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 dream of the past and days on the high seas
With no one to answer to and no one to please
Yearning for the freedom that I once knew
With the sails set and a sea of blue
Dream of the islands and her beautiful eyes
For the taste of her lips my heart still cries
Once a pirate who sailed with the wind
Now only memories that I rescind
I look at the past in the afterglow
Wondering where does an old pirate go
Time has carved deeply the lines on my face
Settling down feels so out of place
Longing to return to that tropical lagoon
Where I once held her beneath a Caribbean moon
Young brash and arrogant, I sailed away
Never said good bye, I still see her each day
My heart beats a tune that has me undone
Until the day I sail toward that tropical sun
Thinking back and missing her so
Wondering where does an old pirate go.
NOVEMBER TWINKLE FAIRY
Little twinkle fairy
from realm of starry firmament
floating on fluffy clouds of November
flapping fluttering feathery wings flip-flop,
descended on verdant valley of Earth.
She stepped on feral grass of wide field at turquoise night.
Slept supine on non-mowed meadow.
Twinkle fairy awoke at dazzling dawn.
Whelmed to descry glistening dew drops
adorning her auburn attire and pearly plaid.
Twinkle fairy had put periwinkle petals
on her diamond-embedded diadem.
Leaped on ridges and creases of pebbled path.
Twinkle fairy walked on wrinkles of furrows.
Frolic fairy in fervent fervid mood
showing fervor to dance delight
on little brittle ripples of calm stream
under soft placid beam of November Sun,
even at noon, but soon sudden gust chasing dust
sent chilled errand.
Twinkle fairy shivered alarmed.
Spread her little wings to soar high.
Misty ambient bade goodbye.
Smog of November enshrouded view.
November Twinkle Fairy to flee in glee,
leaving few zealous moments to remember.
11/01/19
'November Twinkle Fairy' Contest by Caren Krutsinger.
In the u.s. where commerce's banners unfurl,
Lies the tale of capitalism's whirl.
Legally we tread, seeking success,
As souls entwined in this grand excess.
In systems built on mutual gain,
Exploiting gaps, we forge our domain.
The currency of cunning minds at play,
Where laws protect, but conscience may stray.
Striving, we push the boundaries wide,
Trading kindness for fortunes, side by side.
Yet let us ponder, as we climb high,
The cost of ambition, the values we defy.
For in this dance of profit's embrace,
We must remember, as we race,
That success is hollow when built on another's plight,
And true prosperity thrives in fairness and light.
There once was a ghost who loved the post
He enjoyed the thrill of the periodicals fill
Turning each page of the paper
Geared to those who picked up an honest wage as waiters.
There were all these incredible tales
Using sources that were impossible to fail.
Flipping through the headlines
He looked for a good find
Then there was this one
It looked like fun
A hunter name Sam
Frustrated since he was in a jam
While living in the swamp
In which he really did not want
Sam developed a plan
To get out of the bayou scam
After a beer
I will go out with this spear
Telling my wife, I am going to get a deer.
When I come back, I will say I was under attack
And almost got whacked.
Then we will sell since the property can be deemed from hell.
Trying not to be harsh
Sam waddled through the marsh
Watching for deer
And have an excuse to use his spear.
Going through very hushed
He found his way through the murky mush
There it was a deer and it was time to use his spear.
Going to this gun
Knowing the venison was done.
But something happened
That nearly trapped him
It was a ghost that made him miss
And this made the lovely dear give an evil hiss
Again, and again he did try to send
The spear to the de3r who just stood there without any fear.
“I kept missing and the deer would not stop hissing,”
Sam said knowing that his dinner was dead.
Going back home where he was not alone
Since his dear laid out a nice beer.
“Honey do you want to leave the swamp?”
She asked wanting to know if the bayou time has passed.
“Yes dear, I want to let you know that it is time to go.”
She responded, “but before we leave, I want to make sure that you believe, it wasn’t a ghost that made you miss instead it is the way you throw that spear in order to enjoy deer with your beer.”
Still flying high
Knowing the story was not a lie
The ghost closed the newspaper called the post.
Making the case it was the spirit in the air
That really did care
Showing the couple, the guiding light
Giving no reason to fight
And as Sam and his wife packed
Feeling better Sam did not get whacked
His wife helped him say goodbye
To the property which for some was a good buy
We are born with our hands already shaking,
as if the body remembers a future it does not want.
