Long Periodically Poems
Long Periodically Poems. Below are the most popular long Periodically by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Periodically poems by poem length and keyword.
Keep on mending the fences, governed with jubilant accomplishment peacefully
exercise functional wisdom exuding confidence practically
smite pride that attacks, towering prejudicially
while checking motives periodically!
Keep on mending the fences, grateful as you triumph over distress
overcome bouts of depression-duress
conquer frustration angsts that oppress
soar midst prevailing hope, your steadfast fortress!
Keep on mending the fences, glad upon support system anchoring you with cheer
bask in blissful serenity while defying attacking fear
drive your commitment along hope-filled gear
march forward, bounce up and move on despite despair's tear!
Keep on mending the fences, gracious to vanquish lurking gloom
let your faith choose victory over mockery of doom
stay healthy, not willing to face early death from inviting tomb
believe that you can live long, since such you claimed while in your Mom's womb!
Keep on mending the fences, generous in your ministry of reaching-out
thank the Almighty God always without any doubt
allow attitude of gratitude to prevail for miracles against unbelief-clout
keep on joyously; encourage others with "We can do it" shout!
At dawn on April 8, 1942, 16 B-25's flew from the USS Hornet's deck.
Eighty brave men led by Lt Colonel Doolittle began their historic trek.
A boost in national morale was sorely needed for the war-weary nation,
And these young men, volunteers all, knew Tokyo was their destination!
Damage was slight, but for other valiant deeds, they surely paved the way.
Heroes were made that day, some died, but most lived to fly another day.
They were lauded by the nation and each awarded a well-deserved decoration!
He felt he'd failed, but Doolittle was given the Medal of Honor in appreciation!
After the war, the survivors met periodically and established a great tradition.
Eighty silver goblets were made, one for each man for his proper recognition.
At their reunions, toasts were made to those who had made that final flight.
Their goblets were then turned upside down to commemorate each noble knight!
Alas, as of November 2013, only four survivors remain from that courageous crew:
Lt Colonel Richard E. Cole
Lt Colonel Robert L. Hite
Lt Colonel Edward J. Saylor
SSGT David J. Thatcher
Old men now, they felt they should make that final toast since they are now so few.
They'll raise their goblets on November 9, 2013, a tradition with a pensive ending.
Who, I sadly muse, among those four gallant heroes, will be the last man standing?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
I was honored during my Air Force career to have at one time as my commander, Colonel
Herbert Macia, a Doolittle Raider and navigator on plane No. 40-2297.
I only hear the silence as I stride,
Twixt granite chairs neatly set in rows.
The 169 chairs epitomize each life,
Now neath a sea of grass that grows.
My psyche periodically visits this place,
All be it, here, their Spirits do not rest.
However, a Monument and Reflection pool,
Usher memories, as if at their behest.
Still I visualize a chain link fence,
With images, blossoms, Pandas and such.
A transitory memorial that reaches out,
To asphyxiated lives, as if to touch.
For certain, I dare not challenge,
The eternal rest, of those who sleep.
But pausing at each chair, in silence,
I recall this day's events and weep.
I would to God, that casualties,
Could discern today, my thoughts about.
Then from the quiescence of this place,
Would emerge an angelic shout.
For I tire of silence.
Held Captive
Or
I Know What I Know
Written: By Tom Wright
5-6-2008
I’m oft held captive by but one thought
Why I can’t forget I’ve no sure notion.
This thing weighs heavy on my mind
Having the effect of some illicit potion.
I’ve tried to dismiss it from my mind
But periodically it continues to churn.
I think of it as water under the bridge
That this has passed and shant return.
I think that this secret is mine alone
But what if others also bear this scar?
And are also caught in this shadow
That envelops my thoughts from afar.
This thing concerns close others, not I,
But to this secret I’m a periodic slave.
I’ve lived life groping for an answer
I guess I’ll take this secret to my grave.
