Long Rumbled Poems
Long Rumbled Poems. Below are the most popular long Rumbled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rumbled poems by poem length and keyword.
patience abound as i
awaited your arrival again
the tangible task
a gathering of yellow panzie's
blooming at my feet
as night crawled under day
the beast lie in his nature
solace a sullen haste opened
the sky while the ground rumbled
i'd wandered far off my path again
seeking redemption a sigh of relief
salvation a simple martyr
sacrificed craving his will
entering ancient territories
mine eyes focused solely on his
as blood rushed from his side
his hands limped his feet
bounded together by steal
metal fragments wooden thorns
pierce his skull in a moments glance
bloody tears stained my blouse
the beacon hue soars brightly over me
trinity landed beside me whispering
peace be with you
She hailed from the city of bridges
In the prairie land of living skies
Through this city ran swiftly a river
And though it was known for it's namesake
People still could not bridge the divide
She stood in the middle of a train bridge
It rumbled and shook as it roared by
Small yet strong, trusted to never give way
Travelling east to west and back again
On such a fragile seeming connection
Nothing heard over the shaking structure
The river heeding danger far beneath
She braced herself against the bridge railing
Leaning over the current and undertow
Wishing people would cross it the same
March 21, 2023
B Forms and Words Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
I remember little of my childhood.
Or perhaps I remember too much, but all of it in fragments.
Marabá Paulista would wake up before God lit the sun.
First came the smell of packed lunches being prepared—mingling scents
that slipped uninvited through the cracks in the houses' weathered wood.
Then, the diesel fumes and the red dust.
Old trucks, like monsters, rumbled through the streets,
swallowing up the adults and vanishing down the dirt road.
During the day, the town belonged to the children and the elderly.
We thought that was freedom.
At dusk, the trucks returned,
spitting out bodies that were barely alive;
my parents would arrive—worn out, stooped, and weary.
As a boy, I didn't yet know
how to put a name to it.
Today I know:
the trucks didn't just carry workers.
They carried away pieces of childhood.
Panic shook her spinal cord
Her hands trembles with troubles
Her voice became thicker and deeper
Like that of a baritone
Losing count of her made calls
To her kinsmen since morning
Where could he be?
What could have happened to him?
Flashing backward to the faithful day
At the altar, Six over a Silver Jubilee
Long enough indeed, she wept
Could he have . . . ?
When? How? Why? Where?
All rose to the fore
Hmmmm!!! Liar, the devil remains
I rang the ring unto her ears
It has occurred ! ! !
The moving house tumbled
And rumbled four times
Leaving some in a trance
Few on a flit far beyond the planet
Conversing only with the Angels
To get a visa, others crashed in
Without any clearance for the beyond
Alas! We got to know where he hid
He is at the Casualty where
Casualties of variance floods
Right there in “Ibadan,” at the UCH
Where Physicians are churned out
Only in their hundreds.
His bones where pictorially fixed
A slight fracture with no serious fraction
Occurred only at the Lumbar region
In pains, he laughed
Assuring many wishers of God’s own
Operation on him with the heavenly hosts
No “poblem” he averred
With radiating smile of faith similar to that of
The seed of Mustard that can move it all
In any event, he is a Clergy.
My Mummy arrived the day next
Tears stood akimbo on her face
But for the fear of the Physicians she knelt
Beside the bed of her loving Romeo
She prayed and kissed him in a jivy
As the Clergy’s only daughter holds tears no bar
At last, the Clergy who got lost in a road mishap
En-route “Guru –Marahaji way” was found
Smiling twenty healthy more years ahead.
Alayande Stephen.T
6th of November,2005
1.25pm
Form:
Ali once said that he lived the life of 100 men.
I can float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.
Once upon a time,
I wrestled an alligator and tackled a polar bear.
Still, I accomplished all that
in broad daylight on top of the Himalayas mountains.
While I rumbled with the mighty lion in the African jungle.
Lord, I'm so fast and pretty and I cannot be stopped.
I can stick and move, as I dance on my feet.
So, just watch me do my Ali Shuffle
As I knock you out in round number 3
Man, nothing can stop me,
not even a gorilla, not even a fast freight train!
I can't be moved because I am a mountain.
Because I am the greatest of all times
Yes, I am the greatest champion of the world.
Still, I have been blessed by almighty God.
While I am in the boxing ring,
I pray to God for peace and strength to be victorious.
Ali will always be my hero,
Yes, he is the greatest heavyweight champion of the world,
Muhammad Ali
Because we know saints are born and not made
Lord, he shook up the world with his lightning-quick hand speed and dancing feet.
Unfortunately, Muhammad Ali departed from this world, thus he died at the age of 74.
Sinister were the clouds that emptied their kettles
I lowered my umbrella and gave a defiant stare
Raindrops stung my face like needle sharp nettles
Daringly, I squared my shoulders, letting anger flare
Lightning flashed in jagged shards, trying to scare me
Thunder bellowed loudly; his blatant echoes roared
I stood my ground, straight and tall as a Sequoia tree
bracing myself against the wind as the deluge poured
Behind an opaque black veil, stars remained hidden
shrouded as they were on another foul-weather night
Memories claimed me as they hastened, unbidden
to sear my broken heart again. I felt the flames ignite
Thunder no longer rumbled. No more lightning bolts
I wanted to believe that I'd tamed the vicious storm
but ferocious winds howled, "Humans are such dolts!"
