Long Summits Poems
Long Summits Poems. Below are the most popular long Summits by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Summits poems by poem length and keyword.
could not sleep at night
thrilled to wake and play around
in and out of rooms
as though gems hidden and found
nights merriment resurrected
smiles laughs howls screams shouts and yells
star gaze in summer
recounting and accounting
quilt nights of winter
licking fresh dew drops of spring
butterfly watching catching
picnics to stations
filled with hills and mountain range
playing on meadows
plucking all barred flowers strange
when caught hid behind mother
gathering sea shells
banking them as though gold coins
counting them daily
adding them into bead-joins
wearing like a clown
playing police-thief
arresting little culprits
acting like jailing
taking them to hill summits
to shoot them there from
cries to go to school
coming back happy and thrilled
hating to read books
running out to play joy-filled
coming back ready to sleep
countless memories
how much I could go on with?
I should now cut short
I express only herewith
longing to re-live them all
18 August 2022
Childhood Nostalgia Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: JCB Brul
Far away, over the monstrous gray summits
As dusking shadows crept stealthily on,
When night had turned more stygian
And glow worms had begun throwing flickers of light
Like sequins stitched onto a flowing velvet gown,
When night sky had turned
Into a rare configuration of light and shade
When in the west a burning solitary star
Like a one man army had valiantly blocked
The advance of infiltrating clouds,
When cicadas were chanting in shrill monotone,
When the breeze whispered sweet nothings in my ear
And autumn leaves in strong gale
Flew about and nosedived into their ebony bed,
When my conscious thoughts evaporated
And I was left to linger in a semi stupor,
I knew a familiar spirit visiting me unsought
With the passion of a lover eager to subdue;
Morpheus with the scent of poppy leaves all about him
Came to lure my soul to bliss and chill the heat of weary toil.
By the indulgent grip of his masculine hands
He took me on his wings to uncharted oceans and fairy isles
A nocturnal odyssey of conjoined souls, lip locked
And finally to his secret chamber for a date
Making me swoon in secreted ecstasy!
August.14.2022
2022 Marathon Mile .12. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Mark Toney
Written: November 02, 2025, for contest by: Robert James Liguor
**********
The frozen core of human activeness
where the temperament recklessly smiles,
sludge cascades from the blade's edge
A joyous opsimath emerges,
reminiscent of rebellion and aged books,
sturdy and infused with a grin.
His unique calling sign is the "lard of law."
He wears robes adorned with nimbus designs
and stands before a wall of questions.
He gathers information from insightful individuals
Every conundrum is a breach in the law,
And every victim wants to be obvious,
He repeats sharp retorts to the sentient
To the obstreperous, the zymotic throbbing of history.
He says that justice is not banausic.
She is a lissome Nereid,
dancing with eurythmic elegance through garbage.
Though weariness grasps the morning,
and moribund minds look for troughs, not summits.
He persists on—
a sherpa of the spirit,
bestow the noisome into view
where enlightenment flowers akin to vernal fire.
Justice is not a flaw,
It's beginning
It is Nemesis
the tiny thread that links,
the strained heart to the flimsy earth.
Chambermaiden, a damsel in distress,
Cinderella, Prince's Valet high on Stella's finesse.
A fury by a butchered phreak,
screaming at him, no mercy to speak.
Living in underworlds with the creeps,
foreshadowing defeat.
Inebriated ex-socialite seeks Bhang,
meets manservant, hopping with the gang,
dodging a renegade from Hades,
in her ’98 Mercedes, green as despair,
his fate—servitude, escape just a prayer.
"Come hither, quiver, express card in the dresser,
stressor, benefactor, donor,
red eye for an eye—see it from my side,
in the black, red ink, brink.
Debutante saunters higher,
landing on her supplier’s bones."
Manservant spending nights with Pythia,
maxing the visa, obscuring the vista,
canopy open, hair blowing,
severing ties with the Phreak,
berated as he summits an intellectual, sexual peak.
