Long Hangs Poems
Long Hangs Poems. Below are the most popular long Hangs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hangs poems by poem length and keyword.
I’m going to sea in a blueberry boat
my only concern is…..if it will float
down the quick stream ……into the moat
The sea is skim milk….don’t ask me why
a cheerio sun hangs high in the sky
and rock dwelling Skittles can’t fly…..but they try.
That tyrannical pirate….the Captain of Crunch
uses sugar and honey to urge his wild bunch
to stay in their seats…..raging seas afore lunch.
Thus with a slurping…… an eddying gulp
in the maw of a monster…..chewed to a pulp
I flow with the surge heading straight to the gulf.
©9.13/2019
Welcome to my random world Poetry Contest
Nina Parmenter sponsor
Emily Bronte makes her mark
speaking of the sweet bluebell
in its power shows its blossom
one can't help but go and tell
Springtime in the UK brings them out
the bluebell has a lovely scent
which hangs in the air so heavily
from bell-shaped flowers heavenly sent
The bluebell symbolises something great
humility, gratitude, constancy and everlasting love
this was loved by the Victorians so much
to them it was a language never enough
Folklore showed about bluebell woods
fairies there we're told would ring
so the fairies would be gathered
whether believing this what would it bring
In the UK there's over half that's in the world
recently the bluebell voted UK's favourite wildflower
so colourful with a lovely shade of blue
feeding on the moisture receives in the morning hour
( have written this piece about the lovely Bluebell that blooms in spring here in the UK.)
I’m drained from running my body insane
Is there anything to achieve? Is there enough room to
Believe? I reflect…I think… and I’m only driving down that lane
I know I must keep my positivity rowing—I know it’s all true
Every few moments of my life
I don’t know how long I’ll live with this strife
I’d rather go hiking down that road of recovery
And wait until I find a discovery
I once again feel hopeless…shaking off the dread
Hovering around my existence…persistently tearing me down
I could see others go through this hopeless…it hangs us by a thread
I observe my surroundings, trying not to wear a frown
Believe…Believe…why don’t you believe? Am I the one that’s deceiving
You from heading towards happiness—is there a way for you to step out of the abyss?
Grieve…grieve…grieve no more…why are you grieving?
Is there a way to take myself out of my grieving moments?
Can you crush those boulders that pound against me?
I’ve crucified the hands of the final clock, in silence,
Time, suspended, hangs life in eternal pain,
Circling the universe, searching for your flower of color,
Lost among the stars, in planetary systems, like a calling.
I swear by what I feel, on earth I have found myself,
Beyond the belt, majestic, enduring, like an unfulfilled dream,
Through the dust of stamens, compact and virile, uninterrupted,
Our love grows, an immeasurable pistil, a silent thought.
Seeds chosen from impure stars have sprouted in us,
Budding in your dreams and mine, like a string of rains,
Morning wakes us from eternal vice, slaves to love,
Yawning, we drag ourselves to work, burdened by nature's memories.
On the way, you gift me, gratefully, a deceived smile,
Thinking of the confabulating night, an unlimited, tempted dream,
From every moment of memory, a few obscene whispers,
Nature reciting to lost gazes, lightning, eternal rains.
Storms outlined with the thrills of ancestral sins,
Finding delight only in me, an astral season,
Immeasurable delight, a dance of shadows and light,
In me, the place where sins and dreams intertwine in peace.
*Days ere the prom: Asking Beauty For A Date
Beauty arrives just
ere of her and undresses
in languishing thoughts as words
fumble from within
the bold who is too weak as
the flower sweetens ere them
e'er so oft the sword
of Damocles hangs
lest one express earnestly
their pulsating words
venerated from their heart
spilling in her labyrinth
fulfilling her soul
with aspiring desires of
twain hearts being in oneness
acknowledges her
intent with subtle
nuances and simple, "Yes."
