Long Streaming Poems
Long Streaming Poems. Below are the most popular long Streaming by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Streaming poems by poem length and keyword.
I remember you at sunset
When sun sets the sky ablaze
Behind the hills where you once lived
Back in my childhood days
Soft reddish gold, hued sunrays
Streaming upwards in the sky
Remind me of you Grandpa
Fore' you had to say good-bye
The hills in solemn memory
Stand in patience even still
Waiting for your long return
I guess they always will
I remember you dear grandpa
When skies are bluest blue
The color of your patient eyes
Your sweetness through and through
I'm reminded of you often when
I'm gazing to the sky
For joy comes in the morning
And earth's sadness will pass by
Tying the little letter with the softest green ribbon,
I tucked it safely inside a large tree, the one she often leaned against in the park.
A few days passed, I eagerly awaited her return. Often I visited in her quaint little home.
She was alone in more ways than one, in the dark her heart was heavy, her mind
plagued with demons of adversity.
I stood at her door longingly as she cried into her cushions.
A week had gone, she ate very little. She just couldn’t bring herself to leave that dark room.
The rain came down hard that day, gushing down the rooftop, streaming down her window in a rage.
Worn and exhausted she opened the curtains to gaze out at the little park.
She could see not one tree through the streaming waters, and I thought she would break down in sobs again.
Instead I saw a soft gleam in her eyes as she quickly slipped on her coat and made her way out the door.
At last (I smiled) she had found the strength to return to her favorite spot,
even with the weights of melancholy clamping onto her every being.
She walked calmly though noticeably distraught. It's as if she were entering the Gates of End;
Her hands reaching for the tree till at last she clutched it and weeped in agony.
This was my last chance, I knew. She was saying goodbye to her beautiful park.
Those beautiful trees— her only haven amidst the glare of the world!
She was begging for relief, for the end, so with my hand, I wafted the wind one last time, vigorously.
Out of the hollow of the tree popped the note, dry and unscathed.
She stared at it curiously for a while, then sheltered it gently in her heavy coat.
I could only watch and wait and hope.
She looked around as if expecting this note to be for merely another
but I knew deep inside her soul that she understood. It was always meant for her.
-words by Laura B
When school kids sit those maths tests,
A couple of times each year,
They get that pale stressed look from
No sleep and that “failure” fear.
Wearily streaming through the tired doors
Students trudge into the hall.
Pens and rubbers all align,
The creaking clock up on the wall.
Arranging the hall for the test
Seats and tables stand aligned.
No cheating is ever possible,
Students sit alone, sort of blind.
And the exam is sterile, black on white,
Answers are right or wrong.
And the questions are all graded to be about an hour long.
Then it starts, hair gets tossed,
Eyes glance, “sniff”- a tissue.
Clumsy sketches, sitting sideways
On plastic chairs becomes an issue.
Pictures, fidgets, graffiti and tapping,
Hats off, fingers tell the truth.
Hands up, “Can I go to the toilet?”
“Yes, be quick, don’t dawdle Ruth.”
Well, maths tests aren’t meant to be fun,
You won’t laugh, smile, or sing.
And quadratic algebra doesn’t really
Get used for anything.
And the square root of the unknown function
Forms perfect curvy surds.
Should we expect a teenage kid
To care about these words?
And finally, the air hostess,
Straight hair, microphone and smile,
Gives exit instructions in rehearsed monotone,
“Please leave via the isle”.
To kids, another maths test,
Another day at school.
At home they’ll play their Halo
Or just chill out in their pool.
Entered into "YOUR BEST OLD POEM UPDATED" contest by Judy Konos, ranked First place
Difficult life
Life is life, hmm, yes, if we are still alive
This is a question only, a question, what is life
And what's for, and why? Freedom or jail?
Independence or freedom?
I don’t know
I don’t know
This guy is just a simple thinker
Nothing else
But then the question is stayed, and no answer
Still no answer
Empty the answer’s box
And the life gone
And no answer
I am dying like a silly boy
No, that’s so far, so far
Death isn’t upcoming, my future is a flyer
Just fly
Hmm, so the life flyes
Flying, moving, walking, running, flowing, streaming, progressing, leaking
So, life is opposite of the immobility
So the move is the life
Not exists
In every moment life is gone
Life is difficult?
How?
I never get that
Always gone
It shreds me when released, then bursts into confetti.
Words are papier-mâché, articles of all of us, tabloids torn apart then glued
back together piece by piece.
Playing pretend made a masterpiece that will be gone before
that big breeze or a fast move cracks the motif, and the brittle shell is more
disgusting than most I'd really believe or expect to see.
The motive is unrepairable, won't be repressed, still there nevertheless
in a pool of gripping distress.
What's the point of fables, what's the point of idols too?
They are usually strung out and disappointing.
See happiness till it's all disparaged. Exposed so hope will take off, and make space for the expanding emotions that are less forgiving.
These make up a stage where the play performed is most unfriendly.
Resulted in damn ruination. It's televised so there can't be wiggle room
for reparations. Abolished, no evaporated, it's no use if the truth
clears rooms and leaves them speechless, tongue-tied, it really shocks without awe.
It changes mood, and the masses will say really just how they feel, so next we are supposed to pick up the pieces if they still even there.
In short, they're taken aback; these stabs in our back will collectively mature into a scar that can't be scratched.
Sculptures turn sulfur, what once was marble-made, was chiseled down,
and whittled away.
Downhill rolls a derby of the disturbed, perturbed in a gaseous state; a floating stench alone will cry, tear ducts leaking and streaming in unison, still non-union; the establishment put em' up to it.
I wish it was that easy to say.
