Long Spread out Poems
Long Spread out Poems. Below are the most popular long Spread out by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spread out poems by poem length and keyword.
Through her window,she could see nothing in the clear blue sky.
Its deep colour was reflected in the calm waters
Of the estuary which spread out in the distance.
Even the normal busy shipping traffic
Seemed to have been lulled to sleep this hot summer afternoon.
There would usually be the sound of ships' horns
Out in the Elbe as they signalled for the lock gates to open.
Water was calm, sky was calm.
It felt to Petra that she was looking at a painting where nothing
Was really alive but only replicated in oilpaint.
The ever-growing buzz in the sky was the only indication that the scene was real.
Others had heard the sound as well.
Like hundreds of bees, but these had a special sting
The temperature was high and it was very dry
There had been no rain for some time. Now there was a rain of bombs.
Petra saw the explosions through her window before she heard them
In the distance as the skyful of B17 s unloaded their cargoes.
Petra and her little sister were terrified, struck immobile in fright.
Their window bellied in like a giant glass balloon suddenly over-inflated,
And jagged, face-ripping shards of glass snarled across the hall
And embedded themselves in the cushions of the sofa.
The woolly innards of the cushions spewed out,
Dangling lifeless from the slash-wounds.
Luckily the girls were not cut.
Suddenly, the whole area became one big fire
With air being sucked in with the force of a storm.
Fires joined together, temperatures rose to melting lead,
Wind speed picked up to hurricane levels,
Trees were hurled into the flames, furniture, cars, even people hurled in.
Fire trucks unable to get through roads blocked by rubble.
Dying by carbon monoxide poisoning
When all the air was drawn out of their basement shelters,
The shelters were filled, but few people were really alive.
And then it was over. As the exploding fireballs gradually died away,
The drone and throb of the buzzing B17s faded off
To the blue sky of the east, to torment some other part of the city.
Walls crashed to the ground, gas lines exploded, people cried and screamed,
The girls shook with terror, but the B17s had gone.
History called it 28 July 1943 - Hamburg firestorm.
Petra always called it Day of the Bees.
.. .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Debbie Guzzi's Contest Hot Time Summer in the City
I reached into the depth...
But could not withdraw Excalibur from the stone.
Yet I knew I was the one.
Why else my 'Grail Vision' in the sun?
The depths call me to reach further still.
And Mary's eyes bled.
Realizing for whom the tear's shed.
I know not what to do.
Vainity reaching to withdraw from the glue.
I stare blindly in the distance a 'bust' of my former self.
Passing the secret of excalibur being drawn by someone else.
And passing by the oracle of Ephesus, Medusa's eyes
She drew the sword stone in deep catching my contemplations of the mirror.
I could loose myself in her forever.
Secret Sweets. Stained Sheets. and shaking cold she wraps me in the golden fleece.
Covered in snakes, I melt into the secret skin.
Learning the name, I see my fathers before me distrought.
And see now the blindness of the Kingdom Oedipus wrought.
Sophoclese Tragedies and I am forever Oedipus.
Betrayed blessin' between whorish thighs and my camarades' lies.
Where is Helena these days?
Gone so long, I've forgotten her ways.
That's the trick-she sucks in your depth.
I am Horus, my seeds sewn in the west.
Innana's dead. I broke my maiden-named womb.
Long ago I allocated multiversic kingdoms for Osiris' perversion tombs.
And in the mysteries of deep misery.
I have witnessed my seed coming of age.
To lay thoughts like these out on a page.
Christ, Annubis, and I planned this on a street in Greece, A.D., B.C. I can't remember which.
I bare down frost-bitten from the North.
And my Christ of peace bore symbols from the East.
Our dog-eared down-home friend brought simpler lessons from an outdated South.
And we witnessed our births spread out over time.
Three wise men we were singing dark-hearted songs of a blackened Madonna we couldn't find.
So we relinquished ourselves to Daddy Darkest who knew best.
