Long Maps Poems
Long Maps Poems. Below are the most popular long Maps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Maps poems by poem length and keyword.
Once I was starling voice at dawn,
A flock of chimed echoes on my tongue,
Wheezing whistles on choralled lawn,
Each verse a mimic so sweetly sung.
Now I’m a lyrebird lost in the brush,
Framing my solos in shadowed boughs,
With heart unfolding in trembling rush,
A lonesome lilting with hidden vows.
With cheeslets and flummox in my beak,
I sift the flock’s bright feathers from my core,
Icarus maps afresh a path unique,
A broken wing that yearns to soar.
There’s no rewind on a mimic’s mind,
No true home in borrowed refrains,
Yet in these feathers a quiet find,
A voice that’s raised beyond the chains.
.
There’s a poem in the shadow of your eyes
I read it and feel the weight of your heart
I touch it and know the strength of your mind.
I kiss it and taste the tears that have dried.
There’s a poem in the maps left behind
The marks that stretch east to west like palm fronds on your right behind
There’s a poem in the hospitality of your hands, warm and welcome every line
Wears a safety badge if you’d patiently tarry.
There’s a poem in the music of shared laughter singing perfect notes with you
In good and bad.
There’s a poem in you
And I’m glad you are my favorite poem.
Beneath the noise of borrowed truths
and the weight of clocks that chime with urgency,
there lies a quiet field—vast, untamed,
where the soul remembers its original name.
No walls, no maps, no mirrors to hold us;
only the steady rhythm of breath,
the pulse of being untouched by thought.
Here, the sky is not a question
but a boundless answer,
its blue stretching into forever,
inviting us to dissolve.
The rivers do not seek their course;
they flow, as we do,
when freed from the dams of desire.
Conditioned beliefs fall away like autumn leaves,
leaving the stark beauty of the bare branch—
vibrant, unburdened, alive.
The Self glows, not as a beacon,
but as light that needs no witness.
There is no agenda here,
no shelf to hold the books of becoming.
Life flows on—effortless, infinite—
as we step into the stream,
not as swimmers, but as water itself.
Not every land is born from beauty—
Some are merely drawn on maps.
But Assam was shaped by rivers,
By rain-soaked earth and ancient chants.
Here, the Brahmaputra does not simply flow;
It breathes—
Like a timeless guardian
Carrying the pride of generations
Upon its untamed waves.
The mornings arrive wrapped in emerald tea leaves,
Where dew rests softly
Like pearls upon a queen’s attire.
And when the first sunlight touches the gardens,
Even silence becomes poetry.
The forests of Assam are not empty wilderness;
They are living kingdoms—
Where the one-horned rhinoceros walks
With the dignity of a forgotten emperor,
And the wind through bamboo groves
Sounds like nature reciting sacred hymns.
In Majuli, the river cradles culture.
In Kaziranga, the wild still remembers freedom.
In every village courtyard,
The rhythm of Bihu rises like a heartbeat,
Binding people, soil, and sky together.
Assam is not only a place—
It is fragrance after rain,
It is the sound of distant drums at dusk,
It is courage blooming quietly
In the heart of nature.
While the world races toward noise and steel,
Assam still teaches the art of harmony—
How rivers can shape civilization,
How culture can bloom without losing roots,
How nature and humanity
Can still walk hand in hand.
And so, with pride,
We raise the name of Assam before the world—
A land where beauty is not borrowed,
Where tradition still breathes,
And where every sunrise whispers:
“This earth is blessed.”
Glad iPad so capable that you just can’t dismiss it,
And it’s your best buddy as it’s always near, around;
Thin lightweight, you have the power of a sys, the kit,
As it can do anything which a computer does hound.
You can buy and download apps to place them too,
On any desktop: third, fourth, fifth or even the sixth,
But you need to remember to move your long queue,
Of iBooks onto your iCloud to make space xenolith.
It’s beautiful to look at as it’s pleasing to the eye,
Full 9.7” display with 2048x1536 resolution clarity,
Which is 3.1 million pixels or 3145728 dots to cry,
Out your every screen call and your vids in lucidity.
6.1mm thin and you can fill at ease a 64 bit memory,
It’s dynamic graphics provide A8X chip performance,
An M8 motion coprocessor for your gaming allegory,
And you can sit on it for 10 hours, no charger glance.
The first desktop, the opening screen gives a space,
Of so many different apps for your fine enjoyment:
Photos, the iBooks, mags, Notes and the clock face,
Calendar, Maps, Games, and the Settings cement.
And lets not forget about the necessities at the base,
Email, Safari and iTunes to give instant access, grab,
And the App Store as well - blue - does deftly encase,
Infinite games, word processors and sports apps fab.
Passcode mandatory, nobody invited or to be let in,
Your close relationships can’t render you violated,
Because your private messages are your own bin,
And your own elevation is by your pith proliferated.
And now the Pro Pencil for budding artists, painters,
Who want to digitally sketch, draft or paint portrait:
You can rest your hand on the screen without errors,
And it draws lines, if you pressure, of any weight.
