Long Northeast Poems
Long Northeast Poems. Below are the most popular long Northeast by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Northeast poems by poem length and keyword.
At the savage, indigo sky,
draped in snow, claw the mountains high.
By the cirque, a base, sheltered 'neath,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
A field of kash, in autumn swirl,
the dark braid of that village girl.
Mother's white, unwavering faith,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
Skin burns through the synthetic girth,
frozen blood inseminates earth.
Echo of loss shudders his breath,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
At the savage, indigo sky,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
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Form: Kyrielle Sonnet
Date: 27 / 10 / 2016
Siachen is a glacier located in the eastern Karakoram range of Himalayas mountains just northeast of the LoC between India and Pakistan. It's also the highest battleground on Earth.
Into a luscious and darkened wood
heading home,I gaze above a lea,
Suddenly I'm not where I should be
as clouds enthrall , my senses allured!
A thousand stars blazing everywhere,
over a mantle of softest pink.
Yet each of them differs... in its blink;
Flaunting its own luster in the air.
One twinkle reflects of dreams quite free;
another flicks umbra, sad 'though wise
And beyond northeast, to my surprise,
this youngest flame, speaks of love's decree!
Twin stars blush in rare hues ...mauve to gold,
quivering on skyline's hallowed grail,
Through prayers deep, I thank nature's trail
where Light leads me to wonders, untold!
I am where King David was born. My name means, “House of bread”.
I am located six miles south of Jerusalem; 262 miles northeast of Cairo, Egypt;
and 140 miles southwest of Damascus, Syria. When the Caesars ruled, all roads did not lead to me, but to Rome. But still, I’m easy to find.
I’m not the first in mind when one thinks of the Middle East. But the prophets spoke of me as the place where a Jewish Messiah would be born.
Centuries later, the Jewish leaders gave King Herod vital information about me that caused him more than a little concern.
It’s not always what or who you are, or whether you will ever become a star.
God has always known about me, and religious leaders were well aware.
No, I never became a star of any kind; but wise men came from afar and were led straight to me by a star.
Nay, my friend, it’s not the size that ushers one to a place of renown. But it’s who or what comes out of you that makes one more that just a little town.
O yes indeed. I am that Little Town of Bethlehem that made room for The Bright and Morning Star. Out of me came The Christ Child, Jesus Christ.
12162016cjPS; (An impersonation)
By now, you know that I love nature and I have written many poems about it, including published books. So, this has hit me hard and all I can do is keep writing about it.
Emptiness
Silence, emptiness, nothing in the trees, the skies or the ground
Wildlife fled north, for their lives from toxins in the air
There are no songs to hear, no flights to see, no squirrel scurrying around
It’s a lonely, eerie place to be with wildlife gone like this!
It is shocking to go from a flurry of daily wildlife, to none
I’ve never experienced this in my life and it alerts me every day
A toxic plume from the Ohio train wreck burn, traveled with acid rain
Streams are shown on video in Ontario with toxins in them!
So, areas of the Northeast have been impacted along the way
It saddens me beyond words, so I keep writing to process feelings
I want to get the word out too, so please everyone, be safe!
Heidi Sands
2/22/23
It has been raining everyday
The wet autumnal wind is here
And Mommy Maine just left us today
Peacefully. She just expired, dear
This Ebony Queen was a century plus six years young
Mommy Maine never got old. Beautiful and classy like a song
I was with her, in Houston, when her first beloved son
Our friend Yvon, had passed less than four months ago
Oh! Death, why, one day, must we all go?
What have we done to you? It’s always sad to lose
Someone special. At one point, nobody can choose
Between life and death. Mommy Maine just left us
She was our Black Star, our Smiling Diva. We’re at a loss
I have tears in my eyes, because she wouldn’t want me to cry
She was so magnanimous that she would not want us to cry
Mommy Maine just left. She just took her last breath
She left us. The celestial craft came early, at dawn, this morning
And left the body for us to ensepulcher, to bury. We are mourning
The passing of our wonderful North Star. Mommy Maine left
But she will without a doubt remain with us in spirit
She was an unspeakable inspiration, a quintessential majorette
A motivational speaker who always finds a way to encourage
To teach, to calm, to reason, to serve and to love. Her age
Did not matter. She was full of wisdom, wit, style, genre and protocol
No more smiles from her, no more advice and no more call
It’s raining profusely in the Northeast
Mrs. Germaine Dupiche, a hard worker, is now at rest, at peace
May God continue to bless such a beautiful mother
The dearest mother, aunt, friend of so many like Mother Nature!
P.S. My late father, Gustave Logerie would have said:
Que la Terre vous soit légère!
Sit tibi terra levis ! May the Earth be light on you!
Copyright © September 25, 2023, Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Tuesday train ride to nowhere near;
April Fool pride to laugh with cheer.
Midday trip far on NorthEast rail;
To fling ajar thoughts that unveil.
Through fourteen stops till end of track;
Then reverse hops till choice set back.
Explore the sights with curious eyes;
In wonder's flight with casual sighs.
So many views and vantage points;
Feel happy cues reach ends that join.
A tour by train to check things out;
Watch day retain a sunny shout.
Loiter and chill by this new mall;
A simple meal by food court stalls.
A quick repast to prime refill;
Too soon alas, to feed appeal.