Redistributed seeds, we pushed ourselves to a static line beyond myth; where men like us no longer needed to exist.
Sweet Virgin, Return
I am old and worn thin.
Now, is your time to begin; A collection of stories your heart has borne, but you lay unblemished.
My daughter lay our bones to rest.
Cook them in your stew.
Reigns handover long overdue, but that's not the style you do.
Don't worry about ole Paw. Jimmy Crack corn.
May you be Princess Disarming Charming laced with meaning...
And I awake sleeping...
Beauty, I next to you.
I've lain beneath this sugar maple before.
In fact, I know it quite well.
And it's seen me and watched me throughout the seasons.
And it has its own stories to tell.
In Spring, it would hear about all my wild dreams
for the months and the year still ahead.
And I'd watch its new leaves unfurl and spread out
for a canopy over my head.
I'd lay there for hours and hours on end
reciting verses 'neath a wet springtime sky.
And sometimes I'd lay there for no other reason
but to ask the Universe "why?"
The maple, of course, would stand silent and still
just listening to my thoughts and my words.
It must have imagined "Just who is this soul
whose passions and dreams I have heard?"
In Summer, I'd lay on an old cotton blanket
and gaze up at the now deep green leaves.
"How beautiful you are," I would say to the tree
and bask in the summertime breeze.
Its shade would protect me on a hot July day
and guard me from the bright August sun.
Butterflies and bees and birds would swoon past me
like a parade put on specially for one.
All about, the clover would bloom and bloom
in a carpet of purple and then white.
And I would lay on my blanket 'til the sun would set
deep into a long summer night.
In Autumn, the maple would be changing again
from its green mantle to that of orange and gold.
And I'd find myself sitting 'neath it in the shortening days
whose warmth turned to darkness and cold.
I pondered on those days beneath that old tree
lingering in the quick fading light.
Its quivering leaves in the brisk Autumn air
seemed to shiver through the frosty Autumn night.
The gold maple leaves would fall by the score
into delicate piles and mounds.
And I'd shuffle through the leaves and they'd rustle and scatter,
then sit 'neath the tree on the cold ground.
In Winter, the maple would stand there exposed,
with limbs and branches all bare.
It seemed all alone, but somehow I knew
that it knew that I would always be there.
It stood in the storms, it stood in the rain
and it stood against the bitter and snow.
I'd look up at it swaying in the hard Winter wind
from the snowdrifts where I stood down below.
Yes, I know it quite well, this sugar maple tree
for it and I grew closer o'er the years.
And come nearer to Spring, the men would come tap
my tree for its sweet syrup tears.
copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte
The interrogation threatens to shudder like an earthquake
A long index of accusations spread out among the atmosphere like a blazing forest fire
Satisfaction, the officer and venomous umbrage, the criminal
Self-appreciation, the quiescent defense attorney with no right to be there
Misery, the boisterous dauntless prosecutor
The months of the annual calendar, the jury
Pain, the almighty judge
It’s a court case already divested from the defendant
Why should it not
Bother, why bother
Its past the millionth time in 216 divided by the jury
Satisfaction has seen countless rewards of capturing umbrage
Satisfaction has felt the boundless benevolence of glory
And foaming at the mouth, glowering with muffled respected fury
Sits umbrage, staring out blurred vision
Victimized in his own apperception
What’s the cost, the damage total; what has befell, befell reality
The anathema of fate or rather the favored affliction of fortune’s fool
Within a realm of possibility it may perceive to be both
A pebble laced with a thread thrown into grass only miles away
To be reeled right back in like a helpless fish on a line
The audacity, the audacity; oh just hush
Silence is golden and this silence is benevolent
Joy was once prevalent in the company of such disgrace umbrage reigned
Together they were serenity, a mixed graceful period of harmony
Such a song sung by dual owls in the presence of the lightened darkness of night
(sigh) …I can’t do this anymore
Make a world, create a story peacefully
Creating a plot circulating, tip-toeing around the issues placing bait in front of my eyes for me to take
What is wrong with me, my life
One word, a sharp enough blade to stab in the ankle to slaughter Achilles
In this case, me
The poet’s banishment, scourge creating a series of nine lashes
Still runs deep, refuses cessation
Proceeds to feed on every ounce of merriment to permeate through the cracks
Melancholy has produced to invade back in
What’s the cause this time for it to attack
A few simple words, reflection, swift defiance
the bruises upon the right appendage whispering, begging for more scars
FOR WHAT? ! ? ! ? ! ? !