Nature let me know that it was I who had to conform
I trudged on with an attitude of contemptuous disdain
Bitter at the blustery weather, howling like a banshee
I faced the night head-on, fighting the torrent of pain
Once again, I broke free in a courageous act of apogee
January 1, 2022 ~
Even in the dark, your beauty shines brighter than the brightness of days,
Success lives in your home cos while the sun was still shining you made your hays,
You share your bed with great fortunes and on the pillows of prosperity your head lays,
So, your home is the truest testimony of the dictum that being good always pays.
Your enemies cry their tears abundant to form them a massive ocean,
They got drowned in the pool of their sorrows cos they took no caution,
Their bitterness confiscated their happiness for you to have God's favours in larger portions,
So, rejoicing with your success is now their only available option.
The wake of days gives the pleasure of your beauty for each mirror to savour,
Gorgeousness sculptured allurement into your shape adding sexiness as its extra flavour,
As you toil up and down, God the almighty is always there as your saviour,
So, prosperity is now the testament that your labours are enjoying God's favours.
Bring then, many friends from far and near to dine on your tables,
Show 'em that all year round God's favours in your life have been very stable,
Groove happily with your family and friends cos your bones aren't feeble,
Paint the town red with your success and leave your enemies to rumble with the rubbles.
Wind undressed the sky, bared a canvas painted blue.
Motley faces of sunflower smiles and festive air; an abstract
splash, each gleamed; each swung in purple dress, waiting
for the bride, a summer moon, to float to the stage as funnels
of colored rays crisscrossed: the shimmer of light.
Surreal charm, the display of a galaxy of heaven's stars
offset against the blue. The world asleep, the heavens
agog with bulging eyes as the bride glided, floating;
not turning right or left, set for the peopled hall lit
by faces painted crimson. Bated breath charged the air
as gathering of God's victorious saints spelled creation.
Rapturous applause—sounds of praise, of merrymaking—
sun, moon, stars aired soft tunes; lightning arced across the sky;
thunder rumbled. Cutleries clattered, signaling the bride's arrival!
I sat in glimmering red at a table decked with white roses.
© 2016 Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi
Vagabond Reveries
I awoke one apple-ripe autumn afternoon,
While shifting my necessity to care, dreaming,
To gaze upon the twisting trail in reveries of untethered reality
A quest for halcyon enigmas that chased me into cloudy castles.
And glancing back over fields of maize and green apple trees
I dreamt of meandering - suntanned faces, gentle eyes,
Campfire stories told in stargazer mists on childhood summer nights
Country roads and country stores with squeaky hinged screen doors.
I saw through mists kaleidoscopes of skyscraping cities, living postcards,
Steaming, groaning, sweating-swaying -
Crowded avenues named aspiration and pipedreams of working faces
Pushed into honeycombs of question’s smoke reflecting my reflection.
Through gossamer fleeting fragments rumbled symphonies
In movements of freight cars and highway hum
Vagabonds of REM sleeping tugged at chugging feasts
Of my winter-spring planned fetes and wakes and festival jubilees.
A wispy scent of reminisce felt the rushing, ever rushing, sun
Dashing headlong ahead of earth in my wishing stars
Pulling earth like a dawdling toddler running into chimeras of
Fleeting dawns and uncatchable dusky time in taunted moonlit glee.
Stormy darkness of gypsy memories throbbed in lightning flashes
Illuminated my godless thundering regrets
On wild midnights stumbling through windswept briar tangled valleys,
Soul soaking rains of prodigal shame, and I remember waking to grace.
9-4-21
Contest: "V" New or Old
Sponsor: Constance La France
1-23-23
Contest: Poetry Marathon Mile 24
Sponsor: Mark Toney
24 Lines
O' it's written in books and songs,
That we've been mistreated and wronged;
Well, over and over . . . .
Buffy St. Marie
As storm clouds rumbled in the sky
and thunder clapped giant hands another child was buried
just another cluster suicide death
she was ten years old . . .
First Nation peoples of Canada live in all parts noted on charts
some in places isolated
where fruit, vegetables and milk is expensive
limited, and of poor quality
housing is inadequate and in need of repair
full of mold, and bug infested where babies die
some have no water or contaminated water
some have no heat or meat
sad when you think Canada was THEIR land
(o' we are restless and discontent, dissatisfied and want better)
but in the early history of this fine country
they where hunted, killed, starved and unwanted
and herded into reservations
into submission, becoming dependent and in time gone their
resplendent culture . . . but still proud and strong
shame on the government of Canada willing to accept refugees
putting them in nice hotel rooms and finding them housing
when we have people living in horrible poverty conditions
shame, shame on you Mr. Prime Minister
in my solitude and musing
I imagine a warrior on a high cliff looking at a vast land
he sits proud under a dark cloud
such is the shame as Canada is a wealthy and healthy
country and the needs of the First Nation go on and on . . .
these are truly invisible people
today the government is working to right the wrongs
some say too little . . .
I can see a canoe's drifting beneath a limitless sparkling blue sky
and fish are jumping and leaping
then, my vision fades into an internal night
and another child is buried because of no hope
the PEOPLE are discontent and restless . . .
__________________
March 30, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/The Invisible People
Copyright Protected, ID 18- 1008-937-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.