Long Marching Poems
Long Marching Poems. Below are the most popular long Marching by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Marching poems by poem length and keyword.
Mark Halliday
Son of a California Englishman
And a small-town Utah Mormon.
In his youth, nothing extraordinary;
Later served in Europe as a missionary.
Pianist, marching flutist, then a Guitarist;
Enlisted to be an Army Intelligence Analyst.
Speaks French; spoke Spanish, Russian,
Serbian, Croatian, some German and Macedonian.
Has resided mostly in California.
Spent months or years in Makedonija,
La France, le Belgique, Deutchesland,
Kuwait, Iraq; in the USA: Maryland,
Utah, Massachusettes, Kansas,
Arizona, Missouri, and Texas.
Of course, he’s known here as poetic,
But with charcoal, pens, and pastels is artistic.
He’s starting to slow down due to age,
But loves to sing original songs on stage.
During the French Bicentennial, went to Paris,
Where he met his future Mrs.
Has sons Steven and Tony, wife Nelly.
They’ll soon celebrate their silver anniversary.
Like many other military veterans,
He works with Dept. of Defense civilians….
Commuting between Salinas and Monterey
(Defense Language Institute, Presidio of Monterey).
He loves to read (especially military science fiction),
Go to cinemas, and grow food in his garden.
He’s interested in music production software,
And dreams his songs will someday go somewhere.
These are interesting times:
hordes of Hitler Youth
are marching out
from our institutes of higher learning,
those who believe that 'all lives matter'
are labeled racists.
We saw none of this coming,
and is that our kid in that zombie mob?
Dad has been busy at the golf course,
mom coaching Little Legue soccer.
We thought it was a good life
the dream
at the heart of the American Dream
not noticing the corrosive rot
being sold as truth,
and now,
and now,
we are all very sick,
even the dog has been brain-washed,
it is behaving like a rabid Nazi,
not a big leap for an Alsatian guard dog.
The cornerstone turned the corner
reading a map without
ever looking back
A nomad with knapsack in tow
sowed seeds without
worrying if they'd
ever grow
For them it's just a show but
for me the latter
none of the optics matter
while climbing the ladder
of purpose
On the surface the dirty game is
plain to see but many
can't see the forest
for the trees erected
on this plane
These games are ground level 1
& in stark contrast
to a farmer marching
to the beat of his own drum
and self-made treble
Troublesome for frequency counters
for he is one of one
plus 2
I guess countering devilish moves
& the color of night is
similar to playing checkers right?
Chess isn't so black & white so
I double down while looking up
counting all hands
in the equation with respect
Brazen expressions add up to
answers followed by
questionable remarks by
those living in the dark
Supposedly I'm just a number but
within that I am the new
U
An ember in a world going down
in flames shinning
like a diamond yet to be
given a name
In truth I am a Phoenix flying
higher than planes
looking down
at the ashes & pigeons
Even if my wings aren't seen they're
felt like emotions & lava
spewing emissions that bring
out a shine like smelted
gold
We're all the same viewed through
different lenses
but who is directing our
cold comprehension?
I spy a theme colored with & by
an artistic stroke
looking to poke holes
in any sense of hope
Division can go unnoticed
if it is drawn with
the precision of
a surgeon
Make decisions wisely or else
be burdened until
the end of days
Be precise while navigating this
maze for there are some
that pray against
& prey on any
foundation you intend
to lay
We're way past mayday in these
Kamikaze times
& mushroom clouds
will come if they continue
flying blind
I’m marching into battle
But I am not afraid
I know I have to do this
And for this I was made
I’ll march through any forest
To deserts I will go
Yah’s given me a calling
And that I surely know
I’ll fight against the enemy
No foe will hold me down
I’ll stand upon my watch post
I’ll bravely hold my ground
Yehovah is my stronghold
He trains my hands for war
Why should I fear the battle?
It’s what He made me for
Why should I e'er by frightened
By any enemy?
The One who made the heavens
His Spirit lives in me!
A thousand fall at beside me
Ten thousand at my right
But it will not come near me
Yehovah’s my strong cleft
And thus I shan't be frightened
Though mountains crumble down
Though ocean waves keep swelling
My King's my joy and crown
The One who healed the blind men
Has given me His Light
The One who raised the lame men
Has sent me to this fight
The world may cry, so frightened
But no, I say, not I
For Yah is watching o’er me
The apple of His eye
Yes, He's my shield and shelter
He saves me from Sheol
So forward, upward, onward
I’m marching to the goal
I see him stumbling around looking for something to hold on to but there was nothing there except the open thin air and a bunch of bureaucrats wearing thin frocks walking around on wet grass with fake greetings and a forced smile that caught us by surprise.
Bob has been in the news and this has left everyone confused he is running for office again, midths the barrage of criticism running down his spine weakening his legs and making him look like the walking dead. At first, he looks like a robot coming out of a hut, and then it appears like a man in despair. There was no one around to cover him except for gravity and his own sanity.
Bob is fun to be around but this time his attitude makes me frown, he does some weird things, like walking with his nose pointed in the air and use his finger to show you the clock.
Sometimes he is agitated and his temper cuts deep causing everyone to proceed with caution while he rolls the dice and shuffles the cards. He is a nice person to be around but the mood swings will drag you down; yesterday I invited him for tea, we had a small talk and it left my aunt weeping in the dark, what is really going on with Bob?
