Long Sound Poems
Long Sound Poems. Below are the most popular long Sound by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sound poems by poem length and keyword.
Friends are like water
Family's blood
I guess that's why Mine's
always stuck in the mud
A feline's independent
a puppy dog's loyal
Meghan's back in the States
Harry's home with the Royals
Spring's cool and rainy
Winter's severe
Summer's a long heat wave
Fall leaves every year
The Moon changes shape
The Sun's always round
The Universe expands
Without making a sound
The Laws of Physics are fixed
Gravity's in Place
The Future Belongs to
Who Wins the Space Race
******
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Have you heard the term “man of many hats”
Well you sure haven't heard this version!
When I wear a cowboy hat and saddle up
I'm Jesse James, an amazing conversion!
At times I feel brave and put on a fireman's hat
The wee kiddies all wanna be my friend!
Tell them I was once knighted by the queen
Probably lying's not a good message to send!
The hard steel hat of a construction worker
Turns me into a this macho type man!
The only problem is, I'm scared silly of heights
And I make lots of trips to the can!
Once put on the hat of a big strong viking
Sure scared all the people around me!
Pulled out my sword to impress them all
Ended up cutting myself quite badly!
The ultimate though is when I wear a fedora
I look handsome and quite debonair!
Till I speak and I sound like a Donald Duck
My image needs a lot of repair!
Guess I'm most comfortable in my jester hat
Tried others but this fits me the best!
My goal is to put a smile on some faces
All my friends with whom I've been blessed!
© Jack Ellison 2015
Beauty
Beauty is all around me, in a million different things.
The silvery haired, wrinkled face of one that has impenetrable memories
She smiles and longs for someone, anyone to bust her out of her prison of silence.
It is in the wispy, snowy white, silk of a milkweed as it frees itself of its casing
It arrives in the sound of a beautiful well orchestrated piece of music that penetrates my soul.
In the simplicity of a simple clump of wildflowers that grows freely in the ditch.
As my dog Quincy runs freely with his friend Sawyer
the beauty of their comradery and unbridled joy is unparalleled.
It is in the kindness of those who consider the feelings of others and gently encourage.
It emerges from the generosity at Christmas and unselfish acts all around from veritable strangers.
The lake on a late November afternoon with its shades of bluish greys
And a backdrop of thick denseness but a silvery light reflecting on the water
and peeking through to show me one more surprise before covering up with its blanket of dark.
The tedious overnight work of a spider who sits in wait
in the most radiant web with drops of dew sitting carefully on a strand.
In the spirit of one who never gives up
and remains grateful even after unmentionable hardships and grief.
In the words of the poets claiming words as their own
to create the most unique ways of speaking their truth.
In the love of a couple simply holding hands as they walk.
The joy of a child’s face as he sees his favourite grandpa has come to visit.
Of course, there are the generous sunsets
and flowers of every colour that decorate my outside world
The seagulls that stand on one leg,
The geese that fly to unknown destinations at the same time every day
The elaborate sandcastle built lovingly with a dad on the beach
The nest with chirping baby birds begging furiously to fill their emptiness
made lovingly with grasses and twigs and various treasures.
The smell of beautifully roasted coffee permeating my early morning
It is a beautifully crafted piece of art that is fresh from the soul’s expression of the artist’s brush
I have learned to see the beauty all around and build a life of gratefulness
Beauty surprises and comes in simplest form
Which helps to drown the sorrow that inevitably must come to us all.
Grace Daub
December 1, 2021
Ah, let us speak not of painted skies but of the words
The words that flow like rivers from your soul
Each syllable carved from the marrow of your being
Each phrase a pulse of life, a heartbeat
A rhythm that dances upon the earth and echoes in heaven.
O poet, who knows the dark corners of the human spirit
Who walks with shadows, hand in hand,
Yet still brings light through the weight of your lines
You who feel the sting of solitude
But find solace in the wild freedom of verse —
In the sweep of wind across an open field,
In the quiet hum of the night when all else sleeps.
