Long Higher up Poems
Long Higher up Poems. Below are the most popular long Higher up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Higher up poems by poem length and keyword.
Father Christmas in the night sky his sleigh and reindeer a silhouette in the moonlight,
He has traveled all over the world to lavish his presents to small sleeping children,
The family has retired and left a mince pie and some sherry, the little ones dreaming,
Mr. Christmas climes up and down chimneys leaving special gifts it is a magical time.
Earlier on this Christmas Eve, many excited little children on their little tippy toes,
Straining to place their stocking high on the front room wall away from nosy grey rats,
Some scarcely reach higher than these rats frantic that sweets will have bites in them
Older brothers and sisters unhook the stockings and pin them higher up, out of the way
Mother has sat them round a table and coaxed them off to their beds earlier than usual,
Told them all about the story of Christmas and why it is such an important special day,
They sat there wide eyed listening to every word the very young not understanding it all,
There faces rosy from the heat of a yule log burning in the hearth and everything quiet.
They understand that Father Christmas only visits very good well and behaved children,
And the children feel guilty as they cast their mind back over the last very long year,
The children find it hard to hold their tongues hoping Father Christmas won't ride past,
And that if they go to bed without any moaning and go to sleep early he will be very kind.
Laying in their beds can they hear the the sound of whistles, penny-trumpets and drums?
They squeeze their eyes shut tight, just in case it is Father Christmas flying nearby,
A wind blows the downstairs door could that be the reindeer's and the sleigh flying past,
Gradually they tire and one by one drop into a deep sleep the sort only known by children.
In their sweetest dreams they hear the cries of dolls, singing wooden birds, gold ribbons,
The ticking of pewter watches looked at by the raggy dolls, toy soldiers guarding oranges,
They are asleep and so very happy the emblems of innocence, at peace on this Christmas Eve,
And when the morning finally comes they are loaded with beautiful gifts it's Christmas Day.
25th December 2012
Father Christmas is in the night sky his sleigh and reindeer a silhouette in the moonlight,
He has traveled all over the world to lavish his presents to small sleeping children,
A family has retired and left a mince pie and some sherry, the little ones dreaming,
Mr. Christmas climes up and down chimneys leaving special gifts it is a magical time.
Earlier on this Christmas Eve, many excited little children on their little tippy toes,
Straining to place their stocking high on the front room wall away from nosy grey rats,
Some scarcely reach higher than these rats, frantic that sweets will have bites in them
Older brothers and sisters unhook the stockings and pin them higher up, out of the way
Mother has sat them round a table and coaxed them off to their beds earlier than usual,
Told them all about the story of Christmas and why it is such an important special day,
They sat there wide eyed listening to every word the very young not understanding it all,
There faces rosy from the heat of a yule log burning in the hearth and everything quiet.
They understand that Father Christmas only visits very good and well behaved children,
And the children feel guilty as they cast their mind back over the last very long year,
The children find it hard to hold their tongues hoping Father Christmas won't ride past,
And that if they go to bed without any moaning and go to sleep early he will be very kind.
Laying in their beds can they hear the the sound of whistles, penny-trumpets and drums,
They squeeze their eyes shut tight, just in case it is Father Christmas flying nearby,
A wind blows the downstairs door could that be the reindeer's and the sleigh flying past,
Gradually they tire and one by one drop into a deep sleep the sort only known by children.
In their sweetest dreams they hear the cries of dolls, singing wooden birds, gold ribbons,
The ticking of pewter watches looked at by the rag dolls, toy soldiers guarding oranges,
They are asleep and so very happy the emblems of innocence, at peace on this Christmas Eve,
And when the morning finally comes they are loaded with beautiful gifts it's Christmas Day.
Silence...
...Just wait...
Wait a couple seconds...no, really.
Just WAIT...
In the distance,
a tremble of the air itself.
A subtle quiver of it's molecular structure.
A charge, causing your hair to come alive.
*CRACK* A singularity so vivid, so dazzling,
it blinds you,
forming indistinct bubbles in your vision.
Then another, farther away, not as luminous.
Another, and another. Dozens of fractures in the sky,
shining with voltages so high, so powerful;
temperatures blistering hot,
Searing and broiling anything they touch.
