Long Swell Poems
Long Swell Poems. Below are the most popular long Swell by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swell poems by poem length and keyword.
The morning with its silent music creeps slowly up the hill bathing in the scorching sun bursting out of the sky, dancing on hill tops and singing sweet lullabies; as if a baby was sitting in the cradle smiling at me before the morning sun rise with a touch of hope parachuting around the galaxy before it opens its eyes, and destiny suddenly caught my attention. It is the compound melody that you hear when the spirits draw near, it evokes the lyrics of the past whose words are too strong to be told and the forgotten melody that stands between the lines opens a new symphony that Mozart could not sing and Beethoven could play. We wander through the music sheet and penetrate the melody in the deep, listening carefully to the rhythmic pattern and the historical track that climb to the top of the musical ladder. Everything came back and I was still sitting on top listening to the silent music play. There is divine hope in the clouds let me hear it again before I grow old, I have passed the threshold of time, watching the universe teasing man’s mind and conscience and hope began to swell. Close your eyes and you will hear it, open your heart and you will feel it, men of valor who roam the earth thousands of years ago whose spirit is wrapped up into the deity has given prudence to the lyrics’ of time as they search for rhythm to lead them back to the path of clarity. Come and join me beyond the sea I have something significant to show thee, our world is so small yet one small mistake will make the whole world fall, it is the layers that lies between and the inward journey that you cannot see; it is a busy route for the sheep and goat and when you get there the heavens will make you shout. Come listen to the silent music with me that lies beyond the bewildering sea.
To be immortal. How would THAT work out?
To keep a youthful look forevermore
I think would be incredible – no doubt!
Would all the chronic pain that I deplore
become unfeasible? That would be swell!
To outlive history! How would that be?
I’d know the follies of mankind so well
but probably have no ability
to stop the madness! Finally, what of
relationships when all of my own kin
I would outlive? How could I look for love;
watch them die over and over again?
I think it’s better to face death one day.
The spirit is eternal anyway!
An oldie
Submitted currently for Anoucheka Gangabissoon's If I Were Immortal Contest
The arena fully packed,
All the ring girls looking sweet.
The fighters in their corners,
And the crowd was on their feet.
The ref looked like a Zebra,
Standing in the center ring.
He called the two to join him,
For the rules of everything.
The staredown was intense,
Touching gloves before the bout.
The bell rang for the first,
And the fighters hurried out.
A barrage of punches thrown,
And several of them landed.
The Challenger lightning quick,
And the Champ was heavy handed.
When the second round began,
The Kid let the leather fly.
And with a mighty roundhouse,
Caught the Champ in the eye.
It didn't put him down,
But his eye began to swell.
When he got back to his corner,
His trainer gave him hell.
He said, "You've been the Champ,
For the last seven years."
"You've made it to the top,
From your blood, sweat, and tears."
"It's a matter of your belt,
And we've all come too far."
"Now get your ass back out there,
And show him who you are."
The bell sounded for the third,
And the round was underway.
The Kid began to dance,
Like a younger Cassius Clay.
The Champ just started swinging,
With everything in sight.
The Kid would duck away,
But always to his right.
With the clock ticking down,
The Champ at last saw his flaw.
And laid him on the canvas,
With a left hook to the jaw.
It only took three rounds,
For the final count of ten.
How high his hands were raised,
Becoming Champ once again.
To me there’s nothing finer
then that charge within the air,
and that strange yellowish light
that tell people to beware.
Most people will see the signs,
they will scurry off and hide,
I admit, I’m one of them,
but as soon as I’m inside
I love it when the weather
acts out like a drama queen,
I am a thunder-junkie,
I am a lightning fiend.
First there comes the sleep, white flash
ripping down from angry clouds,
then base, vibrato rumbles
that shake up the whole dang house.
Next come a few spattered drops,
a minute later: Deluge!
The pounding on metal roofs
sounds so impossibly huge.
Nature puts us in our place
when she gets all big and mean,
I am a thunder-junkie,
I am a lightning fiend.
And then the winds a-thrashing,
the pine branches bow and flex,
the streams swell into rivers,
maybe hail pokes out its neck,
the booms reach a crescendo,
twilight in the afternoon,
the dog is going crazy,
frantic pacing ’round the room.
I guess he is no fan of
nature when raw and obscene,
he is no thunder-junkie,
he is no lightning fiends.
The tingling on my neck
soon begins to face away,
fury has soon spent itself,
never that long can it stay.
The curse of my condition,
highs are over so darn quick,
I’m at the whim of nature
when it comes to my next fix.
Thor is my favorite god of old,
angels bowl within my dreams,
I am a thunder-junkie,
I am a lightning fiend.
The sky staggers
in s
p
i
r
a
l
s of sleepless blue,
a celestial storm stitched from sapphire and sorrow,
where stars swell, simmering seeds of unstable light
trembling like thoughts too vast to be contained.
Above the village, night kneels in restless reverence.
