Long Gallery Poems
Long Gallery Poems. Below are the most popular long Gallery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gallery poems by poem length and keyword.
The heavy iron anchors dissolve,
giving up their iron shapes to the black fluidity below.
There is no coast left stubborn enough to anchor this tide.
The currents don’t just pull—they misplace the mind entirely.
We traded the absolute for a handful of the gray shade,
building a gallery of cheap mirrors
where everyone manufactures their own version of the light.
Look up: the sky is relative now,
and the soul’s quiet armor simply unlaces itself under that stare.
We are crowded, yet completely atomized.
Fifty people in a room, each sealed in a drywall box of their own design,
calling the silence peace
while the old, shared altars gather dust in the corner.
The origin story is beginning to rot.
We are intentionally scraping the marrow out of our history,
weeding the damp soil so fiercely
that we kill the very seed that brought us out of the ground.
The big myth split. It shattered into a thousand shallow creeks,
leaving nothing but the raw, tribal friction at our core.
Look at the cathedrals of institutional trust—
they aren’t falling; they are turning quietly to gray powder.
The middle is gone. The edges are frayed like old rope.
Something abstract and unreadable is climbing the numbers in the sky
while the heavy, physical foundations go dark.
An invisible mesh is being woven between the thought and the meat of the hand,
keeping our eyes amused with small lights
while the ground beneath the floorboards shifts an inch to the left.
The macro-rhythm finishes its circle.
It is a simple bending toward the dirt.
Just a tired civilization, sitting in the dark,
breathing on the cold coal,
forgetting the geometry of the spark.
I will never get my way with trouble that I borrow.
Looking for yesterday waiting for tomorrow.
Though I've heard it many times the answer still evades me
Live for today, they always say, yet I still can't seem to see.
Come Lord Jesus, take my hand.
Keep me from sinking in this sand.
Pull me up into the light
I need your guidance to help me fight.
Pretty pictures never taken in the gallery.
Unexposed and forsaken is his history.
The promise of hope, last knot on the rope.
A vision that he cannot see to help him cope.
Forever shines deep in the soul of those who sought.
Redemption and reason to explain what Jesus blood bought.
If you look, I think you'll see there's just no other way.
To remove the clouds that cover up the light in a new day.
There is no place where one can roam
where someone’s feet have not yet trod,
no islands we have yet to see,
few new peaks that leave us awed,
no vast prairie to set down in,
few jungles that we’ve not explored,
and yet still in the human heart
is the urge to discover more.
What happens if it is not met
is nothing good, that I can tell,
you must give us a new frontier
before we destroy ourselves.
What of all the ‘crazy’ loners,
who never really could fit in?
They once had places to flee too,
free of all the social sins,
places where they were left alone
to build a life in their own way,
now we just drug and medicate,
try and push them into the fray.
Then we wonder why they go and snap,
where our world is their living hell,
give the loners a new frontier
before they destroy themselves.
What of all the exploring types,
whose nature is always restless,
their minds not able to function
without always asking ‘what’s next?’
One world just isn’t big enough
to keep their energies contained,
and if they do not stay challenged
bad things happen within their brains.
The ‘frontiers of the mind’ might do
to keep them for a short spell,
but if we don’t have a real frontier
they will soon destroy themselves.
Something should be said of men,
and the hard truths inside our minds,
if we’re not building, pushing hard,
there’s no enjoyment in our lives.
Those great masculine powers that
built up our fine society
are not content with their laurels,
we must engage then, constantly.
Without frontier there’s only war,
and we all know that don’t end well,
turn men loose on a new frontier
before they destroy themselves.
What of our species as a whole,
on this small, blue rock in space,
a cosmic shooting gallery
which could so quickly life erase,
if we don’t do it first ourselves,
though so far we’ve ducked that blow,
our fractious nature keeps it near,
so we will need some place to go,
to ensure our story keeps on,
that we never see our death knell,
open the gates on a new frontier
before we all destroy ourselves.
…You know what? Forget you. We’ll do it ourselves.
