Long Stonehenge Poems
Long Stonehenge Poems. Below are the most popular long Stonehenge by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stonehenge poems by poem length and keyword.
MORGANITE
You sprang up like a shoot,
And art translucent to form.
Acrylic with tears the norm,
Brush strokes of life; resolute.
MAW SIT SIT
My memories are dim
Of me and him,
Breaches of birth. Strangers
Now, dear mannequin.
SPHALERITE
Lost in a world of make believe,
Trying to be human of sorts,
Touching life's Eden to perceive,
His favourite tipple! Vintage port.
SUGILITE
Troubled heart, troubled mind,
You fled our shores abroad,
You spoke with an accent kind
Your sorrows of life you stored.
SPHENE
Champagne fizz, popping the cork,
Nightclub Madonna to dance.
Dreaming of high rise New York,
So much better than France!
MOONSTONE
Tot 'n' Ham labours two,
Mothered to your breast,
Redwood trees, how they grew!
A familial love and blessed.
ZIRCON
Travelling through mythical days,
Chains of law untethered,
Stonehenge Rigveda praise,
Countenance aglow; weathered.
This poem is about a particular aspect of my siblings, including myself here and the name of each gemstone is quite rare and unique as we all are as individuals
Edward
It is the witching hour.
There are no breezes in a windowless house.
There are no shadows in a cave devoid of light.
There are no dreams in a sleepless night.
It is the witching hour.
When our endangered psyche roams.
When we are captured by pernicious spells.
When we are easy prey for rogue chieftains.
It is the witching hour.
When warlords game the system.
When sorcerers gaslight the faithful.
When conspiracy conquers fact.
Only the crestfallen sense the seamless
interval of peril.
Only the dejected resist the wizardry
of the despot.
Only the discouraged view the counterfeit
wallpaper of rot.
Only the discontented shout the truth
against the cacophony of sophistry.
But Stonehenge, the domain of the dead,
will always know first light,
will always vanquish the ruse of our sanctity,
will always sweep away the opiate specters
of tyranny.
The witching hour no more.
Light, the detox to our Stockholm syndrome.
The witching hour no more.
Democracy survives
to live another day.
What do you write about? She asks me.
Her jowls are hanging down her face onto her knees.
She has not smiled for a long time.
Freckles, grizzly bears, paint, lipstick, joy, success,
Jewelry, Stonehenge, life, positivity, snakes, dung beetles.
She looks shocked. “All in one poem?”
Sometimes. Depends on my mood and my muse.
I only have one theme, she tells me “Abuse and sorrow.”
I think that is two themes, but I keep quiet.
“What about joy?” I ask.
“I don’t remember any.”
“Not one second of joy in your forty-three years?”
“No.”
She slithers back into her beetle nest and
I run off to type this.
Not coldly proud, in Saint Paul's cathedral,
Nor silently strong in the Great Mosque of Mecca
Nor sorrow-filled at the Wailing Wall
Nor winding with the vines through Angkor Wat
Nor beneath the Shinto Gate of the Sun,
Or purselipped in stone on Easter Isle
Or heavy with years in Stonehenge Circle
- In none of these places is the True Temple found,
They are but the little prayer-rooms within it.
- There: in the atoms born of stars that shaped us.
- There: in the sound of the laughing child.
- There: in the scent of the rose.
- There: in the last exhalation.
We can never go to visit the One Great Temple,
Because we bring it with us to all the others.
It is smaller than the atoms.
It is bigger than the Universe.
Its doors are never closed.
We have never been outside of it.
Consult your mirror: it shows the truth of this.
And when the thunder speaks, it calls to you, saying:
TAT TVAM ASI - THAT ART THOU
Divinity is boundless; all things partake of it.
Nothing matters.
Everything matters.
Burnt by love my soul is singed with pain ..
Wish it would rain
Embers of the past keep licking me like fire
nothing can quench the anger that is raging inside
when a woman has been cheated on and stepped on
there is no place to hide...
Destruction becomes her new path and deceit becomes mate
she smiles her ruby lips, Mona Lisa pact induced
deep inside are raging demons of revenge
I find him by the lake peacefully building a Stonehenge
I invite him to come home but he says,
" I rather be alone "
so I sit and stew beneath the hot sun
isn't it sad when love goes awry,
and you find yourself sitting, with a smoking gun !
