Long Sound(a) Poems
Long Sound(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Sound(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sound(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
Mac Caulley was a farmer-O
Living off the shores of Badachro
His fields were sown like tartan-O
The crops crisscrossed in every row.
The evening pulled him to the coast
Where on his pipes he’d sound a toast
To all of those he loved the most
A declaration, but n’er a boast.
Not all were happy with this gam
Those said he shaved with razor clams
That thistle leaves had spiked his dram
While hives of bees, lived in his tam.
He pushed aside the verbal stones
and squeezed the belly, to a moan
A sound akin to grizzly groans
That shaped itself to Highland tones
Sheep wagged wooly heads, to and fro
Fish danced through water, far below
A Stag waved antlers, at his doe
Through rowan trees, the music flowed
Mothers tucked tired children into bed
Fathers sleepily nodded, weary heads
Sleep wrapped itself in myriad threads
About their minds, like pretzel breads.
Mac Caulley set his pipes aside
His feet were damp from shifting tides
He headed homeward, with quick strides
To his doorway lit…by dancing eyes
Truth be told, or is it so,
Is strength bronze or tin?
Forever mystery lies so,
In this transcended kin.
Beneath the rust, a fragile heart,
Iron weeps, its strength apart.
A veil of secrets, shadows loom,
Where truth’s enigma finds its tomb.
In fragile echoes, whispers call,
Uncertainty befalls, thoughts of chanciness.
As ready minds begin to fall,
A second thought of unsureness.
Though some say it's peaceful,
A chilling draft, shadows impenetrable.
The touch, cold & luridful,
As if metal guards what’s unfalsifiable.
A muffled sound, a mournful hum,
As secrets whisper, what is keen.
For a darkened blanket casted,
Obscuring truth, a world unseen.
The taste bitter, how obscene,
Obscene in taste, even in earful mean.
I wake to soft light
that slips in my room~
warm, calm air
from a far, kind place.
I sit with my tea
and watch the steam rise,
a thin, pale thread
that swirls, then fades.
The day sings its tune~
cars, birds, wind, leaves~
each sound a small sign
that life moves on.
I think of the paths
I have walked so far,
the ones I left,
the ones that held.
No grand truth comes.
No loud call rings.
Just this:
the world is made
of small, bright things~
a cup, a breeze,
a soft, clear note
that lifts the heart
for one brief beat
and lets it glow.
One day it's Doctor Seuss.
Now it is a goose
who took to the back of a bulky brown moose.
It was said the goose had a bald head
of an eagle who is exceptionally regal.
The goose rode the moose until they came upon a pond
this is were the goose envisioned she belonged.
When the goose saw the inhabitance of the pond
by an exquisite white elegant swan
she decided that they'd be moving on.
The goose and moose then kept a looking
for a place that wasn't tooken.
Then along came a gander
who did not pander
that lead the goose's heart astray.
The goose and moose then stumbled upon
a vacant barn, in it a cage,
one where all the chickens once laid.
The goose took to the stoop
and climbed up to roost.
Once she got settled
she made a nest
out of grass found in the meadow.
She laid eggs, making it a dozen
that is all she had in her oven.
For several weeks she heard not a peep
the eggs seemed sound a sleep.
One day, it happened!
the eggs began a hatching!
and the nest was full of action!.
Then she took her twelve goslings
across the meadow
where the sheep had settled.
Then up the street
to a water filled creek.
Where they swam all the day long
while joyfully honking out this song
we've found the place were we belong.
Sandals
On a golden sandy beach.
On a dusty dry footpath with warm air
around your feet.
Music.
Spanish guitars play sounds so sweet.
The evening light is warm and friendly,
the night sky blends into the ocean as
the waves lap at your feet.
A stark sound, a whale crashing helplessly
on the beach.
Bird flight, low level their squawking
screeching, nothing normal is here to
let them feed.
Tide rise, the ocean sounds darker with
fiercer speed. It seems to be saying
something but we don’t listen we just
use it to fill our bellies with selfish greed.
Night sky the moon hides behind the dark
clouds.
Rain comes out of nowhere and
rain comes falling down so heavy the ground
can’t cope and neither can the streets!
People.
People crying on flooded streets.
Their homes now under water, along with their
lives, their belongings, and their dreams.
Nature.
I hear it screaming in the winds.
I stop and turn to face it and I see it look at me.
Like a kraken raising an eye out of the ocean
it wants me to know it’s upset with us,
so upset indeed.
Feelings.
Scared now of forces we can’t control or see.
The dark side of humanity still taunting and
laughing at nature as nature turns around and
glares at humanity so frighteningly!
