Long Sand Poems
Long Sand Poems. Below are the most popular long Sand by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sand poems by poem length and keyword.
Apparent air in tug-of-war
With passing butterfly wings.
It is the music of the story
Each heart daily sings.
You awoke in love today
So deep that you may drown.
Welcome trident’s touch as much
As this new whispered sound.
For no time now exists of which you fear.
Burden’s past belong to burden’s past.
Fleeing soon, such visions disappear
As freedom greets your every turn at last.
You speak not yesterday nor entertain the morrow
Nor speak of anything within the range of sorrow.
You know them not, in countenance nor form.
No longer do they manifest as storm.
Your gift is now the petaled flower’s power to persuade
Your lover’s lips to cast to yours an everlasting shade.
Your love be as engagement of the water to the sand,
Earth to space, time to place,
Fingers to God’s Hand.
He’s judged and condemned to take the saddle, yet, still fighting
without surrender, while we slip the bit between his jaws.
This, and ducking feet in dubble time while lashing
the gear to his back, dodging lightning while riding Thunder.
A saddle placed on a throne and strapped to a rocket.
He fights, he chokes, and rolls his eyes.
Who would give a dollar for his tough ole hide,
go sit on him in the seat of a rocker or hang him over the pea-patch
With the crack of a bullet, he could be gone.
I have trouble waiting for my chance to sling the sweat.
I purch high on the seat, chaps folded back, a nod to pull the rope.
Then out of the gate we fly, the dust, the slobber,
the foaming mouth and ears laid back.
I am screwed to the back of the saddle and
held there by centrifugal force.
Suddenly, the earth and sky are drunken things,
bucked from my senses, jolted to and fro as fence
reel past.
My dreams of being a cowboy fading rapidly
into the choking dust.
Yet, I hang to a flying hearse, the horse called Thunder,
whose hoofs beat drums of doom with boiling smoke.
I’m tossed high in a sickly orbit of sky and earth.
Thunder, still kicking as if to sling his burden to the stars,
plunging ahead, searching for a place to land.
The sky appears to darken around my head,
somewhere between a raven’s wing and the
back of a buzzard. With my shaky hands, I feel
the knots on my head, I fight for breath while spitting
sand, choking on dust and red eyes rolling. I feel hands
on me as they pat my back with hoots and hollows
beyond the limits of my brain. I stand up with
my unsteady feet and stagger. I see Thunder standing
at the other end of his domain.
Then the red bronco whirls in a resounding charge,
rumbling a folly of hoofs in rapid fire.
The final defeat, as I hurl myself over the rail.
Who would give ten dollars for that piece of leather
hanging slightly to the right side. Who, while shopping
for a bargain would settle for a deal.
"I know, I know, I know"
but the times aren't changing.
You were growing out
your beard for me,
to encourage me
to visit New York,
and you, again.
Your husky voice made
the six-hundred miles
between us feel like
no space at all,
like the intimacy
inside a sand dollar.
when I walked
on the empty golf course,
near the pond, an irritated
heron took off in front of me,
flapping its wide wings
to search for a quieter
hunting spot.
The air was too humid
for clean thinking
in mid-June on Seabrook Island.
I was only 33 and you
were 62.
You knew the Devil in me
that I learned to like
when I was 39.
"I know, I know, I know"
you, Prince, cried in song.
Last night, you rocked my
lonely, curled-up body
facing the corner
of the marina
in my distorted dream
while kids swam
outside.
They were laughing
and splashing.
"I only want to see you"
in the vivid day.
The children
"in the purple rain"
are not caught up in
recycled dreams.
I was in the marina
on a stationary bike
for something to do.
A customer came in,
but he needed you.
I forgot if you fell
out of love for your little
queen of submarine sandwiches,
your shopgirl, or if your absence
was more than a lack of interest.
Does your ghost love me more
than the man who came
before?
"Let me put your makeup on you,
Jennifer. Come on,
I will put your colors on."
You hurt me fresh
in inconsistently subtle ways
when the water rushes home
on Canandaigua lake
and I dream too vividly of you.
Your Italian soul
completes this starving
German-Danish girl
who isn't hungry
for your pasta primavera.
"Purple rain, purple rain!"
Pour down and fill
the hollow echoes
of my middle-aged heart.
Prince, hold the note,
and let me dance for Terry,
strumming the Cloud Guitar.
You two can play together,
now.
"If you know what I'm singin'
about up here,"
I wish I did.
"Come on, raise your hand."
