Long High Poems
Long High Poems. Below are the most popular long High by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long High poems by poem length and keyword.
I'd been on my own, all alone, for so long,
Always thinking to myself, something's wrong.
Not knowing it was you-that I needed,
Searching for someone, God I pleaded.
Send me please! someone who will understand me,
Someone who will always be there for me.
Someone who will make me feel complete,
Someone who knows how to fill my needs.
Heaven Sent...My present from above.
Heaven Sent...A woman made with love.
Heaven Sent...My dreams came true.
Heaven Sent...It just had to be you.
Heaven Sent...My gift from on high.
Heaven Sent...Don't ask me why.
Then, one day, you appeared so suddenly,
not wanting to love again, not knowingly.
I knew, that you, were made for me, that moment
your eyes met mine, I knew you were, heaven sent.
Now the two of us are one, our life has now begun.
All our dreams are coming true, it's just me and you.
You are everything and more, no more closing of the door.
Everyday I'm more confident...that you are...heaven sent.
John Derek Hamilton Feb18,2013 revised October 7,2015
No doubt we have the ability to change things presently.
We may very well influence what the future shall be.
But I cannot understand how anyone can alter history.
Unfortunately, attempts are at work to deny the holocaust.
I would love to believe that humans cannot be so inhumane.
I wish it were a dream or nightmare, but my wish is unreal.
Evil and good exist with evil’s never ending battle for power.
The forecast for evil is one of doom; but its clever deceit looms.
Under the evil regime of Hitler, evil ruled for a short season.
For 6 million or more, that season was too cold, dark, and long.
We have no control of whether or not history truly repeats itself;
But I believe that we who forget history are condemned to repeat it.
Evil never comes to ‘just get along’, coexist, or cooperate.
The enslavement of human beings for hundreds of years
certainly left a gaping sore, but little did we learn about
the extent of man’s capabilities to inflict evil upon each other.
Like narcotics, we may find ease to pretend it did not happen;
But 'the high' always wears off, only to reveal the evil inside of us.
Let none suspect that color or culture, race or religion are our enemies.
The enemy is the evil that ever lurks inside of the human skin.
Let none think himself/herself purer than another,
For surely, there is none righteous;
Not even one.
10132016 PS Contest, My Take On The Holocaust, by The Seeker
Most of the night
He had sit home
Waiting
Begging and pleasing
Reneocating
She had promised her time
With another
He had been seen as an
Alternative
She wished to be with
another
The evening came which
He had been seduced
Morning of soft crab breakfast
Where the creams
Had been reduced
Months later they spoke of
that night together
She was pregnant then she
Thought he'd say whatever
Of them together he asked her to
Stay
Maybe us together we should start
To pray
He wished her the marrying type
But was to fool to ask
She just played alone like
She was part of a cast
Emotions ran high
He was wise enough to ask
Said "marry me the foolish one
we can do it fast"
Slow down hell no, but will marry you
Than the awkward foolishness
Would all be through
Twittered Via Chilled Wren
At Valley Forge, Pennsylvania
Prior carte blanche to confessing illicit
extra-marital affair
I embolden tomb ache
elicit, and baldly bare
faced laid out some
of the sordid details clear
embarrassed at one escapade
in particular constituting dear
peppy's questing randy romping caper
necessitating vigilance 'ere
a park ranger, (or other unsuspecting
winter weather way
Farer attired in gear
adequately bundled
cold as a witch's tit
seasoned trooper)
reluctantly repeated here
(unforgettable if only be
cause this "FAKE" Casanova ace
thee Missus i.e.wife)
did conversationally chase
beseeched, hen pecked,
and implored me NOT to erase
boot to recount with (itty bitty)
Monty Python glory, a straight face,
that one particular amazingly grace
obviously penned up,
and not in the write
mind (pre poetry daze),
which scurrilous anecdote
did (and still does) in vite
guffawing, sans
peculiar public philandering,
with atavistic cave man
designs tried to unite
where daunting phallus spite
confronting Arctic Vortex when right
lee let loose from pants
froze like a little popsicle quite
purposely remained flaccid
leaving me in a penile plight
when trying to hump
(standing up like a good Knight
comically ridiculous travesty)
With Barbara B****, light
of adventurous Green Beret spirit, the
Unabashed MILF about average height
fifty years, whose busty bosom
silicone breast implants
tell tale viz radiation
and chemo therapy fight
(resulting from post
Ductal Carcinoma in situ)
needless to tell
nary an erectile spell
Asper tinker soldier
tailor spy didst quell
basic animal instinct,
and feral gonadal horniness
with intent to consummate sexual intercourse
according tummy ought to occur,
cuz that blustery air
mirroring said day when hell
nearly froze over invoking
intervention from Cain and/or Abel.
