Long Georgian Poems
Long Georgian Poems. Below are the most popular long Georgian by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Georgian poems by poem length and keyword.
Thick cloudy sky filled with tears__woe
Crying at the swiftly passing era
No more old generation__new day
The passage into a modern time
A time all its own with difference
Whole set of problems separates it
From times that have gone by but yet__same
History tends to repeat itself
Demise of Hotel Upson brought thought
A time of reflection to many
To some joy that ugly eye sore__gone
Others landmark history removed
Today in America there is
A church or more on every street
Evil, lawlessnes, drugs on the beats
Gangs, violence, road rage, and much more
It seems times like when the Hotel raised
Back in Nineteen twenty eight are gone
A simple time when families, friends
Was an important part of the plan
That hotel was built solid and strong
Built to withstand the test of hard times
Who would have thought its hey-day would end
With a track-hoe beating its walls in
Its architecture was a simple
Design Georgian Revival Style of
Red brick trimmed in limestone best in day
Had a ballroom, elevators, air
No matter it is no longer there
Gone forever to C&D landfill
No even sold to reuse the parts
That made it the best in its day__gone
Attached to the trees,
...of his mind’s fascination.
Caressing virgin pages
With a borrowed pen.
Trapped in a time...
...of being owned by someone.
Where freedom was only,
for the birds in the wind.
He’s heard of New York,
He’s heard of LA...
These are the thoughts,
He shares with the moon...
The humid day...
...blows dust on his face.
His father runs over,
“Get ta pickin’ boy soon!!!”
The freedom has silenced,
Reality...came back to mind.
No one’s ready for the truth he uncovered,
Not even the land...that he proudly calls home.
Freedom does exist...
Within the mind of a poet.
Not just in the sky...
Where the freedom bird’s flown.
At his father’s request,
He starts pickin’...pickin’ inspiration...
.. on desolate plantations of lies,
...of his father’s 40 acres and a mule.
Shackled to his dreams,
The wind whispers slavery’s sorrow...
Hummed by the workers abroad.
Lord, this boy’s not a cotton pickin’ fool.
Uneducated...his creations are sketches,
Poems in pictures of young boy dreams...
In the midst of slavery...he’s only a slave to his art,
And only...on the page can he run and play...
His music...is the worker’s song ...pickin’ cotton blues,
The rhythm of chains, and whistles of security afar.
For now...he sneaks off to his muse...a shade tree,
Hiding from the hot Georgian sun at bay.
While American kids ride their bicycles,
His recess is confined to his mind.
As the whistles grow farther into the distance,
It’s time for his imagination to play and run.
With bloody hands...he hums aloud,
Cooled by the un-racial breeze...caressing virgin pages...
...sketching his poems with a borrowed pen,
Under the very tree...where his forefather’s hung from...
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Note: Inspired by the work of Christopher Higgins
An ocean's depth lies between The Georgia Guidestones
and England's Salisbury Plains, where Stonehenge stands.
Though they appear on different continents, they share
mysterious secrets that have never quite been explained.
Were they erected as a cryptic message for all of mankind,
or esoteric giants raised on earth, new or eons of years ago?
Commissioned by modern man or the hierarchy of occult?
Vertical, they stand, monoliths in fields of space and time,
Silent are the henges, forged in history, draped in moss
circular in shape, one age old set encircling the other.
Praised as an archaeological wonder, aligning with the sun,
a healing place or time's gateway used by priest and Druids?
The Georgian stones appear to me as a set of double doors,
Inscribed on their surfaces are lines of grave warning and laws.
heralding "truth, beauty and love, passion faith and tradition."
One distinct language, and a guide limiting world population.
Perhaps Stonehenge is just a monument to the dead, but that's
not the simple minded perception that rolls around in my head.
I believe there's something more significant to the ancient stones
that we can only conceive if the Druids want it made known.
November 27, 2021
Georgehenge Stone Cold Minds Reflect Contest
Sponsored by Joe Maverick
Boby Fett’s adventures
I used to be a friend of Joseph when he was a bank robber
when he robbed a bank in Tbilisi, I helped him to get away
the money he said was to help his cause.
