Long Monument Poems
Long Monument Poems. Below are the most popular long Monument by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monument poems by poem length and keyword.
Within the shadow of the crystal spires,
Where plains are painted by the frozen fires,
The field-logs track a monument of mass:
The heavy monarch of the golden grass.
Magnatropis vitreus is cataloged and known,
A living fusion of the quartz and bone,
A mountain walking on a six-fold frame
Of polished obsidian that no tool can tame.
Its segmented chassis, wide and heavily set,
Is wrapped in a translucent exoskeleton net,
A diamond-hard carapace, shimmering clear,
Through which its strange organs and vitals appear.
Its blood is a coolant of sapphire sheen,
Pulsing through valves that are easily seen,
While its eyes are bright clusters of compound gems—
Red ruby lenses on low-slung stems—
That do not track distance or predatory flight,
But map out the currents of deep quantum light,
Perceiving the drift of the space-time strand
As it sweeps through the grass of the perfect land.
Yet this titan of armor and crystalline skin
Is not built for malice, for war, or to win;
Its purpose is vital, a biological gear
That stabilizes the local biosphere.
Along its ribbed flanks, where the plates interlock,
Are rows of deep pores carved like vents in a rock.
It breathes in the nitrogen mists of the night,
The volatile vapors that choke out the light,
And filters the toxins through chambers of stone
Deep in the vaults of its vitreous bone.
With every slow breath of its massive domain,
It breathes out sweet oxygen over the plain,
A massive, organic, atmospheric pump,
Clearing the air with each heavy-set thump.
As it browses the plains where the light-flora grows,
It crushes the minerals left by the snows,
Its six grinding hooves tilling silicate sand
To scatter the nutrients across the ground,
A peaceful leviathan, quiet and grand,
It is the gardener-beast as it moves around.
The cheesecake in the bakery I want to devour,
dag-gone my crumbling willpower!
It's cherry topping so high,
makes me want to cry.
I walk on past the candy aisle,
and gaze at the cereal shelves awhile.
Euell Gibbon's "sticks and pebbles"
Grape Nuts brand-
that kind of breakfast I cannot stand.
Give me a cupcake piled with frosting,
never mind, the "guilt calisthenics"
afterwards would be exhausting!
Stepping on the scale I hate,
I'd much prefer Kit Harington was my date,
yes, that's quite a fantasy,
so bugger off- I'm in my sixties!
My slim grandchildren eat like lumberjacks,
I gain easily, my metabolism is wack,
their ice cream consumption is legendary,
as I scowl eating yogurt and boysenberries.
If there is a monument somewhere for us
who try to lose weight,
before they engrave my name on, do hesitate,
as I'm hiding in my room and munching
in the dark,
peanut butter patties Girl Scout cookies-
but don't give me any snark!
Stone and steel is my embrace,
A petrified dance in the grey expanse.
A cold monolithic grace…
I am jagged edges…
My soul claws at the barren sky.
I lie, a silent scream against the fading night.
Whispers of wind through fractured rock.
I dash my soul in foreign lands
a forgotten language etched in my bones.
Twisted metal limbs reach out,
an armature of my doubt,
grasping ghosts in the swirling dust.
A monument to my decay,
a testament to time's relentless march.
The weight of ages bears,
crushing memories into rust.
Yet, amidst the ruin,
a spark remains,
a flicker of defiance in these hollow eyes.
A testament to my lingering spirit,
a refusal succumb to the endless darkness.
Stone born of bone,
a weathered vertebra twisted insane
Raging against the manacled god.
Metal fingers clings,
a forgotten purpose,
a silent scream of industry.
Jagged edges bite the air
My mind is in free fall despair
My shadows pool like secrets
The earth opens
A wound that refuses to heal
I stand and defy the depths
Something stirs,
a memory,
a dream,
a fear.
Stone n metal
an ancient embrace,
All is forgotten between flesh n machine.
I whisper to the wind
stories of the monolith.
The eye of the storm,
blind and unseeing,
stares into the abyss,
A silent sentinel
secrets of a world
consumed by my shadows.
Summer 1932,
On a small country house in England
On a morning stroll through unharvest golden field
to explore, I can't help, but think that they're
dreams now, missing friends and friendship it yields.
It's up and down memorable times we shared.
