Long Marking Poems
Long Marking Poems. Below are the most popular long Marking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Marking poems by poem length and keyword.
A fairyland fable is a magic table floating around but nit with a rallying cry. That is purely reserved for several synchronised cruise ships whose sunbathing missions thwart many a delivery driver. It is with great interest that an interest is neither a monetary aim at a bank or an inked out financial score singing a palate of possibilities. So go call the cat then. Go on. Meow meow. Dinner time. There you go. Fresh tuna is very scared now. Oh dear. And all the little flakes hard at work minced flesh in factories never really has a rest does it? Dilapidated dog during digging. And a great big wish from a ten thousand kilo cake is a celebrated glow in an outer solar sphere. Clap them all. Many cakes many spheres. Loud claps. And shouting at the mail is equivalent to eating beans on toast at several hundred miles an hour upside down in a bucket. It is in many weathers that a tall lanky snail circles a circuit in a rally car. Very very fast. Well done. There is a crown and a bursting champagne bottle whose antics on the plane were quite rude and non productive. However showering the podium with released bubble is quite a feat of engineering and requires precision mathematics too. So never ever become intoxicated if holding a compass, a text book, six lined sheets of paper, ten pencils and an organic cheeseburger with salad. Marketing making money moguls merry. And the swimming curry is out for the day in the lake occasionally resting on a Papadopoulos papadum boat who whips a papaya to create a cocktail. How rather quaint that is isn't it? How many radiuses are there in a pear? And how many tents can be made from a single pair of tights? These are highly significant questions to ask at a time when the antipepiscides are at the protest. Rioting. And tootling along the lane came a little green car whose plan was ever only to drink copious amounts of tea at the inn of then. Saviour not a sanctified secretion of a sweet set of stagnant striped silk. And enter no password of hi dee hi on a billboard for frames are allowing much to pass by over the cliffs. So watch out if carrying ten cars, a wobbly bus, and a twelfth century castle for it is the marksman who are marking a book from a diocese, a school and a university of agha banks. Couple that then. Great. Hahaha fantasy fig floating around hahaha banana bandana bringing bee balancing. Xxxxx metropolitans z
Form:
The little one came and asked the elder
How did things come to be?
The elder answered in abstract
A truth for all to see
It didn't happen all at once, but over many years
It happened with joy, laughter, and many silent tears
Like death from a thousand cuts, we just didn't want it to be real
Now all we have left, is just a bad deal
Its not that we didn't know, about the moments of despair
Its not that we didn't care, about the sordid affair
We just saw problems bigger than the sky and thought, who would dare?
And thus became a world that wasn't fair
We thought if its not us, maybe its not so bad
We can just enjoy our entertainment, and be plenty glad
And that's how it began, at least our part anyway
Even after so much has happened, we still have so little to say
The little one sat and asked the elder
Why did we do these things?
The elder answered in abstract
A sample of our selfish dreams
We did it because it felt good
Better than being good to ourselves
Better than loving thy neighbor
Better than the highest health
We called lies little, when they are quite big
Marking the beginning of our disgrace
We treated our future like it was a blooper
Without ever willing to embrace
We covered up truth with makeup and masks
Now we are the ones defaced
Our religion became follows and likes
And so we lost our faith
The little one stood and asked the elder
What can we do now?
The elder answered in abstract
With a head heavily bowed
The one thing that is our purpose
We no longer do
Because we look up atop our ivory towers
And only see a zoo
We believe that one can affect change
As long as its not us
So the answer to your question
Is to once again practice love
Have the conversations that create community
Not just for our favorite friends
Overcome our bias and impunity
And false prophets will come to end
The little one turned and asked the elder
Will you tell them I left?
The Elder answered in abstract
As a smile touched his breath
I will tell the story of the one
Who decided to be changed
And became the foundation
For this story to be reframed
When they come and ask
Where did the future go?