One can say he owed me a favour, which came in handy.
There was a revolution and Joseph became a president
that was ok, but he became brutal and one evening
when we sat drinking Georgian wine, we had a discussion
I called him a butcher.
I thought I was going to be shot, but since he owed me a favour
I was sent to Siberia with a bag of potatoes.
Luckily, I had a box of matches in my pocket a knife hidden
in my shoe, therefore able to survive to the last potato.
A wandering Sami people with their heard of reindeers on
the way to Scandinavia saved me.
For the Sami tribe, there is no border.
I took my old name back, Harry Finkelstein, a name I had kept
secret from Joseph, my friend from the bank robber days.
I got a job on the Manhattan project keeping tab of screws
needed to make a bomb, the rest is history.
While out and about
an unexpected over bare ring bout
to defecate arose,
where sphincter asserted clout
and would excrete
despite without doubt...
if closing distance
(to reach rental abode)
beaten out by loosening sphincter muscle
transmitting excretory code
set sights on prowl for outlawed, secluded,
and wooded make shift commode
and essentially for naught negating
toddler toilet training, sans
getting potty trained undone
via my tushy ready to explode
and blast immense solid waste byproduct
(oh...close to the size of Rhode Island)
thus a marathon race against time
found immediate readiness to pull off roadside
to access make shift water closet
generating image firmly in pooping mode
grabbing hold of a tree trunk
(a mini rocky horror picture show, -
this analogy included for no particular reason
other than as a non-sequitur)
and also to convey, how I tried
to allay distractions
while painful contractions flowed
(perhaps approximating woman
on verge of giving birth)
but...no matter, aye could envision,
an ever increasing heavy m*****f****** load
hence approaching Highland Manor Apartments
this chap abandoned
prior simultaneous evacuation plan
starkly aware probability for secluded spot sunk
(nonetheless, thy darting darting
anguish, futile lizard like lookout,
a geico Gekko whose cheeks did blush
even for a measly Georgian bush
quickened nsync with rectal spasms
visual scouting industrialized
where backhoes didst crush
once a time sacred happy hunting grounds
of native Americans, now royally flush
with newly built vinyl city re: urban sprawl a gush,
where cookie cutter houses long since bringing hush
puppies muzzled, yet never the less and mush
a doo doo about nothing) except sprint
ting to the verizon with a void push
immortalizing indigenous tribes ghosts rush
peopling infrastructure affixing
urbanization with lamb basted,
and sigh lance warrior whoosh!
Here we are in eastern Pembrokeshire
taking a wander round Narberth
a little market town on the A78
it's so lovely, I had to write a little verse
Its High Street has variety around
with Georgian and Edwardian multi colour
buildings of character, they are
echoes of beauty make them a stunner
Lilies coffee shop is a must
so helpful and happy to receive
cakes and light lunch so fab
coffee's marvel, you won't believe
Independent shops abound here
from deli food to fine art
woodland walks and sandy beaches
lie only minutes away to start
This has been a day most excellent
one to remember for many a day
memories are made of such as these
even to the point of wanting to stay
(Just looking back a few weeks ago on holiday in South Wales coast to a lovely town called Narberth.)
My heart lies in the countryside
under the Napa rainbow laying low.
Big bright rolling valleys it has divide
The woods through which we will go.
I met an explorer near lake Bazaleti
With a small cottage on a vast land
The poor half-finished community in Svaneti
made memorable moments more demand.
My heart lies in Tbilisi with one more kiss
build a wish to remove the blackening mist
whose soulful cries brought tears to my eyes,
they swept downwards like the wintry visit.
Together we discover half-finished heaven,
This ensemble of crafts in a crude cradle
Perfectly finds the happiness of mind
In rural nature define a portrait as permissible.
That sheer breadth of beauty command,
Countryside brands picturesque snow cap,
Covered the Georgian mountain stand,
Of scenic lakes asleep and wake in a quiet nap.
