Long Millennia Poems
Long Millennia Poems. Below are the most popular long Millennia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Millennia poems by poem length and keyword.
What are your most winterish
critical trauma events
in these most recent
three millennia?
Why
just my traumas?
Why not their corresponsive
therapies
for restoring EarthJustice?
Please go on
and on
questioning my questions
seemingly without end,
like an arctic wind-blown
starless night
in eternally restless January.
As you say,
and, but for this grand analogy,
you would pay dearly
for your unsprung youth,
Back in pre-colonial daze
of sacred tribal glad,
mostly naked clad
reunions
Fall harvests produced fertile gratitude,
more of a positive
win/win attitude.
In those last warm and golden times
of nature nighttime naivete
some Governor,
a Wise Elder, perhaps
No matter how Patriarchal,
would deep dream
to set defenses against
each sacred Other
Yet pantheistically inclusive Mother Earth
could not feel ripe
or right, apart
Summer fullness
and winter dormant absence
fail to positively correlate
Earth's spirited spring minds
and physical womb-falling bodies
with metaphysical,
sacred bipartisan,
deeply thoughtful
yet hibernating
frustrated feelings
failing to confluently
and competently understand
Communicating
and excommunicating
across seasons
and present seas
of sacred vulnerable immigration
integration
creolization,
followed by thoughtfully transparent
slow-grown emigrant sacred status
rooted in wisdom
and freedom to grow copassions,
not mere freedom from
some other kindless
kingdom
Immigrating/Emigrating EarthTribes
exhaling summer's sway
away
migrating winter's WombDream play
back in to sacred circling
and recycling stay.
Thanks for that,
Aunt Eartha.
Sounds like less of a summery answer
and more of a deep wintering question.
Yes, my dear,
and what does winter taste
and look
and feel like?
Restoring Earth's
not-quite-so-everlasting
seemingly endless
cold white privilege,
Thawing into
more spring/fall balance,
green/blue global
hibernating
matriarchal,
yet apparently dormant,
sacred honed ecologists.
Sorry, Aunt Eartha,
drifting off,
wandering in winter wonder
EcoTherapy, once around again,
regenerating global
GoldenPlaying Peace
Within this silent wintered star's
bright prolific night.
It is so lonely
having all time
and only spaciousness
to themselves.
Bored with Other
after so many millennia
planning future events
to finally get even for ungrateful behavior
that pissed them off
when they were even younger
in their co-evolving relationships
as not each Other.
Time lies dead in their competing hands
yet dynamic in their displaced designs
for emerging future climate changes,
great transitions,
spaces and places to regenerate a more cooperative atmosphere
among these co-arising Gods
of Energy and Air,
Water and Soil,
Fire
and Golden AnthroDivine Elixirs.
To drink this beverage of Timeless Gods and Goddesses
is to travel through time Their bilateral Selves
aware of fear as Other godless fear
of Their own Elder divine relationships
transactions
Selecting
Gods of political MonoTheistic Correctness
with Capital-Infested Designs
for self-perpetuating
lost humane development
and wealthy mind
healing EarthBody design
for future multicultural millennia
Future therapeutic chapters
in our collective ReGeneration Story
of Passion/Pleasure
intimate GodNesses.
A lonely lovely story,
from panentheistic perspective
of polyculturally communing gods and goddesses.
All that loving grace of healthy integrity,
yet so few dreams in which to unload
their rich full-octaved color
and inspiraling fluency
of Me/We
humane divines
severed/sacred
double-side divides
EarthGrace
re-stimulating AnthroLovely gratitude;
such steady-state resonant bliss
vexing passionate struggles to erupt outside
inside timeless dramatic elation
without climaxing end
All alone,
hiding monolithic divested blame
without exclusively Self-invested
merely human
shamefully ungodly
dispassionately unpleasant
desecrated lesser Others
ReTexting hate-filled UnTruth scriptures
as if anger/fear bipolar prescriptions
while ting toxins
on His Golden MonoPolistic Throne.
Sailor I can't claim to be,
yet I heard the siren's call,
when I first beheld the tower of steel
rising o'er blue waves so tall.
