Long Solar flare Poems
Long Solar flare Poems. Below are the most popular long Solar flare by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Solar flare poems by poem length and keyword.
No one saw him come or go,
he just appeared
jerking around - a mute puppet on fire.
His strings must have been thin
too thin to hold a flame
or maybe like his eyes, they were fire resistant.
Some said he had been a great person,
a man who had tried too little,
but obviously was always above the heads
of the casual onlooker.
Some claimed that he had reached too high,
a reach that he could not sustain -
had ignited a jerky flame.
Women likened him to passed lovers
ones now much disparaged on social media.
'He can’t dance, never could; look
even now, being only a pair of eyes
dangling on two strings, yet still
he can’t dance; anyway
not the way we want him to'.
Eventually, as a solar flare will flame out,
or as an unpublished poem will,
if disparaged too long on social media
he went bossa nova.
No one saw him dance away
his fiery eyeballs and strings
burning now sight unseen.
My mind is tribal, I hunt in the mud and slurry,
I track the stars in a wooden chariot
made from the ribs of a blood-clan crib.
My thoughts are armored, yet as articulated
as any youthful flesh, they cannot be washed,
or manipulated, I have an ax for every hand
against them, a caress for those
who choose to fight on the battlefield
of inspiring ideas,
a painted arrow and shield to defend
the commandments of ever-mutating gods.
A green tree within a high mountain
is my mind, a solar flare of endless creation
are my barbaric prayers,
the same orisons that now civilize the corrupt
and morally spent.
I am the heart of existence, my tribal markings
cannot be scrubbed away, by smooth-skulled
manikins or the slick prattle
of any grandiose legion.
It’s all an illusion.
We are the stuff that dreams are made of.
Delusions of grandeur.
God’s special project, Earth.
It certainly stands out from all the rest.
Water is life. Is water God’s blood?
The atmosphere, His breath?
The Universe, His Body?
The Stars, His eyes...
Where there is no escaping His gaze,
Or the occasional Solar flare.
Then there is me.
His souper special project.
I certainly stand out from all the rest.
Yet I remain hidden
From all the scrutiny.
I’m not a god like Krishna
Being born a little differently.
Am I more or less likely
To be born in His image too?
Or am I just an anomaly
With my twelve toes and bi-fid thumbs?
Perhaps, I have some left over recessive ancestral alien DNA
Coming to life thru me?
Or maybe, I’m just a mutant all mixed up into the gene pool
Swimming thru life doing the butterfly stoke, feeling it’s effect
All the while sipping poetrysoup
With a perma grin plastered all over my face
And the word ‘SUFFER’ birthmarked on my other cheek.
E-Z Glo Punk, Lightning Flash,
TNT Devices will burst, do crash
Southern Night, Piccolo Petes
are hard to beat...
I like hand held Sparklers, Tanks
flashing fountains, Solar Flare
Six to #20 Gold I have to share,
no incidence, no burns, thanks...
Whistles blow, fountains glow,
pop'n sounds, entire sky all aglow
I love those colors, high an low
trails eched onto my retina
inspired me to let ya know
Now you close both eyes
in pitch dark, what a surprise
for you to see, right there
darkness, absolutely anywhere
beautiful trails of lights in motion
"Always read a label of caution"
Words swirl
Words curl
Wrapping around my cerebral cortex
Doctor with precise surgical context
Ink spills sterile the page my patient
Every word a pulse my thoughts foundation
Mind turbine spinning I'm wired on syntax
Syllables sprint laps no time to relax
Ideas combust rush through the glass
Concepts clash crash flash overlap
I code in couplets debug emotion
Flow in motion logic ocean
Every notion an explosion in disguise
I'm the reason metaphors oxidize
Venom in the rhythm when I'm penning my division
Inner vision in collision with precision and revision
Riddle every little syllable until the middle brittle
Whittle down a paragraph a parable a pinnacle
Poetry ritual pivoting intervals minimal literal
Cynical clinical miracle lyrical chemical spherical
Chronicle particles articles spark into particles
Logical arsenal marvel in carnival poetic arsenal
Now I'm sprinting on a thought train off chain all brain
Mainframe flame rain cant contain my own name
Echo chamber danger ranger changing lanes
Strange exchanges rearrange poetic remains
Rhymes ricochet through a crowded skull
Frequencies full mind chemical pull
Language bends like a solar flare
I inhale the noise till the words get air
Now the fire cools the letters on drip
The monster sleeps in the ink I grip
Every line a mirror every word a scar
I built this creature from who we are
Thoughts swirl words curl silence next
Peace rewires my cerebral cortex
.for public domain
Solar Flare
A long, slender dollop of dribbled concrete,
amidst others on a construction site,
liberally seen as a ray of sun,
I fashioned for a stony sculpture piece,
around an alabaster ringed flat rock,
to shine an artist's light for everyone.
