Long Streams Poems
Long Streams Poems. Below are the most popular long Streams by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Streams poems by poem length and keyword.
Strange how everything evolves except love.
It just comes in one sweet, fleeting flavor-
Hate and destruction have evolved.
We went from clubs, bow and arrow
to a fetish for nuclear diseases.
If love had evolved, missiles would sleep in their rattlesnake dens.
Howitzers would become flower gardens.
Black words would reverse course.
Before having intercourse with hate and death.
We're a harsh species, an eight-eyed tumor on fire.
A species on the precipice of self-extinction.
Many are wants -demands -desires.
Instant gratification at our soft fingertips.
Patience and empathy once calloused into the psyche.
Are now mere inconvenience and annoyance,
An open wound on the genitalia of ego
A sterile afterthought.
Hate has evolved into:
The continuous rape of society.
Beheadings have become blasé.
Bloody brooks, streams, and wounded knees.
Poison heavy metal clouds and plutonium ponds.
Strange how everything evolves except love.
It comes in one sweet-fleeting flavor.
An Autumn sunrise lights a maple tree
October’s hues are edged with olive green
The vibrant background cheers the season’s glee
The mountain ridges back the misty scene
Big bears are searching after mountain caves
While mallards fly before the snow begins
The ridges form astounding leafy waves
Where folks are cutting fully-grown pumpkins
The red hawk soars beyond the dew drenched morn
hence he denies to perch and lifts above
his flight creates designs the skies adorn
and dogs pursue raccoons around foxglove.
A lively squirrel scampers to and fro
Gray rabbits bounce amid the splendid leaves
And sparkling streams outrace the brownish doe
With the adieu of summer as she grieves.
Iambic Pentameter
August 8th, 2014
©2014 by Regina Riddle
As a whisper you think lost on the breeze
As a promise given always trying to please
As a seed waiting to swell and burst
As time passed sometimes seems cursed
Time gone, can never to be regained
Wishes whispered, but held back and chained
Dreams sent forth with a longing and hope
Grasping, fighting, always trying to cope.
Sun streams down there’s hope from on high
Light penetrates darkness, from bright blue sky
Whispers do reach their final destination
Not lost in tears of pain and frustration
Thoughts to lift when you are feeling blue
Thoughts to help take your hand and carry you through
The seed did burst and strives for the beam of light
Your beam did reach through the last long dark night.
Time will pass; there is no stopping the fingers
Taking us near to those dreams that still linger
Time a healer, to help and smooth a rugged road
New Year is waiting there’s help to carry the load.
© ~GG~ 23/12/2012
It was Old Man Smith’s farm this story begins, begins, gets told and ends,
And will never be anything more than a local story that’s told between friends.
You see, the cold night sky kept filling with lightning lighting up the ground,
And after each thunder, there was silence, there was nothing, not even a sound.
The birds, the dogs, the cattle and sheep hid, hushed away in the shed,
All night they slept together, warm in their communal, dry, straw bale bed.
And in the pine house, with the corrugated iron roof amplifying the rain
Sat Old Smithy, in the dark, listening to the lightning, hearing the thundering train.
With his pipe and his friendly can of grog, he sat with his thoughts in his soul
When he heard the thunder call for him, calling for him to go for a stroll.
Now his farm wasn’t flat and easy to walk, it was hilly, crisscrossed with streams.
And if anyone ventured too far in, there would be no one to hear the screams.
What happened is a mystery, there’s no explaining what was sitting by the ridge.
Only his pipe, and a can of beer, by the destroyed, flood broken rubble bridge,
Now, if you listen carefully you can hear the wind sing his voice down the creek by dark,
And animals hear when the sheep walk their path and all the local dogs all bark.
