Long Orbited Poems
Long Orbited Poems. Below are the most popular long Orbited by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Orbited poems by poem length and keyword.
(Immediately after being found "guilty"
of denying that the earth was stationary
and the sun orbited around it, Galileo
said, "Eppur si muove!" [But it moves!])
It's hard to live in Lilliput, I find.
I have to cross my fingers, play their game.
Their billing, filling, drilling daily grind
sits ill with me. They all trot out the same
tired cliches. Passing a painting, never fail
to comment on the squareness of the frame.
Unprofitable, weary, flat and stale.
You can't earn prizes here. These fools prize earning.
No sweets to eat. It's one long dreary tale
of condemnation, disapproval, spurning.
The Sunday supplements determine taste,
all tearing down, forbidding, banning, burning.
They're sealed in heavy metal, concrete-cased
austerity. They put the "die" in "diet".
What will survive of them is nuclear waste.
Denounce, detract, dismiss it and deny it.
Don't look for clover - look for cloven hooves.
Excoriate it, flay it, vilify it.
They'd love to let life lurch along in grooves,
the gauche, perverse, unruly human mind
trapped tidily in aspic. But it moves.
Four Billion years or thereabouts
Earth has orbited its appointed place
Slowly and surely developing into
A safe and hospitable living space
What a strange year this has been
Year Two Thousand and Twenty Two
You seem to have bern so long passing
And I’m so glad to see the back of you.
A year of invasion and Warfare
Of bullies flexing their might
Seeming secure in their belief
That might alone is right.
A year of political spectres
Of crooks, spivs and ghouls
Carelessly showing to the world we
Are lead by blatant self seeking fools.
The greedy and avaricious seem
To want, and take, more and more
Leaving even less for the peasants
To fight and grub for off the floor.
The rich man in his castle still,
Security light and guard at his gate,
More and more decrying the excesses
Of the battered remnant Welfare State.
So goodbye twenty twenty two
Heaven only knows what we’ll see,
More of the same and worse I think, when
They usher in year Twenty Twenty Three.
Four thousand years give a century or two
That’s just about as long as it’s taken
For man to abuse Earth’s delicate balance
And leave it stunned and badly shaken
The Path To Least Resistance -
By: Sue S. Side
Amp pull ease just sparked insight,
I suddenly became aware,
(actually self actualization
came ohm to roost - dare
ring with mighty stir since this
Earthling orbited thru the atmosphere
back in time many a passing,
quickening, and rip snorting year),
how my current psychological,
neurological, and emotional despair,
sans crafted - plane vanilla
existential plight grounded, nixed,
and shorted former spunky,
quirky, and goofy boyish air
snuffed out, hopscotched
(along buttery, bow jangly rocky
unlevel road i.e. skeletal derriere)
extinguished courtesy nihilistic fanfare
with counterproductive antiwelfare
of self, when just a tendershoot, nothing
boot bag of unlovely bones when bare
grim reaper das scythe
did to hunker down
specifically anorexia attired
with trademark black hoodie wear
firmly entrenched, would
not budge, clear
out, nor disappear
matter of fact arrogant behavior
cannibalistic ornery rode
roughshod, and cavalier
dauntless demeanor debonaire
leaving body electric
in utmost disrepair,
lo parents trumpeted
state of emergency
and sought out consigliere
one Doctor Ted Goldberg care
fully applied his deft, heft,
whence nervosa finally left
after quite long stretch of time
not without a fight,
and permanently sear
my esprit de corp
undermining foursquare - buzzfeeding
every epidermal micro hectare
pot tent lee loosed pendulum
within pit of mine being, a nightmare
minimally livingsocial, linkedin
to tomb ma birth family prepare
ring to die just on verge of puberty
analogous to bot sized
wrecking ball lob
bing within me tummy scare
ring the Bejesus
from those who begat me
nonetheless felt immense care
and concern helpless, and lacked app
nowadays accessible within sphere,
viz zitting world wide web,
now holed up in mancave sitting here
reflecting how I sabotaged
vitality, virility and vim stunting
maturation across vast swath of yesteryear!
Happiness is easily found in a multitude of the sweetest components
Grateful for you, often swept from the feats, of our hours, sharring meaningful moments
Your citrines comprised burning bright; scorching everywhere
As an orbited sphere; willed they are a perfect solar flare
Climbing a summit inside my thoughts; that is all you
Beside me, you wrap me up while we both enjoy the view
One could mine for eternity; excavating nothing valued; seeking a gem worthy of a crown
But, I would stop digging at the surface of the earth; if it matched your eyes, superfluous shade of brown
On this planet named Zyra, we have arrived.