Fiercier than the sun's corona.
Vapourisation.
Retorts of thunderous applause,
following seconds behind, build up.
Unsure at first, escalating. Deafening.
Frightening all into submission.
Applause for such grandeur.
Overlooking the dark and forested valley,
we observe nature's perfect opera.
Above us,
angry violet mamma roil,
bubbling over the base of the storm.
Faded flashes,
illuminating the clouds,
casting mauve highlights and indigo shadows.
Far off applause,
the audience of another, higher up show.
The tempest isn't quite done yet,
the show must go on.
Not 10 metres behind us,
a tree explodes, its trunk boiled and charred.
Simultaneously, a roaring, reverberating crackle-snap ignites the air,
blasting our eardrums past their record limits.
A roasting heat wave blows over our heads,
shoving us forward, searing the tips of our hair.
Screaming and shouting, we stumble away,
no longer amazed at this horrifying opera.
Tripping down the slope,
we roll into the thick forest below us,
colliding with trees and shrubbery.
More flashes, tailed by the sky guffawing at us,
as we've become the joke of the show.
Horror surfacing on our faces,
we blunder towards the jeep.
Only thing is...
all that's left of the jeep is a smoldering carcass...
Real fear sets in,
as we discover ourselves
Trapped.
Isolated.
Entirely alone.
And up on the stage of nature's prime opera.
And we're the laughing stock.
The dispensibles.
No way out.
...He turned back to see all four of his gang
staring at him, in anger and shock.
“That boy was worth thousands,”seethed out mad Bret,
his hand shifting towards his rifle stock.
Chester pull his gun in a blur of speed,
sent two slugs into the nearest forehead,
the bandit went down, but the others drew,
the air crackling with muzzle flashes and lead.
Chester hit another, straight in the heart,
then felt something bite deep into his side,
he stumbled backwards, then fired again,
his shot hit home and another man died.
Then Bret’s rifle roared, shattering his shin,
he collapsed down to the group in a heap,
but he still had his Colt, two bullets left,
aimed upwards and let fly with a screech.
Two shots hit Bret right in the sternum,
soon too he collapsed down to the dirt,
both men bleeding heavy, both wounds mortal,
they faced their last minutes on this earth.
Bret choked through blood, croaked out a rough,”Why?
I though this gang meant everything to you?”
Chester coughed,”Yes, that is what I thought,
but that boy you seized was my nephew.”
Bret never said anything ever again,
Chester slumped back, and looked up at cold stars,
praying that Ronald still sprinted away,
that his horse had kept pace long and hard…
A whole day passed, then the Marshall came out,
with a posse, Ronald, and Tim Miller,
they looked at the scene, shook their heads slowly,
said,”A fine final scene for these killers.”
But Tim found his brother, his face at peace,
hoisted the body higher up on his horse,
the other men grumbled, but Tim would not
let his kin be brought in for a reward.
He had heard everything Ronald has told,
and though his brother down dark paths had roamed,
he’d shown he hadn’t lost everything good,
and would rest quietly beneath a stone.
Back on the ranch he carved into granite
so all that who might ride by it would know,
‘Here lies Chester Miller, who lived a rough life,
but in the end managed to die a hero.’
Your sweet breath escapes you and engulfs my soul
Through words spoken as though from some celestial being
Warm emotion floods me, floods my very fibrous core
Love I feel is not a mere four letter
Word that reluctantly man takes for granted, but more a
Monument to the jubilous fire you set my soul alight with
Speak, I cannot, the true magnitude of shear bliss
Endured by my mortal flesh. With the slightest brush
Of your angelic fingers. None can know or fathom
what true insurmountable beauty lies within
green fields of yet discovered highland plains laden with
flowers and sweet honey aroma blows within. Feeble
in my attempts to profess my own meek emotions
turmoil of my own past colliding with the yet to be. I destroy
myself knowing such turmoil I cause in an entity
none like yourself. Meager apology and material possessions
offer no hint of emotion of love and remorse contained
My, love, our love, will endure of that much I am sure. Open my mind
My only wish, to show you things I need you to see. I have known
No strength such as yours you take for granted. Times as this
I've never known but with you only would I have it to spend. Forget
Not the who I was, the who I am, and the who I will be.
