Long Ridges Poems
Long Ridges Poems. Below are the most popular long Ridges by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ridges poems by poem length and keyword.
Digital High Definition
Electronic chips
Evolution that revolves
Cyber elevation
Apple revolution
Sophisticated and Simplified
Technological breakthroughs
IMAC unit
Impact sensation
Through the wide screen providing loads of information
Wireless detail into the generation of tomorrow that is here today
Navigation Frontier
What the IMAC can create from the mind behind the imagination Theory
Testing computing
Old phase no more
Those days of Dinosaur computer ventures became historical to new
Advances
Thirst for technological approaches into ridges of tomorrow
Days of Star Trek
Going beyond where man has never gone before
Determination put into action
Essence golden
Beyond the Limitations
Liftoff into new journeys not seen
IMAC on track
No explanation needed
Pure fact.
The year is 2025
I have come back to my past
To witness the Mayans
Who said Earth would not last
2012
Was the year they declared
That the planet we knew
Could never be spared
An Asteroid shower
We could never comprehend
Sends this heaven to hell
In catastrophic spend
The first to hit
Was the daddy of them all
Our axis twisted
The human race in fall
Just of Madagascar
In the Indian Ocean
It's where it all started
That set our demise in motion
Tsunami waves
Like giant tower blocks
Swamped Indonesia
As Polynesia rocked
The force of impact
Reverberated west
On the Canary Islands
A dormant volcano so reft
It's massive mountain side
Into the Atlantic slipped
To the eastern seaboard
Of the United States it shipped
A second Tsunami
Half the world long
Would submerge the east
Taking the weak and the strong
The second to hit
Hit a place struck before
Tunguska in Russia
Receives another sore
Daylight turns to night
As earth meets our skies
Fallout from the reactors
In shattered demise
Radiated clouds
Eventually filter down
Leaving bleeding lacerations
As we humans death drown
Smaller asteroids
Some just a few hundred feet
Around the world they were marvelled
Until they meet their greet
The place where I stand now
Was Yosemite National Park
Now dark ridges of black
So bare and stark
It's been many many years
Since the sun shone through the screen
When I close my eyes I remember
When the earth was lush and green
How many of us survived
Will we ever know
Was this in our destiny
I think all around me, now shows
The sea calls me
whispers in my ears,
the rise and fall of foaming waves
waft the scent of salt tasted tears,
a haven released through time
pounding surf, light, dark and dreams
upon each sounding splashing wave.
Rise. Greet the ocean farers
the fishers of men and women,
schools of children birthed
within restless stormy night winds,
the aftermath of being freed
born to ride the quivers of the sea
beckoning the surge of living life.
Embrace the swells of existence
as the ridges surface and hide again,
the very ripples of breath and heartbeat
pound the inner rhythm in its melody,
drumbeat rolls and foamy crests escalated,
rumbles of thunder unearthed gesticulated
the depths breaching trembling whitecaps to shore.
The sea calls me
dances wildly on the sandy shores,
a tidal flow that inches in from the ocean climb,
taffy pulled breakers slapping on the wet sand,
the billowed torrent of blended lives,
whale, shark, tuna, clam and crab once sheltered
in the darkened depths to journey up and out
to the open seas, calling, wait for me.
Winter Baby, Blues
Oh baby you left your boots in Asheville where you
didn’t even get to hike the Blue Ridges before the new
year turned over hittin the drafty door just Iike
all the resolutions that come the same every January
for the frigid air that has to last two weeks straight
or the fleas won’t die off so let the wind’s chilling throes
of cold tear your eyes winking at sparkling on all
the icicles hanging from the house with some becoming
quite massive as each noon’s sun allowed
a thawed drop or two to roll down though never drop
to the earth just as the angels keep our dreams from
being crushed under the mounds of drifting
snow so don’t groan baby because you left your
puffer coat at the airport when you ran to get on the plane
where your mittens now remain under your
seat waiting to warm another’s fingers so
then let me wrap your scarf all around you with our plans
for hot cocoa and quilts to stop sweet baby winter’s blues
Action begins and the scene is occupied by two living trays
succumbing to powerful activities much against dry cleaning services.
Nature once again proves its wonders
as water filled balloons and inverted cups
turn pressing pressures into pleasures
from two rakes with five long but rounded teeth.
Dialogue exists through sounds coming from a deep hollow without echo,
walking on a flat floor made of six tiles
and admiring anatomical pillars with well defined ridges.
Two opposing, headless snails without shells
come out from their holes to share fluids
so that horizontal rubbers so pink and flexible
dynamically interlock like the maneuvers of an octopus
causing the big headed firm spoon of one tray
to gently slide into the cylindrical funnel of the other
with nothing more to achieve after repeated sessions
leading to spillage for action to call it quit.
It had been ninety three hankering hours
since we had last spoken.
A little rift had set our bond adrift.
This pacing evening, I heard
a sudden drop in my front door mailbox.
Thinking it was the wind, I didn't respond quickly.
The sound of a shutting car door followed.
It took minutes for curiosity's reach to
cautiously retrieve an unstamped envelope
with only my name inscribed on the front.
With a careful tear of the lick trail and
the crispness of this rare letter unfolding,
my senses delighted in your unique imprint.
I could smell your sloughed skin,
with a whiff of your Old Spice cologne.
