Long Soaks Poems
Long Soaks Poems. Below are the most popular long Soaks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Soaks poems by poem length and keyword.
“Do you know where hell is?”
Lee Marvin growls in headsets.
New Year, sixty-eight.
Hauling freight ten thousand high,
bomber out of Platts, NY,
is cruising over white.
“Far out,” (someone on intercom),
“Iceland’s green, and Greenland’s ice.”
Routine run. Five megatons
of H-bombs in the bay. Nice.
This war’s sure cold.
We’re pole patrol,
airborne early-warn. Normal day.
Wrong code? Overload?
Who knows how things occur?
Conflagration. Drastic action.
Navigator’s station now a blur;
rapidly ablaze, reeking
smoke like squid’s ink,
stink of burning plastic.
“Get to Thule! Think!
There’s a US base there,
if we can lock on to its beacon.”
“No dice. We’ll hit the ice.
It’s a miss.”
No-one had figured on this.
High-explosive triggers,
to detonate the bombs in anger,
are touched off by the burning fuel.
Crash site, south of Thule,
takes time to find, to figure,
in the blinding white.
The inferno boils great slabs of ice
and each thermo device
is charred to charcoal.
Plutonium flies everywhere,
soaks into tundra, floats on air.
They “clean up”, sure,
whatever that means.
Radioactive poison spores
have long lain locked
in green-white tiers,
but now meltdown nears.
A tragedy is forming,
nobly.
Lightning strikes twice:
contaminated ice is,
as you read this,
globally
warming.
VOICES & CURSES AGAINST A CROOKED THRONE
Thunder fire you, Oh crooked throne,
That feasts on ?44 billion gone.
Betta Edu, Halima Shehu—names we know,
Public funds turned to private flow.4
Thunder fire you, Oh oil-soaked hand,
That hides ?500 billion from the land.
The NNPCL’s shadowed books,
While the people starve in empty nooks.8
Thunder fire you, Oh fraud of state,
Ninety-two projects abandoned to fate.
Fifteen billion lost in dust and lies,
Four hundred more never touched, though financed high.¹²
Thunder fire you, Oh weak mandate,
Born of a Constitution that twists our fate.
"On your mandate, you & your followers shall fall"
Your incompetency is printed across the wall.¹6
Votes without majority, legitimacy thin,
Yet you sit enthroned while hunger grips in.¹8
Thunder fire you, Oh blood-stained field,
Five hundred Nigerian soldier's lives unsealed.
Bandits roam Zamfara’s cold blooded night,
Sokoto soaks in fear & cries in endless fright.²²
Thunder fire you, Oh silencer’s bill,
That jails the critic, bends the will.
"Waka shege banza" echoes in the street,
And activists, except a few, fall beneath your feet.²6
Thunder fire you, as naira breaks & inflation climbs,
Poor mothers mourns & count their last few dimes.²8
Thunder fire you, Oh broken vow,
Renewed Hope is hollow now.
Twelve thousand dead, their names erased,
Ten thousand kidnapped, children displaced.³²
Thunder fire you, as you caused Plateau’s tears,
Farmers flee farms, Benue’s graves, Borno’s fears.
New terror group, Lakurawa rise, Sokoto burns,
Yet your useless promises yield no returns.³6
Thunder fire you, Oh defence in shame,
Zamfara governor Matawalle’s post, a cursed name.
The army outgunned, your people you betray,
While terror thrives and hope greatly decays.4°
And when the storm breaks, fierce and true,
The cry of the masses will thunder through.
No Aso Rock, no palace gate, no armored car,
Can hide your sad end & the shame of who you are.44
VICK MANUEL POETRY
{VMP}
Copyright ©?26th April 2026.
The sun by day, makes the world bright with it's sunlight. The world soaks up this light, light to grow by. The moon by night, makes the sky bright with it's glow. We are light, light for others to see. The light from our eyes, look into the soul. The light of a smile, that is welcoming. The light from above the sun~the Moon, they shine on us so we can give light to the world.
Date Written: 3/15/2022
"a heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I Am that dwelling in unbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation”
O, ethereal emperor of my poem,
read me... as my initials shape the cosmos ,
the energetic essence of this eucalyptus heart
and I spill stars on the perfumed pages ,
that never leave the diary
of d i v i n i t y and d r e a m s ...
there is no sacred warmth without the sun,
thus, on the lips of the sky, I sleep with hope
~ in my humble honeysuckle heaven ~
listen, karma-reapers, sipping sins from kismet
life is a yoga, my meditative muse,
and I yeild no jealousy from the yarn of jewels,
that soaks not the silence of my soul.
I have no confession, no explanation,
I am answerable to the amethyst starlight,
that sleeps in the kundalini of loyal truths
for, what remains in the silhouette of the spirit,
if not something, inked with empathetic elixirs
breathless ... ageless ... limitless ...
boundless in the bonded petals,
like the blizzard of bougainvillia butterflies ~
the one born from those blessed brushstrokes,
where, unfurled within fluent flames
by a sage-spun saint, I am a saffron soprano ,
a line of l o v e ... laced with the last star
I am that I am, but I am no more ~
because all that lives has a pulse of light,
but I a m o n e with the source
a feeler, fond of the alchemy of Almighty ...
and his elysian flower-fused footprints ...
It's snowing again, I just don't believe it.