Then once again to journey home;
To abode plains from whence we roam.
Sunset and dark bring fading light;
In time to spark our sitcom sights.
Soon we will start brief getaway;
Let mind and heart adjust to play.
Leon Enriquez
03 Apr 2014
Singapore
Written: June 23, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
*******************
Growling, arguing, cursing, and screams,
They nod to chase after a dollar, a dream.
Trapped in clichés, similar to urban swine,
Lost residents of the suburbs stand in line.
The city of brotherhood and sisterhood,
Racially diverse cultures and schools stood.
Philly cheese-steaks, hoagies, and homicides,
Cocaine vampires succumb side by side.
On filthy streets, zombies and dogs coexist,
In Fishtown, hunt for meat to eat or a twist.
They need medicine and shoes for their feet.
Litter chokes Kensington Ave replete street.
They say Oxy and fentanyl are to blame.
Perhaps it's genetics, wrapped in shame.
Predisposed to a life completely polluted—
From the moment of birth, deeply rooted.
Some were once rich, now penniless,
With only a rat and their mute distress.
A raw middle-class suburbia faces bruise,
Zombies cradle meth and crack misuse.
They nod, dip, freeze, and sway—
Defying gravity, they struggle to stay.
Despite its fame, the land has failed,
A monolithic trial, where hopes derailed?
Former star-spangled grandeur has faded.
Betsy Ross famed flag thread is jaded.
A horrible scene for a tourist to behold,
A ghostly flat-backed female zombie, cold.
Kensington Ave in the city's northeast—
Zombies, dogs, and lost souls feast.
Two-legged canines in an endless sludge.
Life is grim in this dope-fueled grudge.
HERE COMES THE HUNGARIANS
A sign hangs like a star upon a building:
“HERE COME THE HUNGARIANS”
Delicious dishes that will please
The American and European palate.
My sisters on the right and my brother on the left,
Pressure cookers upon the stage.
Paprika to make you pretty, will make you blush.
And yes, plenty of sour cream.
Paprikash chicken with sour cream gravy is our specialty,
Served up with plentiful eggs and flour in buttered dumplings ,
With a side of dills or creamy cucumbers.
The four chefs will compete and make theirs the very best.
We will have to expand to sites stemming out from the South.
Our cousins will handle business in the Northeast, near Buffalo.
We already have family involved in flooring and carpentry
And one is the big boss of a well known restaurant.
We roll up our sleeves, the cookers ready – 1,2,3,4…check.
My sisters have a glint in their eyes whilst my brother plays innocent.
I have to tell the truth, one sister’s moved aside, for it is her spouse
Who mixes and pours. The pressure’s on. Dining room’s quiet –
Until the doors open at 5:00 p.m. sharp, and the crowd listens
For the familiar whistles, and the kitchen banter. Wine glasses
Clink over sparkling white tablecloths and they savor the smell
Of onion and chicken, beginning to thicken into browning gravy.
As the customers eat their savory meals, my dad plays
The Hungarian Czardas on his clarinet. And the satisfied
Tongues sway to the folksy dinner with oohs and ahhs.
This five star gem, okay I brag, will rise to historic fame!
2nd Place Winner
9/4/2016
My Imaginary Restaurant sponsored by Silent One
A man from Brazil
wanted handle me a cannon
to solve confusion with a shot
but not not being beast of burden
I told him to suck on the steel
being a soap licker
or becoming a ice dryer...
"SMART"
Some assume they are smart
and have a hyper bright Q I
just for having a DR title
and be known for SIR
when they are stupid and
insane...
Drudge
There is a northeast man
that realized to be the biggest
but only lived on decoys
thinking to be a wise guy
just being the plague goat ....!
POLITICAL
Almost every politician is excused
in light seeks the dark
speak lies as truth
this is his pure reality
because indeed are intruders ...!
They do not hear the ticking —
yet the clock is wound with fire.
A nation's soul disintegrates,
not in war,
but quiet decay,
like atoms split beneath the skin
of time.
Invisible,
but certain.
No sirens sound.
Just silence —
thick with warning.
From the Delta’s oil-slicked veins
to the scorched bones of the Northeast,
from Biafra’s unburied grief
to the herder’s unmarked trail —
the land hums with fracture.
We are splitting.
Like uranium dreams,
rich but unstable,
our unity held by brittle bonds,
our leaders shielding lies
instead of truth.
Decay is now destiny
unless the core is cooled.
Justice bleeds in whispers:
the child in Benue
whose school collapsed;
the mother in Kano
whose hospital never came;
the youth in Onitsha
whose voice was muffled
before it rose.
These are not isolated cries.
They are chain reactions.
Critical mass is near.
You cannot weld a nation
with oppression.
You cannot seal cracks
with slogans.
You cannot bind brothers
with bayonets.
Fission feeds itself.
Discontent is now isotopic —
passed hand to hand,
wound to wound,
like fallout.
So who will neutralize the core?
Who will cool the rods of injustice?
Who will wear truth
like lead-lined courage?
Not tomorrow.
Now.
Because the half-life of a nation
shortens
with every lie,
with every stolen hope,
with every silence
where justice should speak.
And when the break comes —
not with a bang,
but a vanishing —
let no one say
it was sudden.
We
were
warned.