Long Scours Poems
Long Scours Poems. Below are the most popular long Scours by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scours poems by poem length and keyword.
a serene lake on a moonlight night,
as she paddles her canoe away,
far into distance where it shines bright,
in gentle breeze water lilies sway.
her hopes are lit she would meet her dreams,
that warmth and lips that such young hearts yearn,
she scours in shadows between moon beams,
a lost effort in daily sojourn.
knock on the door brings her to morning,
wiping the sadness of a lost hope,
turning she smiles at her love snoring,
she had with whom tied marital rope!
dreams and hearts can be split in two parts.
9 syllables with abab rhyme sequence
except the last line with a rhyme within.
Midst efforts to resolve a viral pandemic
Causing global illness and death epidemic
As we process the merits of our heartfelt fears
Mixed with worry, doubt, dread, anger, and sometimes tears
Let’s not forget about the virgin who conceived
A child sent from God, so our sins could be relieved.
As we shelter in our places of seclusion
Where once welcomed visits are now an intrusion
As we inhale and exhale covered by our mask
While simple routines are now a cumbersome task
Let’s recall that to the virgin a child was born
Who would bring hope, joy, and peace to a world forlorn
When six feet apart striving for social distance
Has become the new normal of our existence
When our multiple efforts of sanitation
Instigates within us constant aggravation
Visit the manger, see Joseph and his betrothed
Gaze upon the child who in swaddling rags was clothed
When the news of more COVID cases scours the land
When the ones who govern hand down a new demand
When after each encounter we wash our hands clean
As we hope and pray each day for a new vaccine
Listen to the voices of the angelic throng
Announcing the Messiah’s presence in their song
As new stipulations create family strain
And events occur causing economic pain
When we come in close contact with those infected
Then obey rules of quarantine as directed
Let’s treasure the glorious news of a savior
Who came to remedy our sinful behavior
When we grieve a cherished friend or loved one who dies
And we can’t properly gather to say goodbyes
When we want to weep and give each other a hug
But we are restricted to a stare and a shrug
Let’s join the angels in praising the Prince of Peace
For in His grace and mercy we will find release
When each retail store bears the sign “masks are required”
And every adventure makes us tense and tired
When we learn that someone had a positive test
And we retreat to our homes for much needed rest
Let’s treasure Jesus, ponder His truth in our heart
With fresh faith in Him tomorrow a new day start
Midst our expressed concerns about the world’s future
Worrying that the wounds are too deep to suture
When mental anguish and fear are out of control
When encouraging words lack power to console
Recall that our purpose is to give Christ glory
And our mission is to propagate His story
Don’t care whom it ravages:
this land was always Thine.
Circle wagons, shoot all savages,
and things are (once more) fine.
The Swaggarts, Bakkers and Miscaviges
will soon be judenrein.
For far too long we’ve been contrite.
The best of cleaners scours.
We’re gonna give them fight or flight
(for far too long, they’ve gotten flowers).
There’s nothing wrong with being white:
or claiming what is ours.
Remember when Strom Thurman ruled?
A time when men were men.
For decades we’ve been wrongly schooled:
the sword subdues the pen.
Though King and Evers had us fooled,
we don’t get fooled again.
America was always mean,
until we lost our way.
The atom bomb, the mud marine –
Pacific equals prey.
You’re eighteen? With an A-15
you’ll always get your way.
We don’t need Confucian.
We’ve got Roger Stone.
Disregard the Constitution –
we’ll do this on our own.
Clear Catullus? Lucid Lucian?
Our wisdom is home-grown.
We bow, but only to our owners:
faceless, taxless, they:
they’re so rich, they give us boners:
they never leave LA:
we worship them. They’re known as donors:
we gave the store away.
BLISS ENSHRINED IN STILL SOUL
The surging storm scary seethes the smoky sky,
traces the tracks of terror in the tormented air.
The stratified wind blows sly, doesn’t know why
the cold turbulence so severe it is forced to bear.