My love, our love will endure of that much I am sure
Monotony & Mundane remain the same
caught in this slippery pretty net
we're all falling in and around our own whirlpools
our upward spiral climbs too high - the higher up the further down
Fly the same play the same one with the other
floating always floating
This sea we've created weaved in the merciless
fabric of the time we all flock to certain death
holding the hands of our clocks & wondering why
our own bleed. double edged is the face of
a sundial. With each shadow flicker anguish &
joy death & life exist permanently & are lost forgotten
by time held by life lost by eternity.
Let's all rally hand in hand while the band
plays on
a vision of looking down on an empty planet
a planet that had only one citizen
a little red guy, trudging around quickly
in his three different forms
the child, the adult male, and the invisible self
Unknown to man whose crime this was
a plan to prove myself to the heavens
removed myself from every star
created a team
there they are inside the stars
wondering where i went
the heavens smiling upon us
as one by one through this unfortunate circumstance
they achieve their red eyes
The plan was perfect
a deceptive trick
with the lie we lived
of the two sides to the reason why
mankind has suffered for 10 000 years
and remains ignorant
you seriously do not want to know what you did
two sides of the team
the stage you undoubtedly live
the only way to kill him was to help him pull off his own devious tricks
he isn't there anymore, invisible
a sick sense of worship
all the angels earned their red eyes
they too forgetful of their crime upon mankind
a humbling lesson for earth to realise
why they are higher up on the scheme of things than some of those in the heavens
dejavous of round two
a planet now addicted
the world of demon slayers
the transformation
pidgeonholed by the only true citizen of the planet's
self righteous suicide
and you wonder why so many walk around clueless
when your ignorance is bliss
creation about to learn it's lesson
when undeniably in this situation there is no way to win
A world of demon slayers
ready to be forgiven for an unholy addiction
to prove myself missing from the heavens
your own starter packs of your personal hells
a world of demonslayers ready to appologise
all the angels with red eyes
this demon cannot be defeated unless you focus on doing the right thing
but will linger here toward your temptation
recovery from an unholy addiction
for now your ignorance is bliss
you seriously don't want to know what you did
A woman who lost everything she owns stands there
by the waterfront where the waves beat upon the shore.
The woman-transformed-***** is a prisoner of war
being carried to the foreign land of an enemy general
across the sea; she cries ceaselessly tears in her eyes
for the unbearable sorrow, she barks fiercely in intolerable anger.
In the eyes of the woman who gazes up
the top of heaven from the bottom of the deepest sea.
She sees the last images of her blood-stained husband,
her dear sons and daughters, died in agony.
For her husband, she shared everything she owned;
for her children, she cradled and lulled them in her bosom to raise—
except for one son who was abandoned in the field at the time of his infancy because of an oracular ill omen.
All these sorrows are unwanted bitter memories to recall, crueler than
the cruelest fate for a woman to undergo.
Now, she climbs higher up the mast
to appeal to her deep inner heart’s mortification;
to let others see her transmuted figure, an ugly *****,
her annoying bark reaches to the furthest point of the sea.
Is Amphitrite heard her heartrending cry?
For the ship lists by the billow Poseidon rises,
alas, but then, she loses her balance and falls
to the deck vomiting blood, she ends her pathetic life;
this *****’s resentment tossed by the raging waves,
at the end, was thrown upon the shore and became a standing rock.
The rock beckons the ships that pass the straits to tell her grudge,
but to the heedless seafarers’ ears it sounds like the mere surges
that come and hit the rock. However, at times, it sounds
in their ears, like a ***** barking feebly from her bleeding heart
because of all her puppies are taken away;
that’s why, legend says,
the sailors called this rock “the poor *****’s rock.”
*Image of Palm Tree Lights Trunk Wrap by Christmas Lights, Etc.
ILMO Our Eldest Brother Kimo (James)
Our sixties Christmas--as my memory serves, where
our eldest brother freshly cut one Norfolk Pine from
our country grove. He then rope-tied it atop our "65
Dodge station wagon. Brother plays the ukelele as
dad drives us home with "Banana" barking out back
at tailgaters.