Inspired by Glenn Huges song Voice in my Head from his 2025 Chosen album
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A voice in my head, a whisper unseen
Murmurs a sweet soft sound, a fragile string,
It gently mumbles: “see the light within,
It guides your path in life as next of kin.”
An inner sound unbound, on wings it rides
Where sincere silent secrets and thoughts hide,
Fleeting like the whiz of a passing train,
The echo of the rhythmic fall of rain.
The voice in my head hums of tales untold,
Of lonely thinking souls, both young and old,
A melody of shifting joys and fears,
That drifts to my eager attentive ears.
The voice speaks of battles lost, battles gained,
Sensitive struggles singly waged in vain,
Recalls laughter shared and crystal tears shed,
Evokes life, by men and fate, smashed that bled.
It speaks of inner light simmering bright,
And stars that pierce the darkness of the night,
Of letting go of wrath and jealous men
And entrusting all in the divine hands.
I strain to hear that voice, to understand
The meanings transmitted through the tough land.
Each tiny transient tune, a fleeting grace,
Reflecting a fated forgiving face.
Perhaps it sources from my deepest thought,
That from the inner self is gently brought,
And takes wing to flit, fly, flutter and roam,
Until it finds an akin kindred home,
That voice in my head speaks of hope and pain
In a soft voice, again and yet again
And though my naked eyes can’t see **** form
It safeguards me from life’s severe sour storms.
Autumn of our life’s sunset years
Time to replay moments gone by
Each throb of joy and our dark fears
Looking back, do we smile or sigh
Our weary bones signal it’s time
Autumn of our life’s sunset years
Yet heart tremors sound a bliss chime
We may age but child within cheers
Melding head with heart, we change gears
Erst rough edges gone, soul has thawed
Autumn of our life’s sunset years
We surrender each breath to God
All we do is follow love’s scent
Bliss heightens as God’s presence nears
Assured now is our soul’s ascent
Autumn of our life’s sunset years
13-August-2022
Hint of Autumn Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
The dogs are banned from fields of green
lest anyone should “step in it”
yet 50 geese just landed there
and no one tells them where to “..it”
Masked bandits prowl the streets at night
trash can clamor in the alleyways
making their rounds on scheduled trips
coinciding with trash collection days.
Dawn’s silent rise cues “Places please”
dark curtain rising on a dissonant din
Daybreak’s un-tuned opening - wings without wind
scratching open eyelids that can’t close again.
Beneath soft silent moon – a courting joust
that sad horrific sound – a lover’s spat
a noise to make an air raid siren cringe
the hissing contest - suitors of my cat.
Lo, the glistening distance of train track
reflecting the history that they bore
reminds me that the four thirteen Topeka
lies beside me in a locomotive snore.
©5/6/2018
submitted to – A Rant – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Shadow Hamilton
Isn't it curious how we cling so fast to fantasy
preferring fiction over reality
people more likely to recall the smallest details
of the last few films they saw
or even one from decades ago than to be aware
of all that's actually taking place on this planet
to be traumatized by the death
of a character on the screen
who never drew breath
but not the hundreds of thousands
who truly took their last today
Actors who play an everyday person
in a production based on an actual event
will garner far more attention and accolades
than those they portray who lived it
People like me when we pass away will soon after
be forgotten as if we never existed
living out our lives until that day as if we don’t
while they will be celebrated perhaps for centuries
for we fail to fit into the parameters
of what society deems worthy of notoriety
of that sort of immortality
as we don’t look or sound a certain way
or weren’t fortunate to be born
into the right family with the wealth
to pay the required tolls along the road to success
I’m told I should feel blessed
that I’m not quite as poor as the person
panhandling at the train station down the street
at least I have a roof and four walls around me
and can afford something to eat
An ant merely attempting to avoid being trod on
is all I am, all I’ve ever been, will likely ever be
but I’ll continue to write what the world, what you
will never take the time or care to read
anyway
Put me to sleep, O little god,
spirit of the ancient, healing tree—
a beautiful rustling brewing within the ancestors' plant,
emerging from captivating redness.
Invisible as a shadow, leaving only gleaming, shining bones behind,
the unseen one remains hidden from my eyes.
Yet, it is a tree of lush, vibrant green,
fragrant and sweet-smelling, bearing soft flowers and a hidden thorn.
Your humming sound—a silencing rustle in the night,
in the deep gloom, in the gathering dark—
becomes a dirge for the dead, a hymn of my final rest.
With windows wide open on every side,
I am dangerous and lost,
without origin or protection,
I am weeping,
unveiling a pain of finding the courage
to sleep facing the solitude rather than
hiding from it