I see some moose running down the street with antlers sticking out like guns, bursting through the crowd sending people on the run and scavengers flying around the sky landing on power lines beating drums in the town.
Big moose little moose scale high walls knocking down metal barriers, poking the people in their gut with their metal antlers. They smash their faces on the wall and dragging their bodies around in the street and I lamented with grief.
Chaos erupts in the town and people began to run up and down, with bags and pans, dishes and fishes and scorpion legs saturated in their head. Screaming and shouting resonated from the sky and the little moose bid the angels goodbye, the eagle was just on time to take the launcher for a ride.
The moose rampage continues in the town and everything fell to the ground, trucks and buses holding hands and motor cycle skidding on dry ice they slammed into each other crashing down the slopes somersaulting in their water-less boat.
I watched with anxiety as the moose destruction draws near, they kept running around the town plunging into bars, cook shops and kitchen restaurant, leaving its owners in despair.
Everyone ran around looking for a place to hide as the moose antlers stuck in their sides, there was just nowhere to hide; destiny flew high in the sky and moose blaze through the town.
The villagers came on the scene armed with machine guns and assault weapon, firing and shouting, from, right left and center. Bodies fell to the ground like flies filling the gutter with blood and no one could escape this terrible age.
They shot the running moose dead and it bled and bled. Moose lying dead next to man searching for the future in the golden sand. No one was left to tell the tales of how the running moose rampage ends, and so destiny fulfills its purpose in the town, and the big screen fell flat on the ground and destiny sank deep inside the ground.
Everything was still and not a sound could be heard and so I crossed peacefully over on the other side and bid the town and its dead goodbye.
I’ve taken many a walk by myself…seen the sunrise…
been greeted by a morning breeze
walked along the streets, the sand…followed a path among the trees.
Walking refreshes my attitude…my outlook
my view of the world as a whole…
It strengthens my heart,
stimulates my mind…and reinvigorates my soul
But as much as walking by myself has served to brighten up my life
a walk is even more inspiring…when walking with my wife.
Away from the encumbrances of technology
walking in the mountain or along the coast
We are reminded of all we have and share…everything that matters most.
But if the joys of walking with my wife are easy to comprehend…
the benefits increase exponentially…when we walk with a friend.
Our hearts, our souls…our minds are constantly surprised…
when we add a new perspective…another set of eyes…
And when we talk to other people on our walk…strangers we meet along the way
I can’t be sure but I have a feeling…it brightens everybody’s day.
Which only goes to prove…
how waking and life can be compared…
for each by itself can be beautiful…but much more beautiful when shared.
And so I wonder when we look for solutions to hate and killing and war…
Would we find the answers more easily….
if we all walked together a little more?
This time I blew it, I really blew it
First lost us the House, now the Senate’s gone too,
I'm caught in a spiral, that I'll admit,
Not sure where to turn, not sure what to do.
I'm convinced I was cheated,
The election was mine,
I was sorely mistreated
They'll see that in time.
China's to blame
They caused this great mess,
With Covid the flame
The spark our fake Press.
I'm sad and forlorn, forsaken and lost,
Left out to dry, few choices in hand,
Gave up so much at such personal cost,
And all I have left is a hand full of sand.
Pence and McConnell of no use at all,
Fair weather friends lost in the breeze,
Ducking for cover, can't stomach the squall,
By Biden outsmarted with consummate ease.
I'm now left to ponder, consider and scheme,
My mind in a haze, my heart in a spin,
To run once again along the same theme,
To prove them all wrong, to show I can win.
But just like the lion, head of the pride
I see suitors circling ready to pounce,
Willing and waiting to cast me aside
Watching to see if that run I'll announce.
So let them all wait, worry and fret,
For this Lion’s not done, not by a stretch,
I love with a passion making folks sweat,
To fight and remount my one solemn pledge.
Though I am not of this modern age,
Permit me to address you from my humble page,
For I have walked among the stars and seas,
And Florida's plight now calls out to not only me.
The swelling tides of people that crowd our land,
Their voices rumble like the surf upon sand.
Yet storms grow more fierce, their tempests loud and clear,
As if the heavens scorn each of our human child.
Your coffers overflow with gold and grain—
Yet wealth alone cannot assuage our pain.
What we desire, dear Governor, is clear:
A sea of tranquility, unshadowed by fear.
Freedom to speak without bullets or hate,
Empathy your light for the lost and unfed.
Let forgiveness flow from your pen like your song,
For Christ himself walked where the weak don't belong.
