Long Record(a) Poems
Long Record(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Record(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Record(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
I know that it is not possible, but if I were given
an audience with Barabbus, I can imagine that
he would say the following:
You wonder if I became a Christian
You think that I may have been killed
in my continued pursuit of revolution
As with everyone else, I will give account
for the choices that I made.
So, take me now as you found me in
the Biblical record--a pardon criminal.
Please. Neither idolize nor condemn me.
I disappeared in the dark night of silence.
Whether or not I ascended into the light
of God or descended further into my
revolutionary causes, for now, that matter
will remain a mystery.
Nevertheless, this much is certain:
Neither history nor tradition. can unvell
what God has hidden.
Come with me.
I’m telling you child,
In midsummer along the canal,
Industrial waters run still.
Tread softly and you may just hear
A hammering on tiny anvils -
A guild of workshops cut in miniature,
The secret unseen labour of the woodland jewellery quarter.
Child! Here, wrought iron branches of the hawthorn
Line the towpaths with clasps, hooks, and buckles,
Burnished by the soot-black beak of the raven.
Come child! Go peek under the bramble -
Seek the woodlouse in his apron of gunmetal leather
Polishing a cluster of cabochon blackberries
With his apprentice, the buff-tailed bumble.
Come with me, child!
See field mice fashion acorn cups into chalices,
Plated and silvered by moonlit splashes.
Hunched, eye huge through his jeweller’s loupe,
The toad crafts and cuts knots of amethyst lavender,
Heavy in the scent of summer.
Come child, come further along!
A short-clawed otter is panning for gold,
Glimmered reflections of the melting sun
To be passed to the badger for smelting,
And forging signet rings for the kings of old.
Child, be dazzled as the glazier dragonfly flashes by!
She snips fragments of light,
Soldering them into stained-glass windows for fairy cathedrals.
Come look, child!
Below in the hollow of a stump -
A loveliness of ladybirds enamel tin boxes
To hold trinkets of hope, and lockets for treasured memories.
Now listen, child,
For the frogs in their pearl-buttoned waistcoats,
Record a precision of pocket watch orders,
Fragile timepieces of dandelion clocks,
Worked by the blind mole in his escapement under the soil.
Child, I’m telling ya,
Here there are neither tickets nor tabs.
For in this workshop of this tiny world,
Everything is priceless.
These hand sized gadgets is something we use to communicate
We use these devices to relate good news that can't wait
We take pictures and create memories of our experiences
Also to record a conversation or video criminal offenses
Many addictions have been created as technology evolves
Different social medias and games to keep everyone involved
One phone seems to vary in cost from another
With apps such as FaceTime to help distant lovers
Those are the advantages but there's also disadvantages
Those that causes you to put your neighbor in bandages.
A conversation full of joy or an argument that's perplexed
You end up taking someone's life while sending a message in a text
You can't drive and focus while someone is screaming in your ear
Attempting to do so is like jumping rope after having a few beers
Know when and how a cell phone should be used
A topic that this current generation has confused
Looking back
we miss this day.
Seeking,
we forget what we already have.
Reaching for tomorrow
we sink in the flowing stream
of these living moments.
Our biographies are fictional stories
they speak of nothing that we are now,
and yet we write,
delight in the telling of old tales
and even as we record a life
it waits on us to be experienced anew.
Shake not the dead
for they have nothing fresh to say.
We were not created to be
librarians of littering paper trails,
but that actual Tree of Life,
each leaf a green flourishing
not another dusty volume
of things never to be seen again.
May it not be uttered and may my lips be sealed. I don't like how it makes me feel. It gives no thrill. It has no appeal. So often, it does not heal and seldom closes the deal. Early this morning, I took the time to record a few lines of muse about a word I don't like to use.
I have often thought about the people I have met and the places I have roamed and made my home over the last 50 years. Many are the things, people, and places that have proven to be most disappointing and have wearied, worn me out, and caused me doubts. There've Been dejections, rejections, and questions, but as I look back, I see no regrets.
I have used a 7-letter word so often that it has become a dreadful thing to consider its usefulness. I should think that heaven is the only place such a word is forever forbidden. Presently, that word is NOT WHAT I'M SAYING to you, you, or anyone else and hope to never find it necessary. But if by chance or providence it should be used relative to anyon9 Ie, it would be among the hardest words I ever uttered to living mortals. I've been as far east as the Big Apple but not to stay; and forty years ago, I came with my wife and kids to live in the City by the Bay. I hasten to say that I've never lived longer nor loved stronger than here in the River City where I only want to say the the 2 lettered word 'Hi' but never the 7 lettered
woord, "Goodbye". I can say "Hi" with a smile, but "Goodbye" only makes me cry.
People say that home is where your story begins, but I've never been one to be bound by what others might say. I only know that the place where I was born was never home to me. I tell you, I did not have to look long and far nor think Hard and deep to figure out whom I might blame for the calm, peace, and poise that I am feeling where I live today. Yes, there is something very special about the people and this place where I'm living today that feels like home to me, and I suspect that The Lord has everything to do with it.
042620PS
"The Match"
Time falls like a traitor
it smiles at you through mirrors
you see all faces surrounding you
other than your own
each a voice imprinted in your memories
a part of the Word's words,
remonstrations tumbling
through your voiceless throat,
they respond hitting the walls
leaving hollow hieroglyphs
promises that slip,
some self-righteous Umpire
calls the serve landing out of bounds
and doesn’t hesitate to record a fault;
through the backhand grip
your own thoughts
are ghost written volleys
that skim without hesitation
over the net
bouncing towards
the inexperienced experienced
their hearts,
hands, eyes, and lips
the memories are lost in unplugged sockets
still,
they take they’re hit
you smash it back
full hilt;
you think you are electric
time falls like a traitor
and everyone
in their own mind
one way or another
thinks they’re in the game
a winner,
even loser’s think
they’re winners in the end,
they take their hit;
love-all
just the same
and you are lit.