The afflicting anger is blind, flares in spiteful mind,
smolders life as drying timber, forms scalding ember,
agonized ashes fly in wind, they try but fail to find
the reason why mere empathy the heart doesn’t rear.
Scraping sorrow grinds, scours the marooned mind,
life pines in pain of despair, grains of hope disappear.
Still soul buds bliss enshrined, aches of agony rescind,
sedate spirit spawns crop of rapture in dry drop of tear.
Written : January 21, 2019
April 8, 2020
Contest : Strand Pick 5, Any Theme, Any Form
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Glancing down from breathless heights,
Amidst climey sighs,
The looming colossus awakens from slumber
And stretches across Thelwalls linear skies.
The hot engines hissing steam -
Recalled from fond memories long back -
Tumbling like huffing little rain clouds
Down from the lofty metal track;
Wherein brightly painted carriages:
The publicans daughter, the verger,
The magistrate, the chief executive -
Seated first class, all habitually sat.
Swift grandiose arches, a celebration
Trumpeting the artful masons cunning devise,
Boast loudly of the great towers
Parallelogram of terrific forces:
Crossing over in giant leaping strides.
Here below, like Hercules reclining,
The stoic gates of Latchfords black fortress locks
Lift to brace against the immense swell
Far and beyond the chimming remarks
Of Greenhalls absolute, mechanically proven,
Georgian bell;
When, ensconced within a purpose-built,
Purple brick tower:
Strikes the centuries old brewery clock
On the twelfth
Of every God given hour.
A rich bankers cantilever
Pushes doggedly against opposing, sheer,
Red Sandstone walls;
Again the mauve and azure rock pigeon claps...
And then...coo, coo, cooingly calls.
Dry buzzing heat blurs over
The hum of a high noons imcumbent midday;
The coup-de-gras scimitar wing stoops -
To fasten onto its slower-witted prey!
Steeped sides slipping amidst tumbling yellow
Gorse and sporadic flowers
Balk at the foreboding waters edge,
Where, over the denizens swirling bowers,
The resolute little rusting lugger,
Puffing and chugging,
relentlessly dredges and scours;
Churning the murky Eastham silts
That drab Manchester draw:
Into the vast hollowing quays
On beachless, concrete Salfords industrialized,
High-rise dockland shore.
Through the deepest part of the black
Channel
A salt grimed hulk smoothly slips...
Attached by a twisted hemp to the tugboat
That hauls the great ships.
Stirred by the bow waves
Flowing and ebbing like currents in time:
From the trough to the peak
The jettison and flotsam climbs -
Before succumbing to powerful undercurrents
Of irresistible designs!
Stones, pebbles
rolling underfoot,
granite boulders,
face of a cliff standing,
running water,
water eroding stone
into soft sand,
rivers eating away
limestone bit by bit,
caves form, time scours
rock, symbol of
forever, eternity.
seemingly indestructible -
the Alps, the Andes,
and Rocky Mountains
thrusting fierce
against the sky.
Great walls carved of stone,
skyscrapers rise,
houses are built on rock.
Volcanoes spew
red-orange molten
rock flowing, destroying,
relentless, searing,
yet creator of new land,
of new stone.
Rock -symbol of permanence,
over eons eaten
by erosion, becoming
stones, pebbles and sand.
lest ye seek alms
with outfaced palms
just imagine
how the lantern shone
against the knees of Archelaus,
and lit up the check-board pattern
of the eleemosynary trousers
Fatigued civilian attires reasonable rhyme
challenging readers to dare themselves
question yours truly what ranks as
unleashing trademark punishing crime.
Words worth more'n fine spun gold
courtesy those considering themselves literate,
perhaps recipients of countless laurels extolled,
nevertheless mediocre (ha) logophile
crafts poem(s) inducing scold.