Think of the homeless, the broken, the ill—
If they cannot rest, show them your kindness still.
The oceans, the stars, the moon’s gentle glow,
Are blessings this frantic world needs to know.
Let Florida’s trees stand tall in their grace,
While bushes and flowers refresh this our place.
And bid the news not drown us all in despair,
For fear breeds darkness; it’s too much to bear.
Each election, it seems, builds no school's or dream's —
Power unused is kindness unseen.
Governor, there are souls wasted in strife,
Their autism and gifts neglected in life.
Let us dream not of might but of lasting peace,
Of casting lines into oceans so that we may eat.
With utmost respect, I humbly implore,
Guide this state to a future worth more.
I endeavor to remain, with heart and pen,
Your obedient servant, until the very end.
On bended knee, I am
James McLain
Man it is bitter cold, and the oar is gone floating down river fast.
My canteen has whiskey, so I take a swig; knowing it has to last.
Where are my matches? I ponder so I grab my Cuban cigar.
How many miles would I float down river before I reached that sandbar?
My moose tattoo gave a mighty laugh and held his teddy bear tighter.
The clouds were overcast now. I was not sure if I had a lighter.
The matches had gotten wet you see, when I leaned out to grab my oar.
I wish I had brought the other one with me when I left that sainted shore.
I took a puff of the cigar, ah heaven, but now I needed a snack.
I opened ma’s picnic basket, and drew out a white doily and a love sack.
She had thrown a flashlight in the bottom which I noticed as ate my food.
Chocolate donuts and ham sandwiches with pickles put me in a good mood.
Do you have your hatchet? My inner voice asked. Let’s chop ourselves an oar.
Carved myself a makeshift paddle out of canoe to take me to shore.
The moose tattoo was laughing, making her teddy bear chuckle too.
I got to land by eleven o’clock, the forest turning a nightly hue.
I barely had enough strength to pull the canoe up into the safety of the sand.
The cattails were impeding our way, my tattoo and I a pretty motley band.
Couldn’t you have just jumped in the water? My inner voice asked on a whim.
Forgetting for a second I guess, that this fisherman does not know how to swim.
Captivity-bound…I’m bound to be neglected for life
Without a single sound, tears concealed
I’m lost and found…juggling precious peace and endless strife
Left upon the cold ground, cheers unhealed
I’m still crazy and I’m proud
I’m still lazy and hazy and loud
I’m sorry I’m not that vigilantly hard working
At least I don’t spend my time, shadow-lurking
Hidden timidity…
Never gave me pity…
I want You to save me
With your loving glee
I want you to hold me
Knowing God will set me free
Longing for His affection
To lead me to His direction
Longing for His affection
To give me spiritual rejuvenation
Longing for Christ’s ressurection
To set me free from lamentation
God is my rock, my helper and shield
I’ve been spiritually healed, tears concealed
Over the years, I have been on the pillar of sand,
Hoping you’d understand where I truly land
I’m still crazy and I’m proud
I’m still lazy and hazy and loud
I’m sorry I’m not that vigilantly hard working
At least I don’t spend my time, shadow-lurking
Hidden timidity
Made me feel rather ty
I want You to save me
With your loving glee
I want you to hold me
Knowing God will set me free
Longing for His affection
To lead me to His direction
Longing for His affection
To give me spiritual rejuvenation
Longing for Christ’s ressurection
To set me free from lamentation
I’m a foolish man who longs for wisdom
I’m a youthful boy who longs for His kingdom
To give me spiritual rejuvenation
Longing for Christ’s ressurection
To set me free from lamentation
Longing for His affection
To lead me to His direction
Form:
There’s some mornings I wake up
I realize I made it all up
The drama, the stage, the curtain
The actors and their scripted burden
And somewhere in the dark theater,
We’re lit by a sudden flashing
And all that history will recover
Are the pistols of assassins
The pistols of assassins
There’s some moments I break free
The constraints of my perspective
On an ocean one cannot see,
One mustn’t try to be too objective
But somewhere beyond the parting waves,
I see a wreck on a heap of sand
Overgrown with tropical flowers
And wouldn’t you know
Wouldn’t you know
Wouldn’t you know
That I recognize that man!
There’s some evenings I go down
To the Bouville Cafe
But I can’t touch my espresso
And the room begins to sway
And somewhere within the din of the throngs,
I come to wonder what is wrong
Then melting away is every facade
And all that lingers is a jukebox song
Called “Nausea”
That’s the echo of a jukebox song
Called “Nausea”