Long Landing Poems
Long Landing Poems. Below are the most popular long Landing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Landing poems by poem length and keyword.
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“LIGHTNING STRIKES JETLINER SULFERLY”
The Jetliner was flying through a violent storm
This is the norm at times
The Jetliner originated from Los Angeles enroute to Chicago
A fierce lightning bolt sheared through the side of the air craft
The captain managed to maneuver the air craft
However, there was some damage
All the passengers were shaken up
Some were insured during the ordeal
The captain radioed the nearest airport
It was Dallas-Fort Worth Airport
The captain wanted to make an emergency landing
The Dallas-Fort Worth Control Tower told the captain that the runway was all clear for his descend
The Medical and Emergency team quickly went to runway 5 for the air craft
The captain had the Jetliner wheels down and turned towards Dallas-Fort Worth
The plane landed safe
Some of the passengers were taken to nearby hospitals
While others refused medical attention
Lightning bolt impact damage
Luckily no deaths were reported and everyone survived
Survival chapter
Locked in my heart
Hidden from life's hurt
In the pitter,
patter of tear drops
Upon loves holy ground
Slowly like a turtle
Coming out of my shell
Like a butterfly
A cocoon I see you in light
Loving everything around me
My escape from hell
Glorious sunshine smiles upon me
In the warmth within my heart
Awash within it's beauty
My flower in wings
Love is like a butterfly
Blowing loves kiss
on your beautiful wings
fluttering to my dream in you
You are the princess of wings
Holding her holy ground
Loving like an angel
My heart flutters
just missed a beat
Speaking to my soul
gentle landing
my butterfly kiss
Balmy january fifth two thousand twenty three
pardon moi as I self plagiarize
with slight modifications
cuz following words written
at least an Earth's orbit ago
exhibits pearls of jocularity.
I ran than jumped high
into the upper atmosphere
like a faux young American
landing on the lunar surface
frisky buck naked and bare
no matter weight of world
and personal woes oppressive,
yours truly shrugged,
(she loves you yea... yea... yea...
think Atlas) "faking" without care
free, able, eager, ready, and
willing to dare
daubing, muddying, and wading
metrical feet into stream
of consciousness (think)
metaphorical earthenware
placid figurative smooth as glassware
reflecting mine mien
mean disheveled hare
reed state of swiftly tailored body,
mind and spirit long
acclimated, accompanied,
and accustomed
with mental, physical,
and spiritual malfunctions
ever since birth,
(or even in utero), where
biological mutations did interfere
easily availing self
as token "scapegoat
school kids did taunt and jeer
futilely screeching nevertheless
targeted and doomed killdeer
lamely seeking safety, albeit laughable
pencil necked geek longhair
donned as outdated "hippie"
lame excuse for cheesy mouseketeer
every day of younglife (mine) wanted
me "mommy dearest" near,
cuz yours truly
felt like kin outlier
one lonely human
being within alienation
forever seeking salvation
courtesy wing and prayer
ill fitting analogous to round hole
raised to accept unconventional
credo, gospel (according
to Matthew) mores as quare
figurative peg thus revere
ring boyhood, because
growing up scare
re: especially as
undersized withdrawn tear
huff eyed little lad
donning monogrammed underwear
“enlightenment touché”
honoring inimitable Voltaire where
he unabashedly espoused
freedom of religion,
freedom of expression,
and separation of church and state.
Dropped anchor off the Fever Coast
‘board a rake-masted schooner
Spooked by Ahab’s ghost.
Lamps glowered through the yawning blanks
Casting bone-twisted shadows
Over teakwood planks.
Salt biscuits and Jamaican rum;
Heard the deep-throated rattle
Of the talking drum.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Leaned hard against the mains’l boom.
Strained my eyes in the blackness
Of the brackish gloom.
Port lookout gave the counter sign;
Put our boats in the water,
Oar blades dripping brine.
Paid tribute to the pagan chief
In exchange for a passage
Past uncharted reefs.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Slave dealers ruled the hidden cove
Near a shrine to the god
Of the cassava grove.
Made landing on the leeward shore.
Stacked our crates on the beach;
They totaled near a score.
Trade muskets worth some eighteen head
Pleased our hosts and they showed us
To the holding shed.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Grey shackles made a hollow clank.
Moved them out single file,
Guards on either flank.
Fog greeted our return aboard.
Stashed our cargo below
Where once the guns were stored.
Turned to and dodged a man-o-war.
Rode that swift tidal current
Like a smuggler’s whore.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Fair sailing till we hit the Cape,
But we made Madagascar
Still in decent shape.
Brisk business on the auction block
Where a Dutch merchant
Purchased our entire stock.
He sold ‘em to the Portuguese.
We set course for Calcutta
With the morning breeze.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words...
Crew mustered in the open air.
Coins were stacked on a blanket
And I took my share.
Two hundred stone of human freight
Brought me four Spanish dollars
And a piece of eight.
Christ Jesus, we be ruthless men.
Tell the god of the cassava
We’ll be back again.
Count it with numbers. Say it with words:
Guilt and compassion? Sh*t for the birds!
Quantum physics conjured her up, as soothsayers entice visions.
Saliva of the Neptar Universe rolled her around in Marg2’s teeth
Mouth of Surbian3 Galaxy spit her out, landing her in her own pod.
Her babyhood visions were filled with the truth of other lifetimes
Forged from many incarnations, lived in a variety of galaxies
Currently, she was destined to become a warrior of the Verdilion Galaxy.
Constellations bowed as they saw her pod rocking through the centuries. They had heard of MorquaVia5 decades before her arrival in the inner sanction. Dugmongers began thrashing and gritting in their sleep, sensing their demise.