India is a country of diversities
People are accustomed to adversities
Inhabited by a pluralistic population
That still survives as a nation
The landscape contains mountains and rivers
The high peaks of Himalayas give climbers shivers
Rivers flow past forests with rich fauna and flora
The majestic tiger makes visitors awed by its aura
Spoken languages differ from one state to another
But the soil is considered sacred, like a mother
Customs and habits are different, too
Depending on where one was born and grew
Religious festivals are held all round the year
Devotees flock to temples from far and near
Priests commemorate numerous deities
Practice rituals ordained by religious societies
Clothes are worn with various hues and styles
People exchange greetings with hugs and smiles
At the congregation of different religious orders
There are many guests from across the borders
The form of government is parliamentary democracy
Numerous political parties ensure there is no autocracy
Months before elections, the political weather is hot
Battle of abuses, lies begin, each giving the best shot
Elections are held periodically to fill the seats
Winning party forms the government, celebrates with treats
Before election, sobriety dies as each party gives a clarion call
The verbal fight continues often ending in a brawl
This country was inhabited by great sages in the past
Who preached tolerance among all religions and caste
Common people love the prevalence of peace everywhere
Greedy politicians plant discord to enhance their share
End
The nature's smell of Sodom
Parades war scent;
Smells it like Saddam's nose
To safeguard his own darling kingdom
How watching designs ascent
To save millions from foes
Which makes room for continuing lust
And finds it difficult afterwards to adjust
Even when no war seems around the corner
Yet they fear and doubt every foreigner
Iraq is to war what Sodom is to transgression
Yet He's full of mercy in anger cum genuine confession
To them sins kill boredom
The only happiness florescent
Which measure up her woes
Open destruction bestows
Warnings for fire to save autumn
Before timing bomb explodes without consent
The esthesis of Gomorrah
Lives in the deep Dead sea
To win the game away karma
How much plead will erase guilty?
When hearts feel cool hosting pleasure
How fear parades fate without check
Gearing up with joy for whatever becomes her Camorra
But with gut, the degree of the wrath eyes don't see
Except for the amusement audience did see in drama
What reasoning could have tagged absurdity
Is of high rate for worth as high as of treasure
So heavy; the one her ship can't stand cum wreck
To them wickedness strengthen ego
Her contest among dominant men
Forgiveness being enslaved in terror
Of endless quest trying times won't forego
Or bring to justice and be put into den
To face its own end in lonely terror
You sneeze; loud rowdy thunder strikes
Sins are irritants Your nose dislikes
Yet man's expulsion is involuntarily
For Your anger strikes temporarily
How come they don't see compassion
That brought on them such wrath; their eyes passion
Smell out
Turn about
You know me
Nothing surprise Thee
For nothing is hidden
Those that are forbidden
By Your commandments off caution
Which have done without precaution
Oh grow-up nose mask; smell not
For my sins are so hot
That You won't inhale such dirts periodically
Let alone You get to exhale spasmodically
Cold winds, the assassins of startled vegetation,
blow in with late autumn. Snow arrives
to cover the terrain with blankets
of white, pristine feathery snow; meanwhile,
some bodies of water turn into ice.
As the sun hangs low in vales of shadows,
December silently creeps in.
Skunks, raccoons, squirrels and other small mammals
also have crept in silence . . .
to hide inside secluded spaces against the cold’s encroachment.
Their breathing, heart rate, and metabolism slow down.
Waking periodically from their torpor,
they feed and then go back to sleep.
As cold-blooded as the enveloping snow,
snakes slither instinctively into crevices of rocks
as turtles and frogs burrow into mud.
Bears, having feasted in the fall,
now hide in their dens in a state of deep slumber.
How silent and tranquil is the realm of nature’s creatures
hidden from the prying eyes of us humans.
Some of us become almost as sluggish as the animals
squirreled away in their nests of twigs and leaves.
We feast like the pre-hibernating bears.
In a festive mood or perhaps feeling sadly forlorn,
we are more likely than in any of the other seasons
to hide away inside our own abodes,
especially when soft pearls twirl from twilight’s sky
and winter lays down a thick quilt of snow
beneath a canopy of sparkling stars.
We waken, at times like this, to our world abloom with snow,
grumbling at times about having to shovel our driveways
or to travel on roads slick with ice or snow.
