Long Grouped Poems
Long Grouped Poems. Below are the most popular long Grouped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grouped poems by poem length and keyword.
Falling from a great height.
No barrier can protect us now.
The sound of thunder crashed in the darkness.
Falling faster now. Splitting from our group.
The sounds of humming drumming directly in front - en route.
Hit the roof with full force, the wet dark slates offer no where to stay.
Slide down the cold roof into the gutter grate.
Grouped up with some old friends as we swam about.
Eventually back out to the deep blue - where we started out.
The sun baking our element making us all feel quite faint.
Oh dear we are heading upwards in a different state.
Now rolling in the vapours we stop above a street.
Now is time for the big push as we go with all our might.
Imagine the irony of such chance as we ponder when we're going down,
To see we're destined for the same roof in the same town.
As I stayed by my window watching the reddish-
yellow sunset while the sky was a bit wailing
It reflected onto the ocean as the sun reflects onto the moon
wave upon wave as many a grouped of penguin was
playing at the coastline while some was swimming,
their minds were so free to themselves as balloons in the breeze
Without sign of hatred or distress. What a great
fun they had with bliss; those creatures are of two
colours white and black and some have yellow patches
I watched them for a while and without a notice my brain
embarked on a jaunt of thinking; how their souls
intertwined with each without clothe of discrimination wore
They cheer with glee, without a doubt is from the
bottom of their hearts. Loving and caring among
the old and young without a restriction a flowing stream
and even they at a time bow
This drew me in awe and wonder
In life of human being where moral is crispy dingy.
My calloused black skin got shoved in the soil by a white mans soiled thumb
Trying to make his mortgage off me
Buried
I found friends
Barely breathing
But we sang. One friend was named Hosanna.
We gathered ourselves together in song.
Mother Earth appeared in the darkness.
She pushed us together, further, until our sprouting threads joined hands in prayer singing,”Hosanna in the highest.”
And the farmer prayed while he and his children tamped us down in the dark wet black soil.
But the choir was loud that day.
Singing, “hail thee festival day”
And as we grouped, my new friends found the ground and the sun
And bloomed a watermelon
That plopped itself, all greened up,
Onto the farmers knees.
And he hugged all of us.
The green, the red, the white, and
The black.
Later, there was a picnic and the farmer kissed his wife.
And she spit me out back onto the soil.
I will always be a seed.
It's the time of butterflies to fly
angelic wings drifting hurried by
in the powdered blue clouded sky;
retrograde illusions left from spring
revolving a floating dance upon the wing
venturing into summer's fling;
hovering on echinacea cones
resting momentary brief never alone,
touching each water splashed stones;
Lepidoptera orange peached winged gilds
skipping flower petals imaginings fulfilled
rare and delicate lives quickly spilled;
sloe obsidian indigo shaped melds
barely a moment to be held
large and small and medium without bells;
awe and wonder at bespeckled migrating swallowtails
riding the gently salted sea wind sails
monarchs of the day uncompromised and frail,
grouped gatherings cluster to a southerly warm surprise
down to Mexico, the gulf and reflected in a child's eyes
the journey has begun and flight DNA memorized;
observe and watch, their efforts on the clock of need
spring north to breed and feed
leggy landings graceful on the summer milkweed
then south as summer fades away
with winters ready to chill their fate each day
for now, enjoy, let the butterflies play.
Having not done the things I wanted to do
and the things I've done not being what I wanted to do
I sit here looking at lichen on the north side of trees.
Black-capped chickadees
cheerful and truthful expression
grouped in platoons, sharing the point.
The tribes travel together
first finches, then chickadees
following the squirrels every morning.
What luxury, abundance! Handful after handful
of grass seed thrown, into wind.
The corn ripe and the rye with it.
The other main families: pines, roses, peas,
lilies, daisies, heath, birch and oak.
Maple, honeysuckle, pink, mustard, cypress, mint, olive, buckwheat,
primrose, willow, buttercup, saxifrage, snapdragon, cactus.
Truth may be ascertained by considering
the truth we feel, the truth we're told,
the truth we reason, and the truth we've seen.
It is so good to be a chickadee.
To tell the truth cheerfully and joyfully
in a way that makes others want to live.
