Long Lions Poems
Long Lions Poems. Below are the most popular long Lions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lions poems by poem length and keyword.
A kraken with red wings
Arrived in town, claiming a talent to sing
Lions roared with delight
Wanting to see, such an entertaining frozen water sight
Tigers seemed all right
Knowing their King was in the spotlight
Showing gridiron might
“You may need a rod and reel
That is how a mariner would deal
With this monstrous catch
In the oceans the fisherman needs to fetch”
Watching the seahawks
Stalk
The fishes
With wishes
Accompanied by tartar sauce dishes
Lions got into their car
Left the motor city bar
Engine pistons spewing flames
Supersonic attitude instigating power playing games
Deep into the night air
A Friday night audience relaxed enjoying the affair
Preparing for a scare
That could turn Jay Blue
Challenging the Canadians ‘are you through?”
No matter which two
Find the winning score
Belting one out having the American championship floor
I‘m not a dog or cat in the area,
I am a carnivore in Africa;
I really roam to look for food to eat,
You cannot evade my sharp and tough teeth.
I run through ungulate herds in order
To select a victim to devour;
I hunt for precious prey just to attack,
I am highly wise and cleverly smart.
I am social and known as scavenger,
Although in truth I am a predator;
I frequently steal fresh kills from lions,
I want to challenge Komodo dragons.
I show less restraint, Lioness, beware!
Making an attempt at a takeover;
I drive off larger predators from kills,
I consume dinner with my superb skills.
Male Lions, If you threaten me with force,
I call my buddies to make matters worse;
You will run away with forlorn aura,
I’m winner because I’m the Hyena.
Date: July 6, 2019
Title chosen: The Hyena
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Contest Title: Pick A Title, Vol. 6-Personification-Poetry Contest
Contest Judged: 7/20/2019 10:08:00 AM
2nd Place
Love the calm in the glory of lions.
Oh, a flung continent that begs for reckons.
Volatile air, agitated flocks, and dusty fife.
Since humanity's birth, lifeblood has stirs.
The city is chaotic and bustling with life,
It disrupts the acumen, causing inner strife.
As I get closer and closer to the city bosom,
Between suitable and improper, it's rife.
Hooves on the plains drumming out a rhythm.
In the thickets of the jungle, where lions schism.
Along sacred rivers, there is nothing but space.
A nation that consumes without leaving a minim.
Mambas return to the web in quest of a large place.
To nurse at a dynamic and fluctuating pace.
My magnificent lifeblood, O priceless African green.
Excellent crocodile eyes and needle-shaped face.
Written: May 21, 2022
I am going to write a poem about cool things
Haha you are going to find these things are strange
But I thought they are the coolest things
You stare in the face of a stranger and look straight in her eyes and really see her
Didn't expect it. So really cool
You have fun watching the baby lions play
Really cool
You enjoy playing with different eyeshadows
creating different you
For men play with different do's, will ya?
It's about time
lol
Don't jump on me haha
Realizing my dogs are like my little puppies
Looking at me like little kids
wanting something
Hey they really want something - ME
Lol anyway these are the things I found out meant something for me
Maybe something has touched you
in a way that becomes meaningful
That means something for you
Makes you remember it
These are the moments
When you live in your consciousness
I don't mean that you are being unconscious
But only when you live, it's only when you remember
And it stood out in you
Thought I share
Ciao
Orbiting a pole is it's sole function
I have yet to determine a purpose
The bedazzle causes the children to run
But the idea, I can't quite interpret
A merry go round would suit just fine
No need for heads or tails
No creepy eyes staring in to mine
No music, whistles or bells
It defies reason, if your thinking logically
With Lions, tigers and bears
This haunted contraption forever taunts me
My nightmares begin at the fair
Rusting gold and chipped paint
Up, down and around
You may take a spin, but I feel faint
With the tune of a devilish sound
Clowns are usually a package deal
When this sinister circle's in motion
Not bothered too much by their wicked appeal
Only this revolving locomotion
I levitated from the lions den
I rose to the sky with a golden crown
covered in emeralds and diamonds on my head
Now it's time to take back what's mine ! I said with fury
Another beautiful day! everything that could've killed me
I overcame, I am proud to still be standing
Grateful for every second and hour of my 24
because in a tale as old as time there was an eight year old girl
who fought depression, bullying and Life itself
that was as bright as Star, with the might! of a demigod
written in legend, she was the prophecy of the doom of once was called order.
She was a rude awakening to mankind, she had an eye of a tiger.
If pressure makes diamonds
why do you feel the need to press,me
Stress me when the most high blessed me
I’m poetry for real, yeah my roots run deep.
First, second and third eye open
so they know I don’t sleep.
Keep my head on a swivel in case somebody tries
To creep.
If pressure makes diamonds then life on the plains of
Mother Africa makes kings out of young lions.
From joy to pain writing is therapeutic through my
creativity my mental is well maintained, in tact never
drained. For the craft I show much respect, inspiration
no regrets, word play is the flex. Typing writing every text.
If pressure makes diamonds what would you call every
trauma , scar, stronghold, disease? When the pressure
Inflicted on diamond-like minds, bodies, souls succumb
To everything that causes these open wounds to bleed.
But my bleed is not your bleed. For, I bleed from my creative
Original one and only soul through my pen ink yes indeed.
So, if pressure makes diamonds and you feel the need to press me
Just know you're the fuel that causes my poetic river to flow.
From every tear, every fear, trial tribulation cross that I’ve bared.
There are not enough bottles to bottles up our tears plus
the myriad of lifetime experiences us poets endured that
we wear but we made it we are here!!
Into the folly we all must go.
Confidence there seemingly so .
Our early days full of vigor and adventure.
Only to fall from these days and after.
When our souls mature many years later,
from here the birth a reality much better.
Sagacity of life should come to us all,
the span of time has no call.
Once this new realm is upon us,
we can be one with lions and dolphins and wolves.
All creatures paths
ensuring a pilgrimage to their kingdom.
As we will all follow our own destiny
to a sanctuary of wisdom.
These sacred grounds
a place of infinite beauty and tranquility,
where crisp winds whip through the lofty trees,
but a chill it does not bring,
instead a warmth to our souls,
encompassing the connectivity of everything.
When I get to the Redwoods,
I’ll look for her clapboard home
above a sea-lion rookery.
I will seek out
her twelve-year-old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.
She’s native,
she taught me a Klamath-Modoc hunting prayer:
“I want you to know,
that a hungry man has killed you.
We will meet once more,
for you are my brother.”
I knew her by her seasoning.
The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.’
Maybe she went off
with that s.o.b. jailbird
who twice tried to kill her.
I’ll take the back roads, getting lost
until I reach the ocean.
When I get to Crescent City,
I will sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions;
savoring their deep throated funk.
I will maybe say a hunting prayer;
a self-hunting prayer.
One day I'll drive there.
On the way
I'll tell my wife about the Modoc woman,
who lived outside the city
above a sea lion rookery.
She taught me a Klamath-Modoc prayer:
“I want you animals to know, Open your eyes.
A hungry man has killed one of you.
One day we will find out
what happened to its spirit
then we will go meet with it,
for it was my brother.”
She rowed a boat on the spume
of the wild cove waves.
I knew her, she had the way of truth in her.
When I get to the Redwoods,
I'll visit her clapboard home.
Look for her twelve year old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.
The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.'
Maybe she went off
with that son-of-a- jailbird
who had twice tried to kill her.
I'll take the backroads, getting lost
until we reach the ocean.
When we get to Crescent City,
we'll sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions,
savoring their deep throated funk.
I'll tell my wife I love her,
and she will taste the salty truth of my words.