Sundry variety of colours galvanized the look
Of breath-taking beauty running into cliffs
Fountain bliss, crisp with ageless water flock
diffs down the slope of great granite rocks.
My heart lies in that half-finished heaven
This medieval land a most enchanting place,
Locked in high demand with the mystery given
Supra wine and the plate of nectar taste.
They soak uptown, in Nana’s kitchen home
Love has made the easiest way to get around
Centuries of Kakheti wine becoming renown
Trek through all the expansive places we found.
1582 France switch from Julian calendar
To Georgian calendar
Does it matter
Then council of Trent
No pun intent
Hindu calendar spring equinox
I bet you thought this was a poem , but guess what
Failed to recognize
The new year moved from April 1st to January first
Butt of jokes
Cruel pranks and hoaxs
Paper fish placed on their backs; Poisson d'avril;
Symbolized uncivilized
Young gullible person reality really made fun of
A jokes by jokesters
I bet you thought this was a poem
But guess what
And this forum
This did I mention
That I mentioned that I forget to give you attention
Nana Nana Nana haha yeah this is so cruel,.------------------------------->
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APRIL FOOL
4/1/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
Glancing down from breathless heights,
Amidst climey sighs,
The looming colossus awakens from slumber
And stretches across Thelwalls linear skies.
The hot engines hissing steam -
Recalled from fond memories long back -
Tumbling like huffing little rain clouds
Down from the lofty metal track;
Wherein brightly painted carriages:
The publicans daughter, the verger,
The magistrate, the chief executive -
Seated first class, all habitually sat.
Swift grandiose arches, a celebration
Trumpeting the artful masons cunning devise,
Boast loudly of the great towers
Parallelogram of terrific forces:
Crossing over in giant leaping strides.
Here below, like Hercules reclining,
The stoic gates of Latchfords black fortress locks
Lift to brace against the immense swell
Far and beyond the chimming remarks
Of Greenhalls absolute, mechanically proven,
Georgian bell;
When, ensconced within a purpose-built,
Purple brick tower:
Strikes the centuries old brewery clock
On the twelfth
Of every God given hour.
A rich bankers cantilever
Pushes doggedly against opposing, sheer,
Red Sandstone walls;
Again the mauve and azure rock pigeon claps...
And then...coo, coo, cooingly calls.
Dry buzzing heat blurs over
The hum of a high noons imcumbent midday;
The coup-de-gras scimitar wing stoops -
To fasten onto its slower-witted prey!
Steeped sides slipping amidst tumbling yellow
Gorse and sporadic flowers
Balk at the foreboding waters edge,
Where, over the denizens swirling bowers,
The resolute little rusting lugger,
Puffing and chugging,
relentlessly dredges and scours;
Churning the murky Eastham silts
That drab Manchester draw:
Into the vast hollowing quays
On beachless, concrete Salfords industrialized,
High-rise dockland shore.
Through the deepest part of the black
Channel
A salt grimed hulk smoothly slips...
Attached by a twisted hemp to the tugboat
That hauls the great ships.
Stirred by the bow waves
Flowing and ebbing like currents in time:
From the trough to the peak
The jettison and flotsam climbs -
Before succumbing to powerful undercurrents
Of irresistible designs!
Ode to President Jimmy Carter
The Georgian sky turns red and a man softens his gaze,
as he lets his thoughts drift. Images of his life and times,
play against the crimson clouds, to live them once more.
The love of a good woman, can soften the edges of life,
and spin the fabric of its repose, to weave a tapestry,
that tells the story of a good man.
Who hasn't looked up, unblinking and played out
the story of their life and wondered if it made a difference?
There are some whose lives are an open book,
yet the cover will be awash in its simplicity.
History will declare its place in the annals of time,
as one where the hero is fulfilled with their love,
or lost under the blanket of obscurity. Yet this man,
who speaks with the sky, I suspect can already hear
the echo of the song the heavens sing,
of one whom the Master is well pleased!