"We reincarnate in the ether,
post-war fever,
two Gemini after Hiroshima,
ending the edema."
Trajectory lost in audio-tronic streams,
specters vocalize on the chorus machine,
sonic dream, quiet screams in a Fiesta,
sunset serene,
ready, keen,
torn apart at the seams.
Godless oracle with a Pluto-shaped crater,
underneath the beret,
Immortal spun out on prognosis,
rage hitting me deep.
Pythia, flushed, bitter red,
breath heaving, chest heaving.
Words stumble in gasoline,
purple and green.
Bumbling, fumbling, hostile,
peeling paint from blank walls—
committee, selective few.
Pity for Pythia,
teetering off the ledge,
obscene, smoking green.
Words paid for by the prophet of industry,
servant of power,
planting his own crop,
finding the hot spots.
Houses for dots on success’s map,
cheques signed to a woman on edge,
running from wrecked family homes,
parking lot regret.
Catching an ounce from a mobile house,
rolling down the street,
rent-a-wrecked, reeking of cheese.
Row upon row, he patrols,
marking targets with IOUs,
fast sales, cold criminal moves,
overcharging intoxicated fools.
Out of luck but not the stooge,
trading stash for a getaway dash
with his honey from the shadowed street,
whistling off-kilter,
mouth full of vapor, exposed brain-meat.
She fell from Olympus’s feet,
thrown out for misdeeds,
new queen on the block,
urgency speaks
Snow, silent and breathless,
Trembles on the shadows,
Across the peaks, on mountains
Where still, calm frost weeps.
Snow, hushed as the rumors,
Rustling in the quiet rays,
Embracing the morning, gentling
Swaying, dancing in reflections.
Snow, muzzling the wings,
Wrens and robins, wild and free,
Gliding through the flakes,
Feathery soft whispers, like praise.
Snow, crisp yet muted,
Promising the lingering joy
Faith will arise in the moments,
Just before the blustery twilight.
Snow, shadowed by crests,
Ridges silhouetted in crimson,
Slow winds, conspiring with grace,
Abundant like the music of laughter.
Snow, risking the zeniths,
Trailing through the song,
Stirring blazing beams of love,
Throughout the moments, hesitant.
Snow, clever as the moon,
Shimmering over the summits,
Rousing joy inside the one who knows…
Snow, snow, yes – snow sings of peace
Peace that reassures the heart who hopes,
Peace that calms the soul who yearns,
Peace that colors the world in fresh promises.
Peace so sincere it feels soft as snow’s sinking…
Quietly releasing a glimpse of angel’s blinking.
Keep dreaming and believing… like the snow,
Never stop kissing away the dust with the beauty
A completely new earth, frozen by the glistening
flakes, the shimmering thoughts… from grace,
Poured out over the night, like a gentle smile.
I am at a loss
In the haze of twilight years
Reinforced by the hill-fog
I am at the moment
With the icy magnificence
Of Mount Everest
I am at a loss
Because of
The weird fact that
My poem
''You kindled the lamps''
Has got posted three times
Last night in the sweet soup
Weird indeed
What is more weird is the fact that
In spite of sincere attempts
Over and over and over
The lunatic entries
Refused to get discarded
Ridiculous indeed
My poetry soup friends
I know
Do have Himalayan magnanimity
They will smile
They will ignore
My poor internet illiteracy
Here, at Pokhra in Nepal
I am gazing at the sublime summits
Of Annapurna
The globally famous Himalayan peak
Now, basking in soft sun
Knitting Nepali Pashmina
While you offer me
Tea in your china clay cup
A poem is not a poem if it does not
have death on its mind. The joyful and uplifting
is for the witnessing of summits
yet behind that revelation,
a hushed spirit walks to the gravesite.
The light and bouncing sparrow
nests under the somber hood of the ebon crow.
Words grow from the ecstatic pain of creation,
they sing of love and splendor,
but let the drowned sailor have his walk-on part.
