Home » Poems » Long Poems » Mountain

Long Mountain Poems

Long Mountain Poems. Below are the most popular long Mountain by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mountain poems by poem length and keyword.

The Cannibal

In the night the wolves howl in the distance,
As the spring lambs bay, with the first stirrings of life,
Close lies the pack of humanity, those for whom hunger for the
Fresh taste of the blooding’s first strike, at the throats of innocence
Most pure!
Have they gone suddenly silent, these yearlings tender lambs,
In the stilled quiet amongst the melting snows of winter,
The mountain fields run crimson, and an eerie stench oozing
Upon the winds of distain!
The cannibal lies within the forest of the towered halls, 
In the giant fortresses of mankind, he does stalk amongst his own brethren,
No wolfed bite of treachery could leave such a mark of
Terror, as he the beast, whom would feast upon the raw flesh
Of his kindred kind!
A gentlemen chamleon blending amongst the tailcoats
Of learned men, sheathed within the amour of intelligence's,
A humanistic wolf moves flawlessly, within the herds of the
Meek and mild, to pick his victims of the city flock 
At his leisure of desires pleasure!
Underneath the outstretched wings of the red dragon,
The bubbling caldron pot of truest evil, does runneth over,
With the gravy’s leavening's of the corruption and violence,
Welcoming this creature of the demonic to the dinning 
Table of the unrighteous and wicked!
Black sheep, black sheep, do you have any wool,
The whittend lamb does ask, nay but in the woods
Therein, lies many go within the wolves din and take
What you like at your own risk of course, my innocent
Friend, but beneath the blackened skinned wool the 
Wolf does smile, with a sheepish grinning!
In an extravagant restaurant a well-mannered gentlemen,
Orders the specialty of the house to go, later he adds
He adds his special ingredients, spiced to the taste
Buds of the cook himself, it sizzles with an unusual 
Oromia of well-cooked human flesh, the cannibal
Smiles with delight at his culinary masterpiece,
As the police knock at his door, with a missing
Persons report!
In the jail cell of the lost souls, he the cannibal known
As Hannibal Lector has no regrets, except say one,
The meal he never got to finish! 
In the night the wolves howl in the distance,
As the spring lambs bay, with the first stirrings of life,
Close lies the pack of humanity, those for whom hunger for the
Fresh taste of the blooding’s first strike, at the throats of innocence
Most pure!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

darkfearhalloweenholidayhorror

Form: Free verse

Wagontire Oregon For Poem a Thon

April 6 Wagontire, Oregon 
1973

In 1973, I went on a road trip 
With my father

We left Berkeley to go to Yakima
Where my father had a summer cabin

He was a college professor
And had July and August off 

And we spent the summers
Every summer from 1968 to 1978 

Our whole dysfunctional family
Our annual road trip to hell and back 
As we did not get along at all 

We decided to drive through Eastern Oregon
Just my father and me
Just for the hell of it

The rest of the family was already there 

My father and I shared a travel lust
One of the few things we shared 

This was one of our best trips
We got along 
Which was unusual 

Normally our relationship
Was fraught 
As we were so different 

We left Klamath Falls 
A real nothing burg in those days

And headed east along highway 395
As we entered the desert of eastern Oregon
We entered a different world

High mountain dessert
Almost no one on the road 

Then we saw the sign
Wagontire Oregon 
100 miles ahead

99 miles ahead
98 miles ahead

We counted down the signs 
Miles after miles
As we drove into the gathering dusk

We speculated that Wagontire
Must be a giant truck stop
In the middle of no where

We pulled into the town
Nothing there but a gas station
Motel and café

We decided to stop
Last gas for 100 miles 
According to the highway signs

In the morning
We chatted with the owner

He was the sheriff, the fire chief
The owner of the motel, gas station
The only business in town

And the only place open 
For one hundred miles

I noticed a highway sign outside
Welcome to Wagontire, Oregon
Population 2 ½ humans 10 dogs, 50.000 sheep

I asked the Sherriff
Say who is the ½ human?

My idiot son!

