Long Landmarks Poems
Long Landmarks Poems. Below are the most popular long Landmarks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Landmarks poems by poem length and keyword.
What does it feel like to no longer exist
Does memory linger on, will our soul be missed
Do minds still function though our bodies are dust
Answers to these queries I'll find out I trust
Could be tomorrow, it could be today
Here's the bottom line, I don't have much say
Hope I'm around for few years to come
Hate to succumb if my life here's not done
Haven't seen Hawaii or the Taj Mahal
Cruised the Danube, seen China's Great Wall
The Eiffel Tower is still on my list
Ireland's blarney stone I haven't yet kissed
Hate to miss a trip to the land down under
The Statue of Liberty one of the world's wonders
Seems like I should stick around for a while
Haven't had the thrill of feeding the crocodiles
Perhaps I'll forgo the crocodile thing
There's a chance it will hasten my very last fling
So all in all, I'll be around for a while
Missed seeing these landmarks since I was a child!
It’s that time again,
that airy hallmark intro, the vibrant soul ensemble.
Signpost to an hour long journey where passage, paean and piece come out to play.
Odyssey for fantasist and literary scion.
Earnest open invite to the madcap mind,
mine and those of others.
Each and every Sunday I’m religiously transported to exotic beaches known to veteran nomads.
Boundlessly I leap across the airwaves only to be stranded in some Middle Eastern plot,
the likes of which would put twin peaks to shame.
Without a fear I flit medieval back streets like
this ghost from other worlds,
cobblestone character
on wings,
melting pots beyond our daily grind,
landmarks that I’ve never seen before.
Out of body drama for us
fervent wishful thinkers.
Roles from ancient history now assumed but for an inkling, the icons I become, those rapid twists and turns of me the centre piece.
Maybe I’m that innocent abroad, clueless hiker, stony broke,
wandering a land whose complex tongue I’ve yet to master
or that moth-infested secret of the thirty year rule.
With a little latitude I’d silhouette my reverie landing on some poet’s scented flower or just as likely eavesdrop on the mocha sipping Monet, coffee cup aloft,
cast among the butterflies,
harvesting my thoughts on barren canvass.
Going back in time to famous childhoods
I’m some regal mother’s one and only joy,
a fragile baby cradled by maternal soothing sounds.
Imagine for a moment me the swimmer,
wallower in oceans Maya blue,
driven by the prospect
of Olympic medal glory,
fuelled by live wire rushes,
or the influential orchestrator sculpting drafts so lyrical they lift the Sony user into orbit.
But alas this wondrous flight ends far too soon, as that sonic rich arrangement slowly morphs into the haze.
Perhaps one day I’ll be the voice that hypnotises souls,
filler of a void with vivid wordscapes,
teleporting lives to fourth dimensions.
There’s always hope
Poetic breadcrumbs
Tossed into the air
Blown about by errant winds
Pecked at by bloated pigeons
Debated by chattering squirrels
And yet I sit with crumpled bag
Knowing I will return again
Replenishing the hope
That what little I offer
Is a gift for us all
The words are arguing
A mock debate
No rebuttal
A juxtapositional comparison
Of mirrored images
Seeking definition
The days weigh on me
An aged rudder struggles
To maintain a fading course
Yellowed sails doubting the breeze
Tremble as the shallows near
The landmarks seem more distant
The destination less definite
Joy remains
Yawning in the shadows
Sighing as it listens
To the chatter of life
Dancing in its memories
New York is not the skyline.
It is the man on 116th
watering the sidewalk
like concrete can get thirsty too.
It is the cracked yellow fingernail
of the lady at the deli
who knows your sandwich
before your mouth opens.
It is the little girl asleep on two train seats
in a princess coat
while her mother, still in scrubs,
leans against the window
with tired in her bones
and tomorrow already waiting.
It is not Times Square.
It is the faded mural
half covered by scaffolding,
the one everybody passes
but somebody paid for in grief.
It is the fruit man
stacking bruised bananas in a pyramid
like even the almost-gone things
deserve to look beautiful.
It is pigeons bullying a bagel.
