Long Full scale Poems
Long Full scale Poems. Below are the most popular long Full scale by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Full scale poems by poem length and keyword.
In Sumer land, you first appeared.
A potent god, both loved and feared.
Queen of Heaven, joined to its lights.
Moon your father, Sun your brother.
Venus was your symbolic star.
You were too, a goddess of war.
Fierce, fiery, passionate, and proud,
violent storms raged in your breast.
Goddess of sexuality,
and patron of the prostitutes
Your worship involved sexual acts,
Your temple housed your prostitutes.
Enchantress you, and sorceress,
goddess of magic and of spells.
You spur desire and alter forms,
despising all societal norms.
You changed your face to suit your space,
And you are known by many names.
Ashtoreth, Astarte, Inanna,
Aphrodite, Venus are you.
You are a female and a male,
with power to transform and mar.
You turn a woman into a man
and a man into a woman.
You ruled the cultures of the past,
and held sway over regions vast.
But when the Christian message came,
men’s hearts were changed, and you lost fame.
Your temples famed relics became,
as worshippers no longer came.
Your cult faded as all cults do,
when men discover what is true.
You lost your lure for centuries,
while men to God their knees did bend.
But as their faith began to wane,
your fame you did, slowly regain.
You spurred a revolt on sex norms,
then inverted natural sex forms.
You blurred lines between the sexes,
breeding in minds that which perplexes.
Today you wage a full-scale war,
designed to destroy and to mar.
You plan to squash man’s soulish bent
and from him every virtue rent.
Wake up my fellow human beings.
Consider what these grim lines mean.
Ishtar wants to destroy your soul,
But God desires to make you whole.
There was a man... you told them a fine tale.
His fields brought forth gem-like grains in full scale.
Was it his heart or his barns, in truth, small?
What blocked him from hearing the divine call?
Your physique and psyche are in your grains.
You don't care to hear common human pains?
Though grains of the whole cosmos you might save
Shouldn't you, friend, finally find your grave?
Should there be disputes here for mundane goods?
Does wealth bind even wild beasts in the woods?
Storing gems and pearls, you've lost your time.
Do you think when you die, wedding bells will chime?
You are a steward; no wealth is your own.
Won't another feast on it when you're gone?
Mere mortal body has to die, but what of mind?
Brain transplants are defeated by mortal neurons, that will all eventually age and fail.
Uploading minds to robot super computer brains, is immortality's holy grail.
For conscious mindful robot bodies can become the new mankind.
Abandoning frail mortal flesh to dust in grave, or ash in smoke, consigned.
You can replace your robot host with the latest model each year, for an image refresh and tech upscale.
Your mind downloaded from brain to computer can be uploaded, again and again, full-scale.
The mind-file then can then live forever, immortal mind to replaceable robot body, uploaded and maligned.
But what would it be like to live inside a metal box forever?
With metal arms and legs covered in fake skin, denied the thrill of flesh,
Without the sensual joys of touch and feel, of imbibing food and drink, and all other such pleasure.
Would a life immortal in a tin can be worthwhile, even with regular robot refresh?
Despite all the simulations, gadgets, fake this and that, would this really be the answer?
Or is mind so tied to mortal body that a senseless mind, immortal in computer chip, could never really mesh?
Summer arrives
and so does the pollen~
a tiny, floating army
armed with microscopic nun chucks
and zero remorse.
My nose becomes a weather siren,
blaring at every breeze.
My eyes water like I’m reading
the saddest novel ever written,
though I’m only looking at a tree.
Sneezes erupt with the force
of minor natural disasters.
Birds scatter.
Neighbors stare.
Small dogs reconsider their life choices.
I try to be graceful,
but grace is impossible
when your face is a faucet
and your sinuses are staging
a full-scale rebellion.
Still, I step outside~
brave, heroic, and congested
because summer is beautiful,
even if I can’t see it clearly
through the allergy apocalypse.
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with pot, hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
A mural painter? Why not? I asked myself.
