Long Kilometers Poems
Long Kilometers Poems. Below are the most popular long Kilometers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kilometers poems by poem length and keyword.
Fast walking strides
Three-plus kilometers;
Brisk cardiac activity
Toy terrier running
Owner on leash;
Creature comforts pace
Mad motivation
Blind leading blind;
Surging ahead
Crowd mentality
World Cup football;
Temporary insanity
Late night matches --
The world watching twenty-two
Athletic men kicking a ball
Headline news flash
Spectator frenzy;
Home crowd vantage ad
Struggle here
To sculpt new words;
Feel new rhymes surge
Joy in tired bones
Finish line crossed;
A personal best
All the world's
A stage and we:
Mere players (and spectators!)
Leon Enriquez
17 June 2014
Singapore
2025 Poetry Marathon Mile 12 Contest // Sponsored by: Mark Toney
Contest Judged: 8/31/2025 8:56:00 AM
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 29, 2025
I did not come here to sprint.
I came to gather the pulse of the road,
to feel the gnaw of silence
against the bones of my resolve.
Each step is a revolution
against tiredness,
against the voices that murmur quit,
against the burden of what I once carried.
The horizon never hurries.
It waits, steady as a metronome,
marking time with the breath of dawn,
reminding me: endurance is a kind of prayer.
What is a marathon if not memory
unfolded across distance
the faces that hailed,
the hands that let go,
the griefs I refused to bury?
Still, I run.
Not because triumph is certain
but because the road demands witness.
Even the broke beg a compass.
I anchor my heart to the road,
woven mile after mile.
The finish is not some banner
it is the hour I see
fractures still hold weight.
And so I move,
one breath louder than surrender,
forty-two kilometers of fire
coursing through my veins.
If I falter, let it be forward.
If I fall, let it be on the line
where the road has already
turned me into flame.
There I was as white as a sheet,
the alcohol was working ,I could not feel my feet.
The bus was out of the question, taxi too.
Walking was the answer,if only I knew.
The rain was splashing against my face,
my glasses steamed up I hurried my pace.
M y head was buzzing,my stomach numb.
Why oh why was I so dumb.
I had only wanted a drink or two.
My problem I cant say no.
All or nothing,the only way to go.
As i smoked the third cigarette,the effects were under way.
My eyes were looking but not at you,
I was a million miles away.
The fourth drink was gone number five to.
All the way the only way I know..
So here I am staggering alone.
a couple more kilometers, and I will be home,
as I look to cross the road,
all is clear over I go.
Wait stop!:
I look with eyes of dread,
a v.w golf has hit my leg.
I look up give the o.k.
then bells started ringing in my head.
This road is one way.
too late I say,he is off at least I am o.k.
So here I am in the safety of home.
I made it all alone
I lay my weary head on the bed.
All or nothing the only way to be.
Once a year is enough for me.
Near midnight, when stars sing their loneliness, my mind boils,
In a sea of thoughts flowing ceaselessly, like a river of memories and unfulfilled dreams,
My soul struggles in the nets of its own reflections,
In an endless search for perfection, like a bird trapped in a cage,
I stay awake, delving into the abysses of my mind, spinning in circles of illusions.
The question haunts me, like an echo in an empty cave: Are overthinkers with restless minds bad?
I always believed so, but now, in a moment of clarity,
I understand that "bad" is not the right word, it's an unfair judgment,
For rarely do you find a soul that thinks too much without being capable of deep love.
The night witnesses my insomnia, when sleep flees from me like a fleeting shadow,
My mind races at a million kilometers per second, losing itself in the desert of thoughts,
Obsessed with every detail of the day, striving to savor life entirely,
But everything has a price, doesn't it?
My thoughts throb from lack of sleep, my eyes burn with tears shed for unfulfilled expectations,
Despite countless scenarios imagined for perfection, the result is exhaustion—tired bodies, aching heads.
You're exhausted, aren't you? And it's all because you love life and want to make sure you're truly living it,
Not just being in the crowd, watching your body live for you.
And in this, there is beauty, a beauty in you,
There is beauty in overthinking,
Like a night flower, opening in darkness, shining in a secret light,
A dance of shadows and lights, a melancholic spectacle of my soul.
