Long Pinging Poems
Long Pinging Poems. Below are the most popular long Pinging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pinging poems by poem length and keyword.
They were accounted for,
officially dead at least,
but the sickening fact was
that large numbers of the dead
had gone missing.
Occasionally, still pinging cellphones
were found in Hades, Purgatory, and
other Bardo states.
Olympus was drunkenly silent,
as were almost all of the seven heavens.
In nirvana,
the footwear of some of the deceased,
had been left in a discarded pile.
The missing had presumably
transported themselves
to some less boneheaded ideas
of the afterlife.
Eventually, God gave up looking.
The missing dead never returned,
having found their own way
out of all that craziness.
For my pals did led me thus;
For feel I need a touch
On earth I did been
On who Will I
be comfort
Sought
A lone
Tunnel
But
dim
Its
Led
Me
Still
Then I recall my Memory verse off from these locust years
Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher
of our faith; who for the joy that was
set before him endured the cross,
despising the shame, and is
set down at the right
hand of the
throne
of
God.
Then I made away my plight this crazy days like garment worn on me
Heb twelve thus:
For in needs no tunnels, no dark my shines even the streets are made of gold
Where God seats of the throne
And the angel cry holy holy to Him only
And the Lord Jesus seated at right hand side His majesty
For there all hope should stay cos its away the fake drains
Earth made.
For there neither buying nor selling so foreign exchanges
Neither schooling so no lecture goes thus
No social media, like fb no twitter, no LinkedIn all no pinging
Where peace meet the saint far on high
No elections so no rigging
No sickness no autopsy, no vaccine, no antidote
No colour so no race
That where my hope is
That where am looking
Looking up the heaven
Where the angels sing no blues, no jazz, no calypsos, no pop, no reggae, no afro beat
But holy songs forever truly pure quietness thereby.
This screwed up years mind only on high
Where worries are drain caked
This screwed up years
Were all troubles turn sorrow
5/23/2020
They were accounted for,
officially dead at least,
but the sickening fact was
that large numbers of the dead
had gone missing.
Occasionally, still pinging cellphones
were found in Hades, Purgatory, and
other Bardo states.
Olympus was still drunkenly silent,
as were almost all of the seven heavens.
In nirvana,
the footwear of some of the deceased,
had been left in a pile awaiting a divine fire.
The missing had presumably
transported themselves
to some less boneheaded ideas
of the afterlife.
Eventually, God pronounced.
“Right” he said, “right, okay,
this is a sales glitch really. We’re just not
packaging death attractively enough”.
However the missing dead never returned,
having found their own way
out of all that craziness.
Masses forming classes boarding:
Corral Gates of slaughter, hauling, sorting- human beings-aborting
our innocent(sons and daughters)
Bishops Queens and Cannon Fodder-
their crop of sheep sacrifice to image of the Beast
es cargo for the Elite Machine; of
Underground in plain site, lined
in Streets of Gold of their El Dorado deep-sites.
Our lives for sell, sold.
Titanic-transport of souls clandestine sport of spoil
Moonlight witches pissing on fertile soil
Mid-night
Their platform of unsee able points of light inconceivable blight
A ship of fools run ary
By heretics
making waves rushing blood-*** noise Vampires sucking dry
Kendrick and Cyborg sex ploys
Buoys and curls pinging toys waving
Bye to your rights
While your eyes are sewn tight
As celebrity whores say "come get me boys"
and the message boards are alight
Why are you so dead inside?
River Styx is taking you for a ride?
You'd be at 666 Flags if Apathy was water, water on the brain slide
The Final Frontier
The Motive is clear
You've been contacted by Demons
By the "Art of the Deal"
In the guise of...Behind the sky's
glove...chemical lines drawn by mechanical sky d(r)oves, to obscure the happenings above;writers on the storm exhausting their lies and Political heroic acts of altruistic "Love" the "Dragonborn." The Kingdom of Mourn.
A Game of thrones a game of bones non_chalantly thrown.
Hung in the balance, drawn and quartered by AI Phalanx algorithm.
Clouding the mind.
Not seeing flashing signs-
"*** poison kind ...of malice-flashing in neon."
Hiding behind crown Masons-ring brotherhood blood and chalice.
Unplugged radar, telethon tears.
Honing your sites ip and your fears, cook and rinse till juices run clear.
Till you are stuck in the hole with Alice.
Why are you so dead inside?
River Styx is taking you for a ride?
You'd be at 666 Flags if Apathy was water, water on the brain slide
Hide behind your tools
Crafty handiwork to snoop
On the people for the people
Of who?
Of the Media, spoonfed search-the Wickedpedia
Omit what doesn't fit, the narrative
and feed- -retrofit the needia
Face condoms up when what you
are touching is as unclean, as Cardi D and the itinerary of the beast, riding another beast,
biometrics and vaccine
In the centre of Caen
On this war torn night
Spandau's strafing
All the Canadian soldiers in sight
Sergeant Baker
Is hit in the thigh
A flesh wound its not
He's in bleeding die
As he cries out in pain
The bullets rain down
Zipping and pinging
In this beautiful French town
His head down
As he awaits his fate
His collar is grabbed
Now in dragging state
His colleague and friend
Has risked his life
To save another
From mans war torn strife
As they scramble away
Upon them comes
A Tiger tank
Over the wall she runs
To a shell hole they dive
As a rocket strikes
Through it's armoured steel
In precision bite
Internal explosion
Screams of death
Tank crew gone
In battle reft
The town now liberated
In population applause
As we sit in the square
Wondering of wars just cause
" Dedicated to all the Canadian and British soldiers
who liberated Caen from June to August 1944 "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php
Is his cell phone dead? Is he dead? What is happening?