You'll need to excuse me, I'll just need a couple days.
I don’t stream a lot of TV
but once I’m in that mode, I’m down
and I can’t get up.
Best pickup line I heard this week:
“You could be my emergency contact.”
A girl recently called me “weird people.”
She was effusive and I was put in my place.
Apparently, good grammar isn’t legally enforceable.
Her friend apologized, saying—and wrote it down.
“She lives on her phone; it’s a claustrophobic place.”
“Ooo!” I’d said, "Can I use that?” She gave me a blank look.
Leong, lisa and I were walking to class when a lone goose flew over,
honking incessantly, like a New York taxi in heavy traffic.
“That must be a Canadian goose,” I said, because my uninformed comments seem forever welcome—and we are pretty far north.
“I know what it was saying,” Leong offered, in her most inscrutable Asian way. Lisa and I waited to hear some Chinese wisdom, but what she finally said was, “Where IS everyone? I knew I shouldn’t have stopped to pee.”
There’s a song that goes, “We got married in a fever.”
That line seems so point-on to me. That’s how it happens.
Not, “We got married with a prenup, hotter than a brussel sprout.”
My Grandmère told me Peter and I will need a prenup, if we ever…
.
.
Songs for this:
Feather by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
Head In The Clouds by BabyJake
Jackson (feat. Josh Homme) by Florence + the Machine
Met Anouka in my artistic dream.
Skreech, fzzzt, ch-ch-ch-ch beep boop click-clack.
Ooooo, aaaaah, vroom, virtual booting machine.
Zap, plonk, and whoosh into a time-loop sack.
Anouka crafted art that made gems rock!
She sails far above stars in rocket dreams.
Skreech, fzzzt, ch-ch-ch-ch beep boop click-clack.
High tech ignites surreal dreams on jet-pack.
Eeeeyowww power-down wails through feedback-tack.
Pew-pew ding-ding, zoooop-strong glitch-burst dream-hack.
Anouka crafted art that made gems rock.
Static discharge fzzzt skritch bleeee krrrshhh thwunk shock.
Bleeble-bloop strong sunlight's bright light clock-tock.
Ooooo, aaaaa, vroom, virtual machine bot-rock.
She glides far above stars in rocket dreams.
Ooooo, aaaaa, vroom, virtual dreams bool machine.
Glitch-bursts unravel what the swoop-code deems.
Onomatopoeia blooms in moonbeams.
Sci-fi textures whirr-click through neon streams.
Zap, planks, and whoosh into a time-loop sack.
Anouka's inspiration shines in beams.
Pulsar void pulse with tick tock astral gleam.
Anouka swirls in streaming swooshy dreams!
I met Anouka in an artist's dream.
Blue studio shined.
Cosmic clouds swiftly divined.
Ethereal finds.
Cloudy blue sculptures
Await dreaming visitors,
Future creators.
There was a table
With rectangular artworks,
Each with its own cloud.
The shapes were simple,
Embedded in the dreamscape,
Clouds becoming bright.
Art from inner mind,
As soul relays a message
About tomorrow.
Sparkling bright jewel,
Delightful blue renewal.
Absorb the meaning.
Sparkle fizz fuzz fizz
Inner whoah woo woo night bizz
Whoosh whoosh stars sizzle!
Bullies
Bullies shouldn't prosper, Bullies shouldn't win,
Do they realise the pain they cause as they stand and grin?
Picking on the weak ones, some half of their size,
If a victim stood up to them, they'd get a big surprise,
You have a fear of going to school or fear of going to work,
Victims lives are being ruined while the perpetrators smirk
You sneak out of the school and the lonely streets you roam
You pray to God that they don't follow you home
You lay in your bedroom both day and night
Tears streaming and in pain, no-one cares about your plight
You endure being held down, feeling blows dealt to your head
But no-one cares to intervene, so they stand and watch instead
Bruised and battered and terrified after each attack
Then later on in life the scars are still present on your back
PTSD and night terrors soon become the norm
The very rare restful night is the calm before the storm
Bullying can continue later on in life
A helpless victim at the mercy
Of a husband or a wife
Bullies think they are invincible
When to a victim they attach
But bide your time and one day
They will meet their match
A cool crisp spring evening,
as I follow the dog out
for her final ambulation.
Shades of the setting sun linger
on the western horizon,
with red Mars perched just above
and Ursus major arching overhead
but they only set the stage.
For comet Hale-Bopp is the feature,
white head and streaming tail
bright against the moonless sky.
I haul my wife and kids
from bedtime stories
to witness the splendor
as close to perfect as we can reach.
Later that night,
she comes to bed
warm from her bath
we kiss lightly, then deeply
suspended in sensation
as familiar rhythms resume.
Later, satiated, we linger
coupled to the moment
as close to perfect as we can reach.
1) Dave Rodgers, A Night Sky, March 27, 2013 (revised form earlier jottings)
2) For those who don't remember there is a stunning pic
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/df/Comet-Hale-Bopp-29-03-1997_hires_adj.jpg
Be aware that serendipity may
Unexpectedly tap you on your shoulder.
Such a nonchalant kiss in happenstance,
from the passing breeze is too easily missed.
Stay openly aware lest the impetus
Passes by, and you miss the awakening!
For on the dry beach the sands of time creep
In streams through your fingers, mesmerizing you
With the numbing mantra drone of sameness.
Lulling you to sleep comatose, and distracted,
By endless replays streaming memories
Of dreams within dreams, and old song repeats.
Leaving you oblivious to the unexpected
Awakening kiss that may drift in haphazardly,
On the willy-nilly whiffs of the passing breezes.