Long Siren Poems
Long Siren Poems. Below are the most popular long Siren by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Siren poems by poem length and keyword.
What are we feeling.? In us, I address the whole of humanity.' Where are we destined or
Are we bound.? Or are we just bound.? By an ology of idealisam.? Isams idols icons; isas
I put that in for good measure..! do we know what we need? Or do we exist in greed.? Or
For it.? What is destiny.? Did we miss it yesterday.? Like a train station overflown by a plane.'
An aero-bar of trouble' life melting as you try counting it's bubbles, it's a task.. life's class
Hard knocks, was told to me, I didn't feel much when it hit me, just a numbness sort of took me
Across a chasm, chamber; deep sea.. Turbulent blurbulent jingles expound insane grounds
Genocide is sold like escapism; I now beleive..! yet I will not succumb to it's siren pleas as it's
Klaxon is wound, by men and women in white garb, with cards round their necks; on lanyards
Madly winding on its ' handle they've exhorted whined manhandled' any ploy or many.'
To snare bamboozle plenty, billions in the image, they projected, purposed pilloried oh so many
Lives are ruined..By these loons I'm still pursuing.. I will never stop expounding, the type of
Lies; they'll be found out in.' Ever; ever. ' will I hound them; as truth indeed will pound them
Until I pass from this earth, I will try to be of more worth, for I know there is true living as
The Lord provides; is giving.. Death do not forsake me bring me to the feast prepared for me
Where all is shining golden, and a silver sheen is showing, there's life alone in Jesus, who as
Our Father asked will lead us' into joy that passes knowing so neglected now in college's
BE AWAKE I CRY IN KNOWLEDGE, THAT TO GOD ALONE DO HOMAGE, TO ENTER IN THE
LIFE GATE, FOR WITH JESUS AS YOUR SOULMATE, YOU WILL NEVER GO THROUGH HELLS GATES.'
Sunday cockcrow nascent
aural essays reveal
laissez-faire raptures.
Enigmatic silken piece compost ushered in by
trenchant trademark tremulous signature.
Doe-eyed instrumentalist’s strident brass ensemble,
wakey wakey for the pier gazing loiterer whose blasé
sashay amble’s out of kilter.
Maverick antennae on a radio safari,
hawking hourglass heritage lodestone.
Closet Peter Pan’s astride transistor, literati goggle eyed and glued.
Silhouettes of wistful mint leaf tract,
navigating hoarse throat shellback allegory.
Earnest weekend welcome mat to madcap jester, laureate, bohemian.
Religiously the listener’s transported
from a humble tepee sanctum
to alluring levee inundation area,
far flung folly edifice,
nomad siren hymn sheet to mount Half Dome.
Long wave bounder in my dreams,
I limb skip oe’r fiction world simulcast entanglement,
snoop beneath rogallo-wing parachute in a Middle East plot,
“twin peaks” would be awestruck by this labyrinthine concourse.
One can flit invisibly round medieval black market cobblestone arcades,
ghost novelist’s ethereal penchant for pinch and pilfer retro-fit infringement.
Melting pot cinnamon dispenser, whiff stick fix antidote to kettledrum ennui
the blight of urban jungle setting and rural folklore.
Otherworld contortion with a shard of drama for magic carpet flight of fancy broadcast
Lineage derived from ancient epochs now assumed but for an inkling, icons I become with card shark sly booth legerdemain.
Maybe I’m that fictile clueless hiker, destitute, indigent
In The Distant Beauty of Another Place
Four strings, smooth hand oiled skin,
imbued with joy’s countless hours.
A friend to one so lonely,
a voice to her silent awakening heart
each movement a dance
in the distant beauty of another place.
Her rosined bow coaxing sweetness
from the inanimate wood and string,
subtle hands speaking of her dreams,
her fears, her desire to be free –
As free as the haunting vibrations
emanating through her being –
awakening the fervor of her love
arousing the awareness of her passion.
Old strings embraced by young hands
renewed by love’s request,
responding to the sensuous touch
of beauty’s siren song.
