Long Lake Poems
Long Lake Poems. Below are the most popular long Lake by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lake poems by poem length and keyword.
This poem was inspired by the interviews by Earl K. Pollon and S. S. Matheson conducted with native Sekanni peoples who were negatively effected by the flooding of their communal homelands by the building of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam. “This Was Our Valley” tells that story of injustice. 640 square miles of riverfront and hunting territory would be flooded to form Williston Lake. The Sekanni peoples were driven from their ancestral homeland in northeastern British Columbia, Canada and dispersed.
The Shopping Cart Injustice
People, place and spirit
All were our relations
Biopeds, quadrupeds, winged or finned -
River language told us so.
Fishing rocks spoke the run
Where the riffles and the rapids talked.
Ancestors, dead and alive, told living stories where
Running the river banks, the children played.
The land was a book written in forms.
We made our mark with love, community
Fishing weirs, aspen dugout canoes,
Hunting trails, camps and sacred sites.
Always traders, we traded furs with
White settlers when they arrived
On the rivers Parsnip, Finlay and Peace at
Finlay Forks, Fort Grahame, Fort McLeod.
We added pack trains, teams of pack horses
River freighters, flat bottom ‘longboats’
For supplies and for mail delivery.
It seemed that we could live together.
Then one day a government agent said
That shopping carts were coming
They would flood our world
Water rising everywhere
Shopping carts with electric can openers
Full, fast to check out,
Shopping carts with electric hair blowers,
Full, faster to check out,
Shopping carts with electric air conditioners,
Full, fastest to check out
Shopping carts with electric stoves.
Check out, check out, check out.
They would make our rivers into a lake
We would move or drown.
Our elders did not believe it.
That was the only consultations!
Soon Saskatoon berries all under water
Next, the banks sloughed back to graveyards
Next, cliffs crumbled, and banks fell into rising lake
Houses of the villages slipped and floated
Coffins, bones and bodies strewed the shore
Where tangled trees, debris and more
Eddied with flotsam in the wind.
We wept for our ancestors!
We weep for our children.
We had to flee the destruction
Caused by tree grinders, D-9 bull dozers
The dam construction.
Now they want to take more
Another dam for more shopping carts.
Please stop Site ‘C’.
Thanks to you all
Thanks to those who come to
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Thanks to those who read my
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me, avoid my poems, block
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Thanks to you all
I’ve no eternity here, all of me
from least to chest, best to edge,
sharpen blade of new paddy leaves
jeopardize my torn nib of ink
in the field of writings graph
Maybe I couldn’t write any word
for beauty and stunning young girl
in comprehension, in passion and
in my fashionable heart
Maybe I couldn’t write charming note
of flower’s petals, striking fragrance,
in my perpetuity lake of quills
Maybe I couldn’t draw the sexy body of
rose, lotus, tulip, sunflower, orchid,
lily, daffodil… etc in my vulnerable
reef of poetic expression
Maybe I couldn’t draw the colors magic
of rainbow in my infatuated fallen
soaked feathers with November rain
Maybe I couldn’t inscribe the nature
the cosmos, the solar system, the ocean,
the black hole, the space, the sky, the stars,
the planets, the galaxies, the meteors, the
gravitational power…etc in my slumbering
wings of writings
Maybe I couldn’t plant the meditational
tree into the pure heart of words, I couldn’t
select the seeds of immortality in my
ascetic madness and magma script
Maybe I couldn’t greet the autonomy flying
of Cockatiels, Parakeets, Canaries, Finches,
African Grey Parrots, Budgerigars, Cockatoos,
Conures, Macaws, Poicephalus…etc in my
unintelligible incarcerated language
Maybe I couldn’t hail the abode for Labrador,
Bulldog, German, Poodle, Beagle… etc and
Maine Coon, Egyptian Mau, American Bobtail,
Ragdoll…etc in my materialistic
harvesting terminology
Maybe I couldn’t sleep with power of poems,
dream to be a finest classic or modern poet
in my kingdom of pen, paper, ink, writing