If you write of eternal things, then give death its due,
for one must be the garb for the other.
God in Her fortress of infinite love
let’s grim death stalk even the brightest muse,
She allows the mad fancy of romantic love
a place to die and be reborn again.
Then when a sweet poem hints also of death
it will tell of a greater knowing of love and life,
and not be just some piece of a lesser truth.
Blest to behold Edenic paradise
Marked with grace, perfection never denies
My heart, awe-stricken, keeps on marveling
Wondrous nature wrought by Creator* Wise.
Mountains tower presenting grandeur height
As summits kiss clouds for celestial flight
Firmament lights witness the covenant
To exalt Designer's glorious might.
Flower terraces boast of vibrant blooms
Wafting redolence toward heaven zooms
Roses of Sharon greet waving Dahlias
Lilies of the Valley smite gloom that looms.
Ushered to Mother Earth’s orchard with bliss
My soul basks under fruit tree-canopies
While feasting on sweet orchidarium’s scent
Enthralled by herbal garden I can’t miss.
Cascading waterfalls of crystal gleam
Offer refreshing glow midst hope-filled beam
Reviving faith for serene service zest
To ripple along flowing freedom-stream.
*Isaiah 40:28 Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the LORD, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? there is no searching of his understanding.
September 13, 2021
Edited on March 10, 2022
1st place, "Garden Inspirations" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by BJ Legros Kelley; judged on 4/20/2022.
In the labyrinth of time, where shadows dance on walls of mist,
An invisible web is woven, finer than the silk thread of destiny,
And Russia, a slumbering bear in the taiga of unspoken dreams, becomes the vessel
Of an unsuspected flow, an underground river of liquid gold and hollow promises.
It's not about subjugation, but a perverse alchemy of money and power,
Where paper empires melt in the crucible of transnational greed,
And taxes, those crumbs of hope for the common man, transform
Into the toxic smoke of an endless war, a ghost haunting the world's conscience.
The United States, an eagle with wings broken by its own grandeur,
Europe, an old lady contemplating her reflection in the shattered mirror of history,
Watch their resources drain through the poisoned arteries of a phantom Russia,
Until they reach the insatiable hands of the elite, the orchestra of this macabre dance.
In the flow of my consciousness, images intertwine like the waves of a turbulent ocean:
Rusty tanks on sunflower fields, false smiles at world summits,
Hungry children in bombed cities and bankers smiling in towers of glass and steel,
All spin in a mad carousel of a war without victory and without end.
The goal is not victory, but the perpetuation of conflict, an eternal fire fueled
By the shattered dreams of coming generations, by the burned hopes of those departing,
An endless war like a Möbius strip, where beginning and end blur
In an infinite loop of suffering, profit, and manipulation on a global scale.
And in this starless night, when the moon hides ashamed of what it sees,
I sit and wonder if there still exists somewhere, in some corner of the universe,
A fragment of humanity untouched by this mire of greed and power,
Or if we are all just pawns in a cosmic game whose meaning escapes us.
Russia, America, Europe - names losing their meaning in the whirlpool of this flow,
Become mere concepts, shadows on the wall of Plato's cave, while the truth,
Harsh and merciless, hides behind the smoke screen of a perpetual war,
A dance of death that will not stop until the last coin is laundered, the last conscience corrupted.
In the nacre of morning light
ice tendrils over cobbled stones
touching lake's edge
as surrounding crags plummet
to the surface.
An opaque sky preens
diaphanous plumage
as I, like Narcissus,
ponder my reflection
in winter's adumbral waters.
My face flickers on the silent depths
like a mirage, an anomaly
of flesh and bone
in isolated wilderness.
I drop a pebble; the image scatters
as though blown away by arctic wind.
Soon encroaching cold
will obscure the lake with a sheet
of luminous crystal;
I'll be gone by then
like an alpine gust of summer
that appeared suddenly
through the spruce flocking
to a frozen oasis
below desolate summits.
12/16/18