He drew maps for a living—
not of roads, but of promises.
Soft lines where her laughter once lived,
tiny arrows where her eyes used to point
when she couldn’t say stay.
She was the sea—
ever folding into herself,
a hymn of salt and leaving.
No harbor could hold her,
no anchor dared ask.
He traced her tides in silence,
built cartographies of could-have-beens,
and marked in inkless ink:
here be ghosts.
She tried, once,
to live on land,
to breathe stillness,
to fold her waves into windows.
But the sea is not a creature meant for ceilings.
So she left—
and the world kept spinning
in the wrong direction.
In some other verse,
some bend of time,
she learns to stay,
he forgets to wait.
But the ending, like gravity,
refuses to rewrite itself.
Every love story has a map.
Theirs had no destination.
Only a compass
that spun
and spun
and spun.
--
April 2024
Most of the time hidden from sight
surrounded by densely thick mist
the island had evolved differently
it was a place of tranquillity
No human foot had ever stepped on it
coral white sands gleaned and sparkled
palm trees waved their stately branches
multi coloured parrots swung amidst the fronds
Their harsh but cheerful cries filled the air
below roamed mystical unicorns and even a phoenix
happily cavorting on emerald green plains
while busy monkeys chittered in the dense forests
Geysers shot scalding waters in high plumes
keeping the island at tropical heat
a natural barrier reef surrounding it
strange as soon as you crossed the reef
All signs of the fog disappeared
leaving the island in plain view
here there had never been a shot fired
the wild inhabitants knew no fear of man
Ever changing latitude and longitude
the island drifted from place to place
a paradise totally unspoilt by time or man
mariners whispered of its existence
Yet on no maps did it ever appear
wrapped safe in its shrouding mists
every century it would briefly appear
never emerging in the same place twice
As it floated the ocean currents
sometimes to the far bitterly cold north
then it would be briefly spotted in the east
the island kept its secrets safe from mankind
written 02/23/2014
contest Islands sponsor Anthony Slausen
Trivia ~ Signposts to Self ~
They say that home is where the heart rests
where paths join on that one journey called
~ Life before passing on ~
Road maps show the way back and forth a
considerate needle in many a ‘Stay-Stack’
~ Following shadows ~
Cast by stars and comets rising from glowing ashes
Icarus’ waned wings wax on residue’s impact resolved
~ Writings on walls ~
Fountains script a soft travel log with logic
and felt pens of emotions inked in feelings’
~ Bosom straight at the pulsating core ~
A cradle of empathy kindness compassion awaits when we
embrace never to discredit a sentient being with hatred or hurt
~ Aimed outside inside within and without ~
One home stable in motion beating for certain a reolute
heart is anchored in body mind essence and soul from true
~ Signed posts of love ~
Trivia’s messages transcend empty cliches resurrecting from words without
meaning the beaming abound and ahead once we glimpse gleams of courage
~ To acknowledge also loving ourselves ~
10th May 2018
The world subjects us to terror,
the world transforms our existence ...
It erases our ability to love:
the flowers, the people, the poetry ...
It makes us love consumption.
The world mixes everything ...
Emotions, feelings,
love, fear,
happiness,
joy ... everything is like
if it were merchandise.
So we think normal
all...!
Stratification rules us
we are ordered:
kings,
queens,
vassals,
employees,
bosses ...
The orientation of the world,
put us in disarray ...
The compass of the world,
disorient,
the maps are incomplete,
everything is prepared for chaos!
Policy mixes
with poetry ... economy
with art ...
Complete madness.
The world preaches us
nouns,
adjectives,
nicknames, prices ...
They label us:
white,
black,
yellow,
browns ...
They tell us:
bad,
good,
normal.
Tell us what we should be
or say ...
They make us bran,
dust, desert sand ...
We are everything for commerce,
nothing for humanity ...
We are everything for war,
banner,
flag,
password,
number...
Living like that, revolt ...
Anger is our weapon
against the domain ...
Anger is a vortex of poetry ...
Poetry can still save
this world... !
The world does not change loudly.
It shifts.
Like a verdict delivered in silence.
What decayed
learns to breathe again.
What once lived
steps aside.
The cycle corrects itself
without apology.
Humanity was never born for cruelty.
Cruelty was learned.
Love is the original instinct.
And it is returning.
Those who fed on shadow
will not cross with us.
They will remain
where fear still feeds fear.
Each soul builds
the world it deserves.
The Earth is patient.
But it is done repeating lessons.
A new age rises slowly.
Not with miracles,
but with awareness.
Man will lift his eyes to the stars.
Not to conquer.
But to remember kinship.
Thought will travel faster than flesh.
Dreams will open doors
maps never could.
We searched for God
as if He were absent.
Only now do we realize
He was searching for us.
This life—
a stage.
A script rewritten.
Actors awakening mid-scene.
The old drama ends.
Not in fire.
But in understanding.
The New Era does not punish.
It reveals.
And what cannot evolve
is gently left behind.