Long Leaf Poems
Long Leaf Poems. Below are the most popular long Leaf by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Leaf poems by poem length and keyword.
Alas, you may have noticed if
you’ve looked around the world these days,
you don’t see werewolves or zombies,
no vampires or mummies at play.
The whole world seems to have lost that
thade of mystery we once knew,
The creatures that stalked us of old
have become remarkably few.
There’s still a few out there, I know,
good old Dogman up in Michigan,
but for many of these creatures
their wild days have come to an end.
Now what’s the reason for this loss?
What has brought about this strange thing?
That’s easy enough to explain,
we humans are great at killing!
Yes, just as with normal animals,
we kill off what might be a threat,
something threaten might endanger out lives
is something that we can’t abet.
So just like predators and small pox
we saw the job was done,
heck, we published how to kill them
in all of our horror fiction!
Stakes, silver, garlic, and headshots,
we let all the world know how to win,
to the point out nights have become safe,
free of all the creatures of sin.
But if you still want to see them
then I have some good news for you,
you can see them all down at the
Endangerer Horror Species Zoo!
Now we got ghouls, goblins, wendigos,
your Demons, your banshees, and sprites,
we got all of the B-team monsters,
but most folks come for the big five.
I guess we should start with the werewolf,
each must roam in his own separate pen,
their spacious and lined in silver leaf,
we don’t want them getting out again.
The only ones left are the old ones,
so old they no longer transform,
they just stay werewolves all the time,
apparently this is the norm.
whatever the case, it’s good for us,
people can see them fur and all,
through a foot-thick one way mirror
that forms the enclosure front wall.
These eight foot beasts eat messily,
yet people gather when they feed,
yhey act appalled by the whole thing,
Yet they consistently watch the scene.
And when those lycans howl loud
it pieces right down to the soul,
ten times the fear of a normal wolf,
the spine tingles, and blood runs cold.
But people like feeling afraid
so long as they know they are safe,
sometimes we’ll drop a rabbit in there
so folks can watch the beast give chase.
Why do so few of these beast remain?
think silver bullets plus machine gun,
most of them now are heads on a wall,
we’re luck to have more than one...
CONTINUES IN PART II.
Chains, hay forks, knives, and a hollow whisper,
become more true and sinister.
Halt in the middle of the moon light,
and a waver image soon is no delight.
Voices run a muck in the head,
so not calming you wish you were dead.
Gushing blood through the eye
not an image that you would rely.
Nails stuck on your neck with such pain
so your paralyze just little life sustain.
Hoodlums terrorizing people running a muck
did not really know they are in luck.
More dangerous beings are out their
to commit such act and with sinister stare.
Laughing with haunting echo's through
is an aspect of fear can imbue.
The wind changes direction to smother
the echoing sound of laughter.
The panicking state that you are in
soon drives a knife within.
Blood rushing out of your vain
a crucial part of your life dropping like rain.
Running without a destination
you will never reach anyone of your relation.
Sliding your body on a wall
keeping your fall in a stall.
Red eyes you can see it at night
is soon devouring you with little bite.
Changing your belief with tonics of relief
and it is to late to turn a new leaf.
Ears start to deceive the animals sound
eating limbs are chewing around.
Slowly your red eyes steadily getting heavy
is starting to take your life with a levy.
Dropping down with no attitude
and your life force slowly loses altitude.
Breathing comes not so easy
smelling flesh seems so beastly.
The change comes a desire
with frightening red eyes of fire.
Comes more lethal than the hoodlums
your heart beating like drums.
Your hand becomes all fury
claws come out and your howl with furry.
Trance your in with no one to blame
a rage thats hundreds of centuries of flame.
Rising from a slumber of long lust
a animal instinct that you can trust.
Tearing things apart with no meaning
is a trait that is so deceiving.
Red eyes at night you see in a window
like a poisonous black widow.
Keeps you in attack mode of insanity
that takes all your vanity.
Ferocious emotions eating away
the soul that you had once betray.
The echoing sounds of loud thunder
breaks away the armor with sunder.
You fall once again to torturous agony
the feeling of one self is so lonely.
Shaking in the corner you are found
with blood soaked skin you drowned.
The night becomes day cruel in some way
your memories go in disarray.
The hunters with torches and sinister look
had parted way their hands shook.