I live in Alberta but my mind can't conceive it.
Here it is now the middle of May.
I look out my window, it's blowing sideways.
I ran outside again to cover my plants.
Skip, hop and a jump and I'm doing a dance.
Snow clings to my pants and soaks my slippers.
Kick them off, put on socks as my bottom lip quivers.
Yesterday it was gone, my plants up a foot.
The weatherman must have erroneous input.
The forecast he gave was for rain, not snow,
And more rain tomorrow, guess we're in for a blow.
My poor little plants, oh woe is me.
Alberta's my home on the lone prairie.
If you don't like the weather and you've time to give it,
It'll change if you wait, just give it a minute.
Beautiful, burnished, brilliant
Yet, my ink friendly inclinations produce a chemical discrepancy
And now, you come – Artist
Scratching, on my polished mental plate
Do not blacken me with your fumigating candle
Do not soak me in your acidic bath
Yet, here you are, sketching to leave your design
Ever so lightly, you etch, carefully, penetrating
Acid soaks into your carefully drawn lines
The depth of your influence is varied
Teasing a relief by removing your blackened wax
Only to soak me in your iniquitous ink
Here, I must bring it an end. I must stop you - Artist
I must cleanse my mental plate
Chasten long and purposed for that original surface
Until a polished steel-plated revelation
Yes, there, beautiful, burnished, brilliant…perfect, if not for
Your Latin radere
The etchings of your needle
The stain of your ink in my serrations
My effort seems wasted
The vestiges of your ink tainting all that I touch
Now, everything has your art
Like wetted paper onto my mental plate
i’m on Georgia turf, the land
of bless your heart, pretense
of the titillation of heat.
scurries the sun; moon
damp on clothesline.
burrowing bunny ears with
chocolate undergrowth.
seeds just float away —
Spring ants on ready
for full on assault -
red, black, small, sweet
snacks, eyeing the path
up the drain, backpacks
with chemical-scent
prepared to fill the queen’s orders.
moss suspended in animation -
vibrant hues imbued
with mosquito larvae.
oh what joy when Hotlanta dries
and we run smack
into the thugs
that arise from corners of
their nests.
just in time for Easter
bless our Southern hearts
with beasts that beat us
to the melted bunny feast,
branches that grow
overnight — a highway
for the squirrels. eyes
will be on pretty petals
that overblossom —
the poet soaks
in flooded rose
and jonquil reservoir.
flowery words swim
in the concentrated puddle
along with whirligig-ladybugs.
oh what fun, a slippery-slide
into a momentous hatch —
let me explain: a floodgate;
the Assyrian army.
3/5/2020
Beauty walked by your side
With a rose in her left hand,
The wind chased her steps
Kissing softly her proud face,
The moon dove on the horizon with silent joy…
Fleeting tears drip on the sea,
As dawn blushes fair and shy,
Waves taking them to the shore
then the foam soaks the land,
the sun warms the sand where an old sailor lays…
In the woods we hear a cuckoo,
Hidden in the midst of pine trees,
On a hollow, sleeps an old owl
Dreaming with a Parnassian dale,
A butterfly leaves her cocoon for the first and last time…
Beauty I see, Beauty blinds me,
Clad on black and clad on white.
Again the spring will bloom anew,
As long the stars insist to shine
Beauty will never leave you while wandering with me.
Form:
Introspection
suspends in dark blue amnion
as rainwater blooms a reflection pool
an oasis of energy for contemplative embryo;
in stillness I grow.. my pulse a flowing stream of raindrops
my body the rhythm maker
my mind the artiste
in a cocoon a rhythmic womb —
a primal nest gestates my om
b r e a t h i n g i n
b r e a t h i n g o u t
saturation of breath
soaks and stretches my cortex canvas;
within the indigo sphere
I paint a mural
upon my sacred temple walls
a self-portrait
with a benevolent brush dipped in starlight –
I surrender staying and portraying within the lines
uncaged colors roam
beyond my human extremities and Earth’s edge
gouache-plashes of teal and fuchsia
fraternize with fibers of flesh and marrow
conceiving abstracts as airy as sparrow dreams
as I - a mindful explorer flies an inner cosmos
beyond the confines of the canvas white
outside the frames of physicality and reality
to throw open window panes to the unlimited
to banish pains of the limited — free
my meditative spirit making art with the universe
Susan Ashley
September 7, 2022
~ Fifth Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 18
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Brian Strand Premiere Choice
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Photo: The Seer; Laurie Bain Hamilton - owner of primalpainter
There I go…watching a young girl across my garden,
her body language exposing both pleasure and piety—
soil roots tended with naturalness amidst soft gust…
Like so, she mirrors this eleven-year- old within,
curious though kind with an appetite for daring
the unknown: But I’m not prepared to replay this game—
I mean, a comeback of my innocence when nights
barrage a mind with past transgressions still in need
of hubris’ final release …totally unforgiving,
an inner critic seethes from unresolved anger.
This jovial angel is not me.
My pissed off womanhood soaks in an outpour
where catharsis escapes me,
unless I embrace battles won lost humbly :
I am not there yet.
O that little girl by the garden and my eleven-year
old self vanish that I am left alone
to bear new flowers , their tender plea…my choice.
---------
5/03/2019
A John lawless Contest: The Crap Shoot Poetry