Long Flown Poems
Long Flown Poems. Below are the most popular long Flown by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flown poems by poem length and keyword.
The Truth is the Gift of Gods Word
for it's understanding the habitation has stirred
softly upon spirit we listen to it's call
comprehension to it's voice like a seed is small
Can you understand the wise man's riddle
apprehend interpretation the narratives trail
from beginning to end surround the middle
without understanding it's Truth you may fail
Upon the Truth are your heavens fixed
the hearing upon earth with lies are mixed
to many have reached a state of complacency
the cares of this life has choked ability
You lead upon paths unknown
a flight those having wings have flown
I tell you upon the rise of each day
that you must lead and show us the way
Oh Shepherd like a lamb you guide me
for I am lost to the flock without thee
My Lord and my God you have called us out
faith in you but confidence in self do doubt
With every gesture you affirm the way
yet evermore before me do my sins lay
I look around upon those I do see
whose lives are worth much more than me
The seventh day Jehovah has blessed
where mankind will enter into his rest
abundance of joy will fill the earth
as Gods Kingdom has given birth
The fruit of her labor is worldwide
she will wipe the tears her children have cried
Gods woman has brought forth Life
she will train the children remove their strife
You are God from the womb of my mother
have preserved me from violence of brother
your handmaiden as captive I serve
given more than anyone here deserve
I listen to the music of your call
understand I grace given since fall
for to live is Christ and to die gain
and within the hand of your Love remain
Forsake me not when I reach that hour
frail woman in mankind has not power
give me courage so I don't therein cower
for I have beheld the future from your tower
Oh my gentle Lord your path holds no discord
our seas turned to glass when we do as asked
neath your wisdom do kneel as truth you reveal
all thinking given you and insight given true
Hold me close and in your arms
for hear I do the trumpets alarms
you have signified my death
for those you love I give my breath
Hold my hand on the path you take
for I am weak and easily brake
a thing that is soft and frail
for those you love like Lord impale
Now I know the path to you
by example your loved showed true
willing I am to give you my life
like anointed Son did for wife
source JOHN 3:16 Romans 12:1-2
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C Michael Miller
I told my secret so dear to the babbling brook.
Across pebbles and stones my secret it took.
It held my secret for miles along its ebb and flow.
Once reaching a raging river, it let my secret go.
So, I whispered my secret into the grasses so high.
I heard them murmuring to each other “but why?”
I thought about my secret under a fluffy cloud.
And wondered what would happen if I told it aloud.
I thought about the repercussions, it made me cry.
I lay thinking about my secret looking up at the sky.
I decided not to divulge the secret that I will keep.
And even then, uncontrollably my eyes began to weep.
I decided to keep my truest secret, of the one I adore,
Else my treasured secret, won’t be a secret anymore.
Else my treasured secret, won’t be a secret anymore.
I’ll only tell it to the wind, as I have never done before.
The wind will carry my secret to its heights unknown
There by the wind my secret may be tossed and flown
Safely along roadways, then along a tree lined avenue.
Where no-one will ever be able to tell that secret flew
Trouble struck when dear wind took on a different form,
And passed my secret to the eye of a brewing storm.
Swirled about, flashed by lightning and by thunder struck,
Then graciously saved by a rainbow, bearing so much luck.
My secret became enhanced by colors in all kinds of hue.
Now there was absolutely nothing that I could possibly do.
So, I guess it’s the time, (I’m only guessing), it’s really true,
So, I will reveal my treasured secret to all, especially you.
So, I will reveal my treasured secret to all, especially you.
The nice thing about my secret is that it is very true.
There is something very special about this secret of mine.
I have kept it close to my heart safe, true and quite fine.
When it is time to let it be known then I shall let it slide.
I will shout from the rooftops, shout it far and most wide.
I will offer it to the universe and splendidly say it with pride.
The joy of revealing my secret will make me warm inside.