Fantastic Fantasy
Two third part of Earth
Flooded by ancient sea
Was Aqua Ocean
Life started in sea
Evolution was going
Fishes were evolving
Fantastic species
Fish with tail raised human head
Was termed Humanish
Above waist human
Below waist shiny scaly fish tail
Swam propelling two hands
Merman was male version
Better half was known Mermaid
Humanish cheered
Ages were passing
More evolution went on
Tail transformed to legs
First male child was born
To a Merman-Mermaid couple
Boy is named Adam
Baby girl is born
To second Humanish couple
Girl is named as Eve
Children swam at sea
Both walked and played on sea shore
First Man and Woman
Adam Eve formed couple
They left sea, settled on land
Eden Garden chosen
They plucked a red apple
Eve ate half, hid behind tree
Adam took rest half
Both attained wisdom
Eve wore leaf string with clams, pearls
Adam put a twig
11/15/15
For Contest
Fantasy Fish in A Fantasy Ocean third place
Sponsor Julia Ward
Our roots run deep into the Philadelphia bells of acoustical waves of your musical melodies, sound in my distant ear, the sailors storm on the wooden ferry I ride, into the depths, of a swamps crossing, saved by the mind, we traveled together with a song in a line, oceans wake we travel across to a hay ride wedding and chowder horns of blessings we dine.
Rings true to the bells of a flashing red nose of St. Nicholas flight we sit and fight occupied by the Christmas Night. Songs we would sing from an Old English Story carried on by our families from generations ago. A musical history of wooden winds along with an Indian Pipe we remember from back then, the long journey of the stalagmites of millions of years you shown to me. Nature we live to see, what's right in front of me, horses we gallop to the lake filled with trout, and into the rivers of the Chattanooga with a stripped root beer of truth in its colors are bound into a saltwater taffy candy entwined.
Built from the foundation, a brick and a pebble, we rise through the years of lessons we learned, the barrel of two guns and logs of fire on a cold night.
A loss so great grief long and hard two people so young and so soon they were gone. Torn apart into a new life and it begins with the truth that lies beneath. From the strength above we pulled through.
Snowy rooftops and a seasons leaf, roaring rapids and a bridge line of cobble, a Water Wheel and Indian Tales in a Grey Stone Prayer of a white candle lit. We move along through it all filled with adventure and love carrying the music within to find ourselves back to the oceans again deep in our hearts. The Tropics we know.
Constructing the intelligence broad waters rise and a house from the 20's you kept alive, hard as it was a paradise you built, home you always were where ever you went.
My heart sank when the news came, I never have thought of a day without you. Brave I was with all that you survived, I made it through, darkness came and they attacked with secrets people never knew, I almost died, but came through because of you.
As years went by then at last comes a son I thought who lives in the memory of you. Lessons we learned will carry on to him too. Bless our lives with many more of you. As I sit here today missing you, all I can do is carry on...and hope to make you proud as I am of you.
Music and romance are camarilla comrades,
just like poems are my shield and arrows.
But not all lullabies of lovers,
harmonise like a street choir of angels.
If love resembles the weather,
then poetry is like a snowflake.
Its fragile abstract nature
can betray the innocence of a poetic heart -
serenading in slaughtered symphonies of silence.
When lust burns in assailable impurity,
love suffers in small doses,
performing a masquerade concealing truthful tones.
So what is the purpose of poetry if it offers no remedy?
Whispering winds form hailstorms in my mind,
wondering if there is a sanctuary
for lonely spirits suffering as seasonally sad souls.
In the midst of melancholic misfortune,
I wish to drown in tepid tides of holy water,
because fate is frozen in winter wanderlust.
Heartache taught me how to be a poet,
each scar inflicted from profound lies and cries.
But what is the purpose of poetry if there is no muse?
In the perception of imagination,
I search for the one
who left frozen tears on my pillowcase.
But her eyes see celestite waves kissing
ecru shorelines under blue pearlescent skies,
blessed with the radiance of saffron sunshine,
in the heavenly harmony of relaxing music.
So, I wonder why she resides in ebony emotions,
refusing to dance, lost in lyrical lament.
Some spirits evolve into envious entities,
but mine just misses the rose window to her soul.
When wine dark skies glare in misery and gloom,
composing ashen clouds to pour in plentiful rain,
I feel the chills of an Antarctic iced leaf on an ice covered lake,
but maintain an evergreen glow,
hoping to forever illuminate like cathartic moonlight -
reflecting upon her bronze fibers.
Opposites attract like fireflies in the night.
I am the bridge and you are the chorus.
so I follow footprints in the snow,
under the guidance of devotary sincere stars.
In the hope we will make melodies at midnight -
merging into rivers of unassailable purity
And If I can't be a poet, then I'll become a poem.
I cannot predict how my ink will spill,
so will you guide each verse to give it a purpose,
breathing my words into life?
Will you love me more than poetry?
Kissing all those diamond promises
into my rhinestone heart -
or will you massacre the music,
abandoning me like an unfinished symphony.
Your most recent interest in observational truth in laptop monitor
Gave you an ultimatum today.
He , as she, in he, as she again, grabbed you in all kinds of tree ,
remnant there before serenity
What is poetry, in the end?
Thinkable pedagogy, is , for the most bizarre reason, telling you
That this is comparable prepositions, with positionality
And the fruit of loom, or something relatable, there.
