPHANT EARS AND CAMILLA FLOWERS ALONG AND NEARBY,
RESOLVES EVERY COURAGEOUS THOUGHT FOR A SATISFIED FLATLAND RETURN OF NEW OLD BONES.
BY JEAN A. WILSON, SEPTEMBER 1, 2011
Vanishing Line
In the two dimensional world of flatland life is a line
Distinguishing up from down is not the design of nature
Maneuvering left and right is possible
But not this time
Existence is of the straight and narrow realm
Excellence is defined in moving forward
Objects come and go without discernment
Vision of life is purely a blur of what is and what might become
As elements appear within that moment
Things pop in and out of sight from other world’s dimensions
Diagonalizing the matrix is not part of this equation or this discussion
Needs no explanation
It’s staying in this matter as a diversion just for reading pleasure
And because I said so and it sounds kinda cool
Someone from flat-land supports that view and said as much
Needs no permit from you
Who are from another dimension
The point is mute
So moving on
There is no sun and too few rules
In the dominion of two dimensions
Opinions vary on that point
There is no day
Things simply get in the way of understanding there
When going one way, which defines life in general
There is no light at the end of the tunnel
There is no tunnel
There is only straight ahead
Where abruptly all things end
On October the 7th, the precarious peace
of the disputed ancient lands began to cease.
The enraged avengers brought the Al-Aqsa flood
that deluged the Re'im music festival with blood.
Then very swiftly came the lopsided response
that decimated women and children at once.
The zionists' war machine sweeps the Gazan land,
rendering its closely compacted earth to flatland.
The Mosques, churches, schools, and hospitals are all gone.
Scores wail uncontrollably aloud as they mourn.
Having no point of refuge, refugees take flight
as they seek for bombshelters with no hopes in sight.
Hamas belligerents their explosive arrows throw
at overwhelmed defenses of an ageold foe.
Zionists with torrential explosives respond
with offensive operations within and beyond.
Oh that the Gaza strip might tranquility know!
Oh that the blood in the West bank would cease to flow!
Oh that Israel would flourish and as a nation grow!
Oh that the warring factions would the seed of peace sow!
Oh that the two warring factions would merry and dance!
Oh that the two state solution was given a chance!
The forest we planted
In the flatland of western Norway
where the wind has no hesitation rolling sheep into a woolly ball
horses turned their rump to the wind hung their heads
Refusing to plough, something had to be done.
Trees were planted and to our surprise survived but crooked and
strong because the soil was fertile.
When the trees grew strong the shielded fields, the land was plough-able
again and no chicken was carried away by the wind
except for ducklings but as we know, they are brainless.
People began erecting small cabins in the woods it was not legal
but the moist hands of the law lived in the towns, and there was a beach
nearby so white it blinded you.
When the law, awoke from the task of checking driving licenses,
they came but could do little except given the cabins a permit which was a bonus for the middle -classes who bought the cottages.
Got permission to build them more significant with white painted fences property
is essential, and gates were set up, no authorized people here,
this proves that money takes preference.
The Schooner
On the flatland between the vales I could see the sea, had been
walking uphill for a long time now, after the plain it was downhill
and the way to the coast was easy enough only it was getting
cold and I wore a light navy uniform. (had been on furlough)
Then I saw a protestant house of worship, but it was there on its
own no other houses to be seen not even a lone light from a farm.
A window was open and since it was also getting dark I was tired
I climbed in and rested on a pew.
Fell asleep, awoke and heard organ music the church was full of
matelotes singing psalms. The pastor spoke about sin, redemption
and god’s glory, then his flock silently left. Dawn, I saw a magnificent
sunrise, continued my walk to coast.
In a morning open café I told a girl behind the counter where I had
slept, she looked confused as far as she knew the church was
torn down years ago since it was haunted, as it was built of planks
of a schooner that ran aground with loss of all hands.