I stare out the window for the sixteenth time.
It is windy out there. I can hear the howling.
Has he been in a wreck? Is it time to call the hospitals?
Should I get dressed in case the police come to the door?
I press my nose against the glass, and then my mouth.
The coolness of it does not calm me in the least.
Where is he? Why has he not called? What is happening?
I cannot leave. There is no one to watch the children.
I stare at the cell phone. Check it again for messages.
There is nothing. Where is he? What is happening? Was there a wreck?
The bridge is treacherously slick in this kind of weather. Especially if it rains.
Rain begins pinging at the windows. It sounds like sand being thrown.
What is happening? Where is he? I get dressed, ready for anything.
During the Second World War
A decision was made
If brothers were to be lost
The last would be saved
The story below
Is the truth in a way
For the search of a soldier
Before he becomes, theatre pray
The US Government declared
A mission is in plan
Sending a squad of Rangers
To save this solitary man
Capt. John H Miller
With his handful of men
Their dedication to search
For the last of them
For his brothers were lost
In the theatre of war
At Omaha and Utah
In the Pacific, so far
Into Europe they head
From cities through towns
Looking for Ryan
Before he's gunned down
He is eventually found
With Paratroopers, holding onto a key bridge
As a Panzer group advances
Will this be their last ridge
Bullets zipped, pinging
Ricocheting
The flesh of the living
In screaming sing
Their mission was, to
Save Private Ryan
But Capt. John H Miller
With others, died trying
My entry into Frank Herrera's contest
" Describe your favorite performance by Actor or Actress in a movie "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-7.php
Tom Hanks is my favourite actor, and his role as Capt, John H Miller to me
was one of his best, his hunger to complete his mission showed in his acting.
The film was based on a true story, about Fritz Niland who lost two brothers
in Normandy, and a brother M.I.A. in Burma. He was later found alive.
But the military rule about sole surviving son's being allowed out of combat is true.
It was enacted after the five Sullivan brothers were killed in 1942 when the U.S.S.
Juneau was sunk in the Pacific. The rule of the surviving son is common to many
armies, the American, the Canadian, the British and the Israeli.
They were accounted for,
they were officially dead,
but the alarming fact was
that large numbers of the dead
had gone missing.
Occasionally, still pinging cellphones
were found in Hades, Purgatory, and
other Bardo states.
Olympus was drunkenly silent,
as were almost all of the seven heavens.
In nirvana,
the footwear of some of the deceased,
had been left in a pile awaiting a divine fire,
footprints were seen
as if waiting for a cooling wash
in the fountain of everlasting life.
The missing had presumably
transported themselves
to some less boneheaded ideas
of the life after, one not yet imagined
by any dogmatic priesthood.
God was accused of not packaging
the deceased properly.
However the missing were never found
having discovered their own way out
of all that doctrinal,
inconsequential madness.
I was not awakened by the drip dripping of a faucet tap
as I lay abed, stifling a yawn trying to return to sleep.
It was the soft ping pinging sound of rain drops, rap rap,
redundant chirps like a newly hatched chick's peep peep.
I heard the distant crash and boom in peals of thunder
trying to roar louder than the tick tock of the alarm clock.
I rolled over, groaning need of sleep, feeling torn asunder.
That's when I heard the unmistakable click of the door lock.
There was the swoosh from a pair of little, socked feet,
pitter pattering tiny toes on hardwood floors that creaked.
A warm breath murmured "Mommy," in a voice so sweet.
Drizzle splish splashed the windowpane, leaving it streaked.
My sleepy child snuggled in my arms, both of us drifting in dreams
when the shrill ring ring of my cell phone started to chime.
The vibrating mmm mmm refused my dance with moonbeams.
Kitty sashayed into the room, "Meow meow. It's feeding time."
Brainstorm cometh, damning frontal hemisphere
jamming lookout, noggin perched, roiling thinking
uber wayfaring zealot, drills legendary phalanx.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Writer's block afflicts Das scribe,
who whiz now stricken supine
adept dull livery sub par excellence
his gold standard worse
thus, another day
to slog thru arduous process
crafting admirable verse
wrestling behemoth loosed sniper
dodging enfilade broadcast sos terse.
N'er easy chore to fashion
acceptable word worth poem to whit
staring at flickering
accursed cursor doth blank stare visit
flash flooding warning saturated
gray matter fist sized unit
groundswell burgeoning leveed banks
barging signals transmit
urgent army corps of engineers
to reroute via sluice, sans surfeit
apprentice longshoreman
doth double duty
as grammarian sought to retrofit
arduous struggle ensues, where drowning
affects consummation
strong temptation quit
ditch ching progress made,
thus far in hot pursuit
mind comfortably numb
stream of consciousness
submerges concentration
entrenched deep posit
craftiness sentenced to punctuate
disequilibrium doth outwit
venerably beaded trademark
Scottish matted flair
abandoned unfinished poem
left forever stranded orbit
zero escape velocity
zinging, unsprung,
pinging mindscape nonprofit
able endeavor reflecting zeitgeist
bombarding Messerschmitt
undermining, strafing, disabling
cutting crew rescue outer limit
faint feint blinking in the twilight zone.