And we left.
200 miles later 
We finally left Eastern Oregon

2016

In 2016 my wife and I drove through Eastern Oregon
As part of our epic cross country trip
10,000 miles
31 states in three months

On the way from Medford to Yellowstone
We drove along highway 395 

The signs for Wagontire was gone
And we drove through the town

The motel was abandoned
Nothing there at all

And that sign was gone too 

I said I suppose the idiot son
Never took over the business

And we speculated about Wagontire
And all other nothing burgs 
We drove through that summer

Heart of Trump’s America 
True fly over country

travel

Form: Free verse

Homeward Path 11/08 Roger M. Landry
Wise men say, stay out of the fray,
And perhaps that is logical, and even soundly psychological.
They advise, do not go my son into the dark wood; you will only come to no good.
And I ask, if the road is less traveled, it will leave me baffled?
The trail in the forest tall could it leave me feeling forever small?
Alone, will I not even hear the sound of the stately tree’s fall?
In my craven travels, shall I perhaps see the pellucid pillars of heaven seven,
Or experience the depraved depths of perdition?
But, what if there is no one there to tell?
No singing angels, or laughing demons from hell.
Shall I be weary of my iconoclastic dreams?
Because, in my youth, I had magic visions of being the princely toad,
Of crossing elegantly the paved road to fame.
However, carrion birds now read, feed on my bloody entrails strewn along the lane.
Now, I only wake up in the fevered night, no princess to soothe my stifled screams.
Beaten and torn, shall I become the salacious stripper of old?
That, with nagging words, expresses my vulnerable, and sagging soul.
Like a lost muse, shall the tiger burning bright, in the forest of the night,
Become my one and only frightful and guiding light?
I can see quite far from the gritty solitude of a lofty mountain.
But, would rather sit with my smiling children by a bubbling fountain,
Have someone park my expensive car,
Or sip beer, with friends, in a quaint neighborhood bar.
Going on a shopping spree and wearing designer clothes,
I think, is superior than to society loathe.
To have opulent gold is better than writing poetry in poverty, wouldn’t you agree?
Or, would it be better if I contemplate my fate, eternally alone, under a frigid night star,
While I pluck loose strings on an out of tune guitar?
They say that if you favor the glacier-blue, the flavor will get inside of you.
Now that I have made enough bad choices, because of those niggling internal voices,
I am eternally lost, my mind unloosing in a wilderness of my own choosing.
Like a pharaoh, I know there is a divine treasure in my head,
But, I work and work, feel dead, and just can’t get out of bed.
The road has its own agenda, to which I know my heart must surrender,
Therefore, I shall curb my shameful wrath,
And trust that my soul knows its homeward path.

lifeme

Form:

My Youth In Asia

i was eight
the first time-
i saw Yin-Yang Mountain.
the height of it’s peak
contrasted by
the light on one side
dark on the other.
as the sun travels
from east to west
the color of the slopes change-
the light becoming dark
the dark becoming light.

i stand on the peak of Yin-Yang Mountain
watching the shifting
light and dark.
the line dividing the sinuous halves
is my being.
am I dark or light?
a white line or
a black line?
i am the curve between.
i am the difference.
i am the deciding factor.

i stand now 
beside the River of Life.
my feet bare-
i step into the cool waters
observing the shifting reflection
and shadow.
the current swirls the dark and the light.
this life giving, fluid filled gully
brings darkness when one is consumed
by its waters.
above the light is reflected-
below it is swallowed.

soothed i sit-
resting below the shelter
of the Tree of Constance.
the trunk is thick
made of layers of living matter within-
dead matter out.
the dead bark surrounds
the living core-
protecting. 
from this sturdy core 
branches shoot towards the light.
from those branches shoot buds-
which contain life-giving seeds.
the seeds fall to the ground below.

laying upon the dark
mineral rich earth-
i imagine.
below my body burrow
insects and roots.
they depend upon the fertile 
ground for survival.
humans have turned this earth into 
a burial ground for the fallen.
the rotting bodies consumed in darkness
feed the creatures who dwell
in the earth.
these departed whisper
knowledge to fallen seeds.
imparting wisdom-
to ensure growth.
I return to the peak-
of Yin-Yang Mountain.

from this peak i observe
the mixture around me.
here on this peak I know
the answers.
i am the wisdom.
this knowledge has paralyzed me.
with this gift i have been silenced.
i am the dividing line-
i am the question.
with faith I fall-
from the peak of Yin-Yang Mountain
into the icy waters of the
River of Life.
it’s turbulent ebb and flow
fills me with life 
and destroys me when dragged upon its floor.
i wash upon the shore
gasping for air-
clinging to the root.
I succumb.
i begin to rot-
feeding the earth-
that feeds the tree-
that thrives beside the river-
which dwells upon the slopes
of Yin-Yang Mountain.
here i will remain-
until discovered-
and then understood-
this 
my Youth in Asia.

