Long Silos Poems
Long Silos Poems. Below are the most popular long Silos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Silos poems by poem length and keyword.
why Is It that so few have so much
and so many have so little?
where is the equality?
where is the justice?
why is there world hunger?
when there is food aplenty
locked up in storehouses and silos?
holding out for the highest bidder,
while rats and mice are getting fatter
feasting on the surplus
why is there homelessness?
when there are apartments
and homes sitting vacant
Is It not better to get some rent
than to get no rent?
holding out for the highest bidders
a woman placed her last two coins
into the basket as an offering, a tithe
a rich man put twenty coins into the basket.
Jesus said "she has given her all"
while the rich man only gave a token
her faith and trust in God
will get into the Kingdom of Heaven
but the rich man will not enter
for the Kingdom of Heaven
Is not holding out for the highest bidder
#12: Space Ghost-ed
Let's naught add to Space's new oddities,
we've space between our ears, with a spare room.
Silos hushed ... Grace spots our credulities,
our space mid-ear's blessed--a brain stained attune.
Post-Life; same space; new point--afeared darkness,
when question, "mark," life's course--you must enter
price if not taken; parts fatal, parts guess,
choose--right proves true, and--wrong haunts lamenter.
Existence; same brain space--darkness remains,
(dark alley, blind spot, or scary neighbor)
sensed points in life--in your space, your caused stains,
trifle (take) space. As written, (take) detour,
and highly fill the space between your ears,
to the accords of The Book of Life ... cheers.
an hour before docking
it was ice cold and freezing
as the vessel like scissors
cut clean through the swell
and the ship’s horn then sounded
and woke those still sleeping
startling the standing
and seagulls as well
and the door opened outwards
on a windswept and dark deck
as a lighthouse and headland
appeared to our right
while the radar was turning
mixing mist with the morning
as we looked over railings
still wet from the night
and the lifeboat above us
secured by strong davits
dripped north sea in droplets
from somewhere on high
and the noise of the engines
grew loud and then quiet
as the spindrift and windchill
danced wild with the sky
and the lights and the silos
of europoort holland
shone blurred with bright colours
as such paintings do
and we stood there transfixed
with our backs towards england
while dawn beckoned others
to stand and stare too.
Priscilla of Titillating Courage
With smidgens of cereal we may choose to grind traces from
Grains of life truth sadness vagaries and the circle of being
Separate the wheat from the chaff only to find out we are
Looking at rye and need to indulge a wry smile now and then
At times the gristmill is too small and the task overwhelming
Clumps of ingredients cluster and clot the grinder of purpose
Yet when life gives us corn it rots or we make fine dust of flour
A treasure trove of sediment once the millers are up to the task
A spark of suspicion when mould has crept into salubrious silos
A tad of fallow sorrow borrowed from burrows and furrows
To complete what is one and feeds us from shadows of doubt
While it may seem we are chiselling fragments bit by slow bit
Priscilla the enlightened woman of wondrous marvel holds wisdom
But knowledge without action is futile and Yin seeks a complement Yang
When she meets Theo her courageous tiller soulmate and lover in waiting
Ambiguous scintillae conjoin embrace and rejoice at lips fingers and hips
They now harvest together in the nude of serene honesty are clothed in
Veils of crushing uncertainty much less or at least their mill moves together
They plant their seeds together water indulge in sensual acquaintance till
Their field arouse titillation and bake and break bread in passionate nibbles
The President was woke by his generals
a message hard to understand,
their nuclear missiles had all turned to chocolate
in silos all over the land.
The warheads, once fissile uranium
or Hydrogen, ten megatons
now smelt like fresh brownies or steaming Cocoa
and the same thing applied to all guns.
The bullets were all made of candy,
they'd have to be kept in a fridge,
put in a gun belt they would all start to melt
and when fired, just hit with a squidge.
The bombers and tanks now were useless,
the soldiers were all unemployed,
all demobbed, free to roam with their families at home
making up for hours they'd not enjoyed.
You can't win a war with a cutlass,
machete, a hatchet or knife,
so the Nations all paused and agreed to end wars
and then happily got on with life.
Now, okay this tale maybe pure fiction,
could God pull off this stunt? Yes he can,
but to love or to kill he gave us all free will-
he has left the choices down to Man.
Did you remake yourself
out of rust and algae again?
Yesterday was a gray beached hull
now it’s summer in the cornfields,
the tangy air has a towheaded fizz.
The mosquitoes have submarines
they crash-dive each new morn.
The flowers are all gulping,
and the rain is just enough.
Light flirts around mossy steel silos
and the brick and mortar works
of grandfatherly hands.
Sorry I missed you,
I hear your dawn was spectacular,
that the mist was a chromed coin
on the tongues of farm hands.
At that moment
I was watching a nickel dipped sunrise
paddle over a shimmering horizon.
I photographed it,
but missed all the otherness elsewhere,
and of course you had changed again
before I could get to you.
On life's easyrider days and nights
love plays a romping game.