I will tell them the past only hopes
For the future to grow
That if we seek the future
We must put in the work
That we can move forward
Only when we acknowledge the hurt
Macbeth, remove this blood, I command you!
Give me the strength to see another day through
It’s hit me what I’ve truly done
Sanity has been lost but power has been won
Was it worth it all?
Or should I take the fall?
Out of this castle, should I leap?
Or should it be considered not so deep?
The guilt is immense, should I be dead?
My hands are stained with bloody red
No perfumes will wash this blood away
This hand of blood will forever stay
How could I have been the reason for the king's death?
Why did I let this happen, why did I do it Macbeth?
My mind is now full of scorpions, as yours was before
Shameful thoughts, and blood is dripping to the floor
How, how, how did I become so cruel in my mind?
I’m supposed to be a woman, the weak innocent kind
For my power, I caused you to kill a king
And now our marriage is owned by a bloody ring
You had the idea but it was hidden in the dark
I was the one who lit the thought to be a spark
Now you’ve gone on ordering others to kill
Involved in violence, for the safety and the thrill
How have I done this deed?
I’ve turned you tyrannical, now this poor country will forever bleed
Oh we were once so innocent and pure
Now the doctor doesn’t even see me to have a cure
As for you, You’re in blood, too far stepped in
Your need for power will never win
Macbeth, look at what I’ve done
Duncan should have lived to see the next days sun
Horror, horror, horror, I’m not meant to be a Queen
My hands are made of blood, they’re meant to be clean
There’s a spot marked amongst my hand
Marking my cruelty, why I did this nobody will ever understand
I’m just a cruel evil witch who cares for no one but herself
A disgust to society, a sly woman acting with stealth
And we aren’t even content though we’ve got our desire
As you said before, the snake is scorching in a fire
This burden is never going to go away
On this earth I shall no longer stay
What’s done cannot be undone
Though remember, when a battle is lost, it’s also won
When I die, you would have won by focusing on your mind
But please, Macbeth, turn back to being kind
Violence is not the way to be, and only causes pain
Macbeth, in desperation I beg you, go back to being sane
I’m sorry that my life has ended in my self and violent hand
Make me proud down there, and I wish you to understand.
I let your eyes to visualise a garden on a loom;
Bluebells and marigolds in sway and lavender in bloom;
And there to play in a luscious green two kittens wrestling;
Up high in chirping swallow's play are feathered friends a-singing.
A figure of a handsome man is settled on a chair;
And by his side a beauty pure strokes lovingly his hair;
The Witch, or so the story plays, is set to work a-stitching;
For everyday she works to lay the groundwork for her witching.
The "Loom of Dunkele" is dark and glistens as if new;
That which it forges is by spelling set to render true;
This vessel handed down through time where Witches are sure wed;
Commutes it powers to the offsprings through that marriage bed.
At 35 she must be bride and to a handsome beau;
For Dunkele demands that beauty seeps through row to row;
The Witch beholden to this pact must honour this or else;
The Dunkele will take her beauty for its very self.
Dunkele demands a beauty in it's natural mould;
The Witch must weave the magic seams without her vêtements;
As pure as a newborn should she display her nakedness;
For Dunkele gave a perfect body not to be redressed:
No blemish, painting, marking, piercing for her skin to bear;
No jewellery should adorn her parts no braids within her hair;
Should she ignore these rulings and would set about to loom;
The magic would reverse all workings never to resume.
Above the loom, portraits in rows, of Witches one and all;
Each face a picture of a beauty unimaginable;
Throughout all time the loom has served and must forever more;
Or else a terrible curse be laid upon each maiden's door:
Indeed, to pander verily to a Dragon's carnal needs;
The Witch must feed on blood and guts and do as Dragon pleads;
Forever trapped in a darkened lair, no view of sun or sea;
The Witch would disappear from sight, no trace or history.
For 20 years this loom she spins as was the bargain made;
And in this time her beauty shone, success and wealth her aid;
Now in an hour the carpet loomed but for a patch to fill;
A slip of hair should she prepare to weave into the mill.
