Long Sweep Poems
Long Sweep Poems. Below are the most popular long Sweep by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sweep poems by poem length and keyword.
Moonlight will reign when twilight fades
Skies darken and starlight cascades
The world is poised, ready for sleep
While my heart aches, and my eyes weep
Tides continue to ebb and flow
Grief chills my life like Winter snow
Tears borne on waves into the deep
While my heart aches, and my eyes weep
Nights are long as I lie abed
Memories of us fill my head
Time moves slowly, seeming to creep
While my heart aches, and my eyes weep
In restlessness, I toss and turn
For what I have lost, I still yearn
From love we've sown, I cannot reap
While my heart aches, and my eyes weep
Muted in lament are my sighs
So no one hears my mournful cries
I pray to God, "My soul to keep"
While my heart aches, and my eyes weep
As dawn appears in morning light
I'm thankful for passage of night
Across my room, sunlight will sweep
While my heart aches, and my eyes weep
It is eternally a mind-altering thought,
that of poetry's paradox in every moment born.
Its multicoloured wings spawn this age of floating ashes...
flashes of the other side of what awaits our words,
what awaits our hearts, a part of a whole different world.
Unfurled everyday upon our eager lips,
within our kisses and our wishes that sweep our souls
we are consoled...
By love in her paradoxical cloak,
invoked by love's deprive,
yet alive,
waiting willingly in the tears of our lover's cry.
I have beheld the world through my eyes,
in a moment's breath on either side,
where contrast ideas collide in a mind full of sky.
Where twinkling stars cast their gaze
and sunlit days turn to nights of rain.
We are captured by the frame of time.
In my garden sits a large granite rock,
flecked with traces of quartz, mica, and spar.
A juggernaut, juxtaposed with shamrock,
and flowers of yellow and cinnabar.
Time and weather exposed its hidden faults,
riffled with colors of every hue.
And butterflies visit it for its salts;
today, I spied one of indigo blue.
It stood poised on that rock, with folded wing,
edged in gold filigree fit for a king.
Shadows lengthen across the garden floor,
as cooling breezes sweep the quiet air.
And the blue butterfly took flight once more,
leaving the silent giant waiting there.
Oh the army looked after its own
It really must be said
Except the RSM didn’t really
Tuck the squaddies up in bed.
Three square meals a day
You could eat your fill
They did try to keep you fit
Just in case you had to kill
And they opened up the cook house
Every single night for toast and tea
I sometimes went if broke
After all everything was free.
They had the largest toaster in the world
At least the largest one I had ever seen
As I was young and not well travelled
It very well just may not have been,
Where you would cook your toast
Accompanied by the pop pop pop
Of those kamikaze cockroaches
That tried to run across its top.
There were heaps and piles and scatters
Scorched and charred by the score
No matter how many failed
There were always plenty more.
We’d sweep the toaster top
Brush them on the floor
But just seconds later
There’d be plenty more.
We’d find them in the soup
We’d find them in the custard
Like an invading force
Permanently mustered.
Sometimes we probably ate them,
They probably added to the taste
When we rushing back on shift
And eating in a haste.
We feared the consequences more
Of parading for work late
Than any minor adulteration to
The food that we all ate.
When man is gone
For what its worth
Maybe the cockroach will
Inherit this earth.
Oh the army looked after its own
It really must be said
Except the RSM didn’t really
Tuck the squaddies up in bed
Written: December 06, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote "Winter's white tapestry invites us to pause, inhale the serenity, and take shelter in snowflakes". By Poet
*******************
The shiny trail sprawls forth at my feet,
in silk spike where snow and shade meet.
The world, a quilt of gems, shone bright.
as silence snow slides spumy, a fading flight.
Each flake, a spell, captivating to the eye.
A lover's caress, gentle yet daringly nigh.
I bide in tranquility, engulfed in his shine.
Gradually, nighttime is marred in a shrine
He strokes my hair and lingers upon my cheek.
His smooches are halcyon and meek
Peace hangs in the air, a whisper of light glow
His arms wrap me in the chill of winter's snow.
His rhythm melds with mine, serene and deep.
I had a sense of sweep that I had to reap
Snow is transformed into a beautiful tune.
A bond of love that fails to endure and swoon.
She whispers back, "I love you, stay with me,"
Yet I know her gift is a pure banshee.
For soon he fades, his memory will decay,
a spirit of winter melting fast away.
“The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day…
...A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
In the white lip and tremor of the face…”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s The Lighthouse
PEGGY’S COVE
horizon above Peggy’s Cove:
altocumulus tangerine and larimar,
depth of beauty and lemonade.
whisper of lighthouse, “come closer…”
small signage warns of romantic death.
seal not your fate —
keep your toes
aloof wet rock.
sweep of the waves
on a stormy night
the wanton call
of sirens’ sway
the boulders in a hurricane ~
a host of angels
vigilant
10/29/2020
I’ve known the streets: Places where the night lingers and the echoes of passing cars feel distant.
My feet have grown accustomed to the dim-lit alleys.
I walked past shuttered windows when the city slept, listening for the familiar footsteps that come and go.
I leaned against the brick walls, my breath clouding in the cold air, and
I whispered in low tones, watching headlights sweep across the pavement, and
I felt the city thrum with unseen stories.
I’ve known the streets: Quiet, restless streets.
My feet have grown accustomed to the dim-lit alleys.
I’ve lain stretched out, my body bare to the night, where beauty and sorrow mingled in my broken bones.
I’ve forsaken my soul for a walking dead man’s pleasure, trading dignity for a moment’s release.
I wanted to retire, live on the beach in Miami, listen to the waves crash on the shore.
But another car has stopped at the curb, and I must wear that smile that pulls at a lonely man’s groin.
Cold walls line the filthy, darkened highway underground,
A breathless void, where daylight never makes a sound.
No leafy shroud to cloak my weary, rugged frame,
Dilated eyes, weak, trembling, and steeped in nameless shame.
I stagger on, my gaze a frantic, fearful sweep,
A rat squeaks, scurrying beneath my calloused feet.
A hand claws at my tattered bed sheet, sharp and cold,
Despair erupts—I cry for help, no hand to hold.
The night persists, its shadows choking every air,
An endless labyrinth, no solace, no escape to dare.
Hope, a fragile thread, is severed, faith undone,
Until a tiny glimmer breaks—a promise of the sun.
I race toward the light, its pull an urgent plea,
But footsteps echo—others run, and now they’re chasing me.
Whispers coil, screams pierce, a baby’s wailing cry,
The fragile glow is swallowed, lost within the tide.
And in that moment, truth descends—a heavy weight:
The darkness isn’t night alone, but woven into fate.
Burdens crush, deceit defiles, and spirits lose their fire,
The voices all around me sing of madness, not desire.
In this unending, bleak abyss beneath the ground,
We yearn for hope, yet drown in shadows that surround.
Still, faint and distant, light persists beyond the veil,
But bound in chains, our feet can't follow, frail and pale.
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.
The sea repeats the stories of the shore,
Each wave a whispered promise, soon erased;
What’s built in sand, the tides will claim once more,
No matter how the stones are set or placed.
The sun dips low, a golden parting sigh,
Its shimmer fading from the ocean’s face;
The winds, like restless ghosts, go rushing by,
While shadows fall with slow, relentless grace.
Yet still, we build—despite the sea’s decree,
Our castles crumble, dreams return to foam.
For hope is carved in hearts that long to be
A story held, a shore to call a home.
Though time may pull all things from land to deep,
Love plants a seed the tides will fail to sweep.