Long Rivers Poems
Long Rivers Poems. Below are the most popular long Rivers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rivers poems by poem length and keyword.
Almighty God, I guess you must see man as a disease
This bright blue orb that we call home must cause you much unease
No government is ever gonna listen to our pleas
Their taxes will not save us… can we have our ball back please
We drive our cars and fly in planes for holidays on skis
And now they tell us that we’ve brought our planet to its knees
We’re told that we will drown or burn though some of us will freeze
Which seems a tad dramatic… can we have our ball back please
The scientists keep saying we eat too much meat and cheese
They tell us we can all survive on lentils, beans and peas
Which won’t achieve too much because not everyone agrees
And so I have to ask you, can we have our ball back please
Another storm has ripped up houses, bridges, cars and trees
The sewers overflowed into the rivers and the seas
But now we’re in a heatwave and it’s thirty-five degrees
It’s really rather hot so can we have our ball back please
Whatever’s wrong with planet Earth is killing bugs and bees
Perhaps we should get all our products made by the Chinese
To save the world we’re armpit deep in net zero decrees
But only you can save us… can we have our ball back please
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like resting birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
I'd take the rivers
and turn them to springs
then take a butterfly
and give you the wings
Id take a mountain
that climbs on high
then make you a valley
and give you a ride
Id take the honey
straight from the bees
and then I'd create
a soft gentle breeze
I'd take the flowers
that grows everywhere
and make you a garden
that never needs care
I'd take your clouds
and chase them away
and give you a beautiful
bright sunny day
I'd take the sun
and make it shine thru
and then take the skies
and turn them all blue
I'd give you love
the greatest gift of all
and wish you springtime
with never a fall
and after I'v gone
and done my best
I'd give you...
peace and happiness...
Treasures of My Soul
How does the apple tree know when to bloom?
How does the human heart know when to beat?
How do the sun and moon share the sky
And the seasons know the time to meet?
How does the yellow bird know how to fly?
How do caterpillars become butterflies?
How do the ocean tides know ebb and flow
And the rivers know the path to follow?
How do the stars of Heaven know to glow?
How does the red rose make it’s sweet perfume?
How does the snowdrop rise up through the snow
And the little child know how to grow?
The answers to these mysteries
I may never know.
I only know they are Heaven’s gifts
And treasures in my soul.
Yet deep within my heart, I know,
The greatest gifts of Heaven,
A cross and two nail scared hands -
True treasures of my soul.
In November’s gentle grief
I discover the me that believes
There is comfort and relief
In the wind who embraces the trees
A stillness is writing poetry on the twilight
Gently touching the heart who hears
The music of leaves dancing through the night
Rising in the spirit, a waltz between hearts
Who believe in a love far better, - yes, all is right
With the seeds of grace stolen by time
Come seeking the shadows, muse of delight
On prayers, through praise, my heart will climb
Drifting into the spirit, feeling so alive
Writing my dreams in each verse, each rhyme
In November’s precious serenity
Feelings of hope flavored by spice
Rising in the mist, I see my identity
Who melts the silence, sweetest victory
Hesitant flow, a river of tears in the past
Who try to destroy me with their voice of fear
This is the music, the song who’ll always last
Rustling trails of hope that never fails
In the woodsy moments, I’m blessed more than I asked
By a wonder that comes from knowing grace
Beautiful treasure of light that rises within
The heart who knows joy from love’s embrace
Still, cool laughter of rivers and creeks, precious moments
Who feel like life’s blessings, time can’t erase
A life lived fully – a life full of unending praise
November’s story, written by tears that say
Love never fails – it’s a promise that will always stay
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gray hair
whispers secrets
to the wind. Each strand remembers
storms weathered—
how roots hold deeper
with time.
Lines map
the face like rivers
carving truth through softest stone.
Patience flows
where youth rushed blindly—
still pools.
Hands tremble
not from weakness, no—
they measure weight of moments
held lightly.
Old eyes see clearer
in dusk.
Regret?
Folded like letters
in a drawer. Wisdom keeps them
unread, yet
knows each crease by heart—
peace blooms.