Candide Diderot. ‘25
Beside the great titan that shadows the grass,
Where coastal cliffs shatter and tectonic faults pass,
The field-logs record a spectacular sight:
The Pterostrix cryptica rising in synchronized flight.
A feathered reptilian, slender and sleek,
With a needle-thin crown and a glittering beak,
It populates rocks where the ocean spray chides,
And sails on the thermals of gravity tides.
Its anatomy breaks from the terrestrial mold,
With a skeletal framework of carbon and gold,
Designed to withstand the fierce atmospheric strain
When midnight storms batter the Vaelorian plain.
Yet its greatest marvel is not how it flies,
But the canvas of scales that it wears to the skies.
Each dorsal plate acts as a crystalline prism,
A living display of deep biolyscism,
That shifts in its hue with a fluid design
To match the twin guardians' heavenly line.
When the primary moon casts its crimson jade glow,
The flock turns to scarlet over fields down below,
And when the small sapphire twin claims the high peak,
Blue rings of cool lightning flash bright from each beak.
By mirroring moonlight and celestial rays,
They vanish from sight in a shimmering haze,
A cloaking technique that their ecology made
To drift like pale ghosts through valley and glade.
The purpose they serve in this delicate sphere
Is a long-range migratory weather-frontier.
With sensor-scale clusters along their long spine,
They track barometric and thermal design,
Detecting the shifts where the storm-fronts convene
Long before clouds disrupt the gold sheen.
By sweeping in flocks through the coastal-rock air,
They guide the migrations of herds gathered there,
A shimmering beacon of crimson and blue
That maps out safe paths for the wild avenues.
They are the sky-guardians, graceful and bright,
Weaving the threads of Vaeloria's night.
Technological marvel:
who’d have ever guessed?
They went to the moon,
powered by less.
The thing receives phone calls,
it’s got GPS,
a mindfulness app
for when you are stressed.
It monitors heart rate,
can produce EKGs,
prompts you when it’s time:
take your medicine, please.
Blood-oxygen levels,
hours of REM sleep;
If you’re under the water,
it knows just how deep.
If you’re lost in the woods,
it will help get you back,
or blast a loud siren
if you’re under attack.
The steps that you took,
the stairs that you climbed,
record a voice memo
to capture a rhyme.
Listening to music,
or receiving a text,
keep up with your groceries,
so your wife won’t be vexed.
For the gals, tracking cycles,
and for all, track your phone,
keeps up with the NASDAQ,
and the stocks that you own.
But it doesn’t record
all the things that you missed -
Life in arrest,
watching your wrist.
Thousands of people know us, but we don’t know them.
It’s kind of nice to be known, but not quite recognized.
We have the kind of job that keeps us well hidden.
When people see us is in person, they may be surprised.
Early in the morning is the most fun for us.
That’s when we tend to be at our absolute best.
Several donuts and lots of coffee are a must.
With so much to prepare, it’s hard to get any rest.
The first thing to do in turn on the microphone,
Then run through the checklist of the day’s events.
We record a few promos while we’re in here alone.
It’s good the days of clear tape were way back when.
We make a few mistakes…no one said this was easy.
But once we lay it down, no one will ever know.
When we open up the phone lines, it gets quite busy.
We’re still not sure why people listen to our show.
We may forget that there are listeners out there.
Most of the things we talk about are just for us.
It’s amazing what people will say when on the air.
We have our hand on the buzzer in case they cuss.
Every now and then, we’ll give you a traffic report,
Or maybe tell you a little bit about the weather.
Some people call us to see what’s up with sports,
But most of the time, it’s just me and my partner.
Some days we go out and about through the town
For a chance to give away prizes and meet our fans.
Most of you people are either stalkers or clowns.
You scare the hell out of us, so we hide in the van.
Back in the studio, we’re safe from your point of view.
We’re here mostly for our own enjoyment and fun.
Just listen to our witty banter and be amused.
We know you’re a prize pig and you’re not the only one.
Buster had traveled the rodeo circuit fer nigh on twenty years,
Bull ridin', bareback ridin' and ropin' them frisky steers!
He wuz a lanky feller wearin' chaps, jeans slung low on his hips,
With a Bull Durham roll-yer-own a-danglin' frum his lips.
He drove his battered pickup towin' an air conditioned van,
In which traveled in style his cuttin' hoss, old faithful Dan.
This wuz to be his final rodeo, his final cross-country trip,
Vyin' once agin fer a few bucks and a national championship.
In the bull ridin' event he straddled a brute called Dynamite.
That old cuss did all kinds uv gyrations to the crowd's delight!
But Buster hung on as Dynamite tried to unseat him frum his back.
He'd rode him before and knew he wouldn't cut him any slack!
In the bareback ridin' contest he drew a bronc called Killer.
He twisted ever' which way - that ride shore was a thriller!
Buster and old Dan wuz amazin' when it come to ropin' steers.
They broke the standin' record, a-bestin' all their peers!
Buster'd had more'n his share uv broken bones and sprawls,
And uv dust, mud and the mind numbin' overnight hauls.
He retired to a little spread in Colorady to enjoy his leisure.
Old Dan was retired as well to frolic in the pasture!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)