allegorydeathfaithhopeintrospection

Form: Free verse

The Flight of An Arrow

Dawn broke
The eastern pink sky
Drew across the stars
As they faded and lost to the night

 

I called the eagle
To guide me
Piercing whistle
That I learnt as a boy
Running wild and free

 

I walked in the company of men
High above, eagles flew
The wraiths are coming from the otherworld too
Carrying the angst and pain
That has no place and name
Here at Heartstone

 

The screeching and wailing
Increased hideously
The tattered cloaks
Scattering the scree

 

I stood, with the company of men
My bow ready
Arrows drawn
Arm, steady

 

I have trained to defend
Truth and love
Nobility
Chivalry

 

The wraiths gathered
The screeching and wailings
Piercing through
To our souls
We are ready
To fight to the end
To defend
All that is true

 

The flight of an arrow
Unleashed
Steadied by the eagles’ feather
Of brown and gold
It flew
Straight and true
In to the non existent heart
Of a wraith bitter and cold
It was this I slew

 

A bundle of rags fell
For it is not the metal tip
That killed
It was the feather of a Heartstone Eagle
Truth be told
That slew
A wraith, bitter and cold

 

The wraiths flew
From behind the mountain
The   screeching and wailing
Tattered cloaks
Scattering the scree

 

They came in their hundreds
To fall
For, truth and love
From a feather
Of a mighty eagle above
Slew the hearts
Bitter and cold
Brown and gold glow
Flashing by
The flight of an arrow
The archers
Standing tall

 

The gleam of brown and gold
That flew
Deep in to the cold bitter hearts
Of stories now told
Of men of the longbow

 

 

I reached
I pulled 
Many arrows to fly
Of a star
Of a longbow
Aquila am I

 

The longbow of dark wood
Felt my strength
As I clasped its’ bronze inlaid feathers
And reached
And pulled
Arrows of brown and gold
Deep into wraiths
Its’ purpose understood

 
The sky turned black
With eagles that twisted and turned
Of wraiths, slain
Felled by the longbow
Down they fell
In to their own stinking hell
The brown and gold aglow

 

Darkness falling
The fires lit so bright
In a company of men
That celebrated under starlight

 

Remember….
This day well
When the archers
Masters of the longbow
Sent the wraiths back
To their stinking hell
Of Aquila
Who slew
More than most
The flight of an arrow
That holds true

adventure

Form: Ballad

The Excruciating Crucifixion

He was the Lamb that had to be slaughtered 
during the Passover and without Calvary, there wouldn't have been any salvation;
nothing would have forgiven our unpardonable sin!
Christ, as Isaiah prophesied, came when Jerusalem
was in dire need of a king who promised freedom!
The Romans were the conquerors with that mighty sword,
but only the defiant Barabbas waged war against Caesar with many a rebellion! 



Many say that we shouldn't venerate the cross which Jesus died upon,
but without the presence of that cross, we couldn't have been saved;
Jesus' blood gushed from it, to stain the rocks below, and wash all inequities away...
and the weeping and wailing of His mother Mary deepened when Christ expired,
as the earthquake jolted Jerusalem's streets and Temple,
to even make the envious and skeptical Priests tremble,
the radiant sun became invisible as darkness covered all;
and was it a coincidence or the undeniable fact that God Himself showed us His mercy?



We haven't carried the heavy wooden cross through Jerusalem and being whipped,
and laughed at; and we haven't seen those women cry for the Christ whom they heard speak;
and we haven't felt the agony of the most atrocious hour that He endured for us all! 
An impostor wouldn't have suffered and died to become the Redeemer they awaited,
a liar wouldn't have glorified His Father and preached a Gospel that offered much hope;
History was changed at Golgotha, and human kindness nurturing divine love triumphed!
Lord Jesus, many heard you speak on the Mountain and beheld what we could not! 
Lord Jesus, Andrew and John stood by you and comforted Your Mother with their tears!     
 


As you promised the good thief...Lord, remember us, too when we testify in Your favor
or die for Your sake! Paradise awaits us, and all who believe in goodness, not evil;
the excruciating crucifixion was predestined, not being staged by Man who hated love,
it had to happen in order for Humanity to reconcile with their forsaken God of Israel!
We can never be worthy for Your sacrifice, unless we become the messengers of true faith...
to uphold truth and dignify love as you often did in words and deeds!
If we forget Your passion, nothing can magnify the purpose of Your death;
and without a shepherd, this flock will aimlessly roam among rocks and weeds!   

