Long Sentries Poems
Long Sentries Poems. Below are the most popular long Sentries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sentries poems by poem length and keyword.
Snow is falling, covering everything in town
with a shimmering, light, fluffy, thick white blanket of snow.
Tall, bare maple trees are lined up on the side of the road
like sentries standing guard.
The lamp posts are lighting the streets,
and the clock tower bells are ringing,
letting everyone know the time.
A horse with a wool blanket,
harnessed with a wood hames
and blinders to keep him focused on what is up ahead,
pulling a farm wagon, being led by his owner,
and carrying supplies is trotting down the road.
It’s evening, and big brother is pulling a sleigh
with his baby sister and brother all dressed in their warmest clothes
—heavy wool coats, hand-knitted hats, gloves,
and scarves around their necks—
wrapped in a warm blanket in the sleigh.
A stray dog in tow.
He stops in front of a window that is decorated with garland, pinecones,
and gold and red Christmas tree ornaments displaying a variety of toys.
They all stare in wonderment, wishing
Santa would bring them some wonderful toys.
A Lionel train set for me,
a red Radio Flyer wagon for my little brother,
and a doll and dollhouse for my baby sister.
By Eve Roper 11/25/2014
Around that table, picture the scene
Self appointed leaders if you know what I mean
What were the topics on the Agenda that day
The Jewish race is about to pay
Who gave the right for this decision that's made
Who has the right to cleanse and degrade
To decide who lived, to decide who dies
Another chapter, I still wonder why
They came in the day they came in the night
Women and children pulled out of sight
Herded aboard like cattle and sheep
Many a family awoke from their sleep
Dazed and confused as they are taken away
Where will they be at the end of the day
From their warm houses and their warm beds
What must be going through their heads
As they travel through days and through the night
Up ahead, they see lots of lights
They depart the trucks and board the train
Their faces scared under the strain
Asking questions from family and others
Generations, sisters and brothers
Why are we here, where are we going
Windowless carriages with no way of knowing
We come to a stop, soldiers aplenty
Towers and wire, topped with sentries
What can this place be they have taken us to
As we head to large gates as they shuffle us through
Families separated, herded in file
Women and children, not one did smile
Taken to rooms where our heads were shaved
Is this the way humans behaved
Clothes discarded, as we enter the shower
No signs of water no signs of power
Doors slammed as we are all crammed in
History will recall this evil of sins
As we stand in the dark, chanting Jewish faith
Can hear the voices can't see the face
Noises above, do the showers start
The event has begun that tells us Humans apart
Questions and sighs, as walled vents show daylight
Some thing is falling then their slammed tight
A strange aroma starts to fill the air
As all around are screams of despair
Twenty minutes have passed and the quietness is rife
Two thousand people, two thousand lives
Pellets called HCN, or Hydrogen Cyanide
Contribute to this Genocide
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php
In the frostbitten belly of Russia’s spine,
Where the stars are mute and the sun won’t shine,
A man with chains and a shattered past,
Counts the heartbeats that may be his last.
He once wore laughter like a second skin,
Now silence lives deep within his grin.
No mirrors here—only ice and stone,
To remind him daily: he is alone.
They took his name, his books, his light,
Left him with shadows that whisper at night.
Even the wolves keep a gentler pace
Than guards who mock his hollow face.
A letter once came from his mother’s hand—
Trembling words scrawled like lines in sand:
"My boy, the snow falls heavy at home.
I knit you a scarf. I pray. I roam..."
He pressed it to his lips, to his soul, to his chest,
Then buried it like a bird in a nest.
For hope, in Siberia, is a fragile thread—
Too bright, too kind, and quickly dead.
Through iron bars he watches the sky,
Wonders if clouds remember to cry.
He dreams of bread, of spring, of rain—
Of someone calling his name again.
The birch trees whisper like ghosts in rows,
Their branches bending with ancient woes.
They too are prisoners, scarred and still,
Sentries of sorrow on the white-laced hill.
Years pass like smoke in a bitter wind,
And time forgets the crime he pinned.
But not his soul—it bleeds and sings,
Of stolen summers and broken wings.
So if you pass that northern land,
Where silence wraps the earth like sand,
Pause for a breath, for a tear, for a name—
For a man in the cold, who bears no blame.
Somewhere, a mother still waits at the gate,
Counting the snowflakes. Counting his fate. ??
I don't want to wander those places where our footsteps have long since passed,
Down shaded alleys where our memories whisper and stand guard like stone sentries,
I no longer wish to hear those songs, symphonies of the past, nor let them steal my thought.
To wrap myself in your now absent shawl of longing and your kisses, as though they never were.
Echo of laughter, tightrope walker on the heart's string, I won't let you spin me around,
To recall your face, a bastion of joy, which I would have painted in the most playful hues.
I no longer desire to search for you among fragments of memory, to see you in every little detail,
To excavate your visages from the neglected corners of time's dusty albums.
I miss 'us,' but I don't want to rewrite our story, each page bearing our joint signature.
To no longer yearn for what's been lost, for the echoes of your footsteps that resonated in my chest.
I don't want to cry again, to let the tears of missing you wash over my face.
To let the pain sink into the abyss, no longer feeling each caress that brought solace.
Noon when I no longer summon your laughter, thunderous waves crashing over my soul,
Nor how your face, once an island of happiness lost, could be my guiding light.
I don't want to make you cry or to hurt you, to break the wings of your dreams with my inadequacy,
Please, do not inflict heart scratches anymore, in this ongoing war to remain standing.
I don't want to hear you say you miss me, words like arrows into the vulnerable veins of 'us.'