Rodents can be loquacious
That includes your average gerbil
They love to prattle, chat and blather
They really are quite verbal
Hamsters are talkative too
Just as garrulous as can be
With running mouth and wheel to match
They are a sight to see
But I am loath to squander words
Sparing usage is my way
I gather them like so many acorns
Against a rainy day
Yes, word collecting is the passion
Of this precocious squirrel
I garner adjectives, verbs and nouns
Be they singular or plural
The park is fecund land
There a plethora may be found
Vociferous, vehement and vex
I lately scooped up off the ground
The verb tree is prolific
Its discovery quite a boon
The other day it bestowed upon me
Flaunt, foster and festoon
All along the sidewalks
Concrete nouns lie strewn about
How blithely I did snatch up
A lummox, a laggard and a lout
To command a better view
I nimbly scampered up a pole
From this lofty perch I spotted
Wheedle, coax and cajole
Away in the distance
I spied a tempting pile
Heaped up for the taking were
Enticing, alluring and beguile
What do I with so much verbiage?
You would be fair to ask
Squirreling away so vast a lexicon
Must prove a mammoth task
The answer lies in my arboreal abode
Where these many words I stash
In alphabetical order they are arrayed
From zealous to abash
In a capricious mood one day
I grouped them by part of speech
Such a cacophony arose from clustering
Banter, badger and beseech
No matter how I sort them
The wasting of words I spurn
Reserved for rarest use I keep
Reticent, laconic and taciturn!
_________________________________
by Brian McClain - Feb 17, 2016
Originally posted Feb 17, 2016
Accidentally deleted Feb 22, 2016
Reposted Feb 22, 2016
Long, Long ago in a hut made of bark
Children awoke to a loud raptors hark,
Where misty moonlight filled the night sky
And shimmering stars twinkled up high.
They never did flinch from what they did hear
As birds were more vocal that time of year,
Day time like nighttime the animals spoke
To tell of their stories to all the kinfolk.
Plus not faraway a corroboree grew
Where they could peer out to get a vast view,
And what they did see had widened their eyes
They thought they were dreaming from such a surprise!
Aunties combined all clapping their sticks
A shadow was cast to lunar eclipse,
Didgeridoo loudened and looped
A traditional song for all who had grouped.
Singing had echoed and how it was grand
Whilst dancers kicked dust and golden white sand,
Though this was real common in such an event
Where music evoked all that was dreamt.
There through the flames and embers that flew
The children were puzzled if anyone knew...
As never before within their lifespan
Was sighted a dancing goanna-man.
My mind is like a river,
And constantly it flows.
Something's always floating by,
Whether or not I want to know.
There is garbage and pollution,
Tossed in by what others say.
If I don't dodge them by refocus,
They can affect my day.
Accusations and false statements,
Just floating garbage in the stream.
Tossed in there by others words,
The ones that want to be mean.
O' boy here comes condemnation,
They are the big floating logs.
They always come, grouped more than one,
My thinking they want to clog.
And of course there's floating plastic,
Made of material like it's source!
I step aside so it can pass,
Because it comes with such force.
Lord, help me focus on You alone,
And not the garbage of man.
Help me to keep my river clean,
By focusing on your plan.
One day I'll gather at your river,
At the end of my life.
Where there's love, peace and unity,
And there will be no more strife.
My jaunt through over crowded hallways
past bodies grouped like gulls gathering
a grey murmuring
patients on overdose
their creased faces like glaciers streaked
by warming
pink white rings that circle their eyes
rabbit pinched
unfocused
glances not easily discarded
Henry, slumped in his wheelchair
his body uncoupled like a skylark
cut from song
thin shoulders falling to trembling limbs
He greets me, barely audible
words that leave soft traces
that sometimes choke on their own silence
What oozes forth,
fragmented stories of acting on the stage
till footlights dimmed
Time vandalized history
Roots in a cushioned land
Beseeching, he asks "Roll my wheelchair to the
train tracks. Leave me there."
Panic closes in like shutters
to darken the wood of smiling
I wedge words, can brook no paths criminal
A quick embrace to soothe unmoored grief
to appease the unprotected
My blunt exit (slowed momentum)
on floor stickiness,
waste-brine that coats my soles
anchoring displacement
Poem revised June 9, 2021
My lesson back then- to paint a still life
with bright hues, reflections- and shadows too;
of textures and shapes that stand out as real
and grouped in a setting, balanced as art.
Red plate and a round aluminum pan
with apples, oranges there tumbling down;
a silvery teapot- blue pitcher, glazed-
grouped nicely on rumpled, satiny cloth.
My still life is not very still at all;
the shine on the metals flashes and glows
reflecting bright light and fruit forms below-
the rhythm of shapes and textures is felt.
It graces my kitchen and starts my day
with uplifting feelings, welcoming thoughts.
The balance and colors applied with my brush
still stir my emotions to feel the joy
of bringing to life this painting back then-
and painting it now with brushstrokes of words.