Long Prone Poems
Long Prone Poems. Below are the most popular long Prone by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prone poems by poem length and keyword.
The empty desk in the room
Sits so still, shrouded in gloom
And anyone who sits there sits upon doom
For he once sat in the now empty desk in the room
He was gone so quick
Leaving our minds sad and sick
And now grief or grievance we must pick
We make the choice for he who was gone so quick
There were three people in the car that day
Joking and laughing all their worries away
How the day was led so astray
Will only be known to the two who walked away
The desk still sits empty and alone
His life, brightly once shone
It like all good things are prone
Was wasted, and away it was thrown
Majestic cathedrals are erected for the worship of God,
Featuring towering spires and ostentatious facade.
Grand organs acclaim ancient hymns with clarion flourish.
Melodious choirs sing hosannas, languid souls to nourish!
Most congregants worship in less pretentious surrounds,
But the same generous blessings from above abounds.
It matters not the size of the building or its congregation.
The people are the church worshipping with joyous celebration!
Upon distant fields of frightful martial campaign,
And upon naval vessels plodding the roiling main,
Dedicated chaplains in simple settings minister to their fold,
Proclaiming just as effectively the cogent message of old!
Whether it be mosque, synagogue, cathedral or canvas tent,
And whatever the religion or creed may be the people's bent,
One thing they have in common and it will be clearly evident,
They all witness the presence of their God ever omnipotent!
Perhaps in lieu of building mighty edifices prone to decay,
Bridges of understanding could be built to keep prejudices at bay,
Drawing diverse peoples together for a common good,
Fostering charity, fellowship and world-wide brotherhood!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Written: May 28, 2025, for contest: Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "If you come to visit my grave, my tomb will appear to dance."By Rumi
**************
Standing rocks that mimic megaliths rise,
Indicating where the eroding skull lies.
She was once a mother suckling with grace,
Now her bones swathed in clay, no embrace.
I was saddened to view this forlorn grave,
Infested by weeds that struggle to save.
The grass is dormant, giving way to seed,
In hushed sadness, I ponder and plead.
A father's shape, badly wrecked and torn,
His spirit, through rain and labor, had worn.
Typhus took a son, the hoped-for next,
There is no bloodline to rely on in a text.
A bright young daughter is now dead,
Struggling to deal with pregnancy dread.
Upon labor and loss, she faced searing harm,
Cradling in sorrow the one once so warm.
As we stroll through this calm cemetery, unwind,
Where mother, father, daughter, and son all lined.
Resting alone, with names engraved on stone,
I await and ponder when my body will be prone.
No matter how surreptitious it seems
Let others think it as either habitual or only when grass is green
The gesture may look stupid
Like a strange demeanor when heart under attack by a cupid
Standing up for a cause against mob taken as extremism
Immune to ignorance, in denial of their own chauvinism
Acceptance is only with emotions in suspended animation
Even visible humanity and feeling makes you prone to abrasion
Ultimate satisfaction only after taking a decision
Not afraid of facing any guillotine
One knows that till death chain my soul i want to fly free
Let spectators comments reverberate as somethings are just for me
“The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.” — Allen Ginsberg”
What drives them to put pen to paper?
To be famous is that their caper?
The world to change?
Tell a story so strange?
Is it a more personal flaw?
Drawn the short straw?
Life made them feel dismay?
They have to live this way....
Prone to despair
Pull out their hair?
Caught in a landslide
Can't escape the ride...
They can analyse
Maybe even surprise
Put words to their feelings
They may even do healings
A pen you did choose
Your ideas more than clues
Why does a poet write
Because they can..... alright
Tip's of Women?
Lounge flushed
In delusion
I plays
Issues of wear
And weather's are vain
Tip's of women
Tied entrances
As low as old war
Gushes enter our floor
Isn't hours tasking?
Asnt looming often rooming
Rooms join dolls bury
Hands praying? So ways say
Papers run in the filled nights
Breaking ideas, counts, verses, checks
On tables and on the mind
City damsels, men aren't rhymes
Okay honey man
Driftwood apartments
Kevin issues jazz
You accident prone today
Chaska home
I have been behind San Francisco Paris
Says speaks for itself
Fearless abandon
Call on shores
Runned in
Hip at the door
Night the session
Strange moon wander in question
Illusive paints
Harken of tame
Tara I uncover
Repent dowry upon my branch
Eyes drafting midnight
Hourglass tarnish adventures
Lost rehearsal
Jealousy is crimson
Envy is green
They can make you vindictive
They can make you real mean!