Forget it….it’s nothing
Satisfaction has pardoned me, set me free
Umbrage, my twin has taken over me
To another bridge, we sit and sulk over a failed attempt at flight
Cause we willingly defy the right to say goodnight
In the wee hour of the morning I hear my spirit calling, I wasn’t sure how to respond to it but my emotion made me answer it.
It was extremely dark outside and the street light on the other side spilled over the roadway took me safely to an exotic scene. A bird sitting on the electric line chirping away as if it had something important to say. I gazed at it for a while and all of a sudden, my spirit began to cry.
The morning was extremely quiet and I could feel the blood running through my vein and my breathing exposed to the raw air circulating in the atmosphere and I walk along the lonely path looking for an escape route, but something kept dragging me back to my youth.
It wasn’t my childhood friend or the vicious lion in the den, it was the tree house I built in the mango tree and the swing I made in the navel orange tree, that continues to point me to something that is symbolic to my prosperity.
I am not a Tomboy but I can do lots of boy things and I master the art of climbing tree ever since I was a baby. I can still climb to the top no matter how tall the tree grows, there are some things in tees that gives nourishment to my soul and there are some things that you never grow out of you even when you are old, they stay with you for life, because those are the things that keep you alive.
The clouds resting on the sphere laced with tangles of hope staring directly at me and stroking my back from the far end of the sea and it kept searching for a comfortable spot to spread out its lap, but the furious mountain would not allow the wind to blow on the other side but I continue searching for the destined spot in the early hours to confront the solace in the wind.
I stood there for a while and gazed at the morning stars gliding underneath the clouds as daylight forces its way out of the dark and heavens weep for the dignity that is bubbling up into my heart and I could hear the earth whispering in my ears and wind start howling in the distance.
Let the wind blow and bring fresh energy to your soul; let the wind blow and show you which way to go, let it blow the stagnant energy from the atmosphere, and fill your lungs with clean mesmerizing air.
The clouds are moving again and the sky is clear and daylight has explodes in the heavens and you must follow the path that will lead you out of the dark and elevate your nobility.
Human history is full of trouble because religion has duped the human race and creates a lot of doubles all over the place. If I could turn the clock back in time, I would not change anything, but I would get what is rightfully mine.
If I could go back in time, I would conquer the mountains and build a shopping center in the middle of the tobacco land; I would expand the livestock and plant a gigantic cane field in the back yard.
I would develop the cotton farm and plant a sunflower field on the Lawn and pump cooking oil out of the belly of the beast and drain the color out of the human race and let it cover the entire street.
The color is full of trouble, and it has cast a sticky pigment on the universe and make us believe that the human body is made up of dirt, the British created this religious narrative with Adam and Eve at the center of the stage and the Prophet Mohammed dominating the Muslim race.
The narrative is so strong that it brainwashes every human being upon the barren land; it started from the babe in the womb, and it came to life in the temple of doom.
The scientist explains it and the religion fanatics’ shout about it but have no evidence to prove it. They continue to live a living lie and cast their breads upon the water until the day they die.
The romans started it and the British perfected it and everyone was brainwashed by it and start to believe it. Thanks to the Americans and the new world that rescued the human race from it.
The British is bound in traditions, they have created much of the history books on the land; the color trouble runs through the pages and create conflict among the human races.
Some people never overcome it, they die and go to the grave with it and a new generation is born with the color trouble spread out all over their face.