Nor to utter, even in a whisper, that I miss you, for longing burns like a brand that is not there.
To no longer feel the red-hot iron of love trouble me again,
I'm afraid... To not fall into your net once more, into the weavings of your heart. I don't want to… I don't want to…
Some birds are sentries to the sky
others are earth- or water-bound
some bumble about the lifeless rye
others are cherubs of the clouds-
Some are regal and soundless
others tend to echo from the grate
dictating to others how to sing
while cawing and poaching eggs-
Some build nests of grass or leaf
sacrifice everything for their babies
some birds play the mating game
then just as quickly up and leave-
I'm convinced most birds are heaven-scented.
uplifting and enriching our lives
some are but rhinestone buzzards
plucking others until they're blind-
Most fliers are garnish for the ages
some live to crap on liberty's bust
a few are fated for mental cages
birds are a lot like us-
Traveling along the Grapevine
soft green hills look like earthy fabric
folded into velvet shadow crevices.
Layers of rich, luxurious shapes
form the mountainous terrain.
As we make our way along the highway
the golden glow of the afternoon sun
caresses the flowing hillsides
oh so gently
on this cool winter’s day.
Sparse oaks flash their amber leaves
over the muted landscape
loudly interrupting introverted hues
that linger quietly over the grassy fields.
Against a whitewashed sky
hints of snow can be seen
amongst the scarce pines
while in the valley, sagebrush whip around
on a random road near run down barns
where ravens hide.
A linear network of power lines appear
marching like steel sentries
transformers conquering fields
while a formidable army of cars and trucks
hurry towards their endless destinations
unaware of the quiet beauty that surrounds.
The darkness accepts the awakening of a new day over the eastern rim of the valley floor.
The distant highlands sculpted by nature’s wind and ancient ice accept this sun ’s morning’s gift of bright glistening golden crowns along their uppermost edges, as the lower masses blanket themselves in shades of soft blue mist.
Sheared cliffs stand guard as sentries protecting all that lives on the valley floor.
A meadow bounded by an emerald green forest that has given perch to the midnight stars for a thousand of years awaits the first ray of warmth upon its branches where a mountain jay trumpets with joy.
Given this moment of tranquility, my soul returns to its resting place_ concealed by time, laid to rest by my brothers the Miwoks of the Yosemite; my valley for evermore.
...is what we see
Emotions are the weather of the mind
We live between peaks and troughs
The former breeds hubris with downfall built in
The latter deals with death,darkness and despair
Our mood colours our world,clouding our judgment
Darkening our souls and blocking the road to reason
We can be in the sunny uplands where lush grass
Fattens the cattle,only to be plunged into a terrible terrain
Hinting at the hinterland of the horrors of hell
Dark brooding pools,indicative of a netherworld
Uninviting yet strangely alluring
An indistinct Ogham script scrawled
In rough grey granite,etched by infernal demons
Struggling to make their meaning clear
An incomplete jigsaw puzzle of disconnected tarns
Where gaps show,pieces having gone astray
Hills merge in sympathy,
Nestling together out of fear
Dormant dinosaurs of mountains threaten
To throw off their chains of stone
A patchwork quilt of moss and heather
Creates a crude uniform to clothe the martial rocks
Trees,standing tall and tight, serried ranks of sentries
To keep the secrets of their territory hidden
The gloom of lowering clouds bleeds the countryside of its freshness and vibrancy
While gushing torrents rip down gashes gouged
Out of the wounds of the mountains
Echoing streams of pain.
And then the light returns,the nightmare ends
Though the soul will shiver long after the memory fades
The awful experience embedded, deep and haunting within.
When I walk among the trees with their branches stretching high into the air
I think of all the wonders they have seen…all the wisdom stored in there.
In all the years they’ve spent listening as loyal sentries…silent monks
I think of all the knowledge…all the wisdom stored within their trunks.
And I wonder since trees cannot speak…how is their wisdom meant to reach us?
How are we to learn all the things the silent trees are meant to teach us?
Then I think…perhaps with silent wisdom is how our creators have designed them…
and if there are lessons in the trees…it is up to us to find them.
Lessons like strength and patience…and reaching for the stars
How to stand noble…tall and confident…proud of who we are.
How trees are kind and accepting to all the trees…how they help one another thrive…
how trees are all connected and need each other to survive.
How to weather any storm…how’s there is nothing they can’t face…
How they accept the wrinkles on their bark…and age with dignity and grace.
As they provide us with the air and beauty and shade perhaps the best lesson we should learn…is how to give to others…while asking nothing in return.
And I wonder since the trees and I are still growing…
every time to the forest I return….
how much more they have to teach me…
and how much more I have to learn
Lost in the past, my thoughts collide,
how one so gallant could survive
three wars. He braved them, death- defied,
and left his place in history
Yet, time would take his breath away,
without fanfare, one winter's day
Death's coldest draft came through these floors,
and took more than a glimpse of him.
It now seems wrong, to come right in,
to trespass on the throne of life,
quietly lived beyond a fence,
where thirsty rows of cornstalks wait,
like sentries at a soldier's wake
I hesitate, to disgrace the gloom
open the drawers, to snoop, and sort
The pruning through the worn and torn.
My hands are able, but my heart declines
what isn’t mine, to toss, to find, to mark, and label
Whispered breaths, like weaving looms,
are stories that he told me then.
And how he watched his children play...
The ones who never came again,
to see him at the very end.
The dark descends, and I must go,
but some of him remains, I know
in every shadow of this room.
I'm glad I knew the man called Joe
_____________________________________________
1/13/15 For Giorgio's Contest: "Sketch a Character"
By Carrie Richards