But wait, brook, pebbles, stones, grasses, river and the cloud,
The storm, rainbow, road, avenue and wind, all make a crowd..
Maybe I have told enough of my wonderful secret now.
I fear my secret is already out and quite well known somehow.
Maybe I should just let my secret known, when I write a book.
I told my secret so dear to the babbling brook.
Janice Avery loved deep green nature; like cherry sunset owls, gawping.
She dwelt with her parents and Sissy, when old, golden days were walking.
They lived out in the hilly country, where orangeish stars could be seen;
And summer seemed to last forever, for days held a predominate sheen.
Noons were filled with happiness laughter, that foreshadowed pink moon.
Life was young, but blue world was old. Burgundy butterflies left cocoons!
Mauve fog was doing its fadeaway, as never failing, friends came calling;
When feisty fandango flowers flopped-in scent breezes, sweetly recalling!
Future blooms were dreaming buds, in the spring of faultless, family visits,
Via paths, lined with flowers of familiar hues. Birds sang in willow thickets.
Janice lived in the house of cool shadows, beneath lovely, sheltering oaks;
With colored birds at each window! Back fences, saw many tales and jokes!
Rich, raspberry sun lent sights to remember, on their road of blue flowers.
'Ere reverent night fell richly! Like marmalade change, expected in hours.
Numerous hued clouds were etched nebulously, on dusk skies, blackberry,
When nostalgic neighbors came fondly, as a turquoise moon rose, solitary.
'Midnight valentine' camillas felt Cupid's arrows, under yellow stars of thrall;
And 'Lady Margaret' passionflower vine, in burgundy, crept late to the ball!
'Gay goblin' flowers indulged red revelry, as 'brilliant lilies' rivaled the sun;
When 'sultry scarlet' blooms pined for sunset, like nostalgic noon, undone!
Janice was a birdwatcher, for she loved pretty songbirds' chirps and trills;
But, she wanted to see them up close! So, she put seed on her windowsill.
One day as she was entering the room, she saw a red cardinal, hopping;
And pecking her seed as he hopped. Janice ran, but he was not stopping!
Yet, Janice had gotten a good glimpse of red, like sunset skies, before dark;
With a shake he'd flown into azure sky, destnation garden, or green park.
Janice realized moments are precious, and the briefest, might be golden;
And those are the ones most likely to revisit, once twinkling time is olden!
'Once I saw a little bird
Go hop, hop, hop,
So I said: – little bird,
Will you stop, stop, stop?
Then I was going to the window
To say "How do you do?"
But he shook his little tail,
And away he flew!'
History of the Star Spangle Banner
Maybe idea of Major George Armistead
The glory of Americans who scan her
Of Mary Pickersgill she was begat
The creation of the original flag
Be still a subject highly debated
Mary Pickersgill was not one to brag
Old Glory she made, beauty wind inflated
Armistead first requested it to be
A large garrison flag for reason
So the British have no trouble to see
Good to see our flag has flown in season
Fifteen colonies equal fifteen stars
Having eight red stripes and seven white stripes
Red and white stripes run in parallel bars
She flows in glory apart from other types
Rumor has it two glories were first made
For a small and a large Mary did charge
A document exists a bill was paid
Though small one be lost or is still at large
The varied small Star Spangled Banner
Never made it home to the Smithsonian
Would be nice to see displayed in some manner
In national museum the large is on loan!
For Contest Dazzle us with History
For Carolyn Devonshire and James Frazer
The History of the Real Star Spangled Banner
The creation of the original flag is still a debated subject.
However, the general story accepted by most historians is that Mary
Pickersgill was commissioned to make the flag by Major George Armistead
for $405.90. Following the victory at Fort McHenry, the flag was preserved
by Col. Armistead and it remained in the Armistead family. A smaller one
which was flown during the actual battle, and a larger one that was
flown as a replacement immediately after the British retreat.