Then once complete the spell to speak releasing her shalom;
To lead her to that wondrous place where there awaits Handsome;
This rite of passage like forebears would guarantee the Witch;
Leaves on the blood line of her ilk a rich continuous stitch.
Pulled one perfect day from the heart of summer,
Went with my wife, the kids, a friend
Down to cruise the monuments
To study those menhirs we set for marking passage
Into collective memory.
We ascended the virile spire
Erected in honor of our ponytailed First Elect,
The children pleased to gaze out on a toy city below us.
We descended and walked down the long flat mirror of water
To where Lincoln, strong and sad in bronze
Sits forever troubled by his sundered nation
In his cool, dark, echoing vault.
Then lunch, and a visit to the commemoration of our most recent sorrow;
We cross over and walk the Wall.
Row on row,
Stark white upon shining black
The rollcall of the dead processes by.
It's crowded today, but no one speaks
The silence here is a crashing thing that falls all around us
As we walk and search
Some for names, some for answers,
Some for both, or neither
Ourselves for I know not what.
And in the black
Flowing past the names, and names, and names
This perfect day hangs captured in its light:
Cotton clouds on blinding blue
Grass greener than new money
The faces of children, dogs
And a parade of young couples -
It all hangs there, flowing over the terrible list,
Reminding all how they should be here too,
Those not-so-long-ago lost.
But then, in a sense, they are here
And that's why the silence crashes so.
58,000 empty chairs are here.
58,000 phantoms,
The Bad Conscience of a good nation.
58,000 Not-To-Bes are here:
Not-To-Be husbands, fathers, family, friends
Not-To-Be Victories and Not-To-Be Dreams
58,000 horrors of Loss.
In the midst of these shuddering reveries
My blissfully distracted 7 year-old son
Plucks a small, perfect feather off the lawn,
As black and glossy as the wall itself,
And carries it idly along.
Once out, we stop to talk with one of the Fallen's many advocates,
A great Viking of a man who notices the feather
Who says right away,
"Ah, a raven's feather. Odin's birds, who bring him Wisdom and Rememberance."
I saved the feather, knowing what I do of ravens:
Those sombre, croaking birds,
First on the field after battle
I stroked its silky black and wished
Odin's birds would visit the common folk more often
And croak to us of Remembrance, and Wisdom.
In his hand is a smoking rose, as the sorcerer is in flagrante delicto,
in his own image the beast has made an army of self, with one mind.
These did not come, through the matrix of a woman but were hatched,
from counterfeit tubes. Dark images, after his kind, witch grafted.
The clones will kill those, that disobey him and even worse, if they do.
What a vicious viperous brood, entering this world stillborn,
without a God-given soul and only here to kill and control.
The destroyer, with crimson legions of bestial clones, marking his throne,
making you believe, that science fiction is really a honed science.
It will be like some Atlantean phoenix, rising from the ashes of war.
A golden purple metropolis of soulless human clones possessed,
by ruthless fallen ones. The spirits of these, Antichrists have already, through science fiction. Demonically indoctrinate a generation to believe,
that they are ancient aliens, which once seeded the earth and
for man to be complete, they must receive alien DNA.
The serpent seeds have already been laid, from the town of Bedrock,
to Gattaca and to it's empirical foundation, so called science.
Deceiving, through a host of in-between's, nether never land's and
by countless other Silent hills, within his imagination.
As the beast calls down, the fire rose from the airy heavens,
in the sight of the blind seer. A death star has become complete,
with deadly accuracy. While the sleeping world, becomes an Image Nation.
Sadistic Satan tortures his own, for five months,
because they have received the marker.