Dimmed lights, hushed crowd,
four strings dance with rosined bow,
soft tears speaking through varnished wood
in the distant beauty of another place.
John G. Lawless
12/20/2014
submitted to – Let The Music Play On – poetry contest
sponsor – Mystic Rose
Night thunder arrives. Occult spacecraft descend,
hurl giant underbellies of sound downward -
climactic events galvanize grouting and glass.
The next boom is distant, yet lightning streaks
across closed eyes.
Backyard bones are starkly illuminated,
perhaps even scorched?
An astral mythology shakes its bright spears.
Is that the crackling of flaming grasshoppers?
Then on the roof, a thud and flopping of metallic fins,
is it an alien craft or an armored coelacanth?
For an instant, minds are thrown out of their skins.
Parallel lines collide; pidgins drop, stunned
by a siren sky.
From an upturned trashcan lid, an electric Venus
is seen rising from her ancient scallop.
She is sexually charged and triumphantly aglow,
about her, the fallen twitch on.
A table filled with gross sample trays.
Surrounded by a poisonous craze.
Getting tired like a spider with claws.
Falling apart like howling and applause.
My emotions are one of those things.
Like underwater bee stings.
That shouldn’t exist in such an odd way.
It takes more than a siren to keep it at bay.
So sirens call out another time.
Then fall apart as if covered in slime.
My emotions are like a slingshot.
Or like rain in a bucket if it started turning hot.
The feelings captured by unknown laughter.
We have to decide after.
Leave the horror in the sink.
Or eat an ice rink.
In the end, I decided to poison my last bit of luck.
Tattered emotions like a hockey puck.
Innocuous craze.
And endless glaze.
My emotions could fall over like a jack-o-lantern.
Which feels unseasonable and worn.
My emotions are like a fly on a bone.
And this fly is like a sprinkle on an ice cream cone.
And a sprinkle could also be-
A penny on fire in a money tree.
Everlasting similar to-
A parasitic worm who lives life true.
Emotions are more than layers of spines.
We all have a crust that really shines.
Don’t try to peel the crust though-
Or something worse than tendons will start to show.
Emotions show up like that.
Rain bucket water, and boney baseball caps.
Written: November 10, 2025, for contest sponsored by Constance la France.
Quote: "The ocean sparks the heart, inspires the mind, and brings amaranthine delight to the spirit." — By Poet
******************
Atlantic swirls, quilt sewn from hums of yore,
A glimmering shroud, a face in swing core.
Its ridged forms whisper tales long lost to time,
From Viking ship venture to the toil of slave chime.
It sparkles brightly in absence of light,
A flexible refrain, the sound of a gull's flight.
In its shadows, there is both death and gold,
Amid a tempest, the song of a siren doled.
Brine it casts upon the sand of the coast,
Sounds as a solemn plea, or a hushed boast.
Flows are at odds with the urges of man,
But chisel the underside of each span.
It shows gales and sadness of a lover,
And holds peace of the past eras hover.
Plenty of vessels rubbed against its fluid grasp,
And none granted the familiar embers to clasp.
Let it to bellow, or consent to its repose,
The Atlantic runs vast and may oppose.
It murmurs in dialects beyond our control,
Yet it lingers, as a whisper within the soul.
The cruiser idles like a blue-throated wasp,
a hive on wheels, humming with eyes.
I am pulled over by a constellation
of lenses stitched into the dark.
Before the door opens,
the car has already read me—
my plate a barcode in the wind,
my face a passport made of bone and light,
my name ringing in a room of servers
where memory never sleeps.
The dash blinks its verdict:
license stitched to address,
address to a map of debts and stops,
insurance pinned like a specimen.
A radio braids my breath to headquarters.
A body camera pins my shadow to the hour.
A microphone cups the syllables I spill.
A computer asks the sky for my coordinates.
Overhead, a quiet witness—
the satellite’s eyelid—does not blink.
On the shoulder, the reader-gun
speaks in laser and receipt.
