Long Land(a) Poems
Long Land(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Land(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Land(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
Beyond like a dream
unfolding on this historic day
astronauts head skyward - heroes,
fools, call them what you may
The world watches in awe
its genesis where no man has been.
Strange land, a new beginning -
behold the lunar return to Eden
A cratered moon beckons,
this globe of reflected light -
Armstrong and Aldrin silently land,
Mike Collins considers his plight
Each man had their rituals
at this point in time.
Aldrin in silence broke the bread
and drank the holy wine
Now only bootprints remain
for some celestial traveller to find,
and a commemorative plaque that reads
“We came in peace for all mankind”
O’ moon, they walked over you -
revealed, you shine naked.
Your secrets exposed in the name of man...
Christ! Is nothing sacred?
Written: 1992
My knowledge of bankers is limited and esoteric.
They have a virtuosity of keeping a poker face no matter what.
Even during a robbery, they are to act as nonchalant charlatans.
Handing over vast amounts of loot, stereotypically including dye lot.
I did not realize how banks operate when I arrived as a newbie.
My inexperience and ineffectiveness was measureable.
I had not planned to land a bank job at all; I wanted to be a ballerina.
But having never danced or even worn a tutu, what are the odds?
I am on auditory alert this morning at my teller’s cage.
The guy behind the old lady I am serving has a stony glare.
I ask her about her son’s new plane’s rollout, to stretch time.
Justifying nothing, she explains about his psychological problems.
Prevention is better than waiting for a shot in the knee right?
The second the stony-faced soldier comes closer I pepper spray him.
In the eyes; he yelps like a surprised puppy!
The bank manager comes running over. And my job is over.
No worries. I have hated all four hours of this job any way.
Longing for a Lunker
When I was but a lad
Butch and I would fish.
In any stream or river
To catch a “lunker” was our wish.
As we reached our teens
Our angling skills we honed.
But still our quest eluded us
We bought our big fish boned.
When we were at the river’s edge
Small shop’s, the bank would line
For they knew where the lunkers lived
Caught and smoked them up just fine
But alas, graduation came and went
We parted ways to never meet.
Butch taught biology to kids
We both found wives so sweet.
I only hear from him at Christmas
And oft a card without a note.
I wonder as the years went by
If he ever over- filled his boat.
I’m probably too feeble now
To land a lunker if one would bite.
But I still hold onto my dream
Of that exhausting, fun-filled fight.
Do you have something?
That lingering wish.
To run a marathon race
Or bake someone their favorite dish.
Don’t give up that dream
Wish on my aging friend
It may eventually happen
During our time at Heaven’s end.
For that may be what heaven is
A time of praise & worship of our King
But also time then set-aside
To pet our dogs and for other things.
Written by oldbuck, May 10, 2016 as he thought about days gone by and opportunities missed.
I have this awful feeling that the universe is changing its shape, and the earth is going to increase the human race, the Meteorites are sailing through the sky, and the earth is racing in a different time to honor a period that has already died.
It’s hard to set the world in motion when three-quarter of our planet is sinking beneath the deck and the sun is moving closer to the earth to suck up the moisture and heats up the land, a piece of paradise is falling from your hand.
I wonder what they will find up there when the universe has so much to share, the moon is full too soon and flowers are blooming under the crescent moon, the temperature is rising, and the earth is blazing, and the ocean level is rising.
A strange wind from the East is passing through the sky packed with nitrogen and it will make you die, it has come too close to the earth and mingling with the elements that is made up of dirt, it is stuck behind the mountains, and it will stay there until the earth changed its form.
Oh what wonders lies in those tiny sockets with imaginary strings floating in the air as they parachute and float inconspicuously in the atmosphere. They are holding the universe together and they make our lives better. I can see the valves opening and closing and the air pressure slowly releasing and the mugs dancing and bouncing in space.
The air above me is mixed with grime, the air around me is laden with slime, the deposits from the sea and the spaceship debris fell right in front of me but mercy was right onetime to rescue me. The mission to the moon will return to earth sometime before noon, position someone at the gate to measure the temperature before it burst in flame. The air around me is polluted.
Marilyn Monroe discusses making
"The Misfits"
A desert is a bitter place.
There's something cruel in endless space:
it strips away the human scale.
I fear these winds that scour and chase
the vortices, and sting my face.
Good looks are fine, but all too frail -
ask Monty. Once you've lost your place,
you feel as if you've lost the race,
you're not what you're supposed to be.
I envy his consumption rate.
The one man in this battle-born state
in grimmer shape than even me.
Yes, Huston's the paternal kind,
but something's left him colorblind:
director's name on empty chair.
He's hollow, going through the motions,
painted ship on painted ocean:
you touch him, but he isn't there.
I married Miller on a whim.
If I could land a man like him,
I figured, I must be someone.
A man above me, older, smarter:
I didn't want a Jewish martyr.
Why lock the safe? The money's gone.
I come without a guarantee.
Men fool themselves - they don't need me.
I nixed on Arthur, fixed on Clark.
I've reached some kind of plateau now.