On those more oppositionally challenging days,
and long anxious nights,
love is a hunt,
sometimes a passionate hunt,
special occasionally a compassionate hunt,
a mutual hunt
for truth about who is hunter
and who is hunted
and why
and when
and how do these co-arising functions transcend "or"
to gracefully meet in "and."
This primal function of love's synergetic force
hunts
like gravity.
Both parties,
all living entities,
hunt,
gravitate,
even those feeling hunted
haunted
stalked
fearful and anxious
competitively and unilaterally,
often in silos threatening despair.
We all search frantically for safe havens,
hidden from those hunting for our very self-identity,
our life,
or at least so it feels during those dissonant times.
What is a redemptive optimization strategy
for those hunting safe havens from death,
pursued by tyrannical lovers,
ego-identified life-sucking hunters?
When is it not an appropriate moment
to love the hunter,
the hunted,
and the hunt?
Is there a significant difference
between the romping love of fluid smooth days and nights
and the more strategic
logistical
personal
intimately co-prehensile
hunt for love transcending Ego-incarnate death?
Too seldom haunted hunted entities,
primally assuming cooperative investment
in our challenging rampant race
and pace of EarthTribal systems,
when a passionate challenge exhausts our smooth-skinned body,
and/or brain,
the hunted redemptively turn toward other hunters,
gratefully and mindfully inviting a wrestling-with match,
setting aside a wrestling-against death and fear match,
comprehending that compassioning our hunting love
always optimizes EarthTribe's regenerational future.
In love,
sometimes,
at least once,
it is my time to love loss,
to forgive away space and or time,
to redeem future spacetime
equivalently invested in me
birthing my original praxis of conception
as mutual reception--
eco-harmonic redemption.
Warm with camaraderie,
Filled with extending family eyes
kindly accessible as two-way inviting cameras,
Cooperatively good-humored, sometimes gently critical,
never intentionally mean or ugly,
A healthy communion home
can unravel
becoming an emotionally barren
silent
hidden asylum
for codependent inmates afraid of change,
serving one-way camera time
until someone
someplace better comes along,
Then sacred Earth becomes easier to see
filled with side by side homeless souls
too often becoming houseless bodies
feeling wanderlust
for pilgrimages belonging back to earliest weeks
of breast-fed interdependent memories.
But, solidarity of deep educational intent
to learn and teach,
to experience and co-mentor
cooperative extended family communions,
warm bicameral communities,
peaceful healthy sanctuaries,
not mere small-ego claustrophobic silent silos,
can lead to growing healthy eco-homes
and eco-schools
and eco-villages
and eco-nations
amid multi-eco-cultures
built by loyal EarthTribe sacred communions
of everyday integrity enchantment,
Two-way, multi-wei, camaraderie,
co-operative well-being
rooted back in breast-fed humane/divine misty memories
matriarchal/patriarchal,
spirit/nature,
ego/eco-passions non-violently invited
and responsibly shared.
Like properly compassionate public policy
for wealth optimizing health,
including narcissistic egos
and compassionate ecotherapists
too long in-between cooperative meals,
hungry for WinWin non-sectarian,
yet surely sacred,
communal outcomes.
Written: September 23, 2023
_____________________________________________________________
In a faraway land, as the sky hits the field,
Amidst a land of shades, a country concealed,
Realms of anguish wrapped around the woods,
As the idioms of conflicts to value their goods.
In a faraway land where dreams converge,
Amidst infinite woods and fields we emerge.
Through corridors of grief, our breath is cold,
As the ghosts of war whisper tales untold.
In nuclear silos, secrets remain unreadable,
Strolling the States, steps are steady and stable
In our dreams, we wander the boulevard of mind,
Seeking a lexicon foreign, yet finely intertwined.
A song echoes in the sky, sung by the unseen,
Standing in the wide field, war's shades convene.
Passengers of time, we disagree with the past,
Yearning for a future that will forever last.
In pink tulle and soap bubbles, we decry delight,
Watching them burst, disappearing from sight.
Darling, the Cold War comes crashing down,
Drawing us closer, to heights we've never known.
Kneeling at the altar of a world altered by strife,
Breathing in the susurrus of a forgotten life.
In the near ley of peril, we decry succor and peace,
Knowing that love will never cease.
In this faraway land, where dreams converge,
We stroll hand in hand, breaking across the surge.
With every step, we breach the bogies of war,
Spawning a route to a brighter shore.
In the woods and fields, on this vast continent,
We gather strength, as one, united and resplendent.
Shades of past conflicts may haunt our way,
But we rise above, embracing a raw day.
War may have once divided, but now we've learned,
That love and understanding can never be burned.
So let the war be a memory, faded and gone,
As we build a future where peace will dawn.
It's becoming obvious we're half soulmates.
Silence is increasing, and it's an uncomfortable silence.
Irritability is also on the incline.
(grade 60 sandpaper against the skin)
Those delicate gestures are on the steep decline.
(a runaway semi).
Not to offend each other, we've suppressed what's felt or not.
The easily offended zone is becoming wider.
We've become each other's short chain.
Silos filled with scurry void of golden life-giving things
The children are gone; this house is made of bones.
What we have is a slowly rotting heart garden.
Where no rose would ever dare to go.