In the trunk, the fingerprint glass
waits for my touch like a frost.
And they step out armored with certainty:
vests that drink bullets,
tasers that write lightning in muscle,
pepper that turns the air into fire,
batons that remember wrists,
sidearms cold as winter moons,
shotguns asleep in racks,
rifles folded like prayers.
The siren keeps time with my pulse.
The camera keeps my face.
The network keeps my story.
I am a driver in a net of light,
flagged by a machine that never forgets,
stopped by a future that already knows my name.
Some people just cannot be honest for the life of them. Others, like myself are all too honest. I wonder if honesty is like diarrhea, if it too runs in the genes? I will ask him, he will know the answer. In the mean time I just need to accept that this is something I cannot change and the liar just wants to get my goat. To clear their secrets like blackberries. They are sharp and hurt every time they scratch the surface. And like the moth I continually go towards the flame and get burned. The liar wants me to beat myself up and place the blame. A sociopath that gets off on secret sex relations. The liar is a miser and in constant supply of endless manipulation. I'm confused and mentally abused, like a douche that has been repeated reused. Left out in the sun to dry and watch wilt. A no brains with no balls left under his kilt. Riddled by shame, and guilt. The liar has taken his will. His might, his pride, his ability to just chill. Left uptight, I look up at the sky. So gray and dismal. I wonder... Why? As the liars evil eye lies upon me, thoughts cloud as rains falls. I hear the crows call out. A horn honk and siren in the distant. The sun breaks and the fog lifts for an instant. Truth becomes me but I'm already broken. I ask the store manage for the restroom key token. As I look into the mirror I can't help but think, liar lair lair can't you see. Sometimes your lies just hypnotize me.
There’s a lot of strange things going on in our world and our governments keep many of these sinister goings on under wraps.
Quote by poet.
At the edge of our town was a heavily guarded building, and was rumoured that it was an offshoot of area 51, You could easily drive past it because it was surrounded by tall poplar trees. Old wives's tales I thought until one hot June night last year. I was driving home after visiting a friend and it had just turned midnight then my car spluttered to a halt," Damn" I said, I was out of gas, it was all I needed. I got out of the car and started walking, there was a full moon, so it was bright and it was about a half hour walk home; I heard a noise and to my right was a tall dark humanoid creature moving by the tree-line . Then above I noticed a greenish white vapour trail. I quickened my pace then heard gunfire and heard what sounded like an air raid siren, I was seized with terror and started running as fast as I could. In the distance I saw lights coming towards me. Three big army trucks passed me, heading for the building I thought, I reached town and headed for the police station to report what I'd seen. Sergeant Smith whom I knew was on duty, I started to tell him my story." Stop right there” he said, "If I log this, it won’t end well believe me”.
We Are The Stardust Men
Dedicated to T.S. Eliot
We are the stardust men,
the wayward stardust catching men,
dalliances of mind and shadow occur openly,
As we have cast off our anchors
And await the tidal sway,
The open expanse of deep landscape,
Beckons the siren call.
We are the seeing men, the blind
far-sighted beauty-seeking tin men;
repercussions of old laws and rituals,
like drowning petrels, hundreds of them,
dot the landscape.
Where, oh where in the excrement of human habitation,
the many-layered strata of ham-fisted movements
did we fall out of our fantasies,
like stones from the shallow well.
We are the stardust men, looking for an atomic biscuit.
We are the rocky and mortar men,
Made of skin and water and fear;
Ham-fisted soul searchers, dressed in layered strata,
The stardust men,
Wrapped in haze and cloud,
As smoke wafting upward, streaming outward,
Unlike the tides clockwork geared up and locked in,
the conditioned we, breaking free,
Leaping out of the trees;
We are the blue-sky looking men,
the running free, cloud-seeking breathing men,
out to find brazen perfumes in the stunted dooryard,
out to seek other floral arrangements in the embrace.
We are the stardust catchers,
The brazen thumb tappers upon lost trellises,
All nets and hooks, attempting to catch
an elusive ambiguity.