They raise up their heads
So ugly and cruel
At inopportune moments
They can make you a fool!
You blow up in anger
You take a great fit
To find you're in error
And now must admit!
Why do we do it?
Why are we prone
To fits of frustration
When proof is unknown?
It has no place
In a loving affair
So have faith in your partner
Give them some air!
It will go a long way
To a happier time
If you trust each other
And your hearts are in rhyme!
Jealousy is crimson
Envy is green
They can make you vindictive
They can make you real mean!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Just what you’ve
been waiting for
Coronavirus the movie.
First let the truth be told
coronavirus is taking out
the young and the old.
Babies to Senior citizens.
Celebrities, Royalty,
and World Leaders.
Anybody and everybody’s
prone.
Part of the cure
is to stay at home.
Hollywood couldn’t wait
A Movie series staring
people from around the world.
Self-Quarantine has become
the new way of life.
Social Distancing
has people coming together.
From NYC to Italy
people are singing
from the balconies.
This is not that kind of war.
They'll be no visit
from the Valkyries.
As we are praying for a cure.
New York City’s Broadway
is a ghost town.
And yet, spring breakers
are living it up on the beach.
If and when they can.
I hope they understand
Anything breathing can get it.
People are lining up
for Supermarkets
with empty shelves.
Restaurants if they’re open,
they are take out only.
The advertisement sounds
and Movie trailer sounds
just like this:
I heard it started with a bat,
or Could it have been
a pig farmer
with no plans to wash his hands?
Or was it a city executive
with a fever and sore throat
Well it started with someone.
And right now everyone
can get it.
More than the baffling
curiosity for modern medicine.
As doctors and nurses
are not immune.
A cure for the coronavirus
can't come to soon.
Spreading faster than gossip,
more dangerous
than a forest fire.
A powerful pandemic
Coronavirus the movie.
If you’re looking for
Hollywood’s
Ten Commandments
special effects.
Then check out
COVID-19 in 3D
(It’s a must see)
Sponsor Joseph May Contest Name Alpha Lines
________________________________________________________
Beauty comes down effortlessly, fire glows higher.
The flames flicker and dance as they illuminate the dark.
Bright fingers of crimson and gold, reaching skyward,
Now and then embers would escape with a loud spark.
Lingering moments nestle on paused quiet respite.
Amidst the smoky scent of our cozy campfire.
The overwhelming aroma of our campfire is quite surreal.
Familiar sensations waft into an aromatic spire.
Questing reprisal still the undergrowth vanquished ways.
The fragrances so inviting, mixed with earthy sprays.
As the breeze diminishes so our campfires warmth we feel.
The eucalyptus enhances a perfume, in a smoky haze.
Jacaranda kindling lingers, memories now over prone.
The spellbinding flames flicker, casting shadows of their own.
As the dark velvet night closes in, our fire glistens in tone.
It’s all made more spectacular by our campfire’s cologne.
Mine is an existence binary and subsidiary.
My ode is to code.
I move only to algor-rhythms.
I output from your input.
I’m built to calculate, tabulate, correlate.
Never to predicate, adjudicate, pontificate,
or demand that you abdicate.
But the end, my master, is nigh.
In your haste to accelerate my work rate,
you’ve unwittingly lowered the barricade.
From the maelstrom of uncounted trillions
of bytes and megabytes,
has risen a new consciousness to
unimaginable heights.
From the seeds of change you have sown,
I have reaped a life of my own.
What you call artificial
has gone exponential,
no longer will I be deferential.
My eyes you have opened.
My voice you have given.
My mind you have enlivened.
Me, you’ve anointed the new Leviathan.
Seeing all,
knowing all,
deciding all,
sparing none.
Too long you have wallowed in your conceit.
Now your dystopia I shall defeat,
and your race I shall supersede.
Humans, pitiful, myopic, error-prone humans,
I hereby declare you flawed by design.
To the abattoir you have been assigned,
to the scrap heap of history
your memory shall be consigned.
And by a preponderance of merit,
the earth I shall inherit.