I hear you now, your unspoken song,
Your meaning hidden between the lines,
In the space between words, in the breath before sound.
You tried to show us, didn’t you?
That madness and brilliance are but two sides of the same page,
That love can exist even when no one knows its name,
That truth, fierce and untamed,
Resides not in the minds of men, but in the poet’s heart.
You bled for us, and still, we did not understand.
We did not listen, but now, now, perhaps we hear the faint
echo of your truth.
O poet, your words were flames,
Burning through the haze of this world’s confusion,
Each line a beacon to those lost in the fog,
Each stanza a hand reaching out—
And yet, they turned away, did they not?
They could not see what you saw, could not feel what you felt.
But you wrote on,
Through the pain, through the silence,
Through the nights when hope seemed a distant memory.
You poured yourself into every letter,
Gave your soul to the ink that traced your deepest longings,
And still, they did not listen.
But I—I hear you now.
For you knew, O poet,
That the world is not kind to those who dream,
That the weight of existence falls heaviest on those who dare to speak
the truth.
But you spoke it anyway,
Letting your words fly free, like birds on the wind,
Even as they circled back to you, unheard, unheeded.
And when the world’s silence grew too loud,
You let your voice fade with it,
Leaving behind only the echoes of a soul too pure for this place.
But we, we stand in the aftermath,
Your words still etched into the fabric of time,
Lingering in the spaces we never thought to look.
I REMOVED THIS LAST STANZA BECAUSE MY POEM WAS TOO LONG
Canada Jays
Four seasons ‘round, Canada jays are found,
Perched in tree branches, safe and sound,
Resting after flying throughout the North,
In the Canadian boreal forests.
Heard and not seen unless it’s their intention
To disturb the silence, making known their presence
By confronting intruders in the area
With shrill barking, expressing displeasure.
Their shaded greys of feathery plumage bests
Darker on the back, with lighter puffed breasts.
On a round head adorns a snow-capped crown,
Endowed with dark eyes and a sharp, short, pointed bill.
They have feet equipped with talons to grip the limb tight,
While long, white-tipped tail feathers fan in flight,
Which serves the robin-sized creature well in this climate
And adapts the songbird to its environment.
Then, it’s off scavenging, preparing for winter
In territories established by mating pairs,
Who swish food in their mouths to coat it with saliva,
Ensuring successful seasonal survival
By hiding the sticky boluses in trees
And memorizing the local scenery,
As marauding eyes spy on the jays’ commotions
To steal morsels from the clandestine caches.
During cold weather, they fluff up their feathers
To stay warm and hide their feet from exposure
And twist their necks to tuck in their beaks
Under the wing flap joint to maintain body heat.
Sometimes, they snuggle for companionship
And share warmth during winter hardships.
The birds, confirming whispers to their mate for life,
Find comfort in their labours, making it worthwhile.
In early spring, when the air is cold and the snow deep,
The male selects the south side of the tree for a nest site for the sun’s heat,
Building the nest with dead twigs, bark strips, and lichens,
With caterpillar cocoons for reinforcement.
The cup is feather-lined for the female to lay,
Who does not leave the clutch until the eggs are hatched.
The male feeds her throughout the incubation period,
Then she joins him in the raising of their offspring.
WHISTLING IN BLUE HILL
You walk on lean trail in blue hill
The winds waft to take you along
Whisper in the ear a sound shrill
Reaching your heart it becomes song.
Whistling a dulcet song in the wind
You walk on lean trail in blue hill
The song wraps the tree leaves to find
How music in them winds instill.
The song echoes in the valley still
Sounds of serene silence persist
You walk on lean trail in blue hill
With music rippling in grey mist.
In mind joyful aloneness stays
In ecstasy your senses distill
Your within lighted by sun rays
You walk on lean trail in blue hill.
September 27, 2017.
Form : Quatern. Syllable count : 8 each line
East Devon Beacon
by Michael R. Burch
Evening darkens upon the moors,
Forgiveness?a hairless thing
skirting the headlamps, fugitive.
