Long Observatory Poems
Long Observatory Poems. Below are the most popular long Observatory by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Observatory poems by poem length and keyword.
Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt our program
of dance music to bring you a special bulletin
from the Mount Jennings Observatory, Chicago, Illinois.
I see a . . .
shhh...krrshh...fzzzt...
thing, directly in front of me,
half buried in a vast pit.
It's definitely not a meteor—
shhh...krrshh...tssss...
it's a huge cylinder.
Now there's a hissing sound. Like this:
hissss...hissss...kssshhh...fzzzt...hisss...
Something's happening, ladies and gentlemen.
This end of the thing is unscrewing...
shhh...krrshh...whummm...blurrr
Keep back, there!
Keep back, I tell you!
It's come from Mars!
Maybe there’s things in there trying to escape...
krrshh...shhh...fzzzt...blurr...
Wait a minute!
I see glowing holes—two luminous disks.
Maybe they're eyes?
It might be a face.
It might be . . .
shhh...krrshh...tssss...
Good heavens, things are wriggling out—
like great gray-black snakes.
Now there's another one, and another.
They look like tentacles to me.
There now, I can see the thing's body...
shhh...fzzzt...krrshh...
It's large—large as a bear—and
shiny, slick and glistening,
like it's just climbed from a swamp.
But that face, it's .. Hang on, that face...
krrshh...shhhh...tssss...
it's indescribable.
The eyes are black and gleaming like polished coal.
The mouth is Zee-shaped, with saliva dripping—
black, tarry stuff—from its
quivering lip-like things . . . or flaps.
Wait a moment...
fzzzt...shhh...krrshh...
There's spout-like tubes
poking out.
They're aimed at me...
Hang on . . . hang on . . .
krrshh...tssss...whineeeee...
They're firing at me!
Some kind of hot red ray—
They're hitting me!... I'm hit.. I'm hit...
I'm down! I'm down . . . I'm down . . .
SSSHHHH... KRRRSHHH... TSSSSSS...
ssshhh... krshh... tsss... hhhhss.......
Sorry Folks! We've lost contact with our reporter
We'll now return you to our dance music program.
Written: December 10, 2023
________________________________________
A lengthwise lexicon for fulfilling any fantasy.
Trapped in a landslide and given up by reality,
In this vagrancy, the rocket derives no delight.
Aigrette that unlocks the cosmos for sight.
Admire splendor; the cosmos surely does.
Each display case contains a galaxy in space.
And using the observatory gives me a buzz.
To ponder one light-year with a warm embrace.
Consider the nebula and its wonderful dust.
Melody of oceans and luster of cluster stars.
A struggle amid density and gravity is a must.
Consider the moon many craters and scars.
Meteor motion astonished the asteroid belt.
I do associate this motion with defect finding.
An elegance is retained by a butterfly effect.
Best weighed by sight, not by tech minding.
But the cosmos is still a God-forsaken place.
Since our path is elliptical, it will occur in pace.
Aligned with our current era, perceived as clear.
Saturn rings are still visible to us and appear.
Thinking around inertia drags me toward earth.
With our hands, we can retain our stance worth.
The character is inversely correlated to the tide.
Select a depth beyond which no volition can hide.
SELF CARE TO TAKE CARE FOR OTHERS
Take care of yourself first: Be strong and brave,
not to flinch, but to clinch and earnestly crave
for self -care as lesson preparatory.
Honor self-esteem: Personality not to drop.
Honesty and activity are the main props.
Self-care will place you in top category.
Then and then it’s easy to lend your hand
to stooping drooping tumbling ones to stand.
Search for distressed in your observatory.
Benevolence is your trove of desire.
To implement throughout life, entire:
Self-made human chooses right trajectory.
Self-care not selfishness, a road to success
with final goal to care for the populace.
Care for each other is just mandatory.
We are for ourselves and each for the other.
Self-care needed for efficiency to gather.
‘My care’ and ‘Our care’ are complimentary.
07/26/18
'Take Care For Yourself First' contest by Caren krutsinger
Third Place
Volga – 4
to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little
is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub
will enter into the circuit-house
and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island
Volga - 5
coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind the rice-rain
from the cirrus
the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality
the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid
is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving
manuscript of the basement of a well
the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected
in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat vehemently
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs
they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song
to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required
notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen
here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well
on its one page lies the faulty crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …
within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken
if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land
let us have one game more
Islam Burning
In deep purple flame
Stapled to the cross
While the peasants yell below
Demon demon demon
Black flags rise
Hearts fail to beat
Humanity has lost this score
The axe swings in the air
Freedom at last
From Islam’s beasts
My head tumbles into the dust
I am now an icon of the history I so loved
I am Khalid al-Asaad
Your humble servant of antiquity
Aug 19, 2015
In memory of Khalid al-Assad murdered by Islamic cowards.
Islamic State militants beheaded a renowned antiquities scholar in the ancient Syrian city of Palmyra and hung his mutilated body on a column in a main square of the historic site because he apparently refused to reveal where valuable artefacts had been moved for safekeeping.