A dream it sure is!
Here or there, I should find a space
to plant my cane,
its brunch time for tea and crumpets
when I really have a way to go.
A monument of sorts to what I have here.
All I can think now is the blazing sun over me.
It's the best place in the world
on a small patch of clearing I sit
and eat crumpets with a cup of tea
amongst the standing field of caramel wheat.
9/22/2017
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The pond froze so suddenly that a duck mid-quack
found its bill glued shut, an absurd ice sculpture.
Mrs. Harlow’s terrier, mid-leap, hung suspended in the air
like a fuzzy comma, punctuating nothing.
The streetlamps blinked, then hardened into amber icicles—
even the wind gave up, curling into itself for warmth.
Old Man Greeley, halfway through shaking his fist at a squirrel,
became a monument to irritation, his mittens stiff with frost.
The children, though, were the first to notice:
they pressed their tongues to the icy slide at the park
stealing the cold for themselves.
The Cromlech
Roots do not grow in monolith mono-light mono-life
the flat stone of wisdom balances on light and darkness
No moon without the sun the stars the little me in Universe
frightened fortunate translucent transparent transitional opaque
in contrasts contradiction’s complements of polar opposites
Shadows sparkle brightly finding openings from the dark the black
the void the awful vortex depressing tunnel vision prism’s shelter
shining illuminations shade pride pre-judgement enlighten intuition
embrace and cover cracks and crevices they join together
Rainbows and rain-glows rain-blows’ flows do not patronise
once they emerge who the patron wants to be born from the yew
tree of at times annoying living in the village called home and the self
The bark the oval berries leafs ramifications are not vicious or vindictive
the energy and water systems nutrients therein are so amazing
the change and growths broken branches withered sentiments sediments
are what we make of them grim gruesome delightful and victorious
if we so choose the path that shines in light and darkness blazing
brightness in the tedious awful gloom yet sooty glitters' solemn soiree
Life is but a temporary solar lunar inter-webbed ensemble a tree
a monument museum’s nature’s pantograph perspective pre- and
post-historic past and future present future-past a balancing of one
on other you and I of stone of tree and fruit compost and new beginnings
and every moment is a prelude grounded foreplay focal lens and blossom
A Cromlech Dolmen celebration lightness juxtaposed nocturne and moon
24th July
The summer grass of Montana waves in the heat of the noon,
Where the valley of the Little Bighorn waits beneath the silent moon;
The cottonwoods whisper along the river, the winding waters flow,
Unknowing the storm that gathers close, the impending grief and woe.
A nation of lodges spreads wide on the plain, the Sioux and Cheyenne and the brave,
Gathered in freedom to hunt and to live by the river's cool wave;
With Sitting Bull's vision of soldiers that fell like grass in the gale,
And Crazy Horse riding to shield the camp from the encroaching trail.
Down from the ridge comes the Seventh Cavalry, banners of dust in the air,
Led by the general with yellow-ringed hair, riding away from despair;
Divided the forces, the columns unlinked, marching to strike at the heart,
Believing the foe would scatter and run before the first shot could start.
The valley awakens to thunder of hooves, the crack of the repeating gun,
As Reno makes contact and crosses the river beneath the fierce afternoon sun;
The smoke rolls thick through the timbered brush, the panic and chaos arise,
And troopers retreat to the circle of wagons, amid the dust-blinded skies.
Then Custer presses the northernmost rise, seeking the flank of the camp,
Hearing the drumming of thousands of feet and the earth-shaking tramp;
Out of the coulees the warriors pour, countless as stars in the night,
A tide of resistance, fierce and unyielding, entering into the fight.
Arrows like rain blot the bright summer sky, the rifle-fire echoes around,
And riderless horses run wild through the smoke across the blood-spattered ground;
Circle by circle, the trap closes fast wholly engulfed at the foot of the sun-blasted hill,
As the sound of the shooting begins to recede and the valley grows eerily still.
On Last Stand Hill the blue uniforms fade in the dust and the heat,
A tragic collision of empires and fates, a moment of bitter defeat;
The shadows stretch long as the twilight descends, wrapping the slain in its shroud,
While the victors look out o'er the silent expanse, unbroken, defiant, and proud.