table-chair and lamp
Notwithstanding all these, I thanks to those
who come here at least one time daily,
erratically and read, write, share own
thoughts and comment frankly
Thanks to you all a lot. Thanks and love you
all. From me always ready the rose without
thorns and love for you all, although you bleed
my heart by thorns stinging
-November 14, 2018 Chattogram
////
DEDICATED TO POETRYSOUP.COM and ALL POETS-POETESSES OF THIS ESTEEMED LITERARY SITE
A fairyland fable is a magic table floating around but nit with a rallying cry. That is purely reserved for several synchronised cruise ships whose sunbathing missions thwart many a delivery driver. It is with great interest that an interest is neither a monetary aim at a bank or an inked out financial score singing a palate of possibilities. So go call the cat then. Go on. Meow meow. Dinner time. There you go. Fresh tuna is very scared now. Oh dear. And all the little flakes hard at work minced flesh in factories never really has a rest does it? Dilapidated dog during digging. And a great big wish from a ten thousand kilo cake is a celebrated glow in an outer solar sphere. Clap them all. Many cakes many spheres. Loud claps. And shouting at the mail is equivalent to eating beans on toast at several hundred miles an hour upside down in a bucket. It is in many weathers that a tall lanky snail circles a circuit in a rally car. Very very fast. Well done. There is a crown and a bursting champagne bottle whose antics on the plane were quite rude and non productive. However showering the podium with released bubble is quite a feat of engineering and requires precision mathematics too. So never ever become intoxicated if holding a compass, a text book, six lined sheets of paper, ten pencils and an organic cheeseburger with salad. Marketing making money moguls merry. And the swimming curry is out for the day in the lake occasionally resting on a Papadopoulos papadum boat who whips a papaya to create a cocktail. How rather quaint that is isn't it? How many radiuses are there in a pear? And how many tents can be made from a single pair of tights? These are highly significant questions to ask at a time when the antipepiscides are at the protest. Rioting. And tootling along the lane came a little green car whose plan was ever only to drink copious amounts of tea at the inn of then. Saviour not a sanctified secretion of a sweet set of stagnant striped silk. And enter no password of hi dee hi on a billboard for frames are allowing much to pass by over the cliffs. So watch out if carrying ten cars, a wobbly bus, and a twelfth century castle for it is the marksman who are marking a book from a diocese, a school and a university of agha banks. Couple that then. Great. Hahaha fantasy fig floating around hahaha banana bandana bringing bee balancing. Xxxxx metropolitans z
Form:
the Bus – Travels Through America’s Underbelly
I am a bus rider
That makes me unusual
For a white male
From an upper middle class family
Our people are not bus riders
Though some are subway riders
Bus riders are other people
The poor, minorities, immigrants
People who don’t drive
Because they are blind
Or have a DUI
And in my case
I don’t drive
Because I have bad vision
And bad coordination
Just never got the hang
Of the whole driving thing
Fortunately for me
My wife does the driving
But I still take the bus
From time to time
I rode the AC buses in Berkeley
As a child
Line 67, line 51, line 43 F bus
Rode them long before BART came along
And afterwards as well
As an adult seldom rode the bus
But when I did so
I was always impressed
By the sheer diversity
Of the bus riding property
Hundreds of languages
All sorts of sexual orientation
Some were white
Most were not
Most of my fellow passengers
Were nice enough
Some were friendly
And some were lost
In their own thoughts
And a few
Were scary looking dudes
With the look
Of someone who had done time
And were capable of more violence
I also rode the bus
In Seattle as a graduate student
A lot of fellow UW students
And the usual immigrants
Minorities etc
And some white people
Commuting
And in DC
Over the years
I rode a lot of buses
Mostly to and from the metro
But I got to know
And love the DC buses as well
I also took the greyhound bus
Across the country
Several times over the years
All over the U.S.