My husband was inside, glued to a Lazy-Boy recliner
watching five TVs simultaneously.
He would not have a fit about something he did not see, right?
How often does he come to the porch anyway?
I began to plot out my legacy, something to leave the family.
To reassure them that their assessment of me is sound.
I am crazier than a mouse running into a cat’s mouth.
I was grinning as wide as I have ever grinned, as I plotted.
Drawing my ideas out in full scale, with pencil.
What to plan? Faeries, dragons, witches, gypsies, unicorns too.
All of my canvases are done in cartoon form; I am a natural at this.
I wanted more colors though, at least twenty of them.
I took inventory of my mural paints – red, black, gold, green, pink, blue.
Ordered sixteen more colors; this is going to be gloriously gaudy.
My sister came over when I was drawing the idea out in pencil.
It was going to be large; fifty feet long; covering the entire back of the house.
“I wouldn’t paint siding if I were you,” she said prissily.
Good thing she isn’t me, isn’t it?
And good thing she did not know my husband was home.
She is a tattle-tale in addition to being brazenly bossy.
I thought I had all I needed,
I rested on my oar,
I thought all had been mended,
I had everything to soar.
Naïve and inexperienced I was,
Someone had to put me through,
It was a different battlefield and the wars,
Were not what I thought was true.
The instructions came at the eleventh hour,
Nothing much to salvage,
I couldn’t be pulled up the tower,
I had caused permeable damage.
I fought to get back on my feet,
All was to no avail,
There were a plethora of requirements to meet,
I ran but didn’t entirely prevail.
I have laboured for others,
Gave all my time and left my desires,
Opportunities came but like toddlers,
I didn’t see the current flowing through the wires.
I'm on a full-scale run,
Before the door closes on my turn.
April 2, 2022.
My Foolish Heart Cash Prize Poetry Contest.
L. Milton Hankins.
Another war, another truce
Israel leaves so many ends loose, and yet
Dozens die, so Thousands may live
The horrific result full-scale war might give
The Jewish State pulled out of Gaza in 2006
As thanks, it's had aught but terror attacks since
Yet, retaking Gaza with a punishing all-out assault
Of that, Israel is not (at all) convinced ...
What's the best way to handle this stubborn impasse
Time has a way of coming to the rescue --
Look! Egyptian and Israeli soldiers ~ friends at long last*
________________________________________________
*Nearly fifty years after the deadly Yom Kippur War of 1973,
Egyptian and Israeli soldiers, once the bitterest of enemies,
embraced publicly, openly weeping in each other's arms, at
a 'joint ceremony' at Ben Gurion Airport in 2022.
Our spine is a harp of thirty three strings,
each vertebra sounding a unique note,
which when touched by kundalini grows wings,
that in the vast void, presence may free float.
Thirty three nodes, thirty three rings of light,
full scale of a rainbow, beyond seven,
vertebrae on which we sense bliss delight,
Jacob’s ladder that takes us to heaven.
Such is the truth by consciousness affirmed,
esoteric wisdom sung in folklore,
which in some scattered scriptures is confirmed,
known in stillness, when we open heart’s door.
Oh worthy hermit, bookmark not this page ~
Vaporise ego to become a sage
Full-scale warfare precipitates between two factions.
Many men tumble because of these actions.
What really started this thing, I do not know.
Both sides want to control the City of Chicago.
Police crack down on illegal gambling.
They are also after prostitution and bootlegging.
Within the city government, there is corruption and scandal.
It appears there is an excess for them to handle.
As far as citizens like us, things are not too fine.
They are as bad as ever in February 1929.
I heard many shots ringing out downstairs this morning.
A massive bloodbath has taken place without warning.
They say there are seven men lying face down on the floor.
The culpable individuals are not around anymore.
The responsible killers absconded without being seen.
The aftermath of this action is a most horrible scene.
On this Valentine’s Day morning, we are seeing too much red.
Seven members of Bugs Moran’s gang are now dead.