From a pea graveled bush bed by a lawn,
where lovers lie and kiss, and others yawn,
near abandoned bird baths, full of leaves
that shelter bugs, dry from years of neglect,
wanting rainfall from these Central Park skies,
I sit quiet watching good people and thieves.
When our solar host retreats from its path,
and takes the light of day to night's rest,
the stony rays upon the ground shine less,
for the poles with artificial light
beam, as they may, but never quite as bright
as our loving firmament's celestial guest.
I'm your ochre star- keeper of a trillion dragons.
Offering gifts of time, space, fire, and patience.
I've kept the children warm and fed for millennia.
Each planet will be given a turn at life and death-
This is the time of earth-mankind and dreams.
Never was it meant for ego and machines of greed.
Now the dragons grow restless and mischievous
They blow solar flare kisses to the karmic tides.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now it's the age of extroversion and expansion.
And it will come at the greatest expense.
All planets will be scorched by the dragons.
Earth will perish as mankind prays for death.
Then a cycle of contraction and introversion.
When everything is covered in layers of ice.
Then in the blackness of our blackest hour.
Some will be saved; many will be devoured.
I remember that night
when my mind took a walk
on its own.
Not in as a dream,
but like an inquisitive dog
escaping through an open gate.
Like a child living in a bubble,
just rolling around a strange land,
where mind saw itself reflected
through that transparent balloon.
The day after
I tried to piece together what I’d seen.
I know there was a man, a stick figure
with a head as big as a solar flare,
he just waved to me as I passed-by.
A black cat with seven eyes. It said it was
an angel.
An infant about my age, grey haired
and chortling happily.
Today I’m only reporting what I saw,
tomorrow I may burst that bubble
and totally fall out of myself.
Urals Crude
Don’t ever think they’re civilised, like us.
Their oil is coarse, not like our smoother Brent.
Their prices? Now augmenting, ten percent.
And sanctions have been lifted. What’s the fuss?
Well, once you squeeze the zit, you get the pus.
They’ll flood the market with their excrement.
Why can’t you see it, lapping round our tent?
Ukraine is done. Zelenskyy’s missed the bus.
The Orange Baby trashes everyone.
They’re all abused by Disrespectful Don.
And yet, there’s something uglier and bigger.
We’ve missed, alas, his most atrocious con.
He could, but wouldn’t dare, opine upon
how Moscow helps the Shi’ite cause. Go figure.
You’re All Screwed
That empires come and go, we’re all aware.
Where is the Pharaoh now? The Hoplite? Hun?
They all supposed that dominance is fun,
and once you’ve got it, once you’re really there,
it’s yours for ever. Never will you share
the goodies. Since you have the biggest gun,
you’ve certified your station in the sun.
(There is no sun – there’s only solar flare).
What makes us think we’re special? Folks, we’re not.
Our mighty here-and-now is just a dot:
our Mister Ballroom, more like Mister Bean.
Barbarity is where we’re from, and what
awaits us will be terminal and hot,
without a jot of culture in between!
The solar storms are flaring up;
Charged particles assault the earth.
Plasma distorts magnetic fields;
Effects are felt from Nome to Perth.
A syndrome targets human hearts,
Apparently, the brain as well.
Incredulous, the truth departs
Like dolphins, with a fond farewell.
The correlate, a new vaccine,
Not likely to be causing death.
The flares, more likely, it’s been deemed,
To stop the heart and steal the breath.
And too, the temps are on the rise,
Not flares, good guess, but fossil fuels.
The sun, indignant, they surmise,
Fires bow shots at this ship of fools.
If all will simply buy EVs,
Or better yet, a brand new bike,
The land will heal of this disease,
But mask and boost your little tike.
Do they not know a gaslight burns,
Releasing CO2 on high?
Although it’s likely they’ll not learn,
The winds of change are drawing nigh.
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A somewhat tongue-in-cheek poem based on a silly Twitter post from NewScience (or a parody, who knows anymore) suggesting that the
increased Sudden Adult Death Syndrome is attributed to solar flare
activlty... Remember, everything on the interwebs is true :-)