From Bay Area to Stockton
From Bay Area to Clear Lake
From Bay area to NYC
NYC to DC
All over the USA
Taking the Greyhound
Was always an an adventure
Met a lot of interesting people
As people on long distant bus rides
Tend to open up and talk
To pass the time away
Overseas I took the bus
All over
In India, in Barbados
In Spain and in Korea
The Korean buses
For many years
Were difficult for foreign visitors
As the signs were all in Korean
Most have signs
Now in English, Chinese and Korean
And are much more foreigner friendly
Riding the bus
In America
Allows one access
To the underbelly of American society
The poor, the marginalized
The immigrant communities
That many middle-class white people
Just never see
And for that reason
I am glad
That I am a bus rider
Doomsday Clock January 2022...
the most recent tabulation
signaled one hundred seconds to midnight
A couple years ago
similarly titled poem I did write,
yet looms as harbinger unless
*****sapiens can unite
one non Yiddish speaking
Ongematert wishing ye
fare thee well tonight
before betokening apocalyptic sight
'course one must go about
her/his business - right?
Rhetorical question - yet
impossible mission quite
challenging, where one
brother grimm ponders plight
Cosmofunnel favorite fan
Katina Borgersen "poof"
our acquaintanceship dissolved
(think - snapped fingers) outright
regardless, whether...
perchance we ever
cross paths long daze
journey into night
met under virtual reality moonlight
ah... the mere awareness
of her existence
metaphorically found modest, mercurial
mellow male within limelight
oy vey admittedly one
rusty Ongepatshket knight
fumbling in the dark with
his unreliable sputtering jacklight
hooping aforesaid gal whose eyes alight
upon mine genuine words doth newt
coon sitter me laughable, nor impolite,
yet accept hard reality to highlight
and/or _ underscore delight
full dame online - each of us,
an infinitesimal jot of granulite
within vast cosmos given finite
minuscule time to excite
our senses trending utmost delight
during brief unique
deoxynucleic chromosomal copyright
til death do us part,
whether natural demise
or... huge mushroom
clouds radioactive blight
unimaginable nightmarish scenario
impossible mission to close third eye blind
webbed global haunting spectacle
mortal creatures linkedin to ill fate
including yours truly,
a generic, garden variety
hermetically sealed cell bit anchorite.
Uneasiness far greater
to confront atomic augury
than pernicious penury
which ceases within eyeblink
far more serious than perjury
nonetheless afflicting me
with psychological injury.
Personal finances pitted
me deep in hock
into red room zone,
shining thru the mist
story, yes I experience
quite a shell shock,
to absorb inconvenient truth
great swaths of Gaia
analogous to dead zone,
nevertheless, now finds yours
truly poorest, oldest, and nerdiest
curmudgeon goofy "kid"
on the chopping block
within Lake Wobegon
hard space and third rock
from sun as inevitable doom
inches closer as each second elapses
insync with inaudible tick tock.
Armadilly came galloping into Troll Lake, bent on seeking a new life, to unwind.
He’d rode out of the Badlands, leaving only a trail of blowing dust and leaves, behind.
His steady stead Jalopy had been pounding feet, relentlessly with powerful strides.
Rearing up, Armadilly stopped before our Troll Bridge with his slingshot at his side.
I could see, he rode the sleekest mount, and the biggest tortoise, that I had ever seen.
Man that armadillo knew his tortoise flesh… this was the fastest one, ever been!
I would say: he truly looked, the devil’s mount… with glowing, fire stocked eyes.
The stranger named himself as Armadilly, but his true identity, could not be denied.
He was really Armadilly Billy, The Slingshot Kidster, as he bowed to us, so very low.
With a yes Ma'am, and a no Sir, he was smooth and could charm, near any old soul.
The Trolls loved him for the spell binding stories, that at the campfire, he gave away.
He never talked about his past, but we knew who he was, without being told, that day.
The rumor had it that Sheriff Bunny Garret had shot him dead, on one fateful day.
Another said he’d faked his death, heading south to Mexico, his life to live away.
But we knew better, for he was here with us, right now, on this illustrious day.
We knew he was a kind and misunderstood guy, because of what I’m about to say.
He saved our squirrel, Funkundilly, from a hawk diving straight for her, inward bound.
With his slingshot, like streaked lightening, he forced the hawk to spiral to the ground.
And we all applauded that Funkundilly was now, once again, so very safe and sound.
Then he strode, spurs a jangling, to dish out his own type of justice, so very renowned.
With a steely glint in his eye, he ordered the hawk away, or meet his end, he did convey.
And you can say that frightened bully hawk, really high tailed it, as he ran away.
Everyone celebrated that night, with Armadilly, all the way to dawn’s embrace.