Miles beyond where man can walk,
and miles deeper still,
the hand of our collective race
can still exert its will.
Past azure depths,
past murky gloom,
past miles of rock,
to history's tomb.
And - oh! - what surges in the soul!
What wonders to behold,
that drives the heart of enterprise
as we chase down the gold.
Strength of iron,
song of steel -
how can it be such things are real?
Power of titans brought to bear
with precision close as a mother's care.
And if it were gift from the stars,
it might not seem so strange.
But, lo, men as I have fashioned it -
How glorious our range!
Millennia of knowledge,
centuries of industry,
decades of skills applied for years,
to bring such a thing to be.
And oh the lives that fashioned it!
Designed it, built it strong,
and keep it living on the seas
to sing its siren song.
Written 12 May 2023 on helicopter ride from Gulf of Mexico to Houma, LA after tour of the Valaris DS-16 drillship
When I lift my eyes, the sky offers no stars,
only missiles parading with arrogance.
Before me, mountains of corpses rise,
my pupils dilated by human savagery.
Humanity has been consuming itself for millennia,
and I bear the guilt of all those cowards
who watch peoples fade away
behind screens, instructing the purveyors of war.
I arrived in this macabre dimension
like so many innocents cut down by bombs.
The Earth groans under the assaults of unbalanced men,
who plunder its entrails,
who sow hatred, death, and chaos
since time immemorial.
The oceans vomit waves of cadavers,
the hurricanes carry the scent of desolation and fear.
Nations crumble beneath the laughter of tyrants,
and children, bare-handed, learn to count
the bodies falling into the mud of oblivion.
I walk amidst these ruins,
listening to the groaning of stones,
a powerless witness to the unchained pride of men.
Crushed hearts weep for their torn roots,
death swallows secrets that no one tells,
and the sky has become nothing but a theater of fire and iron.
In this open-air junkyard,
the sparks of love persist, stubbornly burning,
like a breath even death cannot smother.
Our final hour draws near
As the pillars of the earth
Are raised above the threshold
The human condition of primeval primitivity
It's tribal, and civilized devices
Our cherished, but brittle
and unstable societal constructs
Have been refined and pondered upon
By wisemen for a millennia
But they remain all the same
of gold and jewel hoarding merchant swine
Or the Lord of the land which still
Holds in his hand the peasant lives
have existed Since the days of Christ.
Fortunes and prestige was made
On backs of the slaves of man
No longer slaves of one color race or Creed
Be it the blindly led masses, or the ones
Who exist to fill a pair of Jack boots
To crush any who oppose the will of few
Imposed upon the liberty and lives of
the inumerable many
Kept in listless contention
like precious cattle cargo kept in comfort
In the moments before slaughter
No use for livestock who no longer can be soothed
By the noise of the static which has kept them subjugated
Slaves, by whatever name designated
As a product of which the era produces for them
Today still remained shackled
Even as they no longer have chains
To bind the spirit or flesh
The forgotten
Will not be extinguished
They writhe in ancestral rage
Their enemy oppressors
Shall be cleansed as pennance
In the fires of retribution
But the end will be swift
with coming winds of changes
Which will blow with the sands of time
Eroding the stone inscribed with the epitaph of humanity
"What hope could there be, for us, when the light that we possessed
Our compassion, the goodness of man,
is something learned and not inherent in our souls
And bring the torrent of uncivilized upheaval
Tearing us like weeds from their earthly respite
Grinding and rending us in our vessels
back into the soil and seas.
Relinquished to the warn embrace
of our celestial mothers womb
As she plants the cosmic seeds
Sowed in the brilliance of her aeons
And which grew the bountiful harvests
that fueled our creation
And let us to thrive
as we found our way
through a cruel,
but natural order of selection
The anomallic flux
In a fluid plasticity of
Biological machinations
LIFE
Life is a gift
But we have never cared
Destruction of the rain forest
And no animal is spared
Arise great Pro-man
Now raise up your sword
Do not let materialism deceive you
So stick to your word
The petroleum wells will dry up some day
And they will be no money for you to pay with in that way
The gold mines will diminish one day
And there will be no fields for our children to play
Arise Pro-human
Defend mother earth
Do not think of wealth
Or all that you can get
Life is beautiful
So let us be dutiful
As a Good Samaritan
And help your fellow African
Chinese or European
In need
To create a paradise devoid of greed
That is what I call Utopia
Not until we die
When it is all over
We can not let the children suffer
I have seen pain in my old days
The weak rise
And the mighty fall
Armies rise to fight at the clarion call
Only the truth remains
Like a tree that stands tall
In the next millennia where shall we be?