Quote ”Expensive gifts are no substitute for love nonetheless a thoughtful gesture on one’s part leaves a lasting impression especially on a child.” By Poet
In my childlike innocence I was magically transfixed,
by this spherical glass object stunning in its Jack Frost design,
prismatic snowflakes that mystic magic carousel spellbound,
Christmas reindeer coterie that cast a wide charm bijou wink,
nirvana within luminous tantalising universal infant pneuma,
layer upon layer of compacted fallen snow as aftermath divine,
then weighty rucksack on Santa’s back of glitter tie band bundles, in boot slush transit knee-deep in annual mirth,
December pageant peering deep inside my mental cavern of cartoon fun,
reassuring hug from both parents is the essence of goodwill season ethos lofty,
they beamed with festive warmth so noble when watching me,
touch and glide that silken urchin hand of mine so impish,
on this prized hypnotic treasure captivating in its glow world sheen,
with its gilt-edged gallery of down the ages Noel features bountiful,
it had this red cheek sprightly offspring gazer in a trance,
a token souvenir star dazzle as eternal recall dwelling cosset,
including mesmeric Yuletide batch of swoon and sway serenades and tunes,
chorus boom o’er ice chill swathe from dome mould gift,
enough to goad and prompt that beneficial item I yearned for,
from benign folk Elysian who lavish so much radiant attachment without curb,
especially at foot of tree swaddled present to whet the curious,
till Doomsday nipper awestruck by dream fetish awash with flair,
cute whirl and swirl toy gadget a nebula for me the tiny tot,
whose imagination swept to the furthest North Pole sighting and beyond.
There is a painting at the art gallery,
That I have a very strong affection for;
It is a man who calls to me from the past,
He lived in the year 1670, long ago.
Long hair swept back from his face,
And those eyes so dark and fathomless;
Eyes full of passion and desire,
He does not smile yet I still adore him.
I want to reach out for this handsome man,
For he seems to be beckoning to me;
Come, is his soothing whisper echoing deeply,
Dignified his demeanor yet I know he is romantic.
Oh but if I could step within this frame,
Be in his world and in his time just for a moment;
He would caress my lips with his fingers,
And hold me within his strong arms.
And we would love each other forever,
He knows already that my heart is his alone;
We would entwine in desire and passion hungrily,
Oh yes, I have a strong affection for him.
But this is but an old painting on a wall,
And a tear falls as I reach out to touch his hand;
Then he is kissing me with lips so demanding,
And I am with him within this frame, forever.
___________________________
October 12, 2015
Poetry/Verse/He Has My Heart
Copyright Protected, ID 15- 716-623-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the July Premier Contest
sponsor, Brian Stand
Fourth Place
____________________________
Submitted to the contest, Romantic Poem
sponsor, Poet Destroyer
Sixth Place
Some will tell you,
that we hold a paper flower
in an endless night - who knows?
Some will say
only our dreams are awake
- who can tell?
Do we ride this cosmic river
in a leaking boat,
or are we all the radiance of the Buddha,
already enlightened -
maybe the paper bloom
is note fake aftercall.
Today we see a goat riding a donkey,
Tomorrow that same scraggy goat
is the mighty arch-angel Michael
and the donkey is your mind;
a shining steed
for one thousand more angelic beings.
We don’t have to take one picture
and hang it up forever.
The picture gallery is endless
and always evolving.
Some say that this world is on fire
but then again
maybe we are that refining fire?
Many contend
that it’s possible to see
what others will always miss
or miss what other’s will always see.
Who knows?
A new tongue between old lips,
or an old tongue between new lips;
let your tongue
and lips be strangers.
Perhaps that paper flower
is a symbol of our impermanence,
or just maybe a perfectly created sign
of an ever flowering eternity -
that just might be.