This was a common wartime practice of the period.While no one
can say for sure what really happened, documents exist that show that
Mary Pickersgill was paid for two separate flags, a small one and
a larger one. If the smaller flag exists, its whereabouts are unknown.
In 1907, George Armistead’s grandson, Eben Appleton, expressed
interest in donating the flag to the state of Maryland or to the city of
Baltimore. After discussions with Maryland’s governor and the Mayor of
Baltimore, Appleton eventually placed the flag on loan to Smithsonian Institution
and it was displayed in the Hall of History at the National Museum of American
History. The loan was converted to a gift in 1912 and can still be
seen at the National Museum in Washington, D.C.
Tell all the worlds about the treasures found
Renaissance trace spellbound in the ancient form,
Tender and haunting; an era of time curves around
Past the present to a future beset with tech charm.
Historical pages cling romantically to our eyes,
Each epoch defines a sparkling gem of surprise,
Their fluttered rebirth is like stars changing sizes
Release by time flown from the damp demise.
That dip their limbs to bow unto gloss modernity
Like the artist and sculpture, they paint a world.
Of aesthetic peculiarities and lofty discovery,
Longing to find a place soaring free in the soul.
A vault of citadels says much; then said no more
Deep within, ancient wonders rise from the ashes
Talented beauty weaves from centuries we adore,
The time and place asleep in a waste wilderness.
The plague of colors survives in medieval triumph,
England, a literary monument of architect literature.
Finds the noble heart to express cherished breath
Creating the etiquette claimed by French culture.
Such dept alone could not be paid by metamorphism
Humanism fading in a mist has its place in society,
Heightened with extreme lust and erotic mannerism,
Italy removes the conscious veil from bizarre reality.
Ceiling significant through music strings serenade,
Renaissance dazed; allusion lay dreaming half awake
The inquisition of fate went on pilgrimage made,
German sentence commute through the classical gate.
The Netherlands explore and navigate all the distances
Byzantine adherence goes beyond impregnable walls,
depict faces of the Tsars persist in the military hypothesis,
And labyrinths take refuge in Russian banqueting halls.
The richest measured proportion of distilled beverage,
Vodka values more than all the dull limited senses,
Spanish religion repository of the myths and rage
Set the path where new western experience commences.
Portugal selfie, the pinnacle piece that thirsts for commerce
Lisbon flourished paints and medicines with Flemish.
Poland concept and conflict gain border land dominance,
Spice trade rises high and makes indiscreet allusion flourish.
We travel far beyond renaissance to the greatest monument,
When the transition of culture from the middle age evolved
Mesmerized art is a rediscovery of an enduring cultural movement,
The monarch of the Roman Empire renaissance man inspired.
As I awake I hear singing coming from the window Opening up the blue curtains I see trees swaying in the breeze Looking closer I see a bird's nest Little ones waiting for breakfast Where is mom with their food Here comes mom with breakfast in bed
At the end of a busy day before I hop into bed I must check out the window for my little new friends They have been tucked into their bed of twigs Now I must be tucked into my bed of soft blankets
Each morning I awake to singing As the weeks go by the singing is getting louder The little ones are getting bigger They are getting a beautiful feather coat
Today I awakened to no singing I ran to my window and tore open the blue curtains The nest was now enemy My friends had grown up and flown off The mama bird sat looking at me We both felt sadness as a tear ran down our checks
Date Written:7/20/2021
Finding Your Muse Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
PUNISHING LIES
About: This poem was actually written a few days ago. Earlier this month and last month, a grew a bit of anger in me. This anger was forged and created by the people around me. And, so because of how I angry I was the best way I dealt with it. Was, by writing through poetry.
ATTENTION:This poem was originally posted on the websites:
wattpad.com and forums.familyfriendpoems.com
by the author, using the username: ricoelhady.