Vanity after vanity
The rest is history
Life is a gift
And love is a blessing
Let us unite this world
And teach a good lesson
To be fair, Shakespeare
got the jump on roses,
used up all the best descriptions.
It's bad enough we're out here
pretending to be Ada Limón and Billy Collins,
only to wax about the break
of a clichéd organ
in relation to a common flower.
A flower I can't keep alive
in the backyard
but that somehow persists
in the collective consciousness—
hardy in symbol, finicky in soil—
for more than a millennia.
My first husband used to say
I had a parts-per-million nose,
could sniff out a broccoli lunch
from two weeks ago,
if I kissed him.
I rarely did,
which is how I met my second one—
the one who said I smelled like garlic
before a storm, and meant it
as a compliment.
I used to believe there was something
to be learned from that.
But the point is, the guts of a thing—
what makes it beat, or bloom,
or cling to a wooden stick—
is as a god,
or how corndogs are made:
it is ineffable.
In yesteryear the wind was full of battles
Now the wind is still,
Only the ground is active, nourishing itself from the blood of countless sacrifices.
Wild flowers bloom around the spoiled spoils.
"Never again, shall I take up arms," he swore
To the sky, to his God, to the wind, whichever would hear him.
His fists clenched, he beat the air with his rage.
A rage that stemmed from thousands of conflicts,
Over countless millennia
From bare hands and to ultra-nuclear weapons
The results are the same:
The ground drinks fresh blood again from endless human sacrifices.
There are no winners or losers. Only the ground, the wind, the rocks will continue to strive long after we are gone. And the wild flowers will bloom once more in the light of our fading sun.
Hear Him
I am a returning pilot,
Climbing home from days of yore.
I sit in vast arraignment,
A fresh host unit to deploy.
My life on earth a test.
Fearless work to reap the spoil.
An open time upon investment,
Eternal millennia to rejoice.
I love to be with kindred friends,
Who did first their time employ,
In suffering their crosses to all ends,
In recourse of reasons we all enjoy.
So many acts of love, and tests won.
The thoughts of my heart His,
My mind’s intents, in the Son.
His will my core, my anthem, “He lives!”
In us His royal essence does reside.
As His ministers and grateful servants,
We the children of God in Him abide,
In blessings of righteous observance.
The meek inherit commandments with great delight.
Faithful endurance welcomes in eternal light.
Charity opens our spirit’s eyes to glorious, loving insight.
Forgiveness is the gift of our salvation’s highest right.
Through covenant living, realizing the price and prize,
With repentance, baptism; receiving Gift of Holy Spirit.
Broken, contrite, sweetly remembering our Lord’s sacrifice.
Dining with Him in solemn, sacred sacrament rite, “Hear ye Him!”
On a life-boat passing through Time, making its way to the island of timely order(s).
Surrounded by death/decay and birth/unmanifested on the other side.
Surfing/Suffering on the waves of Time.
Maybe tonight.
The meaning of words change all the Time.
Unable to find meaning if not rooted in Time.
Counting up or counting down either way you are keeping Time.
Yet taking the Time to Time Time.
If Life is a zero sum game, what's the shortest interval that you have achieved this at?
Millennia, centuries, years, days or seconds ? M-C-IIIVIV-i-d?
Letting go generates space and time thus centering oneself in the present moment.
With precision and ease as in any clockmaker's watch.
The Sands of Time scatter as the hourglass shatters, turning to sand over Time.
Yet Time will keep its own Time.
Unless blocked by these very particles of sand.
Even though the books in the library are buried.
My spoken words will echo throughout Time.
Yet keep running out of sync in this fast changing world.
Acceptable losses by aiding incoherence.
As I await my Trial by Numbers.