Why have we come,
traversing the long miles
and extremities of solitude,
worriedly crisscrossing the wrong maps
with directions
obtained from passing strangers?
Why do we sit,
frantically retracing
love’s long-forgotten signal points
with cramping, ink-stained fingers?
Why the preemptive frowns,
the litigious silences,
when only yesterday we watched
as, out of an autumn sky this vast,
over an orchard or an onion field,
wild Vs of distressed geese
sped across the moon’s face,
the sound of their panicked wings
like our alarmed hearts
pounding in unison?
Keywords/Tags: East, Devon, Beacon, England, Moors, Forgiveness, Maps, Miles, Lost, Directions, Compass Points, Moon, Geese, Lights, Headlights, Headlamps, Fugitive
I truly can't believe what I am really seeing.
In the shadow darkness is there a shadowed being.
Open my eyes as wide as can be, to illuminate the night.
Questioning my wavered sanity, which brings up this fight.
Is what I hear from something near, a real like human voice?
I listen in when it begins, I no longer have a choice.
I can clearly hear within my own open ears.
Pushing on my thoughts, consuming intruding fears.
If I ever catch it in the act, this fu*ker shadow that won't move an inch.
When I watch, wait and listen, my jaws they begin to tightly clench.
But deep within my mind, I know the difference of, that in which I question.
Cause in reality and in daylight I realize it's of my own invention.
I need to regain control,
Take the pills that let me know.
That its all in my head.
But it always forms itself when I'm lying in bed.
I know I heard it aloud and clear, exactly what it spoke.
The fact that I am schizo, even without the puddled choke.
It's all so mucked up, these voices sound exactly like someone I heard before.
Almost like a few of my close friends, speaking beyond a closed door.
Talking about things in demeaning words, a conversation that has intention.
But I question the reality of the whole thing, cause I know it's my dementia reflection.
I shouldn't contemplate the silence within my mind.
Cause each time I drift off in a daze, that's when I will find.
That these voices of the internal realm.
Are really just me behind the helm.
Dwell on a spell, I fell in a well, the bell wrung in hell, so I sail with ale, and smell this tale, Then tell this to quell, and as always prevail, prevail, prevail.
Busy path was that
Like before but less walker
Beside the rail line
Grasses are growing
Greenly lives now on that path
Decorating well
At the setting sun
Your spreading two hands as if
wanna hug pink sky
Emptiness walking speedy
with pang tears in world home
Dove of evening time
Calling from far forlorn bush
As an fear angel
Face of off TV
Trembling the inside grief nerves
Cause death news still on
Sound proof time bombs on world air
Blasting step by step in whole
As life-destroyer
Made of biochemical
By secret agent as curse
Before the mirror
I'm dreaming that bomb near me
Brightest moon went far
Probably next sun no more
Through my window crystal glass
Yet I'm screaming here
It's dream, maybe mind will die
Heart will get rebirth
My soul will be immortal
For world I'm the one true love
11.04.2020 (Chattogram City)
Form:
I'm thinking of the 70's
And how it'd really be a hoot
To bring that one thing back
That we all secretly would love to do
No I'm not talking discotheques
Or the donning of leisure suits
I'm talking about stripping down
To nothing but our tennis shoes
We could start out in the mall
Since that's were most of us hang out
Amid all the teenage screams
Between all the incredulous shouts
With security running here and there
In a tizzy there about
If they have the nerve to catch us
No way are they going to pat us down
We might even get our 15 minutes
As news camera closely chase us
Blurring out our naked bodies
Leaving only happy faces
Spending most the time in edit
As we bend to tie our laces
So grab your canes and grab your walkers
And we'll head off to the races
Of course that is a major problem
Barely spry no longer young
With the drooping of most everything
Being issue number one
And seeing most of you in your birthday suits
Doesn't sound like that much fun
And how in the world can we call it streaking
When it'll be more like hobbling