Thus when prick remained
limp and nearly frost bitten
(at a boulder christened cock rock),
aye frostily smitten
slogging wet sneakers, thru
knee high snow...now, no mo' tubby written.
Form:
I love swimming in the lake of my memories…closing my eyes and diving in headfirst…and bringing with me to the surface…memories submersed.
Take yesterday for instance…I dove in on a whim…and ended up, of all places, where memories of our granddaughter swim.
The memory of the day she was born…I remember the feeling of joy…
that we finally had a girl grand child…after the wonder of three boys.
The memory of the day when they all slept over on our floor…a memory I shall forever keep…not knowing where’d she be in the morning because she traveled in her sleep.
The memory of the day when she was older…just a couple of years later
when she found a comfortable place to sit…inside our refrigerator.
Yes, our granddaughter…who starts high school next year and is now almost as tall as me…I found the memory of the first time I bounced her on my knee.
As I dried myself off of these memories I found myself hoping one day she’ll understand…how important are my memories of when she’d run up and hold my hand….
As I stood upon the shoreline of my lake…I had to smile as I suspect…
there are moments in her lake…where our memories intersect.
And I’d like to think as we are swimming…in our memories…separately
that every now and then…for a brief moment…we share a memory.
For as wonderful as it is to make a memory…nothing can be compared….
to a memory that was made together…that forever will be shared
I sat on a fallen oak; she was huge;
I cannot imagine the sound she made as she fell.
What had conquered her? Was it lightning?
A bulldozer? No evidence of either.
There was a tiny brook if I followed the rocks.
I sat in the sun for a while first.
The oak seemed glad for my company.
I was in no hurry; it was a lazy summer day.
My dogs had run off; all but one.
I have twelve; one always stays to guard me.
Lucky and I headed toward the brook.
She laid down in the cool sand.
I sat and stared at the tiny minnows and miniscule things in the water.
The water was cold; I took a drink of it; it was more refreshing than store bought water.
There was a weird sound; a cough.
I spied the white tail of a frightened deer.
Lucky did not move, recognizing this as her domain.
She bound out of sight, bringing the thicket to my attention.
I felt something watching me; an animal or a forest spirit.
The sun was barely coming through the treetops; they were high up.
I sat in the shade and collected little rocks from the brook.
Each one had a story to tell and a personality to share.
It was a lovely day; I cherish this memory.
Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional,
like the red tile roofs of Rome,
or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan.
It’s a relatively large world.
Whenever you can fly over an ocean
you feel limitless, and godly,
like the world is there for you, on demand.
Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed
to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again
this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days
from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait.
I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey.
There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan.
Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas.
But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions.
One frosty November-break morning, two years ago,
a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton
candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight,
filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us,
in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton.
So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like
v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins
hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the
insignificant works of man. It took my breath away.
So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper,
high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice—
the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare.
I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet,
window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea
Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year
—every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D
gadget of all—Memory.
.
.
A song for this:
Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham
.
.