We are some of the few that have survived.
A red dwarf star named Bellus inexorably rushed towards us.
It collided with the earth, and the results were disastrous.
Fortunately, this planet orbited around that dwarf star.
In this space ark, we the survivors have traveled far.
The remains of Bellus have continued on into space.
Zyra now orbits the sun as it has taken the earth’s place.
This planet has enough oxygen in its atmosphere.
Every indication shows life can be sustained here.
Our ship has landed safely on this new place.
We are here to start a new human race.
Based on the 1951 film “When Worlds Collide”.
The first exploration was to the moon
Where we saw how its craters are hewn
We have orbited Jupiter to unveil the shroud
and unlocked the mystery beneath its dense cloud,
Man's curiousity has taken him to Mars
He's seen Saturn's rings as he journeyed among the stars,
Traveling to planets light years away
To reveal mysteries long held at bay
Exploring the universe is the ultimate goal
But they must avoid the deadly black hole,
and as the technology does improve
To colonize other planets is the next move
3-31-2023
Sponsor: Constance La France
Writing Challenge - 'Q' Words - Poetry Contest
Silver sentiel, silent sphere,
You've orbited through every year.
Your face a map of time's own gleam, Reflecting
every human dream. The lover's sighs, The warriors plight, Bathed in your impartial light.
You ask no questions, offer no reply.
Just watch ages flutter by. I imagine you listening, Your face a soft gleam. Reflecting the fragments of my waking dream. I wish for a garden, where colors can riot, and time is worthwhile. Not of Earth, but of star dust, a landscape unseen. Where thoughts take their form, vibrant and keen. With my thoughts in a whirl, I imagine a companion, someone who sees patterns in the dust motes that fly. And finds their own music in a lullaby.
Do you think wishes sent upwards, have anywhere to go? Or are they just echoes, that fade and than cease, Lost in the vastness, finding no peace? Moon, you are a pale disc, hung high serene, A silent observer, a cosmic queen.
The warm, dark wood of high-backed stalls
enclosed us like a womb,
and, nose to nose, we talked with eyes,
oblivious of the room.
You shone with special radiance
that welled up from your soul,
a subtle, golden inner light
I was honored to behold.
The candle made our shadows dance
so merrily on the wall -
our faces orbited the flame,
so happily enthralled.
Your eyes were pale as opal stones,
translucent as the sea,
and in their depths I know I saw
what looked like love to me.
You were so fair, so beautiful,
so graceful, that you gave
to me a blessed memory
I'll carry to the grave.
(As Galileo left the session of the Inquisition
at which he had been forced to deny his own
discovery that the earth orbited the sun, and
had to "admit" that the earth was static, he
murmured, "eppur si muove" ("but it moves").
It's hard to live in Lilliput, I find.
I have to cross my fingers, play their game.
Their billing, filling, drilling daily grind
sits ill with me. They all trot out the same
tired cliches. Passing a painting, never fail
to comment on the squareness of the frame.
Unprofitable, weary, flat and stale.
You can't earn prizes here. These fools prize earning.
No sweets to eat. It's one long dreary tale
of condemnation, disapproval, spurning.
The Sunday supplements determine taste,
all tearing down, forbidding, banning, burning.
They're sealed in heavy metal, concrete-cased
austerity. They put the "die" in "diet".
What will survive of them is nuclear waste.
Denounce, detract, dismiss it and deny it.
Don't look for clover - look for cloven hooves.
Excoriate it, flay it, vilify it.
They'd love to let life lurch along in grooves,
the gauche, perverse, unruly human mind
trapped tidily in aspic. But it moves.
Depression taught me a strange religion.
Its god was absence.
Its prayers were unanswered questions.
Its sacred text
was written in all the things
I could no longer feel.
Anxiety became the high priest,
translating silence into prophecy.
Every shadow a warning.
Every pause a judgment.
Every tomorrow
already carrying the memory
of its own collapse.
Together they built a universe
where meaning orbited doubt,
and doubt devoured meaning,
a black hole feeding upon itself.
I stood at the event horizon,
watching pieces of myself
cross over.
Dreams first.
Then certainty.
Then the simple belief
that I would survive becoming me.
Yet something remained.
Not hope.
Hope was too visible.
Something smaller.
A witness hidden beneath the wreckage,
counting the stars
the darkness forgot to swallow.