Long Mont Poems
Long Mont Poems. Below are the most popular long Mont by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mont poems by poem length and keyword.
On the Continents of Earth
Awesome sights are for view
Fashioned for years
Astound me and you
Himalayan pillars dominate the skyline
The Andes of Chile, fall into line
The Rockies so apt, craggy and peaked
Mont Blanc so majestic, virgin snow steeped
Ayers Rock so purple and tribal
They are testament to Earths survival
What she shows high, she also keeps deep
Mariana Trench where Continents meet
The Grand Canyon, Colorado's walls
The delightful cascade of Angel Falls
The plains of Africa, so vast and green
Where marvellous herds are there to be seen
These most grandiose of lands, as if they float on oceans of blue
Solid and rigid, with emotions like me and you
Weather cycles, show anger and calm
And our Ozone layer, their to embalm
Every morning, we open our eyes to observe
Just a thought, it's not just Humans we serve.
If I were a mountain climber,
I’d always take the time
To check out superstitious lore
When choosing where to climb.
For recently an avalanche
Took several climbers’ lives.
I’m sure they left some grieving friends
And parents, children, wives.
This avalanche occurred in France.
Mont Blanc’s the mountain range;
But here’s the part that is, to me,
More obvious than strange.
The northern face of Mont Maudit
Is where the slide began.
The meaning of that name was not
A factor in their plan.
Or possibly, those mountaineers
Thought there was some mystique
To conquering a mountain
That’s defined as “cursed peak.”
With dangers in a sport like this,
I know I’d be averse
To setting out upon a peak
That’s burdened with a curse.
They thumbed their noses at the gods
Which is the kiss of death.
I wonder if they realized that
As they took their last breath.
“Absinthe”
Ancient petite green fairy,
dispenser of dreams vivid
In bar corners; this artistic
Madam, beckons the unwary.
Dignity falls beneath each pour,
dispenser of solitude encapsulates
between torn silk; its perfumed
whore, mont Venus in folklore.
Spinning giddy a celestial passion
dispenser of maggots all consuming
ego remains scattered; spilt lipped
wife, her lovers as dogs of a-fashion.
Oh petite liquid fairy so green
dispenser of timeless moon time
cold laying broken; a smudged jack
heart, jackass bitten, pale so lean.
Swirling in an andromeda ceiling
dispenser of ruination vomit bound,
breasts motion blurred; faceless mother
substitute, this fairy, with dawn deceiving .
Am I not exactly what you wanted to believe in.
You move through thoughts as smoke through the air invasive and sticky sticking to the conscious a millisecond per nanosecond hovering just there just long enough to register… the register your chemicals pattern know their way and flood and flow just enough to not let you know of what your unscious plans are for you,
And many have told you your profile is becoming and now you only speak to people with head turned and your eyes askew,
Hardwired into your physiology, your superior rectus and medial rectus on overtime,
Should you have the time to shoot the breeze…
You left me standing in Mont Martre dealing solo with the street vendors, who wanted the Euro and a peek up my skirt all the while trying to rip me off
Their invasive eyes spying at my legs…their psyches at full mast attempting to tempt me to part with currency. I am fluent in foolish.
Am I not exactly what you wanted me to believe in?
You are lost at sea, damaged and wave-weary desiring so much to reach a shore,
To hear a voice, hold a hand, human connection. You intentionally albeit unknowingly keep your self at sea, professing the need for solid earth under your feet
while all the while you wile-
away your time
upon salted, foam-crested waves you keep your mast full -- wind behind you directing you maintain your aqueous journey…It is the longing and pain you keep close to your breast. The longing is what you don’t profess: The longing is what you live for.
Are you not exactly what I wanted to believe in?