They stand proud and high
As if they reach right up to the sky
Their peaks covered with all year round snow
Though it melts in the Sun, it is very slow
See the marks where Angels ski
Out of sight of you and me
Those large footprints left behind
By an animal of some kind
Could it be from a Yeti, a mysterious Fable
Who people have tried to find when they have been able
But the Mountains are mysterious places
All shapes and sizes, some resembling faces
And the streams that start from their springs on high
Trundle downward, gathering pace when on the fly
As the water flows and winds it’s merry way down to the valley below
Being a mixture of Rain and melting Snow
But the Mountains will always remain aloof
As they watch the scene, just living proof
The early morning, a great time to catch the picture
Of Mountains, Snow, running Stream, a piece of nature’s own made mixture
A flicker of light from each eye
Radiant blink of blue-winged firefly
Blipping waves of stardust amplify
Transitory illusions of grandeur apply
Dark shadows with fluttering beams vie
Only telepathic conduit mind's eye espies
Aesthetic appeal lingering memory ties
To the surreal, iris vent in cloudy skies
On short, pulsing wavelengths hope relies
Yet, the palling veil of dusk heavily sighs
And pale, pallid lids sing a sleepy lullaby
Cooling streams of air distance verifies
Still reaching for lurid streams, now dry
But only touching stale trail of Bottle fly
My dilated pupils, welling with silted dreams, cry
Sammy was eager to please the woman of his desires and dreams.
He pretended he liked camping, and pitch tents by mountain streams.
She asked him about cats, and he pretended he liked them a bunch.
She gave him an arched eyebrow, because she kind of had a hunch.
You like them? She asked, and he assured her that he did indeed.
He would rather have a dog, rhinoceros, dinosaur or mangy steed.
But he wanted to impress her, so he lied through his teeth, but good.
Thinking he was making progress, he felt happy where he stood.
One night she said “Let’s make sure we are compatible, okay?”
His first instinct was to turn tail and swiftly run away.
Sammy wanted to win her. He said, sure, pretending he had no care.
She opened a door and there were fifteen creatures sitting in a chair.
They want to meet new daddy, she said; she walked in with a breeze.
Not feeling comfortable, Sammy's body began to shake and sneeze.
I love cats, he lied through his teeth, hoping he looked at ease.
She told him. I am allergic too, and she began to choke and sneeze.
Bartered tears with your love adorn
Twin streams from pure, spring founts born
Sappy pores gushing with showers of contrition on christening morn
Exchanged with vows that o'er time were weathered and torn
Briny waves of doubt crested; fealties' banks shorn
Now bottled memories silted with salty tears forlorn
Eroding tear ducts inundated and with passing time worn
Brackish vapor distilled with rotting dreams; with nauseous fumes borne
Corroded promises mired in a dry bed of scorn
Cloaked in callous foliage spited with thistle and thorn
Meeting at the jaded fork; once vibrant streams solemnly mourn
Stagnant puddles awaiting reincarnation; at next season's fertile rains reborn
Line of inquiry
"I Am as I Am complete
Though ego opines otherwise
Invoking grace we feel God’s heartbeat
What else does there remain for us to realise"
If ego was a season
it would be like the summer sun,
ascending and descending,
but without protection,
if you become too consumed -
you only end up being burned.
My soul is like spring,
always resurfacing after the big freeze,
looking for shelter against self absorbed rays.
My spirit is a voiceless orchestra,
yearning to connect through scriptures,
eradicating the ghostly echoes of ego,
composing a melody of honeyed harmony.
In a world of nonstop waterfalls,
I seek serene streams,
in silence and stillness,
where the 'true self' resides.
Temptation is a crimson illusion,
attempting to seduce us inside a
sea of self - admiration,
where the feather minded submerge.
Life is bittersweet,
surrounded by fake guides and stone saints,
so I persevere to escape this prison,
listening to the call of sincerity,
hoping the path opens before me,
as I cannot breathe without a heartbeat
and where, once, there was only barren fields,
meadows of verdant, vibrant visions now prosper.
Ego is the nemesis of my existence,
so my soul becomes unsighted to its intoxication
and when it dies, spirit transcends,
connecting with the ultimate truth of divinity.
QUIET RIVER WAKES
A river lays still on a hush
Of edges mild in deepened blue;
Until her trail
iust like a winding river
blue notes trickle down and streams
along the ocean where thev were heard
all around unique each
in their tempo sailing in a whirl
of life's dance: with distinct flow
in sweet motion to be adorned
as one long song,
still a rhapsody has its fading
as with a prelude there must be
an end, ike seasons with ellipses
that pause only to open
new lilts of fresh cycle;
my passages turning into another bend
awaiting the chances of a lake's journey
to sail and be taken away by a float
embracing my body in the dew.
.................
Rhonda J. Saunders' Hidden Beauty Contest
1/20/2015