Long Mapped Poems
Long Mapped Poems. Below are the most popular long Mapped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mapped poems by poem length and keyword.
I used to be a force to be reckoned with
Way back in days of yore
Warriors would come from far and wide
To challenge me on battle floor
I earned respect the hard way
In kingdoms my name highly revered
I left a wake of dead fools behind me
Until my presence became greatly feared
I fought for my King and country
With mighty sword and trusty shield
And though many times outnumbered
My ground I would never yield
My bones have now grown fragile
The scars have mapped across my face
My dreams of a quiet country home
Have vanished without a trace.
Here before me is my final apponent
Come to strip me of my fame
He reminds me of my younger self
Seeking to bring glory to his name.
Today I come to this decision
To concede the last death blow
He will believe he has the best of me
But the truth only God and I will know.
Before the bones of thought were raised,
before the first bright nerve could sing,
there slept between the coded words
a silent, patient everything.
They named them introns—idle script,
forgotten echoes, wasted space;
yet every age has mocked the seed
before it flowered into grace.
The sequencer became my star,
its lasers soft as morning rain;
through quantum whispers, folded time,
it mapped creation's hidden vein.
Each electron paused in dance,
each proton hummed a measured hymn;
the universe was reading us
while we believed we studied Him.
Within the so-called empty code
lay memories older than the sun—
the mathematics of the tide,
the blueprint of what we'll become.
Perhaps the psychic is no ghost,
nor miracle beyond our sight,
but consciousness unfolding still
through genomes learning how to write.
The mind may reach beyond the skull
as gravity escapes the star;
entangled thoughts on unseen threads
remember who and what we are.
So let the sequencer proceed—
not merely counting A, C, G, and T—
but listening for the cosmic verse
between necessity and song and verse.
For every strand we dare to read
reveals another left unseen;
and every answer gently asks
what all this hidden code may mean.
We are not accidents of dust,
nor prisoners of flesh alone;
we are the universe itself,
awakening within its chromosome.
Death Bed Poetry: Karl Marx
(Epigraph: "Go on, get out! Last words are for fools who haven't said enough!")
The final dictate, delivered with a wheezing sneer,
A curt dismissal for the great, grave theater
Of the dying ego, demanding one more line
To cap a life and make the silence shine.
Fools, you say, who, having spent a lifetime’s breath
Defining the very engine that drives history to death,
Still clutch the air for one last, luminous phrase,
To illuminate their final, failing days.
A monumental architect of the printed word,
Whose volumes mapped the chaos of the world,
The ghost of surplus value and iron law
Haunted the margins of your every flaw.
Did you fear, perhaps, that any last poetic art
Would only prove you had a beating, fragile heart?
That all your monumental works would stand betrayed
By some soft whisper you accidentally made?
No. The dialectic spent, the argument complete,
You chose the only perfect, final, grand retreat:
To mock the final word, to scorn the need to speak,
Leaving only thunder where a silence ought to break.
The Momentous Day
Kevin Davis 2024
They’d talked for weeks and planned it all, Prepared for this momentous day. Their gear was stacked with soldier’s pride; each item placed the proper way.
They’d mapped the angles of each step, convinced their scheme was ironclad. Their boasts to friends had sealed their fate— Today they’d prove how brave they were.
At dawn they slipped into the yard, The grass still wet with silver dew. They tiptoed past the puddled dips like veterans marching two by two.
A crowd had gathered—neighbors, kids— Some cheering loud, some smirking low. The boys called out for quiet air; The world obeyed and hushed its glow.
Beneath the oak, their treasure lay: Crackers, rope, a weathered crate. From here they’d rise to heights unknown, to claim the title “truly great.”
A coin was flipped. The winner stepped onto the crate with steady pride. “Like Armstrong,” he declared, “we climb for all who dare to dream this high.”
He grabbed a branch and hauled himself onto the limb with trembling might. He looped the rope, let down the end— His brother rose into the light.
At last, they perched on higher limbs, two kings surveying all below. The world seemed small, the breeze seemed grand, their hearts beat fast with quiet glow.
But through the mist a sound cut sharp— A voice no child could misinterpret. They scrambled down, reclaimed their stash, Adventure ending, pride deserted.
Their mother’s cry split through the yard, A thunderbolt of pure distress: “Get out of that tree before you break your necks— And wait till your father hears about this!”
We stitched our ribbons through your heart
From end to end we threaded
We sewed right to your fingertips
– And every stitch you dreaded
We tramped along your shoulders broad
To weave our little lines –
How nimble were our fingers then
How clever our design!