Our home in town has a driveway that curves uphill
from the avenue. Entangled large 60's Christmas lights
wrap around the trees. Then they are roped to each of
the other trees up the drive. My eldest brother then
nailed holiday-adorned Menehunes to the trees. He had
made them in his high school woodshop class, --as
Christmas elves.
Higher up the drive was a largely lei-decked Santa
wearing just his swimming shorts surfing on his board,
while dolphins pulled an outfitted Christmas canoe
laden with gifts. It was a car stopper and the talk
of the town.
The livingroom Norfolk Pine had an army of Hawaiian
Christmas bells. Again, my eldest brother carved-out
coconut shells that were then cut in half and each was
threaded with a fishing line where a seashell dangled
at its end.
The tree was adorned with an assortment of seashells
having varied shapes, sizes, and colors. Freshwater
pearls were glued to draping light-green seaweeds.
They shine like silvery Christmas strands. They are
pale in contrast to the dark-green-colored Norfolk Pine.
Our Christmas in Hawaii lasted until 1969 after Vietnam.
That is when we started celebrating our family Christmas
on the mainland, --save one. ~~Aloha Brother
*An irreplaceable Christmas period to be remembered always...
2022 December 15
*1st Place*
Christmas Spirit
~~Regina McIntosh: Judging 2022 December 19
On my way down to New Jersey
to take care of business there,
I pulled off and up to this place,
where I got out to stand and stare.
This was the Kutchingkord Hotel,
the heart of the old Borst Belt,
looking at the ruins now,
you can barely even tell.
I came here once when I was four,
way back in the mid eighties,
even then, amidst its decline,
it left an impression on me.
They had a daytime kids program,
back then I thought it so fun,
though now I see it kept us busy,
so our parents could soak the sun.
I remember the restaurants,
and the cool covers on the each dish,
they put them atop fine Kosher meals,
and I’m not even Jewish!
But now it’s just a concrete pad,
a weathered hole once was the pool,
there’s broken seats from the nightclub
where comedians played the fool.
Fences still up on the tennis court,
now cracked and without nets,
the pool-house is standing roofless,
haven’t brought the ball there yet.
Over there is the old ski slope,
all two hundred vertical feet,
maybe not the Matterhorn,
but once good enough for families.
Surrounding it all is tall grass
on what was a grand golf course,
twenty-seven holes and sprawling,
nobody plays it any more.
It saddens me to see it so,
but the trend is nothing new,
these are not the first resorts
that the Catskills have burned through.
Once in the nineteenth century,
higher up in the rolling hills,
the Mountain House and Kaaterskill
tourists once proudly filled.
Now there are just displays there,
telling hikers of how it was,
that thought just saddens me more,
and the reason is because
I know next time I’ll see one,
explaining that on this spot here,
a place once called the Borst Belt
welcomed guests for so many years.
Paper Mache, I see words
Ink on paper, thoughts buried in wood
I’m literate; I should be able to read this
Yes, the thoughts of another must hold so much meaning
My life should be better right?
After all I can see words and make meaning of them
I should be better than the man that cannot spell
I should have opinions where he is clueless
I should be able to think logically where he cannot
So i go outside my front porch, with my shoulders held high
A drink on my left hand, and the morning paper on my right
Then I pretend to read words that I do not care about
Just in an effort to stare at the ley man
Yes, I called him ley, he’s the animal, and I’m the zoo-keeper
While he goes about trying to earn his worth, I sit back and watch him like I’m ‘Speilberg ‘
He’s is mindless behavior, mine is the mindful characteristic of an educated man
After all I thought of coming here to jest at the poor urchin?
I conjured that up, now tell me why I shouldn’t be proud of myself?
It’s one of the many privileges being learned affords me
The way I look at her through the window,
While she hawks her wares, and tries to make a living
I see her as a person lesser than I, yes, I’m way much higher up
Yes my learned mind does not care that she probably has a family of five depending on her ‘plantain’
My learned mind cannot devise the economics needed to help her, though my bank says I can
Like that boy that works at the barbers shop that I never tip,
After all it isn’t my fault he isn’t in School; he deserves to beg all his life
I am Zeus, he’s a mere mortal
The chances some dream about, others are given on a platter of gold
My proud pompous mind will never understand a fact this simple
Is a mind that thinks itself superior really superior?