We learn the word enemy before we learn the word neighbor,
learn how to clench our teeth around fear
and call it certainty.
In the streets, men we do not know
walk with their faces erased,
masks where mouths should be,
guns resting against their ribs
like extra bones grown from rage.
They move through crowds as if through tall grass,
leaving a trail of fallen stems.
Power sits in high rooms with polished tables,
its voice calm, its eyes unblinking.
The mind behind it is cracked like old porcelain,
sealed with slogans,
stuffed with flags and prayers and applause.
No one checks the fractures.
No one asks what leaks through.
We pass one another like loaded weapons,
safety off,
waiting for the smallest spark:
a word, a color, a border, a god.
We tell ourselves we are righteous,
and righteousness becomes a knife.
And when the killing grows tired,
when the earth is heavy with bodies,
we invent quieter ends—
a breath that carries fever,
a button that turns cities into shadows,
a sky that rains fire and calls it defense.
There is no cure for the human condition.
Only this:
we keep walking into one another’s darkness
with our hands raised,
as if surrender were the same as love,
as if the world could still be saved
by the simple act
of not pulling the trigger.
The Telegraph
by Gabriel Magno © 2014
The baby wakes the puppy, as she twists its little nose,
the mother drinking coffee, mends a small run on her hose.
The mailman rings the doorbell, rising up she stops her chore,
a telegram presented slowly, she smiles and shuts the door.
As she reads quietly, a frightful look distorts her face,
and then a shrilling scream, as her heart begins to race.
“We’re sorry to inform you, of your husband’s loss of life”,
the message from the army, cuts her heart as with a knife.
Unsteady hands reach for the child, who lays atop the family dog,
her tears fall on baby's smiling face, her mind confused as in a fog.
The nights of making love, the days of sharing laughter,
come to a sudden painful end, from this day ever after.
The mailman returned once more, a telegram in hand,
“how it was stuck inside my bag, I just don’t understand”.
She thanked him, closed the door and wondered what it said,
silently she read the message, her husband was not dead.
“We’re happy to inform you, your husband’s still alive”,
the message read, “was one of few who did survive”.
“The battle in the shallow gorge, where many brave men laid”,
“accept our deep apology, this error in haste was made.”
And so the cloud had lifted from high above her head,
and soon again she’ll lay, beside her husband in their bed.
The mailman on his daily route, will once again bring to the door,
those telegrams, to wives and lovers, of those who live no more.
With his icy fingers he stole my smokey breath,
laid a sheet of slippery freezing cold by my feet
and then whispered in my ear right to the drum
that echoed in my brain with excruciating pain.
She, his wife was of a complete different temperament
quietly without fuss she crafted blanched cotton flakes,
each a masterpiece, unique as if she retained every design
she had ever imagined so each time she could create anew.
He however with his bravado with his swelled chest
would pepper speeding glass-like pellets into the air.
Sting our faces without regret. Salt our wounds.
Mercilessly bite into our flesh with his frosted fangs.
Daintily she'd sprinkle the sky with the magic of her cheer
feather the atmosphere in a delicate splatter of alabaster.
Layer by layer she laid soft sheets of snow to the delight
of everyone alike creating a playground of endless mirth.
His breath reeked of dreams frozen, nipped in the bud.
Already he had high jacked his sisters, the Autumn twins
sent them packing, hurried, gathering their rustic garments.
He had no love of his siblings except his baby sister, Spring.
His wife loving and caring would temper his yearly onslaught.
She knew of his pain, deep, abandoned by his father Summer.
At times she'd blow slightly warmer air to provide respite for
us mere humans and allow the sun to warm our weary bones.
They would sit together and it was her would bring out
the albums of family photos view pictures of his mother.
Her smile like music would soothe his stone cold heart.
He loved, when she'd visit in the guise of an Indian Summer.
With his icy fingers he stole my smokey breath.
I felt her presence there to temper his harsh avail.
Winter had arrived but when they walked as one
this magnificent couple dressed in their royal winter whites,
without a second thought you would bow in front of their regal
stance, a sight to behold, one that encompassed the entire land.