The stigma is still around and it has dogged some people in the town, color on food, color on face, color on house, color mingling in the dirt, color running on the street, color disrupting my heart beat, you must mix the two troublesome colors and make they stay together and if you think that it is improper let the different conflicting colors meet and let the Devil prowl around the street.
I would never change my color if you gave me a billion dollars. Let my color run all over the street until you accept my heartbeat.
Nobody walks here anymore
Nobody listen to them anymore
The grass has grown out of control
And the wind has battered them to the ground
In the midst of the dense woods
the road lingers between the tall grass
and the muddy stream
Many streams are are moving from all corner
Meeting at a detrimental cross road
and emptying all its content into the big wide river
I have been searching for this tranquility for so long
But nothing I do I could escape the wicked one
But now its just me and the birds mingling in nature
listening to the water gushing from the big dirty river
This Saturday morning was somewhat peculiar
I rode around the block then made my way to the track
and sat on a gigantic rock to meditate
But as soon as I enter the gate
the birds starts yelling at each other
There was one distinct sound
that almost lift me off the ground
At first I didn't know its name
then I learned that it was the cardinal's game
The woodpecker argued so loud
forcing the blue jay and the Carolina wrens
to settle the dispute in the hollow of the tree.
and the mocking birds accompanied by the moaning dove
laments the turmoil of a brand new day
The Cardinal called me three times to state my case
It called so loud that I had to respond with a frantic shout
Three times I had to say that I am here
and three times I had to say that I am not going any where
I escaped to the other side of the river
and walked freely in the big open space
The park runs through numerous backyards
and as I approach the birds starts to litigate
forcing me to abandon my journey
And work out another plan before I land
the turtles wiggling underneath the stagnant pond
add to the blatant chorus of Saturday's mass
The cardinal erupt from the other side of the bush
with an irritated call that disillusion nature and ended in a brawl
I took off my shoes and sprint quickly up hill
my feet pressing on the wet grass
oh I felt like a child again enjoying natures morning splendor
and looking towards a brighter future
I spread out on the damp grass
viewing the vast landscape around me
And America's abundant luxury going to waste
Three giant planes flew above me and
I watch them disappeared in the thick clouds
Birds tell tales turtles buried in ponds
This sound like a mystery to everyone.
I am a running again.
I sat on a giant cemented rock in the river bed
And the sun shines through the trees all over my head
I could feel the warmth and comfort covering me
while I listen to the tranquil water flowing in the river
Nobody was trailing me and nobody was bothering me
I felt energetic and strong that I could lift a gigantic rock
and crumble it all at once in my powerful hands
A few hours ago I was sailing up and down the river
looking for a quiet place to anchor
but everywhere I steer my boat the water was up to my throat
But today the water has recede and I can finally proceed
Sometimes it is difficult to understand the things in nature
Everything happen so fast that sometimes you have to wonder
I spread out on the solid rock gazing at the clear blue sky
with the trees dodging the sun as it glared into my meticulous eyes
I started thinking about the rocks many things have
transpired in nature centuries before I was born.
I started observing all the rocks around the river
And I saw something interesting that made me shiver
A flat rock hangs over the river bed
and it runs beneath a twin tree fastened on the river bank
I kept moving from rock to rock as my curiosity grew bigger
I came to this place to relax but I find myself gathering facts
I have crossed this river more that three times
but I have never seen something so clear and divine
As I was walking on the rock the gods draw my attention
to the road that leads across the river
I rolled up pants and walked back and forth on the stones
The water had dwindled and the rocks were dry on the top
Suddenly a still small voice said count the stones
I start jumping playfully as a child while counting the stones
Thirteen of them lined up in a row then another voice said look
on top of the stones and tell me what you see
I bend down and examined the stones and there were
Five creases on each of the thirteen stones and
I started to wonder deeply about what I have already known
I continue walking on the stones and deep speaks to deep
Another mystery unfold before my journey was complete
The same road that runs across the river
had a big letter W carved on it with water running over it
The answers are plain as day there will be no peace
until history takes it rightful place.
