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.
Clear blue bliss calmly gazing in tinted hazy summer charm,
Cars are moving, music playing.
Sudden dim, turns into shade the flatland horizon in fear I gaze
the wall of death that chaos unknown, mothers nature's touch
Well known.
The cold breeze shunt my view at hand
The recipe is right, when your in this land.
this honey-trap, this leap of faith has left these towns with much at stake
That twisted column of water and dust, of building, of people
Much loved in much trust.
these mobile beacons of unknown reason silhouette the sketch of death.
In it's path those temples of humanity, those monuments of duty passed,
sitting like a anchor of hope in the path of the giants choke.
The innocence of nature has executed it's instinct and shown reminder of
mankind's weakness.
And all is gone by a funnel of ash, siren ringing aloud in terror
Destruction ended....here comes another.
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!
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
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
Mean Machine
The locomotive was an old mean machine
only used for carrying gods at local stations along
boring flatland. Once it had been a young and
the President of Portugal rode on it, not only him
but many other high up all the way to Lisbon.
And now? It wanted to go hiding somewhere dark,
but where does one conceal an iron horse?
The train passed near the parking lot in Faro
I was out with my dog, and there I could let her
run free. There was a hole in the fence were
the tracks. Naturally, she jumped through.
She saw the train that seemed to speed up
with murderous intent when she jumped clear it
was too late. I had her buried and the following
days were long and full of sadness.
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.
My Serengeti
I have neglected to visit my “Africa”, the flatland between
two hills that appear like a young mother`s breasts.
I know the trees and bushes, used to drive there to say hello.
Time changes I have no motorbike.
On the road driving to the shop, I can see the valley, yellow digger
And blue tractors near the wadi where I once saw a brown crocodile
waiting for rain.
Once I saw a tiger leisurely walking across the lane.
A hyena laughed and said it was not here.
They are building a new Algarve type village with swimming pools
and an ambitious golf course.
But not for you and me.
No, I will not look at how work progress let my dream be intact.
But I do wish a tsunami would come and wash it all away.
Alas, nothing stays the same like the olive tree at the entrance of my driveway.
I have lost my kaleidoscope
The schooner
On the flatland between the vales, I could see the sea
I had walked uphill for a long time, after the downhill
and the way to the coast, it was easy, but it was
getting cold, I wore a light navy uniform (Furlough)
I saw a protest house of worship on its own no other
Houses nearby this place would do.
I fell asleep, awoke and heard organ music, the church
full of matelotes singing psalms; the paster spoke
of redemption and the glory of God.
I saw a superb sunrise continued my walk to the coast.
In the morning an open café, I told the girl behind the
counter, where I had slept, she looked confused as far
as she knew the church had been torn down, it was
built of planks when of a schooner ran aground with
the loss of all hands.
The bubble is bound to burst
before long; therefore at least
A gondola you should opt for
For letting loose your emotions
Loaded with almost all oceans
Curved currents and foams
Potential fear amidst delight
and excitement; your sights
blurred by beauty that roams
along the edges of the figure
Flooding your whole existence
Mopping off all distance
Of time and space in braincase
Only the embrace, you write
and replace, the lips and face
In cloud base and fireplace
In cold case and in a horse race
Mewing wooing cooing
Howling, growling, prowling.
Doing, undoing and redoing
Life is never a straight line
Bland canned and flatland
It's waist band and dreamland
Fascinating woodland
Crescent and fluorescent
Incessantly effervescent
So no monochrome of woe
No saying always not and no
Instead, the bugle of gusto
In the meadow with a rainbow
Always the wonderful gun
In your lovely hair-bun
___________________
18 September 2025