04~01~2015
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name: Seasons
FEAST OF BEAUTY
I thought humans don't eat humans
and bands don't break bands
But your beauty is eating me up - Cannibalism.
Sheer barbarism and "taboolism",
Not empathic and absolutely no sympathy,
Emotions running high for your posh of beauty
As my own desires are feasting on me - Autocannibalism
Just like a person being consumed by or**sm.
Miss Farhana Sait,
Your charm is a bait
That lures mankind into your paradise gate.
Set me in confinement,
multiplying multiple enjoyment;
Cocooned in your milky endowment.
If beauty were transactions and sold in zillions,
Yours would be priceless and raise common opinions.
Tiger doesn't eat Tiger when famish
Yet your looks feast on this Tiger in ambush.
All these models do is slay, slay & slay
But with the fangs of beauty & your outlay
You feast, feast & feast on your prey.
To survive your allure, this I pray.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhyme.
Copyright © October 1st, 2020.
#OnTheSpotPoetry #inspiredbyFarhana
#inspiredbybeauty
#beautyappreciation
#feastoftheeyes #feastofbeauty
I had a dream last night. When I looked into the mirror, I was wearing a denim mid-skirt with boots, and a dramatic yellow top with feathers—things I would never wear, least of all on a steaming summer day. I looked around and found myself on the dock, where my grandparents live in Keelung, Taiwan. My father’s ship departed from here when he was a marine; My mother would stand on the squeaky wooden platform as he left. The wind was damp and chilling—it’s always raining here, at my grandparents’. I used to hate it as a child, but I had a distinct memory from when I was an infant: when I cry, my father would take me to the bathroom and open the rain shower—the sound of rain would quiet me down, then my memory would black out. I guess I fell asleep...
A high-pitch note
———cut—through
my memory like shears.
I’m back on the dock, in denim skirt and boots and that funny yellow top. Then I saw her, a siren. I thought of her yesterday, when she surfaced in my poem. I've seen her before, once, in what I thought was hallucination. Her hair in a quaint braid, draped over one shoulder. Her skin aquamarine, so delicate I think I saw the veins underneath—but no blood was flowing. And her eyes—oh, her eyes—they were a milk-like off-white. A color somehow both calming and chilling. She hummed from somewhere deep in the sea. So far out I couldn’t have seen or heard, let alone fear her—Yet I did. Her voice coiled around my throat like a silent collar, ready to claim what once was mine—Suddenly she's in front of me. I tried to fight back, but what can one do when her vocal cords were ripped out brutally? So thin, those fragile cords. And yet, they alone stood between me and my voice. I wanted to grab them and stuff them back into my throat, but—she smiled like an innocent carol, then devoured them in front of me. My arms dropped. I nearly collapsed, but her touch froze me up right. Her lifeless touch sealed my bleeding wound, then my throat, then my mouth then nostrils then the rest of my limped body. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe—
Then I woke up,
cold sweat soaked my hair.
I still couldn’t breathe.
I reached for my throat—
she actually took my voice.
I spent Fall Break with Lisa (one of my college suite-mates) in NYC. They live in a Central Park South high-rise. I hope to spend Thanksgiving there someday because the Macy’s Day Parade goes right by their front window. “Yeah,” Lisa says in a bored voice, “right down there.” (They’re about 8 floors above it.)
Lisa has a younger sister (12), named Elizabeth (who likes to be called Leeza (pronounced LeeZa) and yeah, that can be confusing). Pretty, little, stick-figured Leeza, wears braces, has fluorescent green eyes, long, curly, red hair, and gorgeous, fair, vampire-like skin that’s freckled to perfection.
Leeza is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met - so she’s always surrounded with laughter - and goaded by laughter, she’s fearless. We’re at this posh “On the Green” restaurant (outdoor, terrace dining) and Leeza won’t take her Airpods off (no matter how mad her mom gets). Her dad finally says, “What are you listening to?”
When asked, Leeza stands up and starts singing, clapping and herky-jerky beat-dancing “the Monster Mash.” It was so sudden and funny that I coughed cherry coke out of my nose. The entire restaurant erupted in laughter and then applause at this crazy, scarecrow beauty’s brief, comic performance.
Someday that girl’s gonna be a STAR
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PS, I have short stories too =]