According to Syrian state news agency Sana and the UK-based Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, Asaad was beheaded in front of dozens of people on Tuesday in a square outside the town’s museum. His body was then taken to Palmyra’s archaeological site and hung from one of the Roman columns.
“Al-Asaad was a treasure for Syria and the world,” his son-in-law, Khalil Hariri, told the Associated Press. “Why did they kill him? Their systematic campaign seeks to take us back into pre-history. But they will not succeed.”
The Child and the Dancer
See the dancing of the child,
I think he's angry out of step and wild.
He finds it hard to see the snail,
The intense wails overshadowed rails.
Winds that are flocking near the lorry?
I think she'd like to eat in the observatory.
He is but a delightful dancer,
He admired as he sits upon a tropic of cancer.
He's exciting a tap dancer is just like a kitten,
He needs no ground, and it runs on whitten.
He's not alone he brings a cheetah,
a pet deer, and lots of rosita.
The deer likes to chase a pebble,
Especially one that's in the gable.
The audience shudders at the active stage box.
He wants to leave, but they want the block.
6/24/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
Rhyming Couplet
The search goes on
to discover at last
that we are not alone..
Yet others wait
for the discovery
that we are alone..
Alone in knowing
that Awareness knows
itself Alone
and that we
and this exoplanet
color our Awareness
as we remain Alone...
Closest Exoplanet To Earth -- August 2016
On Aug 24 2016, the European Southern Observatory announced the confirmation of the closest exoplanet to Earth. This illustration shows Proxima b, which orbits its parent star Proxima Centauri, the closest sun to Earth's sun. Proxima b lies within its sun's habitable zone, strongly suggesting the planet has liquid water on its surface.
Huffington Post
Out of its axis
In negative spin
Our planet we call earth
Is diminishing
Three days earlier
A comet struck home
From the black of the universe
On its trajectory roam
The world as normal
Went about its day
Parents worked
While their children played
We had heard before
That a comet may strike
But the observatory in Hawaii
Said we were well out of its sight
But unknown to us all
It had split into two
The smallest section
Towards us flew
As it broke from the main body
In its twisted break
Its angle changed
We now just await
On the day of the impact
Half the world was asleep
While the other half
Were already in weep
It struck a volcano
Near the Indian Ocean
As fissures opened
In lava spewed motion
As we watched on the news
We could hardly believe
Our planet being obliterated
Will we have time to grieve
On CNN
A report comes in
The shuttle Liberty is following
As the second part of the comet spins
It too has changed
Its trajectory course
To our planet it heads
For now we all, fear the worst
Presidents, Prime Ministers
Are all on the phone
Asking, What can we do
To stop this destructive roam?
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-8.php
We call her Oma.
She’s a simple, old, haggard wooden bridge
In my neighbourhood,
On the shaved navel of the forest, heavy and solemn,
With the colour of an aged, wizened python,
Spotted here and there and striped there and then.
So ramshackle, but friendly, cosy to the naked feet,
With that royal smell of wood-cellar combined with
The health of ancient wine.
Nothing more . . . .
Oh, I forgot to announce that her bolts are worn with the disease of rain;
Each log of her timber derelict with the scourge of summer sun;
All her nuts frazzled by mildews and the collection of time;
Her beams drying fast with autumnal leaf-paralysis.
She’s been battered through conflicts and by the many strong-willed feet
That have traversed her, naked and booted, year after year, strife after strife.
But she remains steadfast and bestrides a poor, kind, whistling stream which
Rushes gently with native scents whenever the moon rules over the tides,
As always, when its prime ripens, like the tropical palm fronds.
But Oma, in all her splendid poverty, stands elevated,
Tall and proud, and with the accoutrements of Nimrod’s tower.
And from that creaking, wobbling height,
We observe the moon clearer —in all shapes and nomenclatures —
Full moon, super moon, blood moon. . . .
And the eclipses — partial, full, rounded, lunar, solar —
Sweeter sighting when distant leaves of floating ferns hide
The effulgence little by little, the nearby copses on revelling
Valleys renewing sways from across glimmering horizons.
Hasten not and call her an observatory.
Our neighbourhood repulses clichés and touches them with
The tip of a wand.
She is our dear old bridge —our heritage site —
On whom we stand and stretch our hands and feel the moon.
The wind, a conductor of memories past,
whispers of boostalgia, in each gust it casts,
every play by play, blow by blow,
moves us in the direction
of refinement, victory, goal.
It carries laughter, like a playful lambada,
stirring the plot, where we can embark the
crossroads of shallow depths of flood, rescue, boat, armada, with it's tugfloat-
, antics, dote.
Upon the breeze, momentum, ab solution,
scensctes emotions,
mingles with Petrichords of spring tugging ferry
of family amalgamation, observatory.
The wind, a conductor of memories past,
whispers of nostalgia, in each gust it casts,
every play by play, blow by blow.
Vesper-wilding crystal clear antecdotes.
Where the wind can carry pain,
wound salts in exclamate whirl of spin.
It also carries a soft hum and a touch
from person to beast to person,
playing in the yard, naked, raw,
carefree,
as we begin again.