Dire straits force me to abide
the law of self preservation
and espouse with permission granted
by Bedrich Smetana
to abscond with bartered bride
think infamous American robbery team
Bonnie and Clyde
responsible for a 21-month
crime spree from 1932 to 1934
as analogous nefarious
transgression in league with human
author of mine verse, thus thee decide
to befriend bipedal hominid,
who scours earthwide
(and if necessary extending search
beyond outer limits of twilight zone,
where dark shadows
slink along the edge of night)
for fine prairie home companions
ideally from Lake Woebegone,
or outliers with documentation falsified
turning to humble *****sapien
as their spiritual guide,
he will be game and willingly surrender
mine Yankee doodling dandy buttucks,
his posterior gluteus maximus hide
if he falls short of promise
to bring webbed wide world bliss
witnessed as emasculation
toward himself intensified
cuz truth be told
interpersonal connections
allow, enable, and provide
kinetic, opportunistic, rhapsodic,
and universalistic joyride.
All decked out like one base 2 ace
of spades, or king of hearts
traveling at lightspeed thru cyberspace
traveling as binary unit with amazing grace,
the zeros flickering like a moonface
hopscotching between nodes uptrace
sing journey across the Internet.
Many a favorite YouTube tutorial venue
represent virtual re: digital haunts I review
to bolster pulling myself up by bootstraps
such sites out of webbed wide world
include basic digital electronics,
computer networking fundamentals,
how transistors work, plus
miscellaneous other tidbits.
The rules are posted on a sign –
The city’s made its mark –
Instructing drivers there are times
They’re not allowed to park.
The streets require cleaning
So at certain listed hours
The sweeper truck comes swishing through
And picks up trash and scours.
But certain selfish drivers
See those rules and just ignore ‘em,
Assuming that there’s little chance
A cop’ll come before ‘em.
And so the sweeper sweeps around
The cars that will not budge,
Thus leaving certain city streets
With detritus and sludge.
Of course, those drivers drive away
And leave within their wake
A dirty patch the sweepers missed
For someone’s selfish sake.
The nightfall comes, clouds the head,
Scours the earth,
Rouses widow’s dread.
Your feel the ashes swirling high,
Choking the breath,
Blinding the eyes.
Rolling thunder frightens all,
Harkening doom
And the coming fall.
We stand with friends, watch the spire
Of swirling smoke,
And searing fire.
The ground it falls beneath your feet,
Dropping us down,
To infernal heat.
The wind whips like an angry god,
A pagan vengeance,
Strikes the rod.
With burning welts and festering sores,
Comes the hated day
Of myth and lore.
All you love dies in the fray
For meager mortals,
It’s time to pay…
But storms are passing, we all know
The last days come,
The last days go.
Apocalypse and doom they may,
Make the visit,
But never stay.
Darkness and the scary night,
Are just heralds,
Of morning light.
Past their moments comes a birth,
The sun returns,
And warms the Earth.
Dawn has come, we’ve all survived,
The end has ended,
Let’s go outside!
Her arms laden with small garden tools and sweet scented flowers
She wanders into the graveyard, and treads the trodden path
Noticing the subtle differences given with the different hours
The gentle swaying of cobwebs after they are so cleverly cast
The black birds hunting for their so hungry meal the earth scours
Afternoon flowers bowing under the suns hot burning wrath
Only to perk up once again after the so refreshing rain showers
She treads the trodden path
The tall trees over lapping, seem to hold her with their embrace
To her, whispering sweet nothings into her forever listening ears
It is as if with their sweeping branches her emotions they encase
Further down the trodden path she walks, her eyes welled with tears
Embodying her with a feeling of overwhelming compassion and grace
For often they have watched her come to this graveyard over the years
To tend her loved ones grave, and upon it, flowers she would place
She treads the trodden path
Has it not been 10 long years, or more, soon to join him, she is sure
This grave she has kept nurtured with all her love and all her plight
Death to her emptiness and loneliness will soon to be her only cure
Then together again, they will be reunited as their only given right
A grave then to be attended by their children they went on to spoor
Where they will then tread the trodden path at different times of light
Noticing the subtle differences of this graveyard, so beautiful and pure
They tread the trodden path