Grieve,
is the only word I hear,
when the clock stops ticking,
hitting and banging while,
my heart keeps skipping,
every beat of my life,
and every breathe ever used
I forget about the days,
when the light shines through the graves,
of yesterday,
the petals of love,
went flying through the sky,
scenting the harmony,
that was once forged in our hearts,
Through every second passing,
when I glance at your eyes,
I see nothing but the hate,
you flow to me,
the hate left for me,
Crazy as it seems,
your love means more to me,
than the falling sky,
of yesterday,
What ever have I done,
to let you think of me wrong,
I gave in all my love,
my hope for a life,
just to be with you,
but it craddles me wrong
The days that I stood,
glaring at you,
made me feel,
the world was tight in a bubble,
and nothing was ever wrong,
But the facts, and the lies, and states that you cried,
made me believe you,
even though,
your stature was pure to see,
but your flaw blinded me,
Never again,
will I see,
the kinds of you,
cuz I know now,
what it feels to be blessed,
with a mind like yours,
Torture and abundance,
dives deep into your heart,
the screaming and the lies,
that you penetrated through,
makes no difference of you,
Like you,
you made me feel so free,
but then you trapped me,
like birds in cages,
Creating nothing,
but the fear you deserve,
the anger I felt,
the anger I kept
But, now,
the shed of tears,
that I allowed to flow,
dries so harsh,
that rivers have flown
My heart full of blood,
pumped out no more,
never ever,
will I breathe your name,
no more
Your life,
your name,
your beauty,
and your voice,
means no more,
than the grave you belong
Hush and quite,
were you,
as a demon,
live so far,
in red and hot flames,
of God's belly
In the realm where indigo flames are chased by the whims of wind,
The horizons have learned to spare my soul the thread of pain.
For the first time, of love I croon, a minstrel's virgin strain,
From tempests of discord, I retreat, in tranquility's refrain.
This inaugural chant of love, echoes pure without disdain,
For I swear off the brawl, in love's gentle domain.
Where once I stood, a rust-worn grove, static, stark, alone,
Rushing to women and vodka's call, a raucous, rampant drone.
No more do I crave the bitter swig or the gambler's eager tone,
To squander life on trivial plays, in reckless zest overblown.
The thirst has waned for liquid vice, and from dice's call I've flown,
The mirth of wasteful life is lost; to sober thought I've grown.
In silence vast, it's enough to gaze, upon your lofty eye's domain,
To watch the sky in your orbs dance, and forget all former bane.
And by your side, to forget the past, that you may never again roam,
That in the face of bygone shadows, you'll find with me a home.
Erasing every trace of yesteryears, that you may never by your leave,
No other's call shall you heed, in this new magic weave.
You tread so lightly, my precious smile, if your heart but knew the void,
How a rogue can love with fervent zeal, by fierce passion overjoyed.
How a libertine, once untamed and wild, can become so demure and coy,
His heart can surge in dutiful tide, a reverent, tender employ.
To fathom a reprobate's tender care, and see him humbly deploy,
The love that in his depths were hid, now in sunlight's gleam and joy.
The tavern's lure, forever lost, would evade my restless feet,
Poetry's verse would mean naught if your cold arms were my retreat,
And if I could touch those frost-kissed arms, and your autumnal hair so sweet.
Let me feel the chill of your embrace, fall's flowering guise complete,
To know the softness of your skin, in the fallen leaves' deceit,
As if touching the season's finale bloom, so delicate, so fleet.
Eternally I'd follow you upon this Earth's expanse,
Distance would shift to trivial space, with each tender glance.
For the first love I sing a tune, a soft, untried advance,
From the tempests of old I part my way, giving peace a chance.
Again, of love, a newfound song - with sweet, melodious cadence,
First time away from strife I sway, in love's echoing resonance.
I'm a firm believer
In limerick fever
(This isn't news)
"It'll cure the blues!"
Says Jan (who is no deceiver)
Written by Jan Allison:
Writing limericks is a fine art
Yes I write about poop or a fart
But show me someone
Whose not dropped a ‘bomb’
then from poetry soup I’d depart!