Merriam Webster: Cachet = a synonym of prestige
Surrounded by two rapid running shores
a concrete chain of buildings fill the skies
strong pungent scents compete with rapid scores
of pulsing sounds and screeching, crowded cries
iconoclastic beats and muted sighs
the City always wakens sleepy eyes.
We hail a taxi from a dirty curb
while subways rumble, sweating underground
and ride the hustle through the shifting herd
torrential rains quite suddenly come down
they slap and streak the windows all around
as raindrops distort faces that surround.
A plethora of sights spread like a feast
from Broadway shows to High Line paths that span
Hudson River’s architectural peaks
roof top restaurants, a classy jazz band
we disappear into museum land
then fall asleep, a true, devoted fan.
To venture into life’s mosaic streams
is to taste and embrace all that it means.
III.
It was near midnight when they came again,
four warriors armed all with flaming brands,
Myron bolted up from a fitful sleep,
and poured out bullets as the horses ran.
He managed to shoot one off of his horse,
but the trio screamed and charged in once more,
Harold said”They’re fools to keep charging in!”
But Myron though hard, and wasn’t so sure.
He called for all to cease firing
and listened close as if searching for proof,
then he heard soft thumps coming from above,
one of them had gotten up on the roof!
The charging men had been a distraction,
and Myron grabbed the shot-gun in a hurry,
fearing that they would set the roof aflame,
he opened fire with a hot fury.
A hole was blasted where he shot the brave,
the dead man rolled off and struck hard on the ground,
the charging warriors roared in anger,
so Harold shot another one of them down.
The survivors fled back towards their camp,
but no withdrawal did the Sioux men beat,
instead they took turns sniping at their foes,
to deny Myron and his family sleep.
Come Morning Myron looked out and saw perched high
sixteen warriors atop their steads,
with lances and rifles and tomahawks
preparing for the morning’s bloody deeds.
But what chilled Myron’s soul more than anything
was the small tree trunk that two riders held
by the branches, to batter down the door,
and visit upon them a living hell.
The others let loose a barrage of shots,
to try and suppress Myron waiting within,
he fired endlessly took down two more,
then leapt back as the riders bore down on him.
The battering tree smashed right through the door,
a slew of war-cries went up, loud and piercing
the shot-gun blasted, two more warriors fell,
the noise left all their heads and ears ringing.
Harold went down from a shot to the chest,
the doorway was a commotions of words,
but standing there clutching his aching head
was the muscled form of Diving Bird.
Myron leapt forwards and drew his pistol,
then jammed it straight into Diving Bird’s ear,
Roared,”If you value your War-chief’s life,
you will all stop, and ride straight out of here!”
The Indians outside froze when they saw them,
none understood the words that he did say
except for an old man, missing an eye,
who spurred forwards to attempt a parlay...
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Expanses are tomorrow's territory
Horizons amplified by my wing span
Strength developed in feather tapestry
Shifting locale afforded with agile plan
Ocean's edge sends mayhem forceful
Detected slipstream among punishment
Aids spread winged hunt for salty morsels
Harmony on coast's cantankerous currents
Silver seaside high tide grasses kindly submit
Myriad of scurried meals by beak sting stilled
Sharp penetration permits energy replenished
Distant destination found rewards strong will
Emitted persistence, rhythmic ritual circle
Swirled arcs shrill remarks of dominance
Prevailing patient weathered fellow eagles
Declare stubborn intentions of prominance
Gathered sighting innately demands I pitch in
Tightly packed muscles drive flight equipment
Evolution necessitates expiring weak specimen
Keen eyed females favour winners' enrichment
Tormenting mountain draws crazed tenacious
Rugged random avalanche presents no threat
Closer to our Maker, my meditation spacious
Challenge breeds sage old age can't forget
Hundred mile distant haven spied by astute
Richer realms' conquer deem fear redundant
Headed to adventure, potential not obscured
Tough trend upwards, spiralling triumphant