We jabbed and pierced and buttoned you
We pulled the stitches tight –
For us an act of liberty
For you an act of night
We gaze now on our handiwork
As on a work of art
A wilderness of emerald
Mapped out upon a chart
But, ‘lest we think we’ve mastered you
Once every little while
You raise yourself and startle us
With lightning in your smile!
I walked where borders were mere lines,
Invisible ink beneath my strides.
No passport stamped my phantom face—
I was the ghost in every place.
Seventeen tongues danced on my lips,
From Moscow winds to Cairo ships.
I whispered codes in birdsong tones,
And sent the sparrows into zones.
Their wings, my messengers unseen,
Slipped past the guards, unheard, serene.
I wore a thousand crafted masks,
Each one flawless for its task.
A merchant, monk, or soldier’s guise—
Truth drowned beneath a sea of lies.
I played their minds like strings of art,
Each heartbeat mapped, each fear a chart.
Psychic sight, my inner flame,
Saw secrets long before they came.
I bent the steel of what is real—
With just a thought, the earth would feel.
Telekinetic wrath unfurled—
I cracked the skin of this old world.
With just a blink, I moved a tide,
Exposed the whispers nations hide.
Vaults of power? I had the key.
The darkest truths, revealed to me.
I watched as kings in silence bowed,
While empires burned beneath the cloud.
Data, secrets, blood, and shame—
I held them all, and none could name
The face behind the rising storm—
A ghost beyond the human form.
They feared what they would never see.
Who truly knows what knows the KGB?
…the flecks of mud that paint their faces
like splashes from nature’s easel,
whilst blades of grass and twisted root tangle and
turn into laces green, to tie around feet and ankle;
these hill shaped blues that pound and pace over field,
cobble and path, collecting pebbles, marsh and clods;
a footprint left in the earth, then mapped and
mirrored under arches; these blue mounds that take toes
when sore and keep them warm in rain, mist or heat,
in late night jogs with flour for breath;
these tor shaped blues that hold my soles
like gloves, as a friend’s hand in times of need;
these blue, mountain shaped comrades that
push me over finish lines and through
thresholds, that suffer dirt and sweat and a
frustrated boot or kick back into the garden;
these two blues that help refresh my mind
and keep rhythm to every beat or gasp,
that are better medicine than any pill prescribed,
that neither moan, criticise nor protest…
Disappear into your smart phone,
the world outside is doomed
Your few remaining human traits,
have long since left the room
Disappear into your smart phone,
all life beyond is lost
Your feelings truly virtual,
you’ve paid a mighty cost
Disappear into your smart phone,
while others stand beside
And just like you they tap their screens,
faint proof that they’re alive
Disappear into your smart phone,
as time is winding down
All spirit tapped, emotion strapped,
your history lost, unfound
Disappear into your smart phone,
that bed you’ve left unmade
Your spirit cries as memory dies,
whose LaLa land you crave
Disappear into your smart phone,
its power now supreme
Your knowledge mapped and future trapped
—your destiny undreamed
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2018)
What makes us act the way we do
Is it something buried deep in our genes?
Programmed to live our whole life through
Never able to alter the scene?
Are we all merely here to play a role
That's been predetermined by fate?
Can we redirect the path we're following
If we're heading for a life second rate?
Don't get me wrong, my life's been great
There's nothing I'd really like to change
Perhaps a little more stability would be nice
Though I might find that a wee bit strange
Everybody thinks it would be better “if”
But “if” has certain strings attached
Shouldn't go there, the results could be bad
Don't mess with the path that's been mapped
Just be happy with the skin that you're in
Your life will take its own twists and turns
If you just try to live an exemplary life
Loads of happiness will be yours in return
Recall the straight and well-planned path of youth
mapped out so clear to lead us through life’s maze?
Though times I wandered off in prankish craze,
the road was there to find again in truth
when pangs of guilt nagged like an aching tooth.
I'd walk it once again, my heart ablaze,
spurred on by welcomed glory, love, and praise
doled out by elders from their judging booth.
How soon the road meandered here and there,
its outline—fuzzy, overgrown with weeds;
and when I think I've walked it at my best
those detour signs appear to bring despair.
Mature, I now must choose to suit my needs;
my only judge- a conscience well at rest.
April 25, 2015
Premiere Contest: Once More I Failed The Truth
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Form: Petrarchan Sonnet: a-b-b-a-a-b-b-a c-d-e-c d-e