Long Noons Poems
Long Noons Poems. Below are the most popular long Noons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Noons poems by poem length and keyword.
They still wander with caution and fear in the remote swamps and grasslands
of India and Siberia, and these carnivorous animals are the beautiful tigers.
They are trapped, poched, killed and their soft furs are shipped overseas for huge profits,
but their sad end is drawing near, unless some caring human really gets involved and acts.
Their life span is shorter in their natural habitat, struggling for food and those caged in zoos
have a longer life expectancy...they never experience those hunger pangs in early noons.
They are an extremely hostile species, ready to devour anything that has flesh and blood.
Does anyone wonder why they react so indignantly, don't they fear of being taken and sold?
When tigers are attacked, they fight back and killing they prevent their threat of extinction.
Do we all realize their animosity for the huntsmen, who chase them and shoot them down?
Let's all feel some compassion for them...let's save them and give them freedom and dignity.
Let them roam freely as they did once in South Asia, living in full accord with humanity.
My Pond in a slum
My pond will always be in a slum
to quench the thirst of my people
My garden will always be there
to spread shadow in all hot Noons
My home and my soul will always be there
to educate and to lift them in this world
Come my brothers to us unite in this task
to raise our nation in the world as mighty
These people have to speak and
these people have to go to peak
To keep the smile of our Mother
among all nations in the world
To protect Her glory and pride
keep them in your heart with love
Erase caste feelings from our kids and
feed the feel of brotherhood in their minds
Am I fitful,
fluctuating, fluid?
thin compass waver
as I jubilantly weave
lilac tree vignettes
that weep or chortle,
rainbow figment curtain
rashly wished upon
in grain smudge zephyr
garnet sand raw vehicle
garden common opal
transit sidestep
to a multiverse
of sappy fruit drip
net bag of niche
mauve rim canopy
a gilt ring culprit’s
flashpoint conjure
stirring taxi cabs
of lavish spurt
woolgathering
a gold rush stray
footslog must
have steel encased.
undulating folds
entangled nomad feint
dwarf yellow scorcher
firmament fatality
dash for straw hut
casita or elm
wood cabin where
advertence on
turnpikes, trails,
woven tracks lead
trajectory abuts
plod along dry path
dust bowl swirling as
they spurn allotments
meek enshrouded lull
with unalloyed poise
to jettison narcolepsy
brief embargo on
spiral plumule
when one’s physique
has many harrowing
gasps, taut breath
that intrinsic quest
for glistening cascade
seems an urgent
void, crushing
diapason rudderless
mahatma clement at
Arcadias nascent
totem of egress
yet charismatic
terminal flag
as this sentient
hypothesiser on
emerald tint bract
beneath hiking boot
unflinching
wild clasp at
beanpole verges
riven from
shade burst cockcrow
lure an impetus
to meandered pretext
primeval boon-docks
whilst tranquil flit
discommoding tawdry
pitch or tilt
gaunt endowment
I must brood on
surreal moiety
of cerebral aspect
squandered
rude reckoning aside
lapse into sullen
vacuum found across
a link whose blind
velvet crush lingers
query later doused
in vapour whirl gush
inkling thin veneer
sheeny beadlet
brow sapped
nod and falter
to a childhood turf
shelter for the limb
victim of grinding
marathon on marathon
to relish glow hue noons
hermetically abeyant
sempiternal eves
avenue to wanderer
fatigued yet still
in broad pursuit
of deep quiddity
I live in a town where all things go in
reverse. The bushes grow reversely,
shrink smaller back into seeds, and roll back
into the past-life seeds. The river flows
reversely, very swiftly. My friends,
my nephews and nieces, my siblings, and
my parents walk reversely, and
steadily become smaller, younger.
Helplessly, I stand, watch, and cannot grasp
things back. The brains think reversely
into the prehistory; the handwritten
pages decrease, turning reversely for
never being lost. The ruined house of the
neighbor girl is built reversely, becoming
back the house of her young days. The
voices, familiar and unknown, talk
reversely into the afternoons and
noons and nights, calling up the wronged ghost
of a priest whose enlightened shout wakes up
the legendary copperhead, which slithers
and crushes a corner of the forest. A
tornado blows reversely, peels away
the layer of sedimentary rocks,
and shows thousands of ancient cities, where
millions of bricks become new again to
build countless clusters of towers, and where
the waving hands, smiling lips, colorful
clothes, villages, crow’s cries, and flocks of birds
fly reversely into the sunshine arc.