In the depths of melancholy, I find a subtle magic,
A golden thread woven through the fabric of thoughts,
My soul soars, even in endless agony,
For in every struggle, in every tear, there is an immortal story,
A story of love, of life, of the beauty of being human.
And so, in the endless flow of consciousness, I lose and find myself,
In a world of dreams and reflections, where magic and melancholy intertwine,
A world where overthinking is not a curse, but a hidden blessing,
A gift of the soul, a quest for perfection, a love that knows no bounds,
And in this endless dance, I find the beauty of truly living.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just pass the flourishing sycamore and maple trees.
Just pass the vast meadow where crickets play and butterflies probe for nectar.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just a few kilometers from me is a blue water pond that is a seasonal home for
a family of trumpeter swans.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Where I'm surrounded by a rustic gothic fence.
And at my feet are glorious variegated annuals and perennials.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come see me in my brilliance where the sun is pouring its heavenly beams upon my ivory body.
Come and see how many seasons has embraced me.
Let your eyes be gifted with the sight of my golden thatched crown, where larks and wren gently nestle.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come inside me.
Enjoy my warmth.
Explore me and all my charm.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come rest your weight on the antique rocker in front of the Rumford fireplace.
Enjoy the port that is half filled inside a lead crystal decanter.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
You will, with great contentment bury yourself in the serenity, and pity many in the world who isn't you.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and listen to the enchanting sounds of my memories.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and hold in perfection the moments you share with me.
copyright Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
Inspired by a picture. 2017
My fingers ache—
muscles weary, spent, and sore.
Sweat soaks through my singlet.
Eyes grow heavy, begging for sleep,
to repay seventy-two hours denied.
Yet each piece I write ends in his bin.
The sponsor never seems to tire
of casting them away with mean regards—
a cross my restless heart must bear.
Would it not be better to run the race
on a track,
not behind a screen?
I could have run twenty-seven miles
in under two hours—breaking the record—
instead of these seventy-two with no glory.
There’s a method, even, in this my madness:
twenty-seven contests in a row,
each confined to forty-two lines,
echoing kilometers run on marathon tracks.
Yet my ink has dried, my paper stays blank.
I restrain my heartache deep within,
lest it spill its ache across my face,
where anger and disillusionment dwell,
hidden beneath facial creams and wry smiles,
till after work removes their weary veils.
Each day, each burdened weekday,
and each weekend, each joyless weekend,
I do my laundry, eat my meals,
beside the stubborn silence of this paper—
still waiting for its first word.
So tonight, I beg you, Sleep:
take away this sleeplessness.
For poems are better written in dreams.
Leave me there till I craft a masterpiece—
one no sponsor could ever deny of glory.
It’s nothing but desert for kilometers, nothing as far as you can see.
Not even the sparse brush to keep you company
Wondering further and further
Wondering if it was all for not
Hours turn to days
Then slowly days turned to weeks
Must find where it came from
It came from this way, I’m sure it was this way?
Plague and famine have ravished the towns in the basin
Nothings left with the droughts that hit
There should be something out here, a river, if gods be plentiful, a puddle if they can at least be gentle…..snakes if their more devils than gods
Lips cracked and moving as though joints were filled with sand
I see it, the oasis
It’s said to only show in times of desperate need
But there's also a curse
If your to take from the gods, even if it is to save
You must leave something dear
Hesitating, I clutch my last piece of my lost family
A little wooden block with teeth marks
It’s not just the block that must be left
It’s the memories tied to the item that must also be left
What a cruel joke
What cruel salvation
Taking the last few steps to the bubbling little river
Right up to the stacked stones
Tears run hot and ragged down my face
As I raise my hand, gently placing the block on the slab
I don't understand, there's nothing here? Just an alter
My face feels wet? Why was I crying?
No time, must hurry
I lead my horse to the water, refilling packs, loading the wagon
All while tears just streamed down my cheeks
I hope this helps them
That little town, I know no one there, not even from there
But they shouldn’t suffer like home did
But…what happened at home?
Where is home?
I don’t remember
Must have been part of the price.
The bar-tailed godwit
caught birddom by surprise
When word got out
just how far this bird flies
A juvenile Limosa lapponica,
satellite tag 2-3-4-6-8-4
flew nonstop from Alaska
to the Tasmanian shore!