They can no longer die nor be redeemed,
by the living God but by then they will know,
it is too late, within an eternal fiery prison
LEAVING BOYHOOD BEHIND
White shirt 'n' school tie to blue-collar, dress-code is changing with age
From schooldays to pay-days, from homework to hard work
School bells and game playing to work's whistle and wage earning
With new mates, dirty jokes and smoking, oh where has my boyhood gone?
Seven-thirty start time to five-thirty finish, playtime is shortening with age
From footy-boots to work-boots, from school cap to flat-cap
Five hour days and school clock to nine hour days and time-clock
With clocking on, punch cards and overtime, oh where has my boyhood gone?
Sitting with the lads and a big mug of tea, some things taste different with age
From cream soda to warm beer, from tu'penny mix to filter-tips
Learning piecework rates and new skills, paying union subs and betting slips
***-packet backs, sledge-hammers and betting, oh where has my boyhood gone?
Working with Paddy in the oven's fiery heat, this is much too hot at any age
From cold iron bar to white hot, from straight angle-bar to boiler-flange
From the furnace to the big rolls and bend it, working fast before
Lift it out, knock it flat and weld it, oh where has my boyhood gone
In the Boiler-shop to learn fabrication, things mustn't drop apart with age
From marking out to Oxy-gas cutting from riveting to electric arc welding
Not much in the way of protection with no heath 'n' safety laws here
With air-hammers, no ear-plugs or goggles, oh where has my hearing gone?
Moving big metal sheets down the plate-shop, I must be getting stronger with age
From plate stack to marking out table from load stable to not very safe
Two tons of metal on the pulley, the chain slips and it's down with a bang
Metal crashing, men jumping and cursing, oh where has my life nearly gone
Day-release Thursday at college, lessons still needed with age
From going to Derby and back again, from going by bus to car driving
The Lacarno dance-hall at lunch-time, try chatting up girls for some fun
A quick jive, some posing and a coffee, oh where has my boyhood gone
Dating girls at the week-end and hoping, urges get stronger with age
From meeting up early to dancing, from front seat to back seat for fun
Babysitting her niece on a Tuesdays this gives us some time on our own
Snogging, heavy petting and much further... boyhood gone
Form:
Blood and now…
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
& A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet
Blood and now…
Bite the bullet
taste the sweet blood near
near here flowing from the heart
free as life blood can be
free to give back life you see
our two hearts might beat as one
as we lay together on the floor
our blood groups matched
so were not ignored
not one litre not two but three
I willingly gave to thee
There is more of my blood in you
than what is left in me it’s true
your life this day I did save
by giving my blood just so
on February 29th you know
there is one leap year in four you know
I see your face your stubble chin
the worry lines your forehead shows
now and then I see them you know
as my blood into you does flow
I have always admired you you know
from a distance I hid my glow
my face did blush I know it’s true
it did every time I saw you
I knew of course from that first time
you were to be my Valentine
but in the hue of the fights
that special time was never right
could you not feel the heat from me
did your eyes not really see
my heart was worn on my sleeve
all my colleagues could it see
were you really blind of the love of me
should I now take the chance
of this day and its romance
tell you what I really think
gosh our clothes really do stink
I had not washed for a week or two
the nurses were so good it’s true
we were bathed that was luck
but to put our dirty clothes back on
what was with that that was so wrong
I think I will swallow my pride
and ask you to be my Valentine now
as it is only one day in four years so
so years of tears will go this time if you will just be my…
Valentine
NB. A little explanatory note to say the hero of the hour was a young general of feminine power, recently out of training school, but well blooded in warfare. And the man upon the floor, a private soldier, not to be ignored and yet in days of not too long ago fraternising with officers was oh no, no, not allowed. Love however knows no bounds, you know. And that is why this poem thus did flow.
I do not know if the blitz was correct, or indeed the eclipse, perhaps in your marking you could advise me on that. Thank you.
