Long Geography Poems
Long Geography Poems. Below are the most popular long Geography by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Geography poems by poem length and keyword.
It began not with a crash, but a slow leaking of color,
A heavy velvet curtain, drawing shut upon the sun.
For years, I lived in the basement of my own mind,
Where the air was thick, and the mirrors only held
The pale reflection of a ghost I used to know.
I learned the geography of the void,
The silent, arctic cold of a heart that dared not beat
For fear of breaking.
Then came the slow, stubborn, agonizing rise.
It was not a sudden flight, but a creeping vine
Pushing through concrete, a single jagged leaf
Turning toward a sun that felt too bright, too loud.
I learned to forgive the bed that held me captive,
To praise the hands that could only tremble
Lift a cup of tea.
I traded the grand, sweeping hope of the healthy
For the quiet, minute-by-minute survival.
I learned that recovery is not a straight line,
But a spiral, revisiting old shadows with new light,
Woven of small, unglamorous mercies:
The smell of rain, the warmth of tea, the breath
That moves in and out without asking why.
Now, the silence is not a prison, but a sanctuary.
I am a mapmaker of my own scarred landscape,
Mapping the deep ravines of past sorrow
And the surprising, vibrant flowers that grew
Only because of the rain.
I am whole, not despite the broken pieces,
But because I learned to gather them,
And hold them, gently, in the palm of a tender,
Hard-won, and beautiful life.
“An enormous sea contained in constant motion;
global pic of the Pacific Ocean.”
quote by Poet
I’ve trekked some of the Pacific Ocean;
from San Diego to Victoria.
An enormous sea contained in contant motion
sporting Hawaii and Pretoria.
Vasco Balboa first claimed it
for Spain, and all the land around
Ferdinand Magellen named it
calm, peaceful sea was what he found.
Renowned for currents, trade winds, the Chinooks ,
the Santa Anas and the monsoons of Asia.
I’ve only read of them in geography books;
Need to know more, request a Japanese geisha.
Of all the oceans’ waters, the Pacific stores
in gallons, some one hundred eighty quintillion,
half, or to be more specific it scores
over prolific square miles, sixty-three million.
In all my study, it is true
to my surprise, land o’ Goshen
a monstrous area of mostly blue
Google: “global pic of the Pacific Ocean”.
1.
any colour may be applied to the
night-dress
this city actually has no cart
driven by horses
before a pretty long time the shepherds
had also told adieu
by secret signalling the red-hat addiction
called the pigeons sitting on the broken sticks
of the antenna to come nearer
on those dead-news the travel-story
keeps awake by whole night
and pours down on eye-lids
clouds
wrapped with cellophane
one day that wave sent
rolling-down-on-the-back hair
to the yellow balcony
those are all ancient drama
in the glow of the back-light you can see
civic humps have grown up on the back
of the birds every day and night
yet
under the dead-stop ceiling fan the dance
of the virgin reel wet with sweat does not fall short
the paper-buckles with the flowers painted on it
gets more and more tight on the air of the throat
velpuris of the evening
offer full enjoyment
2.
the night that comes all walking on the sands of the desert
how much concern does she has about the navigability of the river
when the husk of the water-chestnut is got open
flowing down the waves bursting into a blaze
to that flow is open the motor-car
the wan procession
and all the fishes that want to go upward the wave
so many varieties of floating
if the matter of clouds be let off
the multi-coloured fingers
also have so many infotainments
if the question of moveable property is raised
it is only a suicide-note from my father
and a knot
in the robe of the blue trouser
3.
the trees and creepers of the night
and the plants and herbs of the day
do all of them have the same blood-group
there is much flora
inside the jail-custody also
and in this ruins of the old palace
how much is it justified
to express eagerness about the geography
of one’s character
specially of the trees
of the fishes
or of the humans
it is said
all rivers
flowing through the bodies of the great men
are totally virgin
there is also the blank desert
on the silent snow-valley
in the corner of your
lips
There are things along with many other folks I can recall
like an evil queen from “Snow White” saying, “Mirror mirror on the wall.”
Now I hear that instead of “Mirror Mirror” that queen said,
“Magic Mirror,” What’s this crazy thing I’m being fed?
“Sex in the City” I sure loved, but now I have found out
its title was “Sex AND the City.” There can be no doubt.
Another thing I thought that mostly everyone knew well
was that the fictional Curious George was a monkey with a tail.
Yet that monkey has no tail. That’s what I’m shown and told.
What’s happened to my memory? Has it gotten way too old?
“It’s a wonderful day in the neighborhood” sure sounds right to me
except Mr. Rogers said, “THIS neighborhood.” How could that ever be?
We are champions (of the world) was the Queen’s song’s ending line.
But “of the world” is now left off. Isn’t that just fine!
“ET phone home” I found so cute, but now I am feeling deranged.
It’s actually “ET home phone,” but wow, does that ever sound strange!
These are just a few examples. There are many many more
of things I’ve misremembered, and my jaw drops to the floor!
Jif peanut butter! Years ago, it was known as Jiffy.
Proof of that online today is obsolete to iffy.
Changes in geography and in the Bible too.
The more I study these effects, I know less what to do.
Thousands of us all are wrong; that’s what scientists say.
“False memories” they call it, explaining it away.
According to conspiracies, it all means something bad.
I’m better off to think folks like myself are just half mad!