A church hat on a windy corner.
A laugh too loud for the block
and nobody mad at it.
It is the barber
turning a boy toward the mirror
so slowly
you’d think he was revealing
the future.
It is the woman on the bus
holding a birthday cake flat in both hands
like trust is still possible.
It is how summer smells
when the hydrant is open,
when children turn screaming
into a kind of music,
when even the heat
seems to come up from the people
instead of the sun.
It is old men playing dominoes
with the force of history.
Teenagers walking in packs,
all bravado and baby faces.
Sneakers tied to wires.
A plastic bag dancing
like it has somewhere urgent to be.
New York is a city
forever fixing its wig in a broken mirror.
A city with chipped teeth
and gold in the smile.
A city that curses you out,
holds the door,
and keeps walking
like kindness was an accident
nobody needs to talk about.
It is not made of landmarks.
It is made of almosts.
Almost home.
Almost rich.
Almost gone.
Almost summer.
Almost caught the train.
Almost made it.
And still
every morning
it ties its boots,
opens its gates,
lifts its shutters,
sells its coffee,
sweeps its stoops,
and begins again
like beginning again
is the most ordinary miracle
in the world.
This is New York,
not the version printed on T-shirts,
but the one with grocery carts,
school uniforms,
side-eye, steam, sirens, saints,
and one good hoop earring
left on the sidewalk
like evidence
somebody magnificent
was here.
He’s late-stage Charles Bukowski,
Hunching gnome-like over the bar,
With weary eyes, and scruffy stubble.
It’s sure he must have seen some trouble.
But he’s got plenty of cash in his pockets,
Along with the keys to a stolen car.
He smells of sea air, wet cement, and whiskey.
His tattoos could be urban graffiti,
Just random tags on ghetto limbs,
An ancient, coded treasure map
Charting landmarks through the route of his career.
He eyes a buxom tavern wench,
Who looks wholesome as a menthol cigarette,
And orders up another round for them all.
The Buccaneers’ Union provides him a generous pension.
He’s living his best life ever on a bounty of plundered loot.
Avast ye! Let’s drink to the golden years.
Darkness seeps through stately pines,
outside this home-made, tar-paper shack.
It’s two AM, and I cannot sleep again,
so I gaze out into the black.
I feel a relaxing sense of peace,
and while it may be no normal thing,
I’ve always found the embrace of night
to be strangely comforting.
Came up with my brother and a mutual friend,
tomorrow is this year’s opening day.
The tree-stands have long been built,
waiting for deer to come their way.
My family’s owned the land fifty years,
grandpa built this three-room hut,
and he chose well because this land
has yielded some monster bucks.
I know every inch of the acreage,
all one hundred eighty-nine,
but night’s stillness brings me back
to a different place and time.
Starring into the darkness,
familiar landmarks shaded and gone,
makes you wonder what hides behind
every single leaf and frond.
Is Bigfoot lurking in the dim,
staring with almost-human eyes?
Is the ghost of a murdered pioneer
still haunting where he died?
Is a trapper dressed in furs about
to step out and hail the house?
Will an Indian come in to trade,
wanting blankets for fresh-killed grouse?
Will spirits of an ancient time
let loose with unearthly wails?
Will a forgotten hermit soon emerge
to tell us the old forest tales?
Does Wendigo stalk amongst the trees,
desperate for a taste of flesh?
Do skin-walkers wander endlessly,
unable to gain a needed rest?
These things were once very real,
when my eyes were only young.
Now they’re impossible to envision
after the rising of the sun.
But sometimes in the still of night,
when I come up to this place,
the legends and monsters walk again,
and it puts a smile upon my face.
The air smell cloudy,
With a hint of rain.
Come all this way by trustin’
In a thin white cane.
If a wink is as good as a nod,
What’s a brotha ta do?
Should Jesus come again in glory,
Wouldn’t chance to see that, too.
Can’t read the street signs
When I’m walkin’ home.
Don’t never ask directions,
Gotta make it on my own.
Oh, the speck in thy neighbor’s eye…
Some be never so blind.
