Long Locusts Poems
Long Locusts Poems. Below are the most popular long Locusts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Locusts poems by poem length and keyword.
The Power of One
Slowly shadows devour the day’s light,
The silhouette of fear draws breath
From the soul left gasping,
A firestorm of fury gathering,
Like mists of plagues escaping
From an ancient land of sand and tombs
With locusts warning of hope’s starvation
To escort the darkness rising
Turning pleas into ashes – weeping into stone -
Pounding on the mountainsides where sweetest spice
Withers beneath lullabies
Robbed of serenity’s grace -
Flowing furious on fevered winds
Pushing reveries and faith out on a ledge -
Not knowing right from left
Or up from down -
No words of clarity in
In the whirlwind’s barren chrysalis,
To hem in - to constrain -
With invisible shrilling waves of crisis
Whipped up by anguish
That binds the wildly beating, frantic heart,
Like a captured sparrow;
To scoff, to jeer, to overlook,
The single bloom standing up,
Trembling like new leaves on thinnest branches,
Scanning galaxies of prophetic possibility,
Then lean on visionary stars
That shatter with the speed of light
The hovering shadow of inertia’s darkest enchantment,
Sending out the solitary song of meadowlarks,
Still caroling through deafness, not silenced,
Not bending to the ill winds moaning
And the chaos screaming,
To scatter seeds of spring not born
Like unseen winged flyers;
To see beyond and past descending doom,
Into that far and sheltered arbor
With dreams of wisdom and young visions -
Outside the grasp of calamity,
Beyond the dark horizon -
Enticing with an alluring fragrance gather back
Into the benediction of the ever circling eternal seasons
Promising….
Wisdom and knowledge are not found
in the hearts of tarnished souls
who dwell in the shadows of their fears
frightened by the status of their existence
as they gather like locusts beating their wings
in a loud cacophony of false beliefs
reaching a point of illusion
seeing hallucinations with blind eyes
trying to see their way through the mists
that cover the road that lay before them
as they seek the lost dignity of their souls
when they spiraled into the pit of depravity
for 30 pieces of silver
What is the greater illusion?
The treachery bought and sold as strength
from a cracked vessel or the silence of those
who saw the cracks and said nothing?
Imagine it today
a rag-tag procession
two-three million souls
advancing northward
Mt. Sinai their goal
A bearded prophet
leading the way
leaning on the staff
he waved yesterday
When lice swarmed down, locusts, hail
Egyptian first-born at midnight dead
Pharaoh sent forth a wail
his subjects in mortal dread
Israel reached the Sea
her joy turned wary
trapped ‘tween it
and Pharaoh’s pursuing army
Then brave Nachshon
of Yehuda’s tribe
walked into the waves
setting the vibe
The waves parted
the sea split
Their path charted
Israel passed through...
You may not believe me
~ but I was there too
Some conspicuous lice met once or twice
With white follicle mites who came out at night
And an upside down tick who did magic tricks
That entertained maggots who shared roasted haggis
With pole dancing worms who wriggled and squirmed
Under Chinese mosquitos munching burpy burritos
Chasing cobwebby crickets selling counterfeit tickets
To shows where no sensible grubs want to go
Warning churchgoing termites that these shows were a blight
On a class of weevil whose bite could be lethal
For marbleized moths drinking steaming Scotch broth
And sanitized beetles who had pins and needles
From sharing cold baths with nonsensical gnats
Watched by camp caterpillars strung out on painkillers
Sharing smokes with loud locusts who were very much focussed
On prostrate praying mantises with suspicious practices
We left New York City moving to a Mid West town
Where the sky was a pretty blue and a land of greening gown
Buildings painted white stood out against the scene
But a sensing of the untouched made my mind internally scream
I always got this feeling as we walked their streets of old
What could I be not be seeing, what have we not been told
When we stopped to say hello we felt that we were all alone
It's not what we seen in the brochure when we decided to move our home
As the weeks and months progressed our daughter became very withdrawn
Which is very out of character for she's normally as fresh as the dawn
Then the day arrived that would change our lives forever
She never came home the previous night, the worry of parental sever
As we awoke the following morning it appeared so different from other days
The skies were a strange shade of red no voices from children's play
No sounds of life could be heard, no insects or birds on the wing
When normally it's as vibrant as life, buzzing whilst others sing
We set off to look for our daughter shouting her name as we go
Walking through empty streets as our minds drift in worried grow
We hear some strange kind of chanting, it's from that white building ahead
Whilst above us the skies turn a redded grey, I feel a sensing dread
We reach this building of white past the river turned red by the sky
Peering through the window I'm now in parental cry
For standing by the alter is my daughter in demonic stare
Around her are hoards of locusts, whilst down her body a snake she wears
Strange chanting's resonate with echo as the congregation screams in wild display
What events are unfolding in front of us it should be a normal summers day
As they turn and look towards the window so many eyes stare through the pane
We become suffocated by their hoards, it appears the locusts reign
Somehow we escaped this horror from that white building beside the river
Every time I look into my thoughts it's leaves me in a cold cold shiver
The same brochure appeared for years alluring families to this Mid West town
Who would move where no children play, in it's silence you could easily drown
Written 11/13/2010 5:50:00 PM and posted again 9/5/2014 5:45:00 PM
like waters for words...