I solely stand, lonely.
Translated into English by Phan Tan Hai
Original poem titled "Song Lui" -- written in Vietnamese by Inrasara.
If in a corner of time, that dances with possibility,
Our solitudes were to cross paths, both yours and mine,
I would bury the compass that seeks you, in extinct pursuit,
And nestle into the secret of your solitude, like a sacred hidden from all.
I would become oblivion, in the shrine of past noons,
And you’d turn into an echo, in the carousel of eternity, sucked from memory.
We’d part not as rebels but as stars choosing a new galaxy,
Just for the prey of the unknown to return unto itself, unto the essence akin to the philosopher’s stone.
I’d embrace my longing to see it yearn for your dawn,
Igniting torches in the night of doubt, trying to cast my hopes as bundles of light.
Until they’d sketch a pathway, in crimson and zephyr, leading to where our hearts are moored.
And if, in the end, worlds were overturned, and we’d meet,
Our solitudes, like two old comrades, would recognize and befriend each other.
Arm in arm they’d sit, in a concealed covenant,
Watching us—together—with veiled envy, yet eyes sparkling with joy for their shared fate.
Intermingled, as in the forest of dreams, they would hide among the foliage,
Never completely gone, but always awaiting the moment of restoration.
They would accompany us, gentle shadows, on the winding road covered in petals,
Rejoicing in their finding each other, yet abandoned in our embrace.
Their masks, turned inside out, would remain hollow, witnesses to the eternity from which we break away,
While we revive each legend and blade of grass with our footsteps marked by dreams.
Our companion solitudes, under the cryptic shawl of scattered stars,
Would follow us, whispering old songs of gratitude, for through us, they found themselves again.
Yesterday, time stirrred of reveries when
All of Summer brought colours bright;
My love's longing roamed this place, yet
Troubles whipped our days; in a rush it
Seemed your tenderness withered fast.
So hasty for that promise of evermore,
Far from flames that once led us to new stars
Away from a maze, until noons grew cold.
Now, despair widenened a river made,
It drained petals crowning your hair. But love
Looks at us without a glimpse of eternity
As miles flew by, not one word for a heart yearned.
Though roots are tended where gardens bloom
They're dried by sun's heat, unwatered and frail;
Here where our fingers dug into the sand
To memorize the glory of dew. I asked you to
Stay and wait for birds to name our songs.
Oh, those hours when wings of joy flew
I recall the way your smile rustled with the wind.
Believe me, I'm unable to bequeath this glow
In you I found the luster of dusk, more beaming than
Yesterday, today or even tomorrow, still---
Yesterday's Acrostic Contest
Choking, churning dense river of clouds.
Vengeful, raging, wrathful airspace,
where seraphs and cherubs are murdered,
where cold torrential demons are unleashed.
Dank deep noons and nights interbreed,
incestuous and quailing, unholy waters
wailing, exploding, spilling specters,
erasing, defacing, disgracing all that was.
We all know the inequality of cruelty.
Cloudbursts inflict the most on the least.
Drenched hopes and soaked assumptions are
undone by mudslides, unhinged in flash floods.
There are so many conversations we wish
we once had, before the rains started,
before the blast of tainted waters scoured
our private rooms, and it was too late.
No, we don’t know we’re drowning in
the life we repudiate.
Glancing down from breathless heights,
Amidst climey sighs,
The looming colossus awakens from slumber
And stretches across Thelwalls linear skies.
The hot engines hissing steam -
Recalled from fond memories long back -
Tumbling like huffing little rain clouds
Down from the lofty metal track;
Wherein brightly painted carriages:
The publicans daughter, the verger,
The magistrate, the chief executive -
Seated first class, all habitually sat.
