Long Siberia Poems
Long Siberia Poems. Below are the most popular long Siberia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Siberia poems by poem length and keyword.
HER SKIN PRODUCED OILS
THAT WERE LIKE EXTACTIONS
OF THE LAVBER PLANT.
HER SKIN.
HER TONE,
WAS AS HONEY
AND HER LOVE TASTED AS SWEET.
I WOULD HAVE HOLIDAY
WITH HER BECAUSE I LOVED
THE RICH TASTE OF HER BODY
HER KISSES WERE AS HOT AS THE SAVANNAS
AND HER TONGUE WAS AS COLD
AS THE SNOWS OF SIBERIA
HER KISSES COULD EXCITE A PEACENT AND INSPIRE HIM
TO THINK MORE OF HIMSELF
THE CURVES OF HER BODY
COULD MAKE THE SUN
FALL FROM THE SKY
AND THE STRENGTH OF HER MOUTH
COULD PULL
OLIVES THROW THE STRAWS
OF THE BARLEY FEILDS.
HER FLESH WAS AS TONED AS THE
GLADIATERS WHO WATCHED OVER HER
I WOULD KISS
HER WITH
ONE HAND
MY FINGERS AT THE NAP OF HER HAIRLINE
AND MY THUMB BENEATH HER EARLODE
THERE I WOULD WHISPER
PROMISES TO KEEP HER
INTERESTED IN ME
SHE WOULD PUSH MY HEAD TO HER WAIST
OF THOSE PLACES A
MANS FACE SHOULD FIND MORE INTERESTING
THEIR IWAS A PERFECT AS CASEAR, THEIR
I WAS KING OF ALL MEN
THEIR I WAS LOVED AS HER COUNTERPART
THE DEMON, AND HIS WOMAN.
SHE WISHED AND THOSE WORDS WERE GRQANTED
THAT I LOVED HER
AND FROM EVERYTHING I KNEW OF HER
SHE LOVED ME.
SILKS ADORNED HER
GOLD WAS FASHIONED FOR HER
WINES WERE MADE FOR HER
AND FABRICS WERE WOVED
FOR HER
PAPERS TO MAKE OUR TOGETHERNESS RIGHT
AND LEGAL
WHO'S WORDS SPEAK BEYOND OUR TOGETHERNESS
THAT APART WE ARE SAME MARRIED
AND TOGETHER WE ARE TO SAME AS ONE
MARRIED IN THE EMPIRE OF CASEAR.
One need not read her horoscope to know
this woman's fate, and though wisteria
cascades sweet blooms of lavender like snow
outside her door, it's still Siberia
pervading the dimensions of her mind,
for not one fickle thought or patch of moss
can thrive where bleakest shadows are enshrined.
No bittersweet, no dew drops. . . only loss
surrounds her heart. She tries to reminisce,
but like a barren continent grown cold,
she can't perceive one particle of bliss.
She's clasping grief and cannot be consoled!
Wisteria's perfume is in the breeze,
but in her soul remains a winter's freeze.
from ruthless deeds
to the place where
the devil is absent
a rambling soul
settled down
under the mountain
wrapped up by
the merciful serpent
unaware of wrath
calling himself
a poet from Siberia
he planted rusty nails
and bred odd stories
the astonished evening
found a friend in barrens
where the heirloom sank
during the muddy supper
and his weary shoes
walk by themselves
under the lead sky
ring in the clock tower
when the electric quest
starts with the blackout
it's time to confess
to be merely mortal
behold! the solitude
of indistinct fable
leads to tranquility
but never to treasure
The life of my father,
The life he created,
The life he has lived,
The kindness he gave us.
It is an extraordinary life.
At the age of ninety-one,
He can say he went to Siberia
And swam in the Atlantic.
He lived through wars.
He was not called a hero,
But he was a hero to us,
Always with a kind heart.
His smile, his love,
His generous heart,
He led a company
And gave it his all.
He had no shoes at the age of five.
He knew hunger at the age of ten.
He was a scholar by eighteen,
A father,
A leader.
Now he does not remember much,
But he remembers how to love.
He reminds us to be kind.
He remembers to care.