I'm sure of everything ... but how
to find my way back in the dark.
Pioneers had to cut down thousands of trees
to build their shacks and to stay warm
in harsh winters; we cut them down
for huge profits...not caring about
the devastation of deforestation
that soon will cause floods and landslides.
When Nature dies, everything that embellishes
the lovely and green landscapes dies with it;
a land without shrubs and trees is a desert
with miles of cracked soil that rain won't saturate
and make vegetation grow to attract humans,
fauna and flora to make everything lively.
I have used my keen sight to describe it,
and instinct to anticipate the dreariness to come;
doesn't joy derive from something grown,
and beauty from something seen and admired?
But where's the commitment that all should make
to keep our land a Paradise for everyone to enjoy?
We should profoundly lament when Nature dies from neglect
and abuse...hear the sorrowful cries of fowls and wolves,
of other animals that used to roam and graze
on prairies and wild meadows on breezy days;
and how can we survive without the crops
in due season? Won't we perish and disappear like Nature?
Age is not all decay; it is the ripening, the swelling, of the fresh life within, that withers and bursts the husk. George MacDonald
_____________________________________________________________
In a world where decay is dominant,
Arctic tundra is melting, and envy is prominent.
Friendship withered away with the lapse of time,
Moon gapes at all facts and truths, concomitant.
We jive in death-cool air and chime,
Where dreams and hopes start to climb.
As though molehills faded into the grass,
Rapture rain has turned into melting rime.
In a place where the sky spills tears of brass,
And the howling winds bestow a deafening bass.
We lingered in the natural ephemeral support,
Behind the murky cloud of the ebbing mass
Our bond, however, was not flexible to contort,
Cyclic in the way that orchestral drums distort.
We carried out a solemn pledge on the floor,
In divine draughts, brambles flood the report.
The Meadow Brook gave us richness galore,
Black valleys where floods shred and roar?
We could not deny such a reservoir of devotion,
As with the wilting branches and dwindling door.
Our bonds faded, plagued by wide demotion,
Secrets below the land, a flurry of blades of notion.
In a world where deterioration prevails supreme,
Time and distance cast a curtain on our emotions.
But even amid such decay, there is a dream,
Darkening and drooping, we creep and esteem.
With the truth that humanity may split and slope,
Crows chirp as they drop twigs and scream.
While passing across acrid rings of mope,
Our ties are fraying. Teach me how to hope.
It shines brightly behind the gloomy overlay,
A dazzling beacon in the depths to grope.
In this universe of inexorable decay,
We acquire courage with each raw day.
With percussive pulses of love and delight,
Our ties will last for a span we cannot deny.
In a world where decay holds its might,
We defy its grasp, shining with an inner light.
Through the drills and tribulations we face,
Whatever embers burn our ego and sight.
Of the first five Presidents of the USA,
four were Virginians. What does that say?
It says that the South, superb, serene,
bestrode the land, a virgin queen.
When the gauge of a nation's financial health
was tobacco and cotton, America's wealth
was centred on those vast plantations,
the envy of all other nations.
But - threat or opportunity - we find
that change is never far behind
our moments of repose or pleasure.
The South had, in unstinted measure,
a climate made for agriculture -
but Fate is a voracious vulture,
breeds the beef, then picks the carcass clean.
In Massachusetts, new machines
were making clothing cheaper, faster.
King Cotton make way for new masters?
Unthinkable? Well, think again!
The North had lots of one thing (rain)
which meant fast rivers. Water's free,
and drives the new machinery,
like Slater's Mill. And what is more,
the North has coal, and iron ore!
Ohio, Pennsylvania, Maine -
the South looks with genteel disdain
on dour gray states with ugly mines
and foundries, north of Mason's line,
but once that giant finds his feet,
the South is dead, defeated, beat;
gone with the wind that blew through Tara.
No more tomorrows, Miss O'Hara.
It's not for slavery or even states' rights
that thirteen States resolved to fight.
The South waged war, not to preserve
Its unique vigor, valor, verve,
or its "peculiar institutions":
it fought the Industrial Revolution.
Piles of regrets gather dust in draws,
If only I had a feather duster.
How often fleeting chances missed,
If only dares, like mares I could muster.
Perhaps I should flip a coin to decide,
If chance to 'might be' blockbuster
Pops up like a billboard flashing by,
With 'play me right now' life adjuster.
Multiple worlds, multiple stories await,
Those that fire the ejector thruster
To leap into windows of opportunities,
Smashing glass to land a gangbuster.
As sure as seventeen is the square root of two hundred eighty-nine,
I want to share a New Year’s resolution of mine.
I am now deep in debt, and it is not a bit funny.
I want to land a job that will make me lots of money.
Debt collectors call me on the phone every day.
They say I am behind, and they demand that I pay.
I find it awfully difficult to stay afloat.
There are plenty of friends of mine in the same boat.
Landing a new job will be a process of trial and error.
Just the thought of the hunting shakes me with terror.
I know I will be in for one hell of a time.
If that does not work, I can always resort to crime.