Swift grandiose arches, a celebration
Trumpeting the artful masons cunning devise,
Boast loudly of the great towers
Parallelogram of terrific forces:
Crossing over in giant leaping strides.
Here below, like Hercules reclining,
The stoic gates of Latchfords black fortress locks
Lift to brace against the immense swell
Far and beyond the chimming remarks
Of Greenhalls absolute, mechanically proven,
Georgian bell;
When, ensconced within a purpose-built,
Purple brick tower:
Strikes the centuries old brewery clock
On the twelfth
Of every God given hour.
A rich bankers cantilever
Pushes doggedly against opposing, sheer,
Red Sandstone walls;
Again the mauve and azure rock pigeon claps...
And then...coo, coo, cooingly calls.
Dry buzzing heat blurs over
The hum of a high noons imcumbent midday;
The coup-de-gras scimitar wing stoops -
To fasten onto its slower-witted prey!
Steeped sides slipping amidst tumbling yellow
Gorse and sporadic flowers
Balk at the foreboding waters edge,
Where, over the denizens swirling bowers,
The resolute little rusting lugger,
Puffing and chugging,
relentlessly dredges and scours;
Churning the murky Eastham silts
That drab Manchester draw:
Into the vast hollowing quays
On beachless, concrete Salfords industrialized,
High-rise dockland shore.
Through the deepest part of the black
Channel
A salt grimed hulk smoothly slips...
Attached by a twisted hemp to the tugboat
That hauls the great ships.
Stirred by the bow waves
Flowing and ebbing like currents in time:
From the trough to the peak
The jettison and flotsam climbs -
Before succumbing to powerful undercurrents
Of irresistible designs!
Six years on foot
Through far and hurdling paths like wilderness
My secondary learning root
Which taught me to taste and endure bitterness
Oh my brain of rational thoughts:
In the mornings it felt cold but fresh
And in the noons hot but full of competence
Yet I in wisdom remained afresh.
My shirt white was not as it was
The trousers blue-black could hardly its colour survive
Of them were made other fashions
And the prescribed white shoes to serve—
Pedestrianizing both on rocky roads and tars,
Loosing its first fine form gradually—
I should always to say thanks and sorry.
We Trinitarians were a mere picture of the colonial missionaries.
In school we lunched our books
As we were often empty-in-pocket:
We would go hungry and return angry
Battled we with school's ups and downs
Nothing to better to eat
But either drank groceries,
Or fill our stomachs with water from the bloody tap
Those days were best but not happiest to us.
The school Holy Trinity would never be the weak's
For only the strongest could survive;
Some would exit or fall out
It'd always be the best
Entity of extreme excellence
All boys sound and brimmed!
Catapult of coiling character
All boys virtuous and righteous!
Today, we are proud alumni
Eligible to rendering to our country services
To prove that we did learn from the school.
I am tempered in tender triggers
of transitory ticking tunes,
as the air feels heavy ~
with withered whispers
of waning reveries,
a mercurial mirror to
my burning skin...
I've nurtured the nature
nestled between
nuances of nostalgia
feeling the nudge
from wistful noons
freezing my thoughts
to follow the fleeting ebb and flow
of slipping silence,
swerving through
curtained homesickness…
but why must the salt
of sea-breeze melt into memories
hope knows how the heart
heals with hurt
whilst you see not the
pained palpitations
amidst light of life liquefying
into unmerciful minutes ~ of time…
O time ~ the tricking tamer
restricting inner resilience
straining the summer softness
retrospective recurrence
rewinding on repeat,
leaving me searching for
the falling familiarity ~
rays of wavering warmth
to feel the pulse of pleasure
closer to
the confined corners
within my conscious thoughts...
for grey is throttled in grievance
heeding not the restless rhythm
of wind and waves
ferrying the ocean-highs
speaking to my skies
~ catching catharsis ~
as heat unbuttons
the soul of azure
alliterating the alienation
of breathing blistered bliss
aching across the shifting
shadows of unmoved fields
and I waltz… a wanderer ...
sleeplessly swirling
through the love-phased
lace of longing
replaying the comforting touch
from yesterday’s dawn
the sun and
moon that soothed whirlwinds
of weathered
wild-jasmines ~