2020 February 29
Howmanysyllables;
5-7-7-5-7-7-5-5-7-5-7-7-5-7-7-5-5-7 = 110 syllables total
The loss of Sourthern Sons
Submitted by Serendipity on Wed, 2015-04-29 06:28
Today,
wakes to a red dawn punished
and sprayed in the blood of repentance,
compassion had begged in the
before, days turned minutes,
eternity now cradles repented
sons of the Southern Cross
They were more than death,
with courage they leave us
hope erased from the eyes
United over oceans and
long confused with desperation,
the silence of the fall
echoes across the Never Never
they are no more or less,
cloaked in a mantle of darkness,
far from our red dusted roads
and silently still
this mourning rains with
mute cries bled from two families,
agonized with the same torture
In the clarification of shocking
of reality, eyes gaped silence
this grimace of horrified truth moves all
they have taken lost sons found
whole again in confession and prayer
In this act, the numb
cold hand of death
touches us all
evermore cloaks their eyes
as ours are opened with truth
and to this new world bereft
of the gift of compassion
Blown loose from the world,
they asked for the boon of life
pleas from the world were,
Denied clemency !
Denied !
Denied !
Denied !
the empty soul of a foreign despot
raised the paper fist of a mute king,
a retribution of bullets severed
all the ties that bind
The shattering of mothers hearts
kills the light of the sun,
they are forced into infinity
this deed cant be undone
Outrageous power hangs
above our heads,
another world
foreign to true liberty
Sons of the southern cross
rest in the long sleep,
within the grace of home
their souls will find peace
As eternity kisses their lips
and the lilies begin to weep,
know they are there waiting
for us to join them in sleep
RIP - AC and MS 29th April 2015
The story behind this poem ...
http://www.news.com.au/world/breaking-news/bali-nine-pair-executions-set-for-3am/story-e6frfkui-1227325790962
His sins, many thousands of them,
Lie buried in the anonymous soil.
Over his mantelpiece a proverb hangs:
"Aus den Augen, aus dem Sinn."
On his shelf "Mein Kampf" is visible.
"It must never happen again,"
he is quick to reassure the fainthearted.
All else is new:
His car, his house, his political complexion,
His hairstyle, his face, everything.
Everything? No, not quite everything.
If you want a new car, you can buy one.
If you want a new house, you may get the money.
If you want a new political complexion,
You can always change your daily newspaper.
If you want a new hairstyle,
You can always pay a little extra.
If you want a new a new face, it can be arranged
(or rearranged).
And the heart, the old hard heart?
Ask for a transplant.
You can always ask, but
Not for love or money
Can you change the past.
Aus den Augen, aus dem Sinn Out of sight, out of mind
Saints and Fireworks (Anacreontic verse)
Saints and fireworks
band marches galore
enriching summer
well worth waiting for.
Tradition and faith
a culture alive
passion, emotion
which none can deprive.
Big celebrations
that hold an appeal
lights, decorations
in rhythm bells peal.
The banners and flags
in lavish array
damask in churches
hangs down on display.
Processions take pride
of place; do not miss
the hymns and statues
highlighting all this.
The ‘festa’ attracts
it’s second to none
I tempt you with words
come join in the fun.
------------------------------
31st October 2015
Contest: Anacreontic verse
Sponsor: Edward Ebbs
Placed 4th
In Castle Ravenloft he waits, a shadow crowned in mourning,
a king forged not by mercy, but by the cold precision of fate.
The moon hangs low at his command, pale as a forgotten vow,
and every star retreats, afraid to witness what he has become.
Once a man of valor, his heartbeat carried songs of triumph;
now it echoes like a hollow drum, remembering battles long dead.
Love, the wound he could not heal, carved deeper than any blade,
and in the silence, even his immortality trembles with regret.
Barovia kneels beneath his will, though none dare call it loyalty
fear is the soil in which he plants his eternal dominion.
Yet in rare moments, when the torches flicker and curtains sigh,
he touches the ghost of who he was… and grieves in secret.
For the curse that grants him endless night demands a greater price:
to hunger for what he once protected, to destroy what he once adored.
He is both sovereign and prisoner, ruler and ruin,
Count Strahd von Zarovich the immortal tragedy carved from midnight.
humidified life
nourishes a thirsty mind
like poetry it settles
on a leaf of emotion
transpires ideas
while insects feed
on nectar
and manna
from somewhere appears
on reason and feelings
inlets and outlets
cascades of poetry
set free and
captured in the moment
another droplet
lowers the guards
hangs on to a twiglet
for weaver birds
to build a nest
to rest and nurse
the young ones
a web of inspiration
such ambrosia
I would not trade it
for a pot of gold
a quiver for arrows
ink for the pen
a fountain of inspiration
a well in motion
nature’s tear of joy
just a drop of water