 

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

historyhopelovepeopleplacesgod

Form: Ottava rima

Of the Common Seas

OF THE COMMON SEAS
  "We must come down from our heights, and leave our straight paths, for the byways and low places of life, if we would learn truths by strong contrasts; and in hovels, in forecastles, and among our own outcasts in foreign lands, see what has been wrought upon our fellow-creatures by accident, hardship, or vice."  ** 

Truth need not be found
in philosophers' musings,
or complicated by thoughts bound
with theorems and words, fusing, 

nor within the intricacies
of mathematical proofs,
as one and one may indeed
not equal two; un-truth is truth.

Truth becomes vast in life,
and like the pearl, can be found
as beauty captured, in seas rife
between the common oyster's gown,

Or found within the common leaves
of books written by common men,
discovered by those literates who read.
 Truth is simple, now and ever been.  

I stumbled on such a prize
In Dana's autobiography;
of common men on common seas
living truths of common humanity.



** Dana, Jr., Richard Henry, Two Years before the Mast, World Publishing Company, 1946, p. 283
1

Like a moth to a candle flame
I pondered the perceived right 
of those of wealth, culture, piety and fame
to control and lead the common blight -   

(the average, struggling and forsaken souls);
yet have never descended to the lowly station
to learn the culture of these earthly ghouls, 
their dreams, their pleas, their damnation.

As gods atop their cloud draped mountain  
how dare they, in their empiric quackery
force the masses to their impure fountain 
to drink of the laws and life that they decree,

yet having not trod the tracks of the plebian path,
having never felt the sordid plebian passions,
but worshipping instead their comfort and wealth,
adorned in decadence and richly clothed fashions,   

how can they govern those they do not know,
minister to anguish they have never felt
or heal their sickness of body, heart and soul?
How can they play the cards, to them never dealt?	

Are they leaders, statesmen, kings and lords,
or simply counterfeit men full only of themselves,
vainglorious peacocks, strutting hordes
deceiving not a common man, only just themselves?

We have them here, in this land of the free,
politicians, preachers, corporate men and judges.
None have suffered and worked, you see
yet dare to rule, when by common men begrudged.

truth

Form:

Top Dog On Olympus

Nero the god! I had a dream. 
There I was at the foot of Mount Olympus.
 Mother was with me as usual. 
As we reached a cross-roads, Agrippina said: 
"Come Nero, here we turn left" But I said: 
"No, mama, 'WE' do not. I'm gonna turn right!"
And that's what I did. She shouted after me: 
"Become emperor, Nero, though you slay me".

 The path led upwards toward the snowy heights, 
past the lush vernal pastures of the lower slopes, 
past vineyards and groves of olive trees,
 through forests of oaks, birches,
 willows, elms, yews and poplars and all  holy trees,
 past the crags where the chamois chewed stunted grass, 
and the last brave wind-blasted pine
 tossed and raged in defiance of the elements, I ascended,
 till there was no other thing under heaven
 but burning, blinding snow, 
a conflagration no less fierce than that which now I see.
 I looked down at the world of men,
 and what should I see but -- ants!
The air was thin and pure - then the prize! 

The summit appeared from behind a cloud-rift.
 Treacherous thoughts welled up from within me:
 "High climbers play with death – 
death by freezing, death that lurks
 in the shadow of a measureless abyss. 
Was I not trespassing on holy ground? ‘
“Remember Icarus, remember Prometheus,"
 sighed voices in the wind,
 but then a louder voice from within me
 bade me fear no counsel fit for the craven.

And so to the summit. 

And what should I see when reached the Olympian heights,’
 other than .....fierce Jupiter? Mighty Zeus? 
I'll tell you what I saw!
 There seated on an ivory throne, a frail old man,
whose long white beard fluttered in the wind. 
His expression was more torpor than aught else. 
That was it! He looked rather like...
 some doddering old patriarch 
that was Consul before Caesar's time.
 As I approached, he tried to look grave and austere,
 pathetically shaking his hoary senile head.
 His trembling hand reached down – 
I saw a quiver full of arrows
 and a pile of thunderbolts at his side.’[
 Now was my chance! 
I seized him by the scruff of the neck, 
and flung him down the mountain-side. 
The last I saw of him was as he reeled
 head over heels into a ravine. 
Then I shouted in triumph to the four winds.

 "THE OLD GOD IS DEAD.
 Now I'm Top Dog. I got de thunderbolts".

Only a dream? 
Perhaps. Dreams pass,
 but not what they portend.

dreamhistorysky

Form: Dramatic Monologue