An honest man in Orleans Parish
Ain’t no easy thing to find.
It’s a game of countin’ footsteps
When I stroll down Rue Dupre
And the landmarks I rely on
Ain’t the kind the eye can see.
My woodstove crackle
When I burn the mail.
The magic wind of radio
Done fill my sail.
Gotta reach for the bulb to tell
If the table lamp on.
A moonless night and empty skyline,
All the brilliant stars are gone.
Sweet voice on FM
Bridges time and space.
You know I’d give the world
If I could touch her face
In a gentle and sensitive way
For to know how she feel.
Get to the pearl inside the oyster
At the bottom of the deal.
Sense desire in her fragrance,
Feel the fire in her skin
Taste the ocean’s salty wonder
When the levee’s giving in.
Don’t say no prayers for me, padre.
When the lights go out,
My soul can find its own way in the dark.
And pretty mama, when I git ya,
I'm gonna lick them ashes off.
The phone is turned off
The kindling is gathered
The sun shines through colored leaves
Music plays, moving my soul
As I look at the tapestry of my life
I pray and I am heard
I sigh in relief from validation
I am grateful, oh so grateful
For everything I have and
Special friends, special pets
A candle burns, flickering through glass
As I watch it, I see all I've accomplished in life,
Light up like a path of bright landmarks
Many things people haven't understood
But, I'm so thankful I could do the right thing
I try to do things according to God's will
- this is all that matters -
Heidi Sands
10/4/23
UNITED, we shall boldly and confidently stand, but divided, we shall without doubt, surely fall.
SEPARATION, divisiveness, greed, and selfishness need not be allowed to doom this great nation.
CHRIST or God, as words, were not mentioned in the Constitution of The United States of America
OMISSIONS of God and established religions were obvious, intentional, and wise.
NEVER were these United States of America to be a theocracy, nor should it be. A kingdom is being built over which Christ will reign as King.
SPIRITUAL foundations and God-ordained landmarks were firmly intact.
TOTAL governance and responsibilities were in the hands of 'the people, not a person' or State.
INSTITUTIONS were created or established by 'the people' to represent their will.
THE Preamble stated its purpose and who was to be responsible for enacting it.
UNION was required and exemplified with the word 'We'.
TEN Bills of Rights established that the priority was 'the people', not the State.
INDIVIDUAL Rights were to be promoted, preserved, and protected by the majority.
OPPORTUNITY for the common man knocked, and the door of equality was opened.
NEGOTIATION, compromise, conversation, debate, and discussion were to be highly venerated.
Today, 233 years ago on September 17, 1787, The Constitution of The United States was signed. Please allow me to celebrate by sharing an acrostic poem of The Constitution of The United States. Herein lies my common sense approach to what The U.S. Constitution means to me.
091520PSCtest, A Historic Event, William Kekaula. 2P
Written 91520; Posted 91720
PART I.
I.
each night...
I think about the moment when we'll vanish
on the doormat of an empty house
because I know some day they will come -
the malignant conquistadors and their moon colored hounds
when this century of the sleepless will come to an end
so I'm trying to unravel the missing monologues
while indulging in many contradictions
stranded on remote beaches
seeking the redemption with sand in my hair
like a famished cormorant rambling the landfill
in a very weird mental state
II.
it's becoming clear...
that time has shunned this godforsaken place
and as I'm following the familiar landmarks
following the strange candlelit pathways
I know that your bedroom is in a saltwater heaven
far away from the angry masses
becalming myself in my transient refuge
while you're deploying your crying talent
we went loose from our moorings and you refused the safety buoy
now tide of our sensations is coming up fast
turning us into these crumpled wrecks
left to rust at the shallow bay
III.
these sleeping islands...
are just relics of my hopes, diaries of fading sunlight
after we carved our scriptures on the dormant rocks
creating museums of our own memories
at the very edge of despair
and I think that we'll never be missed
you, me and my companion of delusions
but remember dear, there are no boundaries
be sure that I'd row my soul over the vast seas
to see you standing on the abandoned shoreline
and our handprints will fossilize in the interim
imprinting the fatal visions to rocky soil