The oak
stands tall not by force,
but knowing when to bend. Age
teaches this:
strength lives in yielding—
soft ground.
noon’s furnace: asphalt shimmers; air—thick, slow—
cracks open. cicadas drill through stagnant gold.
a sprinkler’s hiccup-hiss: the pavement’s glow
un/curls in steam. the hydrant’s shout: uncontrolled.
children shriek!—a liquid burst of now,
popsicle rivers bleed; knuckles—sticky, green—
cling to handlebars. shadows stretch: thin, lean
across chain-link. each blade of grass—laid down—
bakes. but dusk? a match-strike: fireflies!—
the yard exhales jasmine; stars prick the bruised eaves—
porch swings gasp. the melted things—still writhing—
pool in gutters: chalk suns, lemon peels, dreams.
the silence hums. even time—soft, unspooled—
beads on your neck. and summer? stays. but cooled.
When the mind's disease is hate,
it flows through veins unchecked.
I'm just a voice in the midst of darkness, striking a match.
A light for minds seeking refuge from storms,
to lift a crying child above the swollen stream,
that may sweep us away.
People are angry, the Earth shakes, lightning flashes,
a child cries, crowds move as rivers,
their murmuring sounds become louder.
Confusion fills cups they carry, fear fills lung's every breath,
between rage and reason.
Demons rise to shackle the fragile soul,
bringing evil from those claiming purity.
Frightened hearts beat louder at the source,
bubbling from wells of self-righteousness,
marching in step with flags unfurled,
demanding all follow their graveled path.
A scythe they wield sweeps, cutting the marrow of all who question.
The multitude moves swiftly, confiscating freedom in freedom's name.
Who dare stands, to lift the crying child from the crowd's grasp?
Giving hope, from madness. as the stalk of democracy burns brown,
withering from a drought of common sense.
While a mob demands to rule.
The church we sought to find a home in no longer exist.
Our courage is strong, our future belongs to temptation consisting sin.
Woods cut and gathered with selfless labor shall provide us a ship.
This is where I realized that Noah was wrong let the story begin....
The bible has been written by other humans and not by god himself,
If that were the case this place we call earth would surely be squashed by his thumb:
If Noah was chosen by the lord himself why wasn't there taken a vote.
Only those true to the cause, who never broken a law are the only ones who can travel afloat.
If you ask me workers with skills, hunters, doctors, and authors had to be put on the boat.
Waves. collided with storm, some fell overboard, and disease killing the most.
This was not a story written down in the bible, it was clearly a religious joke.
Finally a sigh, purely blue sky. God questioned himself an said this must be why.
After the glory of Independence wore off,
cold came with hunger, sickness with coughs.
Prolonged by sinister thoughts.
Tundra frozen softened, by mayflower drops.
Searching for freedom of religion has fueled actions of the devil himself.
Natives survived years beyond measure and offered to help.
Simple measures of using world greatest treasures,
are kind to share if all is replenished.
Rivers provide water to fish, drink, and refresh.
All mother earth asks is to be shared and respected.
In the name of any religion, sins are forgiven
mothers love fathers, and together form children.
God is good, life can be better.
jesus sacrificed his life for happiness of others.
Where did it all go wrong?
I.
I stumbled down a corridor of screams,
Where shattered children claw at broken glass.
My temples bleed black rivers, thick with dreams—
Rootless thorns that pierce but never pass.
II.
I was a star torn open in the void,
An angel crushed beneath its shattered light
Now I crawl through wounds I self-employed,
And swallow silence sharp as night.
III.
Dreams gnaw my spine like rabid beasts of bone,
Pages ripped from lungs that choke on breath.
I speak no words, just bones turned to stone,
A syntax forged in the furnace of death.
IV.
Time’s razor splits my chest in two cold halves,
Its walls drip names I once wore like skin.
The moon forgets me; my shadow laughs
I’m lost to all the selves I’ve been.
V.
I dig for voices buried deep in scars,
A fossil tongue soaked in salt and rust.
I vanish in this hollow prison of stars
Where loss is hunger, and hunger is dust.