Long Riffle Poems
Long Riffle Poems. Below are the most popular long Riffle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Riffle poems by poem length and keyword.
Hush, let birdsong riffle vacated air,
And the tender flutter of angels’ wings
In jaded ears alights as babel’s heir.
Hush, let lovers whisper when stillness reigns,
Hear a canto canter in candlelight,
When with the moon and stars a poet drinks.
Hush, thrill to the music of thoughts in flight,
Bound for a rare tryst with crowds-shunning Muse,
Ensconced high above earth’s clamorous plight.
Listen as oft a faux energy fills
Each hour with men shouting above the fray;
Into every home singsong babble spills.
Shush those shrill cries, let quiet have its day
And soft-spoken beauty for once hold sway.
Rhythm, rhyme, and resonance.
Riddle, riffle through.
Red run roundabout? Last chance.
Buried deep in blue.
Stifle, sound of silence?
Better not ask why.
Victory bequeaths violence!
Somebody must die!
Pool up, silk thread, on my spool.
Thunder, fly at once.
Help the boy to keep it cool!
Goblin, grinning, guns!
Tyrant of the ancient waste?
How does success taste?
O ye virgins, art thou chaste?
Turkey legs a-baste!
Lobbied for, O hobby? When?
Now or then again?
Gods of death, a death! Try ten.
Dragon, from thy den...
Rattlesnake, thy timber.
Cone of volcano.
Hurry, Blizzard! Cause shiver!
Bloom, thy bungalow.
Dun the skies on Martian soil.
Fate, must we embroil?
O ye serpents, thus to coil!
Water hot to boil...
Figure eight? It's gotten late.
All men hate to wait.
Cross the desert or the strait?
Limestone gone to plate!0
Winter Bound
Hindered by depth and breadth of winter
Blocked doors and windows on the cabin cliff remote
Imprisoned by three feet of snow and all those inches
Piling up outside, no where to go
Pines cling to memory of icicles below the tundra line
Like all good trees they freeze but never die
Over sleeping kept me from hunting deer
The realization of how quickly drifts can rise
Shear numbers of snow flakes conspiring
Cruel nature with wind and sky to hold me in
Now stuck inside the simple shelter fixed
Riffle and ammo sitting useless by the common fire place
No chasing prey this season, no reason to shoot the snow
It would only blow around and settle somewhere else
Winter bound, oats are my only sustenance, companion
Along with tea and lemon, not exactly the best of company
But will see me through, till things turn about
Closed in times advance
I become a captive audience of one
The only show in town watched now in wonder
On snowy mountain counting down the hours
#Repetition_of_irremediable_calamity
Stare the dark gloomed space of shooting casanovas, blurred with shades of karma, coated with deja vu, I was here the mind says, my hands mired with more dirt, contaminating my hard work and effort to never to pass through this hind streets of lingering pain and regrets, a rotational oozing of ghostlike tormenting shadows of my yesterday, and feel pacing in slow motion in this circles of no exits, no matter the effort pores punches all over my hope, feel drowning, suffocating and my soul ebbing, dilating in volumes I can't contain any further
My calamity takes everything out of me, regret there be nothing to identify me with, after it's taking, invisible blows shatters me from every direction, how can I not give in when I too was made from the very dust of this earth, a human like the rest
Here I'm tested to never rise again or to man up and prove the naysayers and those who have written me off even before my birth, spirit lead my me to faith without borders, pass me a riffle to eleminate every doubt before me, face up, faith on, and irremediable is just a word in my calamity
#Poetic_Ink
I didn’t even know what type of bird it was - when I had to shoot to kill.
I left the comfort of my bed
on an early Saturday Fall morning
to enter the unknown - a nearby forest
so that I could hunt with my father.
The canopy of trees further reduced the light from the overcast sky.
It was chilly, with a scent of damp moss present in the air
the ground wet from the morning mist.
I remember mostly silence
except for my breathing
and the sounds of my footsteps
and those of my father - crushing twigs, branches, dead leaves, plant life, and living insects
clearing the road
for my rite of passage
my childhood disappearing
with every footstep.
The bird
spotted by my father
a distance away
on a branch
of a colorful, majestic tree.
He handed me his gun
and gave me a quick refresher on how to hold, how to shoot, and what to expect.
The gun heavy
my arms starting to ache
my hands cold
and trembling.
And then I was told that I was ready
And so I aimed
pulled the trigger
and fired.
The bird remained motionless
and very much alive.
I fired once more.
Again
the bird, still there
unaffected
and at that moment I asked myself, if I would have to shoot again.
My father reloaded the rifle
and as I reluctantly took it from his hands, he looked into my eyes
and I wondered if he knew.
I fired again.
Again - I missed.
Then a fourth, and final time.
I returned the riffle to my father.
Nothing was said.