Written by Lim'rik Flats:
Does art mimic life or life mimic art?
Don't ask me, I'm not too smart.
It seems the soup
Has the same poop
As watching the news (or a fart).
Drama and trauma, factions and foes,
Smiting and fighting, (hard on the nose),
Saves me the trouble
Of viewing double
Saves time, and less grief I suppose.
Written by Ray Gridley:
Raise a toast to this collaboration
Whatever your race or your nation
Just write on a whim
Lim'rick Flat's bound to grin
They are all going to be a sensation!
Written by Daniel Turner:
I know a guy called Lim'rick Flats
Writes limericks at the drop of a hat
Jan is his pal
She's quite a gal
They met in a laundry mat
Jan makes jokes about poop
he puts them in alphabet soop
drinks from the bowl
with no self control
which makes him a nincompoop
Also written by Daniel Turner:
Write all the limericks you want
but don't fart in a restaurant
people will laugh
call you riffraff
even if you're a debutante
Written by John Lawless:
oh the limerick it ain’t quite a sonnet
and the learned, they look down upon it
for they cannot grasp
its head or its ass
nor the cleansing effect of its tonic
Written by Terry Reeves:
Late for work she flew out the door
Took an express elevator to the 29th floor
Let some discreet killer farts
Nearly stopped all their hearts
Left them gagging; she'd evened the score
Written by Tim Smith:
Nonsense is here found out in the alley
Five funny lines we'll add to the tally
a smile or two
we laught till we're blue
so put out your best and join in our rally
Written by Alexis Y:
Hey what's going on in the soup?
Lim'rik Flats I want the scoop
What do you have to say?
You got poem of the day
Congrats, I shouldn't have flown the coop
Written by Jean Murray:
John is always fun.
His poems and their puns.
If you need a lift.
He has the gift.
Lim'rik Flats is number one.
psst. How could I not add this to the string? ~ john
Back straight, shoulders down. Straighten the computer. Stop staring at the purple walls.
Light the candle once, twice, three times -- why won’t it light? --
before the flame finally catches,
filling the room with the scent of pine.
Breathe in, breathe out. Start typing.
Sunlight slants across my fingertips, and I turn to face the source
impossibly far from the window.
The clouds are tinged the golden white of times flown by,
of the yarn of the Fates that winds tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter in your chest until you’re suffocating, asphyxiating, gasping for breath, panic turning your body to crumbling stone.
The mushrooms know this process well. It’s been inscribed in their DNA since well before humans were graced with the knowledge of how to care for their dead.
Over the eons, they’ve befriended Time and Death alike.
What would I give to have such an intimate connection with the two?
To sit back amongst shadows that drape me like a blanket rather than grip me like a vise?
Too much time has passed. Too many seconds lost. Time, time, time, slipping away from my scrambling fingers.
Can’t grip the yarn; too silky, too precious. The Fates wove quality too fine for mortals to grasp.
Clear thoughts like an etch-a-sketch, sending fireglow hair flying. Breathe in, breathe out.
Start typing.
The words that appear are damn near incomprehensible, shrouded and hidden by
ghosts of memories that weave themselves through my thoughts.
A dark lake house lit by candles and the fire in my eye as I take my grandma “exploring”
over forest-colored carpet and around oak tables,
a land she’s already familiar with.
How do I rectify that vision with what’s facing now?
112 feather-light pounds of gray hair and fading eyes,
reality’s cruel reward for a life of purpose and love.
I’m scrambling to keep up with all the changes, but my grasp is slipping.
Suddenly she’s falling faster than we thought.
The heater’s white noise is the only constant,
the handfuls of M&Ms the only distraction.
I’m all too aware of the bills I’m racking up,
too cognizant that synthetic dopamine only shoves away what’s real,
but I’m crumbling too fast to care.
Shaky breath in. Straighten the computer. Stop staring blankly at the purple walls.
There’s too much to do; the future’s jumping down your throat and running away.
Start typing.