The morning sun, taste like yellow-foul run?
Her voice smelled like warm caramel candy corn;
The music sounded heavy as the winter winds torn;
The color green feels like emeralds…
Aster-flowers
The color red tastes like Kool Aid™
Without sugar…
Midnight ran is bitter a garrisons;
The wind look as calm as spacious;
Seeing him walk was like hearing the locusts;
Tasting the nights dinner was like watching silent black N white television;
Hear her cry was like tasting lightening;
Smelling the gasoline was like touching a busy sticky-bee hive;
Touching her dying father’s hand was like seeing the gravel and rocks cry,
like waters for words flowing floating and rolling...
8/13/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2019
Written for project North Omaha Writers Group (NOW) assignment
Georgie
His was a pudgy boyish countenance,
With rounded river eyes and an Alfalfa smile.
He wheezed like a sick tern with repeated asthma attacks,
Playing hard at the various outdoor games and chases,
Of our fleeting childhood years in the inhaling sun.
He perspired profusely in 1964 as he sat with beads of sweat which
Gathered like a water pox above his lips, all in a wheezing row.
Bespectacled Georgie was the curlicued, black-haired boy
who lived two houses up from ours; the one with the green hedge.
He wore converse sneakers, a white tee and blue denim, with
Thick black-framed glasses astride his chubby white face.
His was a temper not sought by anyone, including Elsie his mother.
Georgie was her little boy, but when angered, baseball bats went flying.
Curse words were screamed loudly with one’s birth name questioned intensely.
Stones and large rocks were heaved at innocent windows and nearby statuary.
Baseballs were hurled at the heads of other little boys, with misses near and far.
Toy darts were skipped across baking sidewalks to the bare feet of his playmates,
Producing more loud voices shrieking in pain when the darts impaled their feet.
Oranges and lemons were rabidly picked for the purpose of pummeling one’s nose;
But gentle mother Elsie loved her little Georgie, and his little blue inhaler.
Years and decades sailed by like lost boats in a starless harbor.
Little Georgie grew into a pudgy man with nothing changed except, the drugs.
Marijuana odors hovered like invisible swarms of masticating locusts,
Lurking above the silent brick houses of our street, with old Georgie lighting up.
With a pipe and a baggie in his pocket, my old friend gave up on his life.
He decided not to work, but to take aimless walks down deserted avenues;
Day after empty day he took his drifting strolls into a personal oblivion.
We subsequently lost contact in the ensuing decades, and I forgot about him.
Until recently… I found out…
Georgie’s funeral took place 25 years ago at Rose Hills Cemetery.
Rest in piece old friend, old tormentor, with your little blue inhaler.
Your beauty for my ashes, like God's grace,
redeems the time which the locusts have eaten;
and feeds the heavens which angels embrace,
to help the vanquished that the world has beaten.
O, Rose! Your face is radiant in form.
Your light shines strong like the raw, yellow sun;
and your halo, like an electric storm,
lights up all though your heart's meant just for one.
But Sappho, the Tenth Muse, pales before you.
Unlike your fame, her great renown lacks force;
and more than hers, your echoes chant anew:
and to poets, you're a golden resource.
Should doubt exist, let this line put to rest:
of all Ten Muses, you are the brightest!
Knowledge and wisdom are not found
in the chaotic crowd's cacophony of voices
caused by fear and frustration
They gather like swarms of locusts
on emotional wings of hysteria
Their beating sound swallows intellect
creating perpetual hate and anxiety
brought to them by their own failures and frailties
None...which they chose to recognize
or deem worthy of introspection
Crowds easily led by puppetmasters
who have spiraled down to the depths of depravity
as they pull on the strings of discord
tied to patriotic fervor
Exhumed in a kaleidoscope of hollow memories
from history...crowds don't remember
As they turn their anger into a coming apocalypse
where they sell their souls to their masters
as they did once before
When they called out " Give us Barabbas "
Let the Christ die with his last spoken words
" Forgive them... for they know not what they do "
9/25/17
contest 8 word challenge-4
Pottery scattered and came to life.
I opened up that art supply closet.
Flicked locusts off of me.
The winner in me started out severed.
Fast talking, mixed up, mangled.
Something in me took off like an old billboard torn away.
I thrived.
I throve.
I thrived like miles of sick globs.
I thrived like spikes on a cloud.
I thrived like bites unspoken.
I thrived like being stapled to the wall with a gold star.
I talked as fast as they could scarf a whole seal off the beach.
A little clay figurine.
That little, monster figurine from the supply room?
Doesn’t remind me of anything special.
And yet, the chattering continues.
Flicked those locustsssss.
I thrived.
I throve.
I was mangled and covered in drool.