The Valley Of Love And Delight':
An anniversary feting mine birth (date),
a plan we almost didst ditch
nonetheless the general game plan
soared like an Eagle,
and went off swimmingly (into a dive)
hence we chose Wegman's with doll finned porpoise
minus a sue per stevedore tailored hitch
cuz the China Jade restaurant
near Collegeville Redner's
nearly felt cold as ice dining niche
as if we accidentally
got highjacked to Siberia
where heat took precedence
verses restaurateur eatery reputable pitch
thus despite praise worthy Yelp reviewers,
whether they be named Poe or Rich
hard, earning their keep whose fingers
hut till lee diploid across
warp and weft to stitch
together disparate threads
weaving a webbed whirled Magnum Opus
where thoughts analogous
to this aspiring paperback writer exerts,
(whose muscles twitch)
in an attempt for phalanges
tortured as going every which
way with to craft a non ode us paean
from deep within thy bowel
applying me magical diving rod –
essentially a computerized dowel
which makes a dinging sound,
or emitting an odor most fetid and fowl
unintentionally inducing creatures
large and small to howl
at the abominable cursing and swearing
using languages that lack a vowel
sound - clouding ability to communicate
to remain steadfast
with intent thwarted by (third eye blind)
minor detour of fate
three doors down and celebrate modestly,
NEVER thought to "FAKE"
forgo wing NOR deferring
time to be spent with
a gluten and MSG free
NON GMO endearing sibling
NO whey iz she dee snide dour twisted sister
hood moost likely become irate
invested in marriage to a loving mate.
The snow mountains bowed heavily
As Morgan-Kara touched its base
The spirits silently circled
Waiting for him to call
People watched in reverence
As ancestors came forth
But dark clouds soon gathered
For the God of the Dead was livid
No touching the dead Morgan-Kara
Bellowed the mighty voice
But silently Morgan-Kara brought forth
The dead one by one
God of the Dead flew on raven wings
To let the High God know
To Morgan-Kara it was just another day
The High God trapped his soul
Sealed it in a glass bottle
People cowered in fear
Morgan-Kara retreated in a cave
He silently played his magic drum
And climbed with it to the heaven above
The great Shaman now turned into a wasp
Bit the High God on his head
Startled the God left the bottle
Which he carried back to earth
As Morgan-Kara emerged
People bowed in faith and cheer
For here was Morgan-Kara
Reborn again and again
Based on the legends of Lake Baikal, Siberia
The hummock
There is a hill behind the houses round and soft,
I call it a mother hill it welcomes you and murmur
How do you do?” and let you sit on a boulder
to enjoy the peace.
If you sit too long enjoying your sentimentality,
it wakes, the boulder gets cold and hard to sit on.
The wind suddenly blows, has a fragrance of Siberia and Vodka.
So, you walk around to keep warm and see wildflowers
hiding behind big stones.
You cannot pick them if you do? They will wizen and bring rain.
Walk gently now the aroma of spring is in the grass.
Behind the knoll, it is October grey and out of sight where no trees grow.
It is the mother´s hill burden concealed from the world.
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. ??
Sacred Dwellers
I am of Native American born
To be caretaker of Mother Earth sworn
I heal with powers, a medicine man
Tribal’s wise supernatural shaman
I am a sacred carved out Totem Pole
To recount familiar legends, a toll
Insightful spirit animals pride in
Taking a part as a loved guardian
I’m the buffalo hunted to survive
Tipis, meat, fur, vital to stay alive
I’m the turtle known as the peacemaker
That’s firm, serene never a forsaker
I am lizard, killing me brings bad luck
The creation story I play, soul struck
I butterfly bringer of dreams, arrange
Transformation and life cycle of change
I the wolf early ancestor of thee
Totem animal, wise, social, and free
Icon salmon renews energy rays
The legend conveys, respect natures ways
* Shaman translation- The word originates from the language of the Tungus people of Siberia. It can directly be translated literally to “one who works with fire”.
* Tipis (teepees)
I love my country Nigeria,
Though marred by malaria.
I've a bouquet of sweet aria,
Blooming in my heart's rear,
Which my country must hear,
Else it flees to Rhea.
I love my country Nigeria.
It tilts like the Tower of Pisa,
But stable as the Pyramid of Giza.
Easily rocked by a soft breeze,
But stands a storm with ease.
The reason for my aria!
I love my country Nigeria,
But wish it were a nation,
Not a cluster--an appellation--
Of dunes and a stretch of savanna,
Of rocky hills and valleys of banana,
Of mashes, inter alia.
I love my country Nigeria
Not the vultures in peacock's feathers,
Or the hawks that strut in blathers,
Who shrill and shrink our coffers,
Swaggering while the nation suffers.
Soon en route to Siberia.
I will sing my aria for Nigeria,
When the dirge sounds with pomp;
And we bounce, hop and romp
At the death of our foe--corruption.
We joy in the birth of our Nation,
Brace to grow Nigeria.
I’ll live my aria for Nigeria.
No more stroll along unsure course.
Quality’s noble, mediocrity, a curse.
Beauty wafts from garlands of praise
For the legion of merits we raise.
A nation truly Nigeria!
My dream glows for Nigeria
Where heads bow to mourn a sparrow;
An infant's death, a loss to tomorrow.
People recoil from trampling an ant;
Leaders serve with honor, not flagrant,
'Cause we love Nigeria.
You see why I love Nigeria?
We cherish what God has given.
Nation's goals are purpose-driven,
So we ponder else we squander,
Aware we soon have to render,
In line with God's criteria.
© 2015