13,560 kilometers nonstop,
eleven days and nights
A new world record for
marathon bird flights
"From Alaska to Tasmania?
The devil, you say!"
cried ravens and crows,
"Every bird knows,
claiming to fly 8400 miles
To the Tasmanian isles—
is the height of audacity!
No bird has the capacity
We protest with pugnacity
Demanding veracity!"
The godwits conveyed
a very chill groove
They had, after all
nothing to prove
having set the prior
world records in '20 and '21
A controversy was brewing
Would their achievements
be undone?
A commission was appointed
for a bird's-eye review
into the facts of the matter
the truth to pursue
Wise owls were chosen
to adjudicate this claim
To settle once and for all
who deserved the acclaim
Only item considered
had scientific backing
Since satellite data
Allowed accurate tracking
Of the tagged young bird's
ultramarathon flights
The facts indisputable
No need for bird fights,
ending investigation into
this migration gyration
Bar-tailed godwits awarded
the Oiseau de Plume
for being the farthest nonstop
flying bird in the room
The Arctic terns too
received acclamation
For flying the farthest
In their migration—pole to pole,
24,000 miles each year
causing most birds present to
stand up and cheer
in spontaneous applause—
But not all birds were willing
To concede their cause
Displaying proclivity
to resist the festivity
The crows and ravens
As they stormed out the door
vowed in unison, wings clenched,
"Nevermore!"
I was a student of logic
when the world stopped breathing—
July 20, 1969,
a footprint pressed into silver dust.
Neil Armstrong’s voice crackled,
“one small step…”
and yet, my mind whispered—
was it the Moon,
or a Hollywood stage?
Fifty–six years have burned away,
half a century of miracles and machines.
We send probes beyond Pluto,
yet have not returned
to that pale frontier
just 384,400 kilometers away.
We dive to the edge of oceans,
but never to their blackest trench.
We speak of radiation belts,
Van Allen’s invisible fire—
how did fragile bodies
slip through alive,
wrapped only in cloth and hope?
Pride is America’s anthem.
If the flag had truly bitten lunar soil,
would it not have marched again—
and again—
until a fortress crowned the Moon?
They say budgets broke the dream.
But tell me—
what nation spares the stars
while spilling trillions on war?
The camera rolls.
The world applauds.
The truth drifts somewhere
between silence and space.
Was just another BAU day
at Duesseldorf Uni
Lads in the IT room
playing minesweeper and internet spades
A few emails here and there
RE: IT Support Needed
I can't access my files
Something's wrong with Citrix
George stroke his beard
Screw it, must be stupid SMB
We should've stuck with UNIX
"Something's going on", said Emery
Anxiously searching Elastic
Things are starting to look encrypted
Gasps shouted across the room
As they stared at the long ransom note
Off went the not-so-classic ring tones
on the IT admins' work phones
Nicht das.. Nein!
Swear words dropped on the white bricks
As Emery ran across emergency
Notepad.exe open with bitcoin addresses
mocking her steps pass every screen
PA's buzzing, an ambulance redirected
The white van blazes towards Wuppertal
It's whole thirty kilometers
As the CRT screen rang
A white line cut across the missed murder
From a siren that never went
----------
In remembrance to the woman that died on September 9 2020, the first person that died directly due to a ransomware attack. She had to be redirected to a hospital in Wuppertal 19 miles (30 km) away and died in the ambulance on the way.
The Siren that never went was the network intrusion detected too late.
The IT department described is mostly fictional.
Glossary
BAU - Business As Usual
minesweeper and internet spades - games built-in to Windows XP
Citrix - popular and dirty commercial remote access software. It's remote code execution vulnerability allowed hackers to get in thousands of systems
SMB - Server Message Block, the protocol used by Microsoft Windows networks to share files
UNIX - A simple and secure operating system standard, implemented by BSD, MacOS, Solaris and some Linux distributions
Elastic - ElasticSearch, a search engine often used in the ELK stack (Elastic,Logstash,Kibana) to search events and data across different network endpoints
"Nicht das.. Nein!" - German for "not this.. no!"
Notepad.exe - the program often used to display ransomware notes by cyber criminals
bitcoin - a cryptocurrency that's hard to trace, often used by criminals to demand ransomware payments