That day she decided to speak
For too long they had called her meek
She woke up early
Decided she'd wear something that would compliment her curvy
Spent hours on her hair making sure each and every follicle was extra curly
She wore dark red lipstick to cause a lot of controversy
Her mom saw her said she won the lottery
With a daughter so powerful she belonged in a gallery
Knowing her daughter found her voice watching her walk to school proudly
Walking to school people stop and stare
In awe of her hair
And the way she walks with flair
She was going to be her schools nightmare
She decided her presence would speak on behalf of herself
She would stay silent and wouldn't open her mouth
After all this is what they wanted
So she decided their wish would be granted
She knew the power she held would make her a target
That thought made her even more motivated
Her blackness thrived of their hatred
Walking in seeing their faces
The once shy black girl had stepped into her greatness
They hated the way the sun kissed her skin
The way it focused all its attention
On making her golden
Her hair A field of curls
They envied her shape, her body, her curves
They hated to so see a confident black girl
The red on her mouth said more than words could say
She wouldn't let anyone get in her way
All those bullies who hated in her skin
Wanted to throw her confidence in a bin
They couldn't stand to see a black person win
They knew her self worth was their biggest problem
And now that she knew their system
She would not become it's victim
St. Milt’s Grand Opening today
Come and celebrate with us
On Martin Luther King Day
Worldwide choirs and gospel music
Singing MLK’s best loved hymns
Mahalia Jackson, Nina Simon
It’s grand opening, today
“Poetry Kids” reciting poems
Perfect for honoring the mission
Of this humble man, preacher, and scholar
It’s Martin Luther King Jr. Day
Celebrate the great works he
Did for the Civil Rights Movement
Come and see our gallery
Recitals of Dr. King’s “We Shall Over Come”
“The Dream” his glorious words
That all men are created equal
Representing love and non-violence
We are serving MLK’s favorite foods
MLK was a minister, father, husband
And a son of the South
Here are the foods he loved to eat
Classic Southern foods we all love
A big Sunday meal
Southern delicacies
Fried Chicken
Sweet Potatoes
Pickled Eggs
Smothered Steak
Macaroni and Cheese
Collard Greens
Warm buttermilk cornbread
Quilly-Dr. King’s mother’s recipe
Pecan Pie
Where do we go from here?
Dr. King because of you, we are
Fairer and freer than in your time
Bigotry began to fade
More justice for all
Progress has been made
Dr. Martin Luther King,
You’ll march on in our spirits
Dr. Martin Luther King`s dream lives on
Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into friend--Martin Luther King Jr.
In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends—Martin Luther King Jr.
a limning rush of sinister
fiery angry flames bent avast
analogous copse,
where every limb bough, bore full
roaring furnace hot blast
spewing weighty incendiary volcanic
magmatic eruption out classed
Krakatoa, no longer the benchmark,
sans most powerful trajectory arc
this latest supernatural phenomena poetic
pre sent dent trumpeting not don
shearing, slamming,
and stripping off tree bark
(most definitely paging the innocuous Clark
Kent, where like loess lain
during Pleistocene Epoch
rendered, manifested dark
kenning shroud likened
to world wide webbing em brace
where lava floes easily did
(like a poetic souped up Chevy)
out to chase innocent prey
smoothing over (akin to mason,
or gigantic glazier) clearly shining deface
of planet Earth with a smooth glassy like face
though starkly barren, bereft, bilked
every last trace of civilization
nonetheless exhibiting amazing grace
which global catastrophic event poo tin brake
fast upon ONE haughty, egoistic
arrogant *****Sapiens chief drake
particularly Reich king machine "FAKE"
superman usurping free reign crowning himself
totalitarian American tyrant,
bare ring his right arms
emulating gesticulation sans dictatorship
of the Proletariat make
pact with credo of Karl, Harpo,
Groucho, and Chico Marx,
where mortals DID NOT quake
especially empowered youths
asper grassroots action they did take.
Ottawa the beautiful-
in the province of Ontario . . . in Canada
at night it is a magical fantasy land and even during the day . . .
I grew up in this town and I love it the Parliament buildings are breathtaking
Neo-Gothic surrounds a grass courtyard used everyday by citizens from dawn
and into the night with sounds and light shows music and words
projected onto Parliament . . . the center of Ottawa is a mingling of
grand Victorian and modern the result is quite stunning
we have a place called the Byward Market
where farmers and craft people sell each day and at night it is a gathering of
restaurants and clubs . . .
the historic Rideau Canal is full of boats in the summer . . . skaters in
the winter considered the longest skating rink in the world and on each side
it is park lined there are areas of the city quite ethnic like Little
Italy Chinatown . . any kind of museum I love the
National Art Gallery of Canada tons of festivals and performing arts
nature can be found in our many wild parks lush and green and with snow
covered paths in the winter if you want white water rafting we have it
horse back riding fairs you name it we have places you will love . . .
just walk around old neighborhoods it so inspiring to see the homes in
many parts of Ottawa . . . this is a town that I love
and I know you would love it too . . .
Whenever, I have to leave I hold Ottawa in my heart until I return.
_______________________
April 7, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/Bask In Historic Beauty
Copyright Protected, ID 17-844-921-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.