Bob is a very good man but sometimes he looks very sad; he has a very tight schedule and attends more than ten meeting in a given day, heaven knows how he stands up while going through the gate.
He knows his work quite well and he can talk up a storm from hell and still remain true. I watched him come and go and how he presents himself while he rides the big ship, and the ceremony he attended with the mercenaries hiding in the bushes and the guard of honor marching every hour to pay their respect to Bob.
He wasn’t quite in it, he was always looking for something to hold on to but the air propels him along and John, his closest friend, stood next to him and pushes him on.
I could sense a silent annoyance rising up in john’s emotions, as he reached for support while climbing the steps. He attempts to hold john several times from his back but John shrugs and show him the way with a polite gesture.
They and had a cup of tea towards the end, and spend some time feeling out each other. What was said, I really don’t know but the cluster bombs exploded and close that chapter. The tennis match was a blessing in disguise, and it is an indication of how the story will end, I love happy endings.
Sweat through labor's fervent pace.
You pitiful dog,
You minuscule cog,
Lest you vanish off the face
Of the earth without a trace.
Don't dare threaten profit gain
When you don't understand
Why wealth could own the land
For which your fathers died in vain.
That you may see your heroes slain.
If you find you disagree...
Take to the streets,
Face my marching fleets.
Just hold your ground and do not flee.
Your weaknesses are mine to see.
Yet, if the fear has gripped your heart.
Don't act like a jerk.
Just go back to work,
And let me fuel your tortured art,
Before I rip your soul apart.
Whispers we'd heard for many a year
But we were so far north they never came near
Then the day came for us Highlander men
It wasn't just where, just a matter of when
Down from the Glens came us Clannish men
To fight for our freedom to cleanse us from them
Soldiers unknown marching so fine
But soon we would meet, it's just a matter of time
Mountainsides so boggy, bracken lush to waist
Trepidation in our hearts, our Claymores desire taste
Shields of wood, Dirks of point
No shiny armour we carry, adroit
The time is nearing our scouts have declared
Intruders now sighted none to be spared
Marching like ants as if on familiar terrain
No care to their flanks, simply constrained
To the mouth of our Glen to these hideous men
Unknown to them, to them descends
Clannish, we many and all
When our ire erupts, our enemies fall
Ahead of them blocked, bails of hay now fired
We have them where they are, soon to expire
Confusion abounds, horses in throw
To whom they look up, administered blow
Arrows aplenty, spears of destiny
Targets hit, as our aiming should be
Reddened eruptions from flesh torn wounds
Claymores thrusting deep, admiring life consumed
Panic abounds amidst limbless souls
Crimson trails confirm our goals
Men of us in deadened taken
Battles like this should never be forsaken
The sporadic scattering of our Clannish men
To their beaten enemy, many lost in ascend
It's not the way we fought, it's how we fought together
When Alba's Clans unite,
"Were never to surrender"
late November air,
crisp
pale with the steamy breath of borderless joy
for children who sit curbside
bundled in the bulk of layers softening cold
children (mitten heavy)
waiting
waiting
for a parade of mother goose, hand-stand clowns
fairy tale floats
and glitter princesses glassy
as if stars shivered into pieces
children, free of complications
their rosy palettes of cheeky faces
their laughter scribbled like graffiti on walls
unknowing of the bloody passion that shakes the walls
of peace
children,
resistant to the frost,
shift
with each marching band in praise of winter's pull
like pumped fists in the air
halting (briefly) endless clips of time
for children with vantage points to catch the reindeer tow
of Santa
with festive thoughts that scurry like mice in a maze
passing parade
holiday hardy
a glitzy show that snaps bare trees to attention
like watchers
to mimic the sassy steps of elves rotating
in a world crying, seeking magic
pitter-patter propelled
like children's kite-high wishing
The still, early morning crawl
The minutes tick, the hours tock
Hands of Time, marching on
Past the fences, past the farms
Put the mists before my eyes
Put the cobwebs in my mind
Climb the hill at glacial speed
Move with me – deceptively
Reel the line in steadily
So I think it’s you, not me –
Don’t look back, as I am wont
Upon the tapestry you’ve wrought
Painted on vermillion skies
Slowly, slowly passing by
Leaving but a parting trace
Lost in lines upon my face
---
Oh, Hands of Time! Marching on
Your masterpiece is but a con
Disengage – impassively
Even disingenuously
Let the light and landscape fade
As fade they will at close of day
Come for me before the dawn
Before I wake to find you gone
Taking from the blue sky blue
The breath I once had held for you
(The UK Queen's Platinum Jubilee was in June 2022)
You're at Trooping the Colour now, Dominic.
Were we not friends when we were schoolboys?
You look so smart now, Dominic, guardsman,
wrapped in the shining redness of that costume
under your tall, beautiful bearskin cap.
Recall that friendship, Dominic,
those distant days at school?
I saw your show on stage -
those school plays, musicals, but mainly ballet.
Such standards, almost worthy of a jubilee.
And here you are on our TV.
A performance, Dominic, seen by our Queen,
and millions, oh millions, of viewers.
You're at that Platinum Jubilee,
a concert full of marching men,
a march that is a parade,
a parade that is a ballet -
performing people, of course.
Would you wish to know me, Dominic,
now you're in your very posh world?
(June 2022)
(You may wish to see also "Obsequies for a Queen" of September 2022 and "Coronation for a King" of May 2003)