Nothing else was done.
I asked myself if one day I would be a hunter.
Before leaving the area
so that my father’s hunt could once again continue
I looked - for the last time - at the branch of the tree that once supported the bird.
It was gone - and I smiled.
INFANTRY
At alert all day,
Waiting for the Marshal's orders,
To move into position against the foes,
Disintegrating into companies,
To launch their campaign.
Day and night on the battlefield,
Bullets raining the sky,
Reinforcements and air supports engaged,
Soldiers left hoping to come back alive,
But many died on the battleground,
And others injured,
Sacrificing their lives at the altar of victory.
As a sniper,
I said to a fellow soldier
''God gave me a special gift,
Made of fine instrument of warfare,
If He was to put me and my sniper riffle,
Anywhere up to and including a mile,
A mile to the arch enemy,
With a clear view of sight,
Pack your bags young men,
War is over''.
ANYABOLU IFEANYI GENTLE
A.D 2019,JAN 29 {whatsapp 07061816037}
I am a civilian at war
I do not know how to hold a gun at all
I hope to return home a warrior
I am a civilian at war
facing giants and the world
I hope you hold my hand when I stretch it for help
I am a civilian at war
My feet are swollen and my stomach as well
I hope you feed me when I won’t be able to lift my hand
I am a civilian at war
My uniform has rugs
I hope you dress me when you see me naked
I am civilian at war
Confused by man’s religions
I hope you guide me if you see me my friend
I am a civilian at war
My riffle has run out of bullets
I hope you recharge mine if have some in excess
I am woman
alone in a labour room
I hope you come to my rescue if you hear my voice
I am a man
Depressed
I hope you talk to me when you see me drowning
I am girl child
sexually Assaulted
I hope you protect me next time you see me alone
I am a young person
Caught stealing and swindling my loved ones
I hope you employ me next time you read my resume
Our fishing guide thought I wanted to catch fish –
that I had come to the River’s Edge to catch
a mottled Brown for a mantled photograph.
I should have told him that I cared not for a fish
for my father had recently passed away
and I held his rod of beautiful bamboo.
I had come only to cast into my memory’s mist –
to hear the line sing my father’s song
and again his voice arise from a riffle.
Many mornings he held my hand to teach me
to find the rhythm of the line then extend
to mirror and become the water.
From a rock, I cast into pocket water
where a Brown watches but then chooses
not to strike the timelessness of the past,
at the river’s edge.
Thoughts of nothingness embrace the moonlight
caress the emptiness of pilfered light
drape it across the meadows in dull gray
to light a path for lover’s gone astray --
as crafty shadows hide their sin from sight.
A distant riffle mourns the tree strung kites
that never lived the dreams they thought they might
for something on the wind made them betray --
Thoughts of nothingness…
Cold stars will mock the stillness of their plight
as on a crooked moon their tears alight
to haunt a saddened mist upon the bay
adrift upon a tide that could not stay
but edges ever closer with moon’s height.
Thoughts of nothingness…
©4/19/2022
Your Favorite Theme Poetry Contest
VASILY ZAYTSEV
As nature took me back into times,
To witness sadden and heroic events filled with cries, It was very soul engulfing that I couldn’t stand to witness,
But was compelled by purpose to attend.
Old time landed me safely at STARLINGARD
I beheld a sniper riffle upon a raised platform,
The shooter as I approached diminished,
And I couldn’t say something to him,
I followed my way from starlingard,
Up to YELENINSKOYE ORENBURG, There the story began.
Songs were heard in a family,
A son came into the cosmo,
With a saddened task facing him,
Unknown was it to him,
Destiny and fate moulded him in,
That was VASILY ZAYTSEV The hero of Starlingard.
Gradually he grew into a finetaker,
Tracked down a wolf with only a bullet as a kid he was satisfied, Without a view of his role in Starlingard,
Due to Hitler's territorial conquest.
Troops marching out in thousands,
Outnumbering the alluvial sands,
The hope of the world was towards Starlingard,
Since the soviet union subdued by Hitler.
Starlingard became a stronghold,
Because of the undying spirit of men in the patriotic war.
Assigned to the 1047th Riffle Regiment,
Vasily was the pride of the company which later was named 62nd army at Starlingard,
That was on 17th September 1942,
Vasily started shooting around the axis
Zealous as he was on the battlefield,
A sniper concealing his locations,
Covering a large area from three positions, Known as the "sixies" up till today.
Killing 11 scores plus armed men including 11 snipers. Making It 32 axis killings.
Undiluted spirit of enthusiasm,
Towards conquering enemies at the gates,
Manifested by his perfect shootings,
Calculating the bearings of directions of his sniper,
Diminishing enemies until he conquered,
To him there was no land beyond the ''VOLGA''
ANYABOLU IFEANYI GENTLE