Now the grass grows green on the battlefield slope, where monuments whisper of old,
Of the stories of courage and sorrow and loss that history forever will hold;
Where the waters of Bighorn still wind through the plain,
Lies a monument carved where the spirits remain.
SEPTEMBER'S POSTSCRIPT
The amber calendar dissolves,
leaving September behind to
inherit the melancholic residue
of our ephemeral summer.
The equinox arrives, a quiet
guillotine of gold,
servering the incandescent
warmth we used to hold.
September recedes, leaving a
skeletal landscape behind,
and the calcified architecture of
a love designed
in the reckless crucible of July's
blinding blaze,
now reduced to the twilight of
these shortening days.
Your absence is a reminiscence
that deeply hyperventilates,
an unforgettable phantom that
never truly abates.
I am trapped in the
retrospection of your quiet
silhouette,
navigating the imperishable
cartography of my own regret.
Every fallen leaf is a
memorandum of what we
could not save,
a fragile, amber monument
above a silent, emotional grave.
I am paralyzed by this heavy,
internal compunction,
standing alone at our love's
abandoned junction.
The autumn wind whisper of a
bittersweet commemoration,
of a fleeting, brilliant spark lost
to sudden isolation.
September leaves behind the
frost of what will never be,
locking your ghost forever in
the vault of my memory.
Baiano is my charming Campanian town,
at the foot of the Paterno's mountain,
noble roman settlers came to build their villas,
but the barbarians and Spartacus ransacked it;
then other invaders: the Normans, the Hungarians,
the Swedish and Spaniards occupied it!
Baiano is an ancient town, not as widely famous
as many northern towns, but keeps up with the modern times;
come here in springtime, and see the season's enchantment:
sunflowers and lilies fields spread out in the misty distance...
as the orange and apple trees dress in green and wait
for the magical summer for that palatable fragrance!
In the soccer fields, kids play in the hot afternoons
while their parents watch them from colorful shades;
the elders sit in their comfortable plastic chairs,
napping under the shade of a casual oak tree,so tall,
planted by a student on Earth Day many summers ago...
and he proudly stands by it counting its living years!
O adorable town, left by me, for social reasons when
I was forced to flee and leave this youth undone,
with friends I hung out in the church's yard...
to kick that ball in the net, and become elated;
could I have gotten all that energy from the southern sun,
which has nothing to envy the colder northern one!
From the wide steps of the Gothic church with a sturdy door,
I raised those childish eyes and gazed at the beautiful facade,
and wondered what inspired the architect
to build such an immortal monument
so heavily damaged by the last earthquake,
but the Baianese people brought it to its previous splendor!
In my charming Campanian town without a stream,
there is a large square with oak trees on both sides,
and right in the middle the Fallen Soldiers' monument...
for the brave ones who went up north to fight the invaders;
and the blood they shed was for my freedom,
and these verses will be read by everyone in the land!
Neighbors and friends you have gotten older or passed away,
and all of you who are alive: lament with me its by-gone glory!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
That three-dimensional solid so symmetrical,
Suggests how life could be - understandable,
With only six faces, all square for equal sides,
And a formulae to describe what makes us stable.
This staple of stability is taken, unchallenged and assumed -
The rational is included unthinkingly in life’s plethora:
Carted to anchor that which horrifies and saddens,
And bread to float and strike chords which harken.
You can also make a cube into a sphere,
That circular goddess that looks like a globe,
Reminiscent of the earth’s fullness and dwelling,
With freedom, liberty and happiness so giving.
It has space, dimensions and co-ordinates,
And its tesseract is plottable on a graph;
Other polyhedra can be related to it
Its symmetry mutations of tilings laugh.
Understanding and sense derive themselves well -
You can't laugh at the cube’s skeleton;
Furnished, not flawed or gaunt by posture,
It's structure sits regally for exposure.
Descriptions are it's glory, that flushing realism,
The Cubism movement pushed academic boundaries;
Said that paintings can be made of shapes and cubes,
Which built a monument to reductionism’s theories.
That we can be reduced down to basic matter,
Particles, atoms, cells and molecules,
Is cubism's gust and enterprise for all,
Who gather so as to hear its paintings flatter.
I love cubes, and always have,
They’ve offered hope in times of despair;
Their eloquence and beauty spark with naturalism,
With natural life’s inevitable repair.