I felt a bang , and got a downsizing pounding sound,
Between, Jerusalem, Nazareth and prepaid Jesus to pay
More and more for a daycare say.
For a sip from the cup of the finest exported loose leaf tea
Are you a mere sip there, or you started to travel there, onsite
Creating all kinds of copyright issues, as the illegibility
Never declared you anywhere, in norms, in mother’s winter coat
Exactly how much was fatherly charm there, and how much there was a mere setting warmth
As people learn to happen in alibi as there is no straightforward way to find a definition or vision
Your cat was unthinkably your budget failure key, as they mew and sigh
But they were there, truly, with your most delicate caring try.
I think it is a joking endowment
As it will be a mere lump some .
Your rides and ride share with the knight rider storyteller
Only comparable to Little Red Riding hood
Changing the destined persona too, irreversible and altogether
I do not blame , judge , or juxtapose, there, I never pity too
But Bangla, and exactly 21 years long stay on this territory, with often heavy Bangla
I think I dreamt you last night, where you , as a soul and Clover, in a body
Did happen as the most charismatic duo! With a Zulkarnine monitor truth in!
Licking on the other side for hours and hours in longer duration
Will lead nowhere , exactly nowhere , other than, this, mortal life
Is a conscious choice between claim, proclaim and proclamation
I am a reluctant reader there, trying to look through, even beyond allegory and alighieri
You do not hold them accountable for your compositional hype for a dirge
That does not act linearly with your issue room, tissue room, and culture vulture too!
All you can say should stay there, for ever.
Do not send help reaching out there, never there
Simply a one liner truth for falling short from a papyrus poem, anyway
As this must be helping to internalize, more than anything than that.
The very first time
my mother's healing touch
tapped my forehead,
I felt God's travelled down
here in this peculiar earth
to heal me up from the fever.
A sunken soul released out of me,
turned as rejuvenated as a fresh lemon leaf
and I touched the toes of my mother
as per God's very secret advice
from the previous night.
I wasn't a vivid worshipper of travel
until and unless I felt the presence of God
everywhere slowly trickling down
through the silver streams of time.
Time's travelled a lot, even I call it the best traveller
it's seen Jesus dying without any vice
just like a poem dies without a reader's embrace
and time's probably poured all the sobs out
freezing the moments and collecting the snaps
as if it was to unravel the malicious truth in front
of an ignorant crowd, later, very later
to repeatedly portray
the sickening death of its precious child
and people have travelled enough to size
these epic memories up in a 24 hour, "Christmas"!
It's tasted the same poison Socrates drank
for his cruel deed of renaissance
among the youth of Athens,
and yes time has travelled through
a sickening era of its huge loss
like a hollow human body without its organ!
It's seen through the ages that
the countries suffer in a subterraneous syndrome
of travelling and entering into each other's territories
to stand as the best fitted emperors
and suck the last drop of blood from its innocent folks.
Time has seen a lot,
freedom, battle, idols, ideologies,
love, hatred, blood, responsibilities
and then with God's appeasing
permission shaped itself up
to the pages of history ;
Now history serves as the best traveller!
and we, humans know the utilization of books.
I find the books as avid tourists
as they skillfully make rounds of the world
and then coalesced with the satisfying words, curious pages to turn as books.
And all these existential procedures,
God's evolutionized in as many forms as he could
to insert the mesmerizing journey
of this universe since its very creation.
We, humans aren't except of the flow,
each and every moment we breathe,
we travel, as a traveller voyages from a place to another like we do through
the voyages of emotions.
The next time if someone asks,
"Are you a traveller?"
Nod your head, singing the lullabies of a nomad.
~ ©storytellersuchismita
All of a sudden I miss a step
And then you excuse me the lack of continuity
He dragged me here, taking me by my hair and then asked me to leave some space in me to handle all of his dirt.
To exchange.
I could be stronger getting fat in my tower.
I could be stronger but then I recognize there's no need.
'We found love in a hopeless place' but then again it was all about deserts when we were somewhere else.
- - -
They told me you were standing over his dead body
But now you're unlocking my valves
They told me you were standing over his dead body
But now you're making my rivers flow
Some of it is yours
And some of it is mine
The guilt in between us is circling around
Sometimes it's all yours
Some of it remains mine
I put myself in your hands
Staining you with my glitter
But then I remind myself to go back home
There was a break in me
That's left me hopeful
I was flowing in your hands
And now I'm lying on a cloud
With our rights in my pocket
Gods were eager to give me answers
But there was little left of me
He took my grounds where I used to flower
But then you came and I let you in
That's just all that he's left for me in his will
He'd sworn he wouldn't let me out alive
- - -
Are you a satanist miss? What? I'm a little snake between your sheets, I'm a ladybird sitting on a leaf, I talk to you about ways I die, my puppy and cooking, I get weirder day by day, there was a connection and then I jumped on it with all my weight. I'm here because I'm a girl with daddy issues and it's my entrance pass. He took pins and pushed me to the ground. We do things for grown ups and oh my God, you're so young but I forget to blush so I guess it's all good. People made me feel guilty for growing up, are they doing the same to you?