Before he left, Armadilly knew from then on, he’d always have a home in this place.
But his mind was set on a wandering, more of this world’s adventures, to unweave.
So with a HiHo! Jalopy! He took off, leaving in another cloud of dust and leaves.
But I heard him shout that he’d be back again, soon…
And we were sure, that’s just what he would do!
Inspired by Silly Billy the Kidster's--- Billy the Kid Blog
An epic poem by Carol Eastman
My love for you is wider than Victoria Lake
And taller than the Empire State
Now, I could give you more than that
So surely you want me back
Is it a crime? Please tell me, if it’s a crime?
That I still want you
And I want you to want me, too
I wake up at night with you on my mind
Your soul passes through mine all the time
When I realize that you’re not in my life
Warm, salty tears flow from my eyes
My life feels pointless without you here
Every night I manage to shed a few tears
I’ve been in love with you for a whole seven years
But I’m “All Cried Out” over you
The thing is, you really have no kind of clue
Though, it’s not hard to see that you don’t really want to
In my world, only you
What would I do for your love?
No, no, no! The question is
What I would not do?
My friends wonder what is wrong with me
Cause I’m in a daze, from your love you see
I just had to let you know
Got a thing for you and I can’t let go
Reminiscing to “Have You Ever” by Brandy
I wonder what I gotta do to get you in my arms
What I gotta say to get to your heart
I wish you’d understand how I need you next to me
Trying to figure out why you don’t feel the same
Has got me losing sleep
I mean, I look in your eyes and lose myself
With you I always put my salt on the shelf
Cause I know that together we could be beautiful
But you’re not willing to let your feelings go
With each day, my love for you grows
But, you don’t care, I’m sure
You might just appreciate it in all but, I need more
Cause I wanna “Rock With You”
And maybe “Take It To The Top With You”
I just wanna love you, baby
Always thinking of you daily
When you come my way
You brighten each and everyday
With your sweet smile
You really are my everything
And you truly are my happiness
Something special I see in you
I can’t find in anyone else
You make my life complete
Because of you I can’t sleep
A special part of me
And only you hold that key
Though, I only want the best, it’s true
I can’t believe the things I’m willing to do for you
There’s no need to hold it back anymore
I find there’s nothing I won’t do for your love
“I Keep Holding On”
Cause the love I have for you runs so strong
SO PLEASE REMEMBER THIS FOR ME
When you think you can’t go nowhere
My front door, and love, will always be here
Or when life treats you unkind
Please feel free to drop by anytime
Form:
let every old woman with a wrinkled face,
she should be aware,she lives in disgrace,
a furrowed brow,hairy lip and single tooth,
know me well,i'll get the truth.
a squinty eye and scolding tongue,
the squeaky voice she's had from very young,
you will never hide from me,
i'm the witch hunter general you see.
my name shall be feared throughout this land,
my hunting of witches will go as planned,
first you'll be tossed into a cell,
stripped naked and starved,until you tell.
i'll start to prick to cause you pain,
and i'll do it over and over again,
then you'll be bound to stool or table,
cross legged of course,even if you're not able.
after twenty four hours the cramps will set in,
again poked and prodded,but i'll use a new pin,
you'll then walk the stones til your feet bleed,
still i reckon you don't get to feed.
then you're taken for a swim in the lake,
your baptism water you didn't take,
if you're innocent you will drowned,
but if you sink a true witch i've found.
this cruelty wasn't enough,mathew got no kicks,
a new style was developed,it only took two ticks,
he bent victims double,tied thumb to big toe,
a rope round the waist,in the water they'd go.
these people were worn down by his torturous way,
but hopkins was going to have his say,
one question he used in the brow beating session,
you're aquainted with the devil,i want a confession.
a nod or monosyllabic reply will do the trick,
or my man will beat you again with the stick,
then poor john lowes,a suffolk minister of note,
was told you're a witch,i can tell by your coat,
a quarrelsome gent of seventy was poor john,
disliked by many,they wanted him gone,
hopkins took the task to prove he was right,
john was kept awake for many a day and a night.
they ran him till he was out of breath,
he was weary, and scared half to death,
so he confessed to get some peace,
then the torturous pain would cease.
hopkins said"another one i didn't let survive",
john went to the scaffold august 1645,
no cleargy would read for him at his grave,
a villager said"to the devil john was no slave".
who knows how many poor sould were lost,
letting hopkins rule,had it's own cost,
more than 200 people this way met their fate,
by the time hopkins hit norfolk,it was too late.
his trials of blood passed through our countryside,
in his work mathew hopkins took great pride.