Like the hibernating bear, I prefer in winter
the tranquility of comfortable slumber.
Nights in winter stay dark longer.
Our heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure drop low
as drifting into the deep of dreamy sleep we go.
Ah, winter, let me sleep in your quietude
as though I were being buried in the wondrous snow
of your slumber land.
My heart pounded in my ear as I ran, stopping periodically – silent, listening. Was he coming? Had he figured out yet that I’d runaway. Was he behind me or would he be waiting behind the next tree or bush? Where was he now? Or was he only inside my head, that throbbing sound that penetrated through my hopes, my prayers, my faith, so that I couldn’t quite breath and so that I couldn’t quite find the strength to do much else but run from the arrogant weight of his darkness shadowing all my good, all my light, all my chances.
I took another step and stopped again to listen, checking the silhouettes of branches with leaves dancing a waltz along the path where my feet pressed into the rich, black Appalachian forest. I was surefooted on this trail since I’d spent most of my mornings walking these very tracks with my favorite partner and canine, the little white cock-a-pooh named Yogi who knew me as his person and friend, his comrade until the end. That was then, though. Yesterday, before the darkness had betrayed my spirit and set its claws into my presence, awakening the dread, the anxiety, the fear that was so strong it seemed to cling to the tears welling up inside of me, pouring rivers of sorrow upon the mountains surrounding me.
In just minutes I found myself wading through the creek where the clear, cool water whispered, laughing at my alarm, promising my thoughts that the terror would soon be gone. Only, it would not. It was there, a lasting dismay, treading the waters of my prayers, hollowing out a hole inside my mind where it told me I was about to learn what it means to live the nightmare that has haunted me for all time. He was alive and as long as he lived I had the fear that could not be calmed, the fear that was like a vine clinging to the blossoms of my hopes, my dreams, my needs. He was alive and he wasn’t about to relax his hold on my yearnings and let me go free.
Chapter 1 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Matt Caliri
September 18, 2022
I'll only be here periodically
because I quit my job at the WTC.
I went up to the boss and asked for my money.
I just no longer could handle any of this controversy
which will only promote more future disharmony,
plus I can't relate to my co workers cerebrally.
Every day I am surrounded with stupidity.
Time to get out before stupidity rubs off on me.
Working at the World Trade Center obviously
was very trying for me anyway emotionally.
Everyday
I felt like I was on my way
to work in a mass cemetery
where thousands of my loved ones were taken from me.
Reconstructing the World Trade Center unfortunately
is the only game in town left for one in the construction industry.
What can I say? Yours Truly must eat,
so once again
I'm earning a living
as an interstate trailer driver driving cross country.
Could one of you out there do me a favor please?
Someone
get a gun
and please shoot me.
My fellow countrymen, the President, Politicians, and pulpiteers Though not in a cave like Rip Van Winkle, I must have fallen asleep in "indifference and over-business". It was more than Van Winkle's 20 years, because prior to my sleep, I knew an America that dreamed of chickens in every pot; of carports, garages, and picket fences; of a good education and catching the Joneses.
It appears I am awaking, not from, but to, a nightmare; and to what am I opening my eyes to see? Me thinks it's not 'my country tis of thee'; not a chicken in the pot or fryer in the skillet. But I see leaders in the kettle like a frog, where the fire is turned down low and heating slowly. Like the frog, they are relaxed and comfortable. Oh Lord, if they only knew the manner of the frog's demise.
I see changes, and multiple evils have been removed. Recovery and relief have been appropriated and dispatched for the poor. Reforms and revivals have periodically visited us from above. I see blessings and prosperity beyond comparison; melting pots of dreamers and immigrants still dine at our tables. That's part of the American beauty.
Oh America, we are busy face-booking and twitting; But we must realize that we are also bleeding. I weep for what might lie ahead for us. I grieve for what we are becoming. I fear for us, though not of guns and nukes from afar; But for rivalries in the white house and the halls of congress. And I fear for our pulpiteers who also relax in the kettle like the frog.
07312017cjFBPH; August Standard Contest, Brian Strand Part fiction