The sun is shining on me again
W.W.W
There sat an old man on the
porch. He was long and gray.
Skin that looked similar to a
dried raisin. Dark as a wet
pecan. His eyes a light green
color. You know his dad was
one of those Creoles. How did
his skin get so dark? Working
out there in that field for that
white man, they say. Worked
there so long his back and
knees gave out one day while
he was tilling the land. He sat
still on the wooden chair in the
shade of the sloping roof of his
shack. His wavy gray hair wet
with sweat around the sides of
his head and on his bony chest.
He had lost the interest in
keeping it groomed so the
waves had lost their shiny
luster. The wrinkles pooled
around his eyes and sunk in his
cheeks. They told him that he
had gotten that from his
grandmama's white side
because his ***** grandmama
on his daddy's side died at the
age of 80 without a wrinkle. He
had always resented his white
side and the more he loathed
them the heavier his heart
became. The heavier his heart
became the deeper the wrinkles
became. So this hatred was the
cycle of his life. His large hands
spread out dangling at his side.
Not swinging, just dangling as
if they had steel poles in them.
They looked so heavy attached
to his little arms. The veins
shown blue through his wrists
at the base of his hands. More
privileges and favor with his
father's people because of that.
He wore no shirt. Only khaki
slacks that looked as old as he
did. He wore no shoes so his
long feet rested on the creaky
boards of the porch. He sat
with his eyes staring out at
nothing. The children played in
the yard. Screaming and
running around with laughter.
Their mothers just across the
street talking and gossiping
about the young women at the
street corner. Envy in their
voices as they discussed and
threw out their opinions. The
men gathered around the
mailbox tossing and dice and
yelling out profanity to each
other. Everyone going about
their daily lives. The old man
still sat motionless as a
painting. Look closely. His chest
is not moving. There is no
breath blowing out of his nose.
He had become a corpse right
where he sat. And so we see
the cycle of life. Laughter.
Gossip. Lust. Envy. Innocence.
Play. Youth. Sin. Life. And
death.
*Image of Seasons Of The Year by Pixabay.
Seasonals
~~0~~
Time of heaven's anointing fertile grounds,
fertile nature, and beast surrounds,
Hail, 'tis springtime here a blossoming,
buds are blooming everywhere,
Hark the juveniles from the towns,
frolicking yonder the fairgrounds,
Awakening comes into being,
comes into being the heralds of spring,
Playing happily here rounds and elsewhere,
cheerily sounds, frowns drowns,
~~adults abound at hare and hounds.
~~0~~
Heightening sunlight burning daylight truly,
nigh in the noon hour stand high,
Flowers' mood-matching shades of golden brown
from bluish green trades,
The exclusive facade reaches bone dry,
bone dry as warm air is blown dry,
They sweltered till all screamed for ice cream
as their dessert melted away an "s",
Gods and goddesses tans apply, amplify fans,
swim summer ray goodbye,
~~by and by, May, June, and July.
~~0~~
Here, hear it came, rustling leaves a-tumbling,
a-tumbling down the country lane,
Reddish ocher spread out all a-flustered,
all a-flustered every which way,
Autumn rain drenched down leaves that drain
neath the woods where they have lain,
Ebbing its crimson crust chilly ashen dust
blankets shyly amidst the gust,
Rustic western host John Wayne,
all else subtleties pens Mark Twain,
~~larks in vain, come, Abel and Cain.
~~0~~
Fall mist snaps wide-awake, anew sorta undertake,
an outstretched lea windbreak,
Holiday treats, festive retreats,
time for family and friends to gather,
Turkey and ham, and bellyache, chats, and drinks,
and aspirins for that aged headache,
Winter's here once again, bringing joyous cheer,
looking back to this good old year,
The afterglow of the fireworks show, slake coffee,
and cheesecake, new year break,
~~strive worth to make, thrive earth God's sake.
~~0~~
2022 July 22