July 7, 2018
For Caren Krutsinger's 'Quirky Things That Confound and Confuse Me' Contest
Written for “Autumn’s Breath” — Regina Mcintosh
18 August 2026
—Autumn Reverses the World—
The streams, insurgent against gravity, ascend
The hills, as though the sea reclaimed the blue it lent;
The roots, abjuring their chthonic covenant, climb
Through loam towards empyrean immensities beyond time;
The leaves, renouncing their ordained descent, return
To boughs, as though departure were a wound the trees unlearn;
The orchard, having spent its aureate inheritance, distils
From severance a green no summer’s plenitude fulfils;
At dusk, the firmament dilates beyond the visible sphere,
Whilst shadows, severed from their bodies, migrate where
No geography survives the sovereignty of light;
And frost, beneath the rose, engenders a subterranean night;
A seed, still unborn, remembers what birth has yet to know,
And thrusts its darkness skyward, making earth overflow;
Then Time, divested of its forward-moving throne,
recoils through every fallen leaf towards the future it disowned;
I breathe—and autumn enters not my lungs, but the place
Where being precedes its name, and becoming outlives its trace;
For Autumn does not breathe the dying year into its end—
It breathes the unborn through all we call the dead.
I walked into Dad's study and looked around
A wooden bull with ivory tusks stood its ground
a German Bayonet lay before lines of books, and
On the wall was an olde map of the holy land
Behind a schooner with three proud masts,
Lay volumes of worlds, of futures and pasts—
Palestine before the Hebrews, a Rhodesia Guide
Three Deserts, by Jarvis, hard to lift, I tried.
The Golden Bough and The Struggle for Greece
The Revolt of the Masses, The Golden Fleece
The Lost Possessions of England, Leviathan
The Firmament of Time, and Darwin's Descent of Man
Stonehenge, The Heathens, The 30 years war
Each topic a window, each book a door
An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, then On Tyranny
The Wealth of Nations, Jewish Confederates, A Goodly Tree,
The Medieval Village, Capitalism and the Jews
Fred Bastiat, Thomas Sowell, Dad had free market views
Texts of Geography, that was his trade
Shelf by shelf, in a proud parade.
I can't put my finger on why, I feel a sad chord
For knowledge should be its own reward
On much of this knowledge the world turned the page—
His room remains—his shrine, his stage.
Coercive Persuasion, On Aggression — much more to the list,
And framed on the wall, the lives that persist:
There's how Mom used to be, full of interests, just like him
I step into those hard streets; the world starts to spin.
The mind has peaks
no Sherpa knows
sudden drops
where thoughts
thin out
like oxygen
at twenty thousand feet.
Avalanche thoughts
bury certainty.
Your grip tears skin
on ice-sharp edges
of almost-understanding.
Below are the
crevasses deep
as yesterday's regrets,
echoing
familiar voices
lost in white.
Wind cuts through
the space between
base camp comfort
and what
waits above
the death zone.
Frostbite burns
circle your fingertips
the attempt
to hold
what altitude
has already
stolen.
Only the fallen
know the weight of thin air.
Only the hanging
over glacier cracks
know the value
of solid ground.
This terrible geography
some must
navigate alone.
Like a slow-moving westbound wagon train in 1887,
filled with brave souls departing a land of nightmares; or like
a 13-year-old in no-man's-land looking at 18 and wishing he could
push a button capable of fast-forwarding at least 5 years; Or like
a lazy and lonely Sunday afternoon without scenes or sounds.
Yes, it felt like the sands of time in the hourglass were made of snails.
It was a time and place never loved by me, but it was where my story
began. It was the blessed home of the privileged few and the very rich.
It was the unfortunate abode of the underprivileged and the very poor.
It was a piece of American geography that never felt like home to me.
My best dream was that time would grow wings faster and fly me away.
My primary goal was to depart, not be from there, and never return.
Rise like the sunrise, over mountains high
A new dawn breaks, and with it, a chance to fly
Like a river flowing, ever-changing and free
Carve your path, and let your spirit be
You are the desert bloom, that bursts forth in might
A vibrant oasis, in the dark of night
Your roots run deep, like the ancient trees
A foundation strong, for your dreams to seize
Like the ocean's waves, crash on the shore
Keep moving forward, evermore
Don't be held back, by the tide of fear
Ride the currents, and let your spirit clear
You are the mountain peak, that touches the sky
A summit of hope, where dreams come alive
Like the morning dew, that gently falls
Refresh and renew, and let your spirit enthrall
So rise up, dear heart, and let your spirit soar
Like the eagle flying, ever higher, ever more
For you are the landscape, of your own design
A geography of hope, where love and joy entwine.
The Cotswolds are a bunch of hills in rural England's heart
They're green and rolling, full of sheep that frolic, bleat and fart.
People come from far and wide to hike the Cotswold Way,
And from Bath to Chipping Campden lovely views enhance their stay.
The villages and towns each have a unique English charm,
And when the sun shines on those hills there's joy on every farm.
The cows and pigs and chickens temporarily forget their fate,
That tomorrow or the next day they'll be on somebody's plate.
The dry stone walls meander through the fields o'er hills and dales,
And from the very top you can unluckily see Wales,
A country full of Welshmen waving leeks and daffodils,
Who sing too much and abuse their sheep amongst their rugged hills.
I'm digressing, it's the Cotswolds that’s the topic of this ode,
There's beauty round every corner of each winding country road.
So when in England, to the Cotswolds drive without delay,
You won't regret it, honestly, you'll love it every day.
My buttocks both rejoice whene'er those hills come into view,
I love those gorgeous Cotswolds, and I know that you will too.