I place myself in the queue then I grow weary and even my body is reluctant to stay.
I wash my hair every day and you start accepting my existence as a part of your reality. All my breathing cells. All my syntheses, my mitochondria as I can't accept how they react to you so I leave them and you alone.
It was mine but then they started eating it by piece by piece and the fear's crippled me. I was expecting a breakdown. I've had of enough apples to look this young and now I'm made of candy. They told me you kill people, well, I'm a girl who's forgotten to die.
1.618 :
Number of Golden Ratio, mystery of Kaaba, Miracle of Islam and Koran, it is the high time for Divine Secrets, Divine Mysteries. Soon on display!
In a little while, you will see scientific proofs of unbelievable mysteries that have remained hidden in the Holy City of Mecca for thousand of years with your own eyes. Mecca is willed as direction of kowtow, convention place for billions of Muslims and as the holy center of Islam. Those Muslims, who can afford, are prescribed to arrive go on a journey through Kaaba, Muzdelife and Arafat and to convene in the sacred city.
Phi Constant- 1.618, superior design number of mathematics. The Creator has always used the very same number in numerous events in the universe; in our heart pulses, the aspect ratio of DNA spiral, in the special design of the universe called dodecehadron, in the leaf array rules of plants called phylotaxy, in the snow flake crystals, in the spiral structure of numerous galaxies. The Creator used the same number; the number of golden ratio which is 1.618…
As a result of his 25 years long study, aesthetician Dr. Steven Markout proves that each of human faces and bodies, created pursuant to this ratio, are completely beautiful. If the relative ratio is 1.618 for the components of any structure, then this form will be convenient to Golden Ratio, the perfect design.
So, where is the Golden Ratio Point of the World?
The proportion of distance between Mecca and North Pole to the distance between Mecca and South Pole is exactly 1.618 which is the golden mean. Moreover, the proportion of the distance between South Pole and Mecca to the distance between both poles is again 1.618.
The miracle has not been completed yet; The Golden Ratio Point of the World is in Mecca city according to map of latitude and longitude which is the common determinant of mankind for location.
The proportion of eastern distance to the western distance of Mecca’s solstice line is again 1.618. Moreover, the proportion of the distance from Mecca to the solstice line from the west side and perimeter of world at that latitude is also surprisingly equal to the golden ratio, 1.618. The Golden Ratio Point of the World is always within the city borders of Mecca, within the Holy Region that includes Kaaba according to all mapping systems despite minor kilometrical variations in their estimations.
My friends are among the stars
Clearest of crystals, each of them a pearl,
Like drop of dew on the lotus leaf in sunshine:
You came into my life, filled it with joys unique
And just as suddenly left me and went away.
Abandoned me to face the crises of life alone
Unaided by the wisecracks, the pranks , the mischief,
The unprintable titles you gave to our adversaries!
I look for you in the stars, perhaps you are there
I am not sure. I ask you why, why did you make me
Feel so special and helped me rise above self pity
And entertain dreams when we were all just a bunch
Of spoiled brats who couldn’t make it to the heights
In an atmosphere unfriendly and hostile to all.
Why, why did you have to go away and drop out
Of the rat race and leave me struggling with angst
And fighting misfortune. With you, I felt so secure.
None would tear down the sand castles we built
Nor remind us we were nuts. You gave us the vision
And the opposition always marched past with respect.
Like the vainglorious king who was made to wear
The ‘precious royal robe’ that none but he could see.
But the Truthful children found out it was a fraud
To shame the tyrant who was a terror to his subjects
But an easy victim to the crafty guys who preyed
On his craving for fame and made him appear nude
To his subjects and humbled him as an imbecile.
A joke today says humanityis in three big groups
The cheats, the vainglorious and the donothings.
Is it true and if so the world moves on the idlers,
Cracks jokes at them and says they are unfortunate!
We made life worth living. And we lived like real kings
Fought to preserve our piece of earth, our self esteem.
I should be grateful to have lived so long
But I feel the pain of separation: the longing
For the past that is, without mercy, gone.
Maybe you’re lucky, you left and got the best seats.
I may linger some more and try some more and keep
Wishing you were here with me and assure me the end is not yet,
That before the day is gone a golden chariot come
And bear me to empyrean heights never seen before;
I pray for you that is all I do for the help You gave me.
Enjoy the peace in the best of heavens,
You’re the real Stars of my life,
I’ll never be far or away from you.
I shall always love you and honor you,
Friendship is for ever, life immaterial.