Holograms of MorquaVia5 had begun appearing in the night skies two decades prior. The Neptar Universe had arranged that, to increase the fear level of the Dugmongers. They had been bullies long enough, it was time for a thorough annihilation.
Was she a solar system myth of grandbeings? A subliminal fear tactic of aliens?
No matter. There is only one thing left to do if you are a despicable Dugmonger. Either change your programing and your memories and make amends. Or prepare to die.
Too late.......she is here.......
Nestled quietly down a dappled, tree-lined street lies the quintessential country porch—a rustic wooden haven holding court over the neighborhood.
Its creaking boards and cushioned rocking chairs offer the perfect front-row seat to the timeless, chalk-drawn squares of a lively, chaotic game of hopscotch.
The porch itself feels like a living, breathing part of the neighborhood. Wrapped in faded white railings and framed by climbing ivy, it is anchored by a pair of well-worn rocking chairs that have witnessed decades of lazy summer afternoons.
A pitcher of iced tea sits catching the amber light, while the scent of freshly cut grass mingles with the faint, sweet aroma of honeysuckle.
Down on the sun-baked asphalt, an enthusiastic crowd of kids is entirely absorbed in their game. The bright boxes are sketched out in neon blues, pinks, and yellows, providing a vibrant contrast to the soft, shifting shadows of the oak leaves above.
Cries of "One, two, skip!" echo up to the porch, alongside the rhythmic clack-hop-thump of a smooth quartz rock landing perfectly on square seven.
The porch serves as a quiet, protective audience to this joyful spectacle.
Neighbors might wave from the bottom of the steps, or perhaps an older grandfather leans against the rail, smiling as he watches the little ones spin and leap with untamed energy.
Every laugh and every stumble becomes a small, cherished memory for the house, turning the quiet street into a vibrant stage of childhood.
A tree has fallen sadly, strongly pulling out all the roots that were mounted by the ground. Hitting straight downwards with no plans of being revived.
The fear of the fallen world has landed in the mud, creating a great series of unsettling feeling raining down in streams in-between the branches.
Leaving steady branches to raise the thorns by force with no luck the tree has no breath to blossom.
Leaves lingering in the air like lost plastics.
And then there was light behind where the tree was stalling, proclaiming its nature to never fall. Leaving it's fat presence known even by a topographic map. Landing a mark of eternity.
The sight of seeing behind became weary.
All though the tree took years to fall, but finally the air felt fresh enough to awaken what laid behind.
As days and weeks passed by, the disbelief of a fallen world became normal, a month passed and the soil consumed what was made to return on earth.
As it has been written what was made unholy will parish. The branches where weak shaken by the tree. But the lingering leaves landed better and became a bigger tree that took years to seed and sealed with the soil.
Ashleigh Ngoqo
Thirteen times that flag when down
Thirteen times picked from the ground
Thrust aloft by last man standing
With the mortar shells still landing
Wield the colours twenty paces
Over fallen friendly faces
’til the mortars take a rest
Leaving shrapnel in his chest
Man and colours, each goes down
To the muddied blooded ground
Laboured is his final breath
Raised the flag with all he’s left
Soon the battle no more loud
Flag of Britain flying proud
All her fallen sprawled around
Oberst doesn’t take it down
Shakes his head, he isn’t grinning
He says, ‘Wir können nicht gewinnen.’
Oberst = Colonel
Wir können nicht gewinnen = We cannot win
I hold three magic rocks in my hand
Over and over and over I roll them
leaving this reality far behind
Into enchanted mist, I stroll then
How do I know it's magic? Because
a tiny man beckons, as I pause
What's going on? I try hard to think
Then, Tinyman laughs, gives me a wink.
I follow through a tiny green door.
I'm suddenly small, tumbling before
landing amid blossoms' tangled scent
and faeries wondering my intent!
This land has soft, watercolor skies,
heart-shaped clouds, a lavender sunrise
Where faeries dance each night until dawn
then leave faerie circles on each lawn
They're delightful in every way,
I'd like to stay awhile, if I may!
Oh, Raggedy Ann is here, I see
and my old baby doll that could wee.
And my dolls made of paper so light
with lovely clothes to change til alright
And Scarlet O'Hara, with dark curls
and pretend makeup only for girls!
Sometimes recalling childhood brings tears
The fleeting moments of passing years
Memories linger of younger days
before Time and Childhood parted ways.
Childhood is now seen only in dreams
And, faeries have traveled on, it seems
Tinyman now just appears in mists
To remind us magic still exists...
if we believe
I get it.
I’m lovable
yeah, the kind you call sweet,
safe,
easy to be around.
The one you text when your world’s too loud,
when you need peace,
not passion.
I’m the soft landing
after someone else’s chaos,
the calm before your next mistake.
But I’m not the kind you crave.
Not the body your hands remember
in the dark.
Not the name that slips out
when you shouldn’t be saying mine.
I could starve myself
into silence,
shrink until my bones
spell worthy
but even then,
I know it wouldn’t be enough.
You’d still look past me,
like warmth without fire,
light without pull,
a heartbeat without desire.
And I’m not hurt
by the words you said
no, I’m hurt
by realizing
they might be true.
That no matter how I change,
how I bleed myself
into a smaller shape,
I’ll still be the one
you like
but never reach for.
The one you trust,
but never touch.
The one who’s almost enough
but never quite wanted.
So yeah,
I’ll smile like it doesn’t ache,
laugh like I don’t see it
the truth that hums
under every glance.
I am lovable.
But not desired.
The comfort before the craving.
The story before the sin.
The almost
you never choose.