I could almost feel
your fingerprint ridges upon the edges.
Your energy weaved
throughout factory bleached fibers,
each intensely pressed midnight line
looping and riding
on a mystery journey waywardly
into my long awaited heart.
Each jagged lift and dip
likened to a pair of doves amidst their mating ritual,
playing a game of tag and chase.
I heard your tenor tone with each soothing syllable.
Your yearning sang a sonnet
of the reasons your heart stirred for me.
Flatteries lifted me on floating wings
and kept me soaring as you recalled
all our pleasant experiences and
apologized for our few misleadings.
You pleaded that we would
withstand misunderstandings
and embrace each other's differences,
connecting our opposing puzzle pieces
to frame a work of art.
I pictured the moment you
passionately placed your pen upon the page.
Perhaps you hovered over every word,
crumbling up rough drafts.
Perhaps your awakened emotions free-handedly led
your whimsical words to perfection.
Your intentions were clear and confident,
certain of what you wanted,
and I was sure,
even before your passionate persuasion,
that I wanted the same.
12-24-19
Your sunlight streams down
Lighting the room where I am
Reflections of dust rise around
Where I sit with morning coffee
Your rain slides against the window
Flowing toward the waiting ground
It soothes my spirit with comforting
Feelings that calm my worst anxieties
Your rainbow reminds me of promises
That you made to Noah so long ago
A promise that this world would never
Be destroyed with a flood anymore
Your flowers bloom in the summer
Reminding me of the pearls they bring
Just standing at attention with their
Kindness, compassion, hope and joy
Your leaves fall about me in the Autumn
Silencing my worst worries and fears
With a sense of pure peace and patience
The presence of Your undying love
Your snow sends a winter wonderland
To force the heart to open to its drifts
Of glittering faith in all tomorrow’s grace
Feelings that remind me I’m so grateful
Your mist falls across the ridges of mountains
Where the sunshine will soon melt away
All the fog that hides the emeralds and olives
The beautiful colors of peaks so tall and strong
Your night sky is filled up with stars and moon
Shining down brightly into the ebony gloom
Filling my heart up with dreams that assume
God’s grace is still alive even in the nocturnal
I worry that my coat will murder me.
Hanging on Banister’s Edge it’s a man lurking, dark.
I’ve seen rows of killers shadowed and waiting,
hidden in the ridges of the living room radiator,
ready to pounce during a moonlit trip to the toilet.
From my position in bed, a stool could be a gremlin hunched,
the door frame a monstrous arm arching and looming, holding a hollow void.
The sheets around my feet are vines, all patterns the jaws of a Venus flytrap.
Snap.
Black cabs are hearses, flowerbeds fresh graves;
babbling brook rope swings form a noose, gravel paths stone me to death.
My cardigan knows it should be a straitjacket,
socks and watches nod knowingly towards shackles and manacles imaginary.
Cushions on a sofa? Nothing but false sense of security quicksand.
(Competition title: No 1299)
FLYING ON THE WINGS OF NOSTALGIA
I know the land where the lemon-trees flower,
the flushing meadows in spring are flooded in color,
the waves of morning mist rise from orchid valley floor,
grazing the emerald hill-slope to the azure sky they soar.
Drifting in time from my mooring far away
with the painted memory not yet gray
I want to fly on the wings of nostalgia
to the land raised high in the Himalaya.
The cascading brooks flow out of the snout of glaciers,
the rhythm of their dance mountain’s swirling air shares.
Along the chiseled contour as silver strips they meander
in the lofty and terraced terrain where I used to wander.
Drifting in time from my mooring far away
with the painted memory not yet gray
I want to fly on the wings of nostalgia
to the land raised high in the Himalaya.
Rows of rugged ridges merge in the horizon with the sky
where the charcoal clouds gather, with wild wind they fly
over the ever-green pine forest and melt there in torrent,
the music of rain reaches the crescendo at each moment.
Drifting in time from my mooring far away
with the painted memory not yet gray
I want to fly on the wings of nostalgia
to the land raised high in the Himalaya.
Piercing the rain-washed sky beneath the arc of rainbow
the high peaks glow as the setting sun gleams on snow.
With the moon beams silver dust falls in divine serenity
I know the land where nature blooms in astral beauty.
I want to fly on the wings of nostalgia
to the land raised high in the Himalaya.
July 12, 2018
Contest : Pretty Poem Please
Sponsored by : Julia Ward
The Tracks of Forlorn
The gravel is new, freshly laid,
The boundaries bordered by fences we've made,
Walking along in my tarseled feet,
In the dark of the night and midsummer's heat,
I look at the tracks and feel the horn,
The world at my back and all of their scorn.
The train passes by on ridges of steel,
Shaking the ground and all I feel.
It rolls along as the ground surely shakes,
The peace is shattered as my mind itself quakes.
Stress of the mind feels like torrents of sin,
As the wind rushes by pushed from the lead engine.
Memories flash by as trains eat up steel,
Running through mind like an old movie reel.
I've lived and I've loved, but memories are torn,
Like the train of my mind on tracks of forlorn.
I've stood and I've felt,
Pondering now the cards I'd been dealt,
In the dead of the night and train's aftermath,
The silence is deaf'ning on the cold gravel path.
-Debra