Upon the lakes they do swim gliding so effortlessly
These species of graceful waterfowl the largest of anatidae family
In their beautiful pure white plumage with elegant long curved necks
Blunted beaks and big webbed feet living together by water's edge
These magnificent creatures of the waters are a sign of purity and love
Remind us of the blessings in our relationships a gift from heaven above
If all goes well in there pairing they will stay together for rest of their life’s
When they glide upon the waters of our awareness they bring us deep insight
These birds of Mother Nature they’re exquisite and unique
Bearing exotic waves of beauty to our dreams as we do sleep
They swim around in our divine mind adding colours of delight
Encouraging us to spread our wings and take our glorious flight
Courting occurs on rivers and lakes throughout the known world
Whilst they live on plant life tiny fish and scattered bread as well
You might see them duck their heads as they feed upon their foods
But you better beware of their aggression whilst they protect their broods
The elegance of these myterious birds are displayed in a ballet dancer
Dancing into our emotions with their romantic artisticpower
Transforming our souls with delightful moves bringing us into harmony
With a brilliant performance of balance, control and technical flexibility
The beautiful dying swan pours its heart out as death draws near
Greeting this with an exceptional beautiful ending balladeer
Its modulated voice singing the swan-song of death so sweet
This harmonious sound can be heard as its last creative piece
The crown retain the ownership to all unmarked mute swans
A ceremony takes place once a year and lasts for five days long
Swan upping is a tradition dated back to the twelfth century
Markers row up and down the rivers paying tribute to the Queen
In England they’re a protected species and owned by Her Majesty
The wing spans on these wonderful birds can extent to several feet
These sacred aquatic birds male and female cobs and pens
Those little cygnets and swanlings on a swan lake that never ends
© Copyright KC.Leake
8th December 2014
All Rights Reserved
I wake up another day on my bed
A bed crudely made of stones and rocks
It's dark outside as usual, and again
I'm awaken by tremors and aftershocks
It's the same from the day I was born
There was no one to care for me, except her
She always shelter me and clothe me
Who is she, you ask; she is my Good Mother
The days are hot and dangerous here
The sun burns and blisters my skin; I cannot go out
I have to remain in the womb of the Mother
From sunrise to sunset, in a fetal position throughout
In the night I roam for food with efforts futile
Many a times I starve, few lucky instances I eat soil
There is no animal, no bird, no river, no lake, no tree
Not even a hint of grass, which makes my blood boil
Where there used to be trees, there are withered roots
Where there used to be grass, there is scorched earth
Where there used to be water, there is baked land
And I haven't seen a single animal since the time of my birth
There are no rains to fight the endless summers,
No flowers to distinguish scents and colors,
No sounds which feel music to your ears,
There is only darkness to see and all you feel are tremors
The mountains give you a view of agony and distortion
The earth has opened up with pockets of hell inviting you
The air is stale and you feel dizzy when you breathe
The world has shades of red and black 'stead of green and blue
Today I walk the scorched earth staring at Hell below
Wondering what the Devil might be thinking of me
Cursing my destiny, when I tripped over something
And I saw a defiant sapling aspiring to be the biggest tree
I saw it more closely, watched the young one fight all odds
It had strong roots stretching far beyond the horizon
I wondered where it found that much energy and life
And it came to me, that it was the Mother who had it chosen
A Mother who creates the best out of her children
A Mother who always cares for all, young or mature
A Mother who always gives but asks for nothing in return
Who is her, you ask; I say - She is Mother Nature
Unlike God, she never forgets her children,
Unlike Humans, she is never selfish,
Unlike me, she never gives up,
Unlike mortals, she will never perish.
A new world will rise on the ashes of old,
Life will again find a humble abode,
This time there will be no races and religions,
Because Nature will be our "GOD".
Form: