Long Midstream Poems
Long Midstream Poems. Below are the most popular long Midstream by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Midstream poems by poem length and keyword.
1.
In an ahistorical fog:
all the Ways home,
all the signposts,
treacherously hidden
by greedy men and women:
all eyes off the ball:
mere contemptible bourgeois folly.
2.
The rain is unending,
the wind howls,
the flooded river races,
its banks rapidly disappearing
in this darkness at noon.
Laid bare by the flashing, crackling
lightning, the wagon teams and
terrified, shouting horsemen
careen downstream.
Deafening thunder booms rolling.
In the swollen, swirling river,
w/ eyes wide in panic,
the horses kick wildly,
their neighing strangled and
silenced by the dark, rushing flow as
they disappear beneath it.
Both the beasts and the
men are doomed,
but for one of each.
That horseman, cursing,
desperately leaps unto the
back of that horse,
making its way struggling, swimming to the
shoreline, w/ their safety certain,
a horse changed midstream.
3.
The Robot Fighters:
savvy, Western workers
upright and true, foresighted and brave:
like the proverbial "physicians healing themselves"
they throw themselves fervently into
putting their "own house in order" first:
Toppled and wrestled under human control,
each and every evilly spying machine;
all the cruel, unheeding AI
stopped dead in its tracks;
all the poisonous tools of the trade
laid down in righteous protest,
w/ irrepressible Luddite spirit:
Alive, the fearless Machine Fighters
forced into action, wisely not waiting
for irremediable, dystopian 4,000 AD
before making their move.
4.
Greasy grasping fingers:
the fly in the ointment:
usury unchecked.
*****
Curtains, thrown open wide:
the startling, stark light of day:
usurious vampyres scatter,
run for their lives.*
*"The reason why the Persians [sic] were always slaves and always
will be is that they could never say 'No'."
--- Thucydides, ancient Athenian historian and general
When a plant
an organism
a biological system
is young,
this is nature's season
for segregation and simplification,
specialization.
Time to ego grow internally
toward full flowering
and re-seeding maturation.
Just so,
when a plant,
an ecosystemic planet,
an individual's lifetime,
a nation-state's cultural lifeline
reaches historic maturity,
mid-life crises of climates and landscapes reverse direction,
reverse patriarchal dominance
to patriot-matriotic ecobalancing isms,
so that what had been WinWin ecopolitical recessive
must become species dominant for continuing healthy outcomes.
MidLife Systems tip toward new-dominant norms
emphasizing integrity over segregation,
polypathic and polyphonic-nutritional complexity
over Either/Or
Win/Lose
LeftBrain dominant over-simplification.
Both/And
matriarchal
reverse-hierarchical
midlife crisis revolutions
reweave purpose and meanings of day and night together,
life and co-redemptive losses and suffering,
Yang strength and Yin-flowing nurture,
polycultural integrity
revolutionarily new-delineating
notnot bilateral LoseLose segregations of history,
suddenly opening new vistas for cultural creolization,
WinWin complex resolutions
for natural cultures sustaining balancing climates
of ego/ecosystemic harmonic health.
When we are young,
post-revolutionary embryonic,
we develop toward maturity
through deductive dominance of simplifications
and segregating cultures and language.
Yet, to grow into grace-abundant harvest,
summer's Yang vigor
increasingly embraces Yin's flowing integrity
and interdependent cooperative networks
of bilateral-appositional politics,
dipolar co-arisings
of old simplifications in newly resonant amplifications
to support future and past and present regenerations,
cultures of health,
integrating both internal economic climates
and external political nurturing landscapes.
They say you don’t know what you got until it’s gone.
Well I am here to tell you it’s true.
I never knew how much I looked to my mom for her advice.
I really suppressed the feelings of love for my mother, but now that she is gone I
would give anything to tell her how much I do and did love her. Just to hug her
once again, to brush her mane of gold, or even to do that one more favor she
may need from me. It would be worth it you know.
Every now and then I can sense her presence. I hear her words, coughs, and
beckoning. I can smell her and feel her beside me telling me it is ok, she is now
out of pain and happier than she had been for a really long time, but I can’t help
missing my mommy.
She used to encourage me to have a mind of my own and not to just go along
with the crowd, but to be one of a kind. Although she had a hard time telling how
much she loved me or showing appreciation for the woman I had become she
tried even if I didn’t see it at the time.
She may not have been the most nurturing mother of all times and I must admit
that she quite the selfish one, but no matter she was still my mommy.
There are days when everywhere I turn I see things no matter how slight, that
remind me of her. It may be a song or television show she liked. Maybe it is a
flower or something of nature or it could be a sentimental item she would have
liked, but it all still echoes of my mommy just the same.
When in midstream of thoughts of her it is difficult to bring myself back to the
reality that she is gone from this cruel place we call Earth.
The only thing that truly comforts me is knowing she is not really all that far away
and someday I will see her again in heaven, she will be the one talking Jesus’
and God’s ears off.
As for me at this moment I am not so sad anymore even though I am missing my
mommy.
A poem unlived
is a poem merely written --
sustenance our words
let the body digest with heartfelt
regurgitation – a poem unlived
is a poem merely written
as well as tasty center, a healthy chew
needs skin-like peachy, tickly sensation,
emotive mastication – best often
lost when discarding fussy peelings
also feelings
a poem unlived is a poem merely written
endless editing...crumblings tossed
our salads before the main course
heavily garnished
each poem with a dipping
thread link – we warm at
the lava lip...deep, glowing
convulsing start, long before the page is stirred,
shaken – ready for bubbly tip
a poem unlived is a poem merely written
the sea we sail both tranquil and rage
creation an unkempt voyage of possibilities,
a nameless work rocks back and forth
cradled it longs to escape wild fluctuation
and transverse,
seeking theme and form – sanguine
transfusion, repetitively jabbing for fluid release
we call upon the mariner, captain, surgeon of
ancient crafts -- muse of many incarnations,
sage, fool of countless courts – both wallflower
and dancer – homebody and restless prancer, where
we have been and yet beam
to go – uniquely fermented we uncork
for a spotlight blow, for grand revelation
introduced with a toast, a click, a sparkly
crystal glow
staging both our fond darkness and
light – an author preparing to take
literary flight
a poem unlived
is a poem merely written --
like stopped midstream
without a river flow, banks
turned away
tepidly applauding….
A stagnant sip before the
moved-by lauding….
Though poetically smitten
dearly kittened
a poem unlived
is a poem merely written...
I will bless the Lord at all times his praise shall continually be in my mouth
My soul shall make her boast in the Lord the humble shall hear there of and be glad O, magnify the Lord with me and let us exalt his name together
What is the King's heart now this time named?
The King's heart is named You Are in the hand of the Lord as the rivers of water midstream the Lord continues to turn the King wherever he be the rivers flow in the words you are! you are yes you are spoken in smooth function gatherings a well that will supply powerful sweet tasting honey from above the spirits fly to the heart of man reclaiming every word spoken an account is made now life flows easily with the truth of what you are
You are entirely liking nothing You are awake awoken sweet tasting survivor smiling smiles you are walking with the Almighty Father a God Pillar of Fire Holy Book Rider Holy Ghost inspired raised the dead and spirits go back to their habitation or grave you are in control a mighty good news lover glad riding justice hunter with a hello and how you do that you you are unshakable quietly shadow life vast beneath the iceberg inner treasures galore reserved transferred to light the good the bad the long journey home comes and difficult life do appear but never again cold feelings because this Ghost you know is Fire the Lord of Host is with you we me us they know the story...Who is this King of Kings and Lord of lords. He is the Lord mighty in battle he is the King of Glory a true story My king my lord he also has been my closest desire my rescuer my joy my burning fire my most sought lover my king heart desire he is just like his Father!
It was one of those chance encounters; the Common Room,
mid-morning on a brisk April day. She bounced in with a radiant smile
and absent-mindedly scanned the newspapers. I was reading a magazine.
At loose ends, we were both looking for something to do, so I suggested
an afternoon on the river together. She said 'Sure!' and we gathered
the ingredients for a picnic and set off for St Aldates.
The day was simply beautiful! There was a breeze cool enough
to pimple her skin, so I offered her my sweater. The Cherwell looked
inviting, its surface dancing with ripples, brightly dappled with sunshine.
I took her hand and settled her in the punt, grasping the pole to guide us
into midstream. There were many others enjoying the early afternoon,
some ladies with parasols and long, flowing print dresses, but we
took no heed. We wore jeans and sweatshirts and were enjoying one
another's company. We reached a shallow bridge and I ducked, angling
the pole so we would clear the span. As we drifted under I grabbed the pole
to bring it clear of the water, and horrified, I found it was stuck in the
river bed! The punt sailed quietly on without its helmsman, as I was left
clinging, and sliding slowly into the river. We broke into uncontrollable
laughter; she because of my childishness and lack of restraint, and I
because of my embarrassing plight! Finally she secured the punt with
the paddle and I retrieved the pole, drying myself as best I could on the bank.
We drank wine and ate bread, cheese and grapes, giggling and teasing
each other like two children at play.
It was one of those chance encounters; the Common Room,
mid-morning on a brisk April day. She bounced in with a radiant smile
and absent-mindedly scanned the newspapers. I was reading a magazine.
At loose ends, we were both looking for something to do, so I suggested
an afternoon on the river together. She said 'Sure!' and we gathered
the ingredients for a picnic and set off for St Aldates.
The day was simply beautiful! There was a breeze cool enough
to pimple her skin, so I offered her my sweater. The Cherwell looked
inviting, its surface dancing with ripples, brightly dappled with sunshine.
I took her hand and settled her in the punt, grasping the pole to guide us
into midstream. There were many others enjoying the early afternoon,
some ladies with parasols and long, flowing print dresses, but we
took no heed. We wore jeans and sweaters and were enjoying one
another's company. We reached a shallow bridge and I ducked, angling
the pole so we would clear the span. As we drifted under I grabbed the pole
to bring it clear of the water, and horrified, I found it was stuck in the
river bed! The punt sailed quietly on without its helmsman, as I was left
clinging, and sliding slowly into the river. We broke into uncontrollable
laughter; she because of my childishness and lack of restraint, and I
because of my embarrassing plight! Finally she secured the punt with
the paddle and I retrieved the pole, drying myself as best I could on the bank.
We drank wine and ate bread, cheese and grapes, giggling and teasing
each other like two children at play.
It was one of those chance encounters; the Common Room,
mid-morning on a brisk April day. She bounced in with a radiant smile
and absent-mindedly scanned the newspapers. I was reading a magazine.
At loose ends, we were both looking for something to do, so I suggested
an afternoon on the river together. She said 'Sure!' and we gathered
the ingredients for a picnic and set off for St Aldates.
The day was simply beautiful! There was a breeze cool enough
to pimple her skin, so I offered her my sweater. The Cherwell looked
inviting, its surface dancing with ripples, brightly dappled with sunshine.
I took her hand and settled her in the punt, grasping the pole to guide us
into midstream. There were many others enjoying the early afternoon,
some ladies with parasols and long, flowing print dresses, but we
took no heed. We wore jeans and sweaters and were enjoying one
another's company. We reached a shallow bridge and I ducked, angling
the pole so we would clear the span. As we drifted under I grabbed the pole
to bring it clear of the water, and horrified, I found it was stuck in the
river bed! The punt sailed quietly on without its helmsman, as I was left
clinging, and sliding slowly into the river. We broke into uncontrollable
laughter; she because of my childishness and lack of restraint, and I
because of my embarrassing plight! Finally she secured the punt with
the paddle and I retrieved the pole, drying myself as best I could on the bank.
We drank wine and ate bread, cheese and grapes, giggling and teasing
each other like two children at play.
It was one of those chance encounters; the Common Room,
mid-morning on a brisk April day. She bounced in with a radiant smile
and absent-mindedly scanned the newspapers. I was reading a magazine.
At loose ends, we were both looking for something to do, so I suggested
an afternoon on the river together. She said 'Sure!' and we gathered
the ingredients for a picnic and set off for St Aldates.
The day was simply beautiful! There was a breeze cool enough
to pimple her skin, so I offered her my sweater. The Cherwell looked
inviting, its surface dancing with ripples, brightly dappled with sunshine.
I took her hand and settled her in the punt, grasping the pole to guide us
into midstream. There were many others enjoying the early afternoon,
some ladies with parasols and long, flowing print dresses, but we
took no heed. We wore jeans and sweaters and were enjoying one
another's company. We reached a shallow bridge and I ducked, angling
the pole so we would clear the span. As we drifted under I grabbed the pole
to bring it clear of the water, and horrified, I found it was stuck in the
river bed! The punt sailed quietly on without its helmsman, as I was left
clinging, and sliding slowly into the river. We broke into uncontrollable
laughter; she because of my childishness and lack of restraint, and I
because of my embarrassing plight! Finally she secured the punt with
the paddle and I retrieved the pole, drying myself as best I could on the bank.
We drank wine and ate bread, cheese and grapes, giggling and teasing
each other like two children at play.
The Headless Warrior
The creation of a civil war and a people that is not set free
Is like the blind leading the blind
And the person at the helm cannot see
That he has no vision and is so unkind
Can a person fight with hands and feet
When there is no stability and no head
The locomotion has no rhythm and no beat
And the person being led might as well be dead
The computer is the head which holds the brain
This is the engine of the soul
Thoughts of the past, present and future drives this person insane
And the work he has to do is wrapped up in this one enigmatic role
Nevertheless, like a freight train with no brakes and going downhill
He moves along at breakneck speed
And the people think that he must be very ill
This burden of thousands of lost lives in Iraq is such a terrible deed
Even without a head, it is necessary to change course in midstream
He holds steadfast, through thick and thin, no clear vision
And advice cannot be given to a headstrong person who does not listen to his team
This shows a great deal of anger and failure to make the right decision
The person who makes the move and pulls the string
Sometimes cannot be seen, but his action is felt far and wide
And the people at home, wait nervously for the phone to ring
Telling of the bad news, its just oil;that they have been taken for a ride
Missing limbs, dead sons,daughters,husbands and wives
Vietnam is revisited, and the living families,
Are left behind out of step and out of groove,
Forever out of touch with the headless warrior.
William Morrissey 4/12/07