One size does not fit all and the shoe horn stuck out
Tim shooed away foot prints ghosts and memories
When the clock struck midnight at the end of the year
Not much had differed when the fire works stopped
But resolve had to tighten the strings attached to his soul
Colour from outside of the box seeped through inside
Varnished the leather and the diamond soles of his mind
Weather worn foot wraps were made for walking untoward
His nib had not faltered much but he changed his ink
From angry red to soothing violet and indigo shades
The fountain pen was still the same old Mont Blanc
And valleys and hill tops rose among magic mountains
But when he scratched the core of granite and gold
He decided to rub out volcanoes from burnt paper
Left just enough residue to shine through the pages
Snow boots slipped onto parched story narration
Sandals sneaked cautiously to the front of the stride
Loafers pumped springs into well trodden steps
Moccasins flip-flopped as time poured into sand
High heels towered over a platform of high tops
He wondered how it was to march in peaking stilettos
To parade in high heels and low altitude of change
As he approached the fields and trenches of Flanders
Planted poppy seeds resting on unmarked wooden graves
Tim paused in thought and replaced the cartridge once more
04th January 2020
Open the drawer you'll see a diary,
A wimpy kid full of anxiety,
Lean frame meek face all I got,
but I strolled blithely.
The first page got my expensive dreams covered,
A trip to the Alps in the shimmery Swiss summer,
then hike the Mont Blanc and write some for her,
sitting on the rocks sipping mild liquor,
tongue-in-cheek, whimsical humor.
On that note please turn over to the next page,
chips n antenna never held my gaze,
too late to pull out I must stay,
I must say,
I might pull this one off,
else my achievements be measured by a length gauge.
A grave predicament I'm stuck in,
maybe I need to do something,
maybe I need to be fronting,
but nothing surprises me anymore,
seeds I sowed shall be reaped come forth.
Page three demands me to rise above obscurity,
scale heights not meant to be,
Rake opulence not meant for me,
As right as rain, I want things to be.
For now, I'll hit the sack with a twinge of guilt,
cause I dreamt of things far ahead of me.
Paris idol,
Count of Monte Cristo square,
An angle,
Some graffiti red and purple,
At the last moment I paint:
Phantoms of vampires,
Sarcophagus in pyramid glass,
Portraits in the Louvre castle,
Milady dame,
I'm no longer a donor for this alien dragon,
Abel's blood cries,
This cry goes to the sky,
Two angels,
Lot's house,
Rue du Bac,
Chapel of the Miraculous Medal,
The night,
Notre-Dame in flames,
Fire has the form of the cathedral,
Above this country hexagonal,
Mont Saint Michel like a continent in contrast,
Yellow before blue light, cyan,
Here I'm condemned in orange,
"If they do it when the wood is green, what will happen when it's dry?!",
"Weep for yourselves and for your child",
The natural rainbow appears just now,
To require the blood from beast Cain,
That city full of formal and informal crimes,
Stones of Herod's Temple,
I build my Defense
By the Lamb and Lion,
Like precursor and forerunner Ivanhoe knight,
Too - the count by Mother Immaculate,
Lofty line of Bethlehem star,
On signature of Jonas' sign,
They disregard in vain,
In malignant blindness,
Even she, Lot's wife —
Open eyes shut —
Look at the sanhedrin of Caiaphas,
cardinal maniac Illuminati over time,
Death cap, warning,
A destroying angel over this town,
Amanita all in glossy pale,
Grow worse toward nuclear weapon,
Never to taste,
Chain reaction inside,
Dark hole, femme fatale eats all dwarfs,
Equals in bad,
Like Napoleon Bonaparte at the battle of Berezina,
Bullying fate in dance macabre,
Olympic gold medal for Salome and Herodias,
The gymnast from the exterior courtyard,
Without oil and vine,
In vain asking water from this market named "The Ladies' Delight",
Say my lighthouse on this very toxic planet, going to collapse,
Jean Valjean on Champ de Mars,
In my hand some flagrant clouds,
In flight.
Lake Léman must float
the weight of the city –
Its grey stolid affluence
needs hydraulic help.
Our paddle steamer chuffs
beyond the tall fountain.
For a while, grand houses
bob beside us.
In Geneva the poor must fit between
the opulence.
Up ahead, Mont Blanc,
and other Wagnerian massifs,
begin to shrink us into fisheyes.
Then sunlight spills its sky
into the deep waters.
Suddenly we are afloat on mountaintops!
I could be almost happy here
if we were not just renting this moment.
When we return to the city
the sky will be gray once more,
the poor will still be poor.
Outside the stylish patisseries,
sparrows will still fight for crumbs.