Stanley
(The new mad author)
******Please delete from competition Valentine's Blitz-Poetry Contest Sponsored by Dave Will.
I walked outside in the scorching heat moving papers and turning over pages just looking for that one line that goes back to the middle ages. The search was long, the documents were strong and the paragraph sits at the bottom with the exact words about the controversial land. Moses was deceased, Joshua was bequeathed and mimiram joined the crew when her leprosy
came through.
I traveled to Vatican City to view the writing form the thirteenth century there were piles and piles of them standing in a row but I had nowhere to go and I could not move any of them.
I had to view them with a magnifying glass or the whole thing would have fallen apart .I walked along the Vatican city underground and there were museums all around with documents that goes back to the creation of the earth but they were all sealed up in dirt.
Something caught my eyes from the back and I continue to move my eyeball over the lines to see what historical data I could find. I just wanted to fit the pieces together until I could uncover the secrecy, and just when I thought my long search was done a cockroach crawl up from the corner and there it was staring at me, the very line that illustrate my dignity. A thousand cameras pointed at me from every angle, I could not touch or move a thing until the vessel I had memorized the plaintiff hymn.
The Priest kept juggling on the floor and the Roman soldiers keep asking for more, the theater was where it all began with a harp a violin and a harmonica riding on the gondola and singing a song. They were all playing for me as the discovery breaks the bonds of history to uncover an age-old mystery, the authentic crowd docked on the other side while I continue to hold up my pride and the gondola drift.
I try to fit the piece together so I went on a hurricane ride and landed in Peru and made my way to the city of Cuzco to connect the dots and explore the salt mine of maras and when I got what I wanted I made my way to France and visit the Mount Blanc and made a bond with Eifel tower. When the research was over, I clocked in nine hundred million dollars for a Zig Zag line and a marking on a cave that was divine.
And so the evidence was right in front of me to prove the murder in the first degree and a global fraud in the second degree. You must make haste and come and see me.
The taste of bile treads my thoughts,
Unwillingly my feet must now follow,
Source of inspiration guide,
Restore the signal fires now long lost,
Set beyond the temporal,
A path impassable by mortals,
The stairs of separation,
I must recount lest others falter,
Every sin a means, an end,
To each soul lead only by itself,
Counterfeiting perfection,
The usurpers, scoffers are now debased,
Anger above unrestrained,
Bereft of a target consumes self,
The famed fountains of knowledge,
Once fresh, soon descend to stagnant seas,
But only the sealed can see,
That for which they wait so patiently,
Bodies removed of the grave,
At attention stand upon their stones,
There encrypted, engraved,
Each history of self-enslavement,
Inheriting this decay,
A way in fissures fraught with danger,
Through the ravenous creatures,
Enthralled by the gravity of dust,
The ground to lie forever,
Fallow for jubilees once ignored,
Rising embers, never souls,
Seeking moisture, extinguishing both,
Lemmings to the precipice,
So did they rush only to accuse,
Perjuring with every word,
As fleeing reptiles forsake their tales,
Our course like a viper’s coils,
Round the kingdoms of brewing venom,
To behold the sepulcher,
We would visit the ten forsaken,
Follow the funeral march,
To find the center of the circle,
Like a town built on water,
Pitched footings yet ever eroding,
Their footsteps marking cadence,
Unending chimes of doom impending,
Self and place once separate,
Consummate here in actions devoid,
Those who were lowered by pride,
Moldering as risen ash returned,
Searching for what they know not,
To be entangled by serpents’ lies,
Fevered visions of the damned,
Lusting for the flesh of the living,
Soon to join the first fallen,
Trapped by their own perceived gravity,
The mass of death attracting,
The corruption of its own kindred,
Swaying the freedom of wills,
Tempting the words of the messenger,
We follow the Fisherman,
Whose breach left Hell lurching in its wake,
From the cavernous shadows,
We now turned toward the beckoning light,
Having fathomed the darkness,
To find its depth wanton and wanting,
Grieved, we left them to the night,
Dead ears hear neither thief, gate, nor keys,
Empty perceptions fall short,
He that protects, Justice is His name