Before I kick the bucket, I plan on
riding this vehicle called life
until the wheels fall off. I want to
touch The Wailing Wall.
If I could, I would carve my name
on Stonehenge and write "I was here"
underneath it. I plan to visit it
in my lifetime!
I plan on floating on The Dead Sea.
I plan to continue seeking happiness
without it, my life would be bleak
empty and meaningless.
I plan to continue appreciating
the abundance of riches
that life offers me, to continue
loving God, my savior
.
I'll keep dreaming lofty dreams,
with both eyes wide open,
I'll keep doing what brings me
joy and satisfaction.
I'll keep my passion for poetry
white-hot! You best believe I'll publish em'!
I'll continue taking risks and chances,
as scary as the what-ifs are.
And most importantly, I plan to
continue living a life of purpose;
choosing love over hate and loving...
all who love me in return
.
I've got plenty
of life to live
before...
I kick the bucket!
Date: 11/14/2020
*oops, misread Chantelle's contest, which is a bummer. oh well, lol*
I longed for more time
to lay cornerstones,
but life had started
detaching my soles
I wanted more daylight
to see a Galaxy of beauty
that rested,
within one finger of breath
I desired of many things
to walk the Ponte Vecchio
and glimmer in its wares,
casting a reflection in the Arno
that wavered to the Vasari
to shelter
beneath a Sistine vision
as Michelangelo, Raphael
Botticelli and Bernini
dart in and out
of my haunt,
smudging all in view
to drink the atmosphere
of Stonehenge,
drowning in its history
and laying as sacrifice
in a swoon of blood
‘I want’
screamed a child in me
~~~~~~~
I’ve become a fresco
fingerprinted,
with need and desire
astral traveling
from the nib of my pen,
I sate my thirst
but,
as time lessens,
and daylight fades
in the history
that is me
‘I have’
what whispers in thralls
a will that ever dreams
An ocean's depth lies between The Georgia Guidestones
and England's Salisbury Plains, where Stonehenge stands.
Though they appear on different continents, they share
mysterious secrets that have never quite been explained.
Were they erected as a cryptic message for all of mankind,
or esoteric giants raised on earth, new or eons of years ago?
Commissioned by modern man or the hierarchy of occult?
Vertical, they stand, monoliths in fields of space and time,
Silent are the henges, forged in history, draped in moss
circular in shape, one age old set encircling the other.
Praised as an archaeological wonder, aligning with the sun,
a healing place or time's gateway used by priest and Druids?
The Georgian stones appear to me as a set of double doors,
Inscribed on their surfaces are lines of grave warning and laws.
heralding "truth, beauty and love, passion faith and tradition."
One distinct language, and a guide limiting world population.
Perhaps Stonehenge is just a monument to the dead, but that's
not the simple minded perception that rolls around in my head.
I believe there's something more significant to the ancient stones
that we can only conceive if the Druids want it made known.
November 27, 2021
Georgehenge Stone Cold Minds Reflect Contest
Sponsored by Joe Maverick
Snow
sifts in clouded silence
through skies, dark as eternity.
The great stones stand
resolute, dusted with fragments
of forgotten faith.
The ancient souls who built the circle
have long since flown the Earth.
Songs of worship shimmer in the stillness.
Millennia ago, when the great plain was shrouded
in the mists of eons,
they knew the sacred wonder of the rising Sun,
the greatest of Gods, who called them
to move, with impossible purpose, the giant stones.
Clouds part. Moonlight spills to illuminate the circle,
lucent and crystalline with snow.
And a thousand eyes—
even still—
witness their solemn, soaring grace
from beyond the stars.
didactic diatelle
Stones
piled high
twelve laid by
on Jordan’s shore.
When wand’ring youth ask why –
“What are these heavy boulders for?”
Trustworthy parents, help them to explore
the river bank and crossing where My might was shown.
Let them know why the priests marched in before
the water wall started to soar.
Tell them with just one try
the bare sea floor
was found dry.
Teaching
stones.
Reason A. Poteet, written 21 Mar 2012
My thoughts upon viewing Stonehenge. I remembered the passage from Joshua 4 and Joshua's command for the parents to tell their children of the meaning of the stones that were piled on the shores of the River Jordan. If someone had written down what Stonehenge represented, we would have no questions about it.