Roofs rest in rigid resignation,
windows dim as quiet witnesses to cosmic unrest,
while the steeple stretches upward like a hesitant prayer
that never quite reaches its answer.
A cypress rises, black, brooding, blade-like
a funereal flame fixed in the soil of silence,
cutting through the composition like grief given form,
binding earth to the fevered heavens above.
The wind is unseen yet insinuated,
a wandering whisper weaving through the whorled sky,
stirring stars into spinning, shimmering syntax,
as though the night itself has lost grammatical control.
Nothing here is still.
Everything leans light lurches, darkness deepens, distance dissolves.
The world holds together on tension alone,
as though the painter captured not a landscape,
but the moment reality began to tremble.
Let your words not hinder, but be a balm.
He is someone's significant other,
and as they kiss, may your conscience be calm.
He's long been a best friend to another,
tossing back and forth sports balls and wisecracks.
Though annoying, siblings love their brother.
This hardworking son helps Dad with wood stacks,
and excels in gym, his preferred subject,
trading with his peers for favorite snacks.
He's someone's someone, so show him respect,
giving honor to those who know him well.
Before speaking unkindly, please reflect
that waves trinkle to shores after they swell.
The ocean is full of stories to tell.
7/23/22
FIVE STANZA TERZA RIMA Poetry Contest
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins
Tinnitus tinnitus, innocuous by name,
invisible tasteless, sounds pretty lame,
Ears hissing, snakes inside my head,
Growing louder, causing turmoil in bed,
Room’s spinning, feel like getting sick,
Banging kicks off, rhythmically quick.
Tinnitus tinnitus, pneumatic drillers,
incessant maniacal machine gun killers,
Thumping smashing, trash metal band,
Like rock music, but this I cannot stand,
Eyes are bloodshot, severe lack of sleep,
cacophonous noise, then marching feet.
Tinnitus tinnitus, chainsaws a cutting,
No trees or lumberjacks, I see nothing,
Put on the radio, try drown out noise,
overwhelmed, lose rationale and poise,
Church bells peeling, ringing perhaps,
overloaded, mind spirals into collapse.
Tinnitus tinnitus, curse this living hell,
hammering my face, eyes begin to swell,
Delirious sweating, sheets soaking wet,
overcome in confusion, desperate upset,
Pray to god make the torment go away
release me from this Kafkaesque array.
Tinnitus tinnitus, eardrums explode,
Brain is shattered, as decibels grow,
Can’t take anymore, at my wits end,
On slugs of whiskey, sanity depends,
One after the other, knock them back,
Throbbing numbing starting to relax.
Tinnitus tinnitus, drink myself unconscious,
Wake up next day, agonizingly nauseous,
My ear is on the pillow, bottle’s in pieces,
covered with blood, trembling increases,
Look in the mirror, No no this cannot be,
Vincent Van Gough’s, staring back at me.
By
David Kavanagh
"over the waters blue the night winds sigh, the breakers roar ... " - Lord Byron
I met my love at twilight by the beach.
We strolled along – feet walking bare on sand.
We found a lovely spot and there we laid
our blanket down to sit and watch the sea.
The sky was beautiful – soft violet.
It melded with the sea, and we could hear
wind softly sighing too; my sweetheart leaned
in for a kiss; his kisses made me melt,
for he was like that sky of violet
whose magic touched the sea before the night
concealed its azure blue as darkness fell.
My lover’s breath upon my neck became
wind’s susurration whispering sweet bliss.
We moaned as breakers roared and crashed onto
the shore upon which I and my love moved
in rhythm to the waters swell. Once quelled,
in one another’s arms we lay, content.
As warm wind wafted over us, we too
were drifting with it into dreamy sleep.
Smitten by unrequited love,
rejection stymies fledgling hearts.
And any chance of happiness
is lost before it even starts.
Denial comforts broken hearts
left in a vulnerable state.
While they cling tight to the false hope
that time might yet alter their fate.
Always waiting in the shadows,
smiles keep passion's flame concealed.
For exposed fantasy dreams die,
when secret feelings are revealed.
Their impassioned hearts feel empty,
like they were hollowed out inside.
And tears often swell up and spill,
no matter how many they've cried.
Desire and suppression have them
sliding down a slippery slope.
Yet, with undying persistence,
they desperately cling to hope.
Down on the floor,
where everyone thinks they are better,
a curious feeling starts to swell in my throat.
The air is cool against my skin,
tinged with the faint metallic scent of sweat
and the sharp sweetness of perfume.
The starting chords of a song
that lives within my spirit
rise through the crowd, vibrating through the soles of my boots
and rattling my chest with every beat.
I shout and I scream.
The tears begin to fall.
A moment of silence hits me like a wall,
the sudden stillness heavy, almost sacred.
The energy of the room cradles it all.
Then the beat picks up.
I let the tears run,
stamping my boots,
my fried vocals
anoint the release.
Hand on my heart,
I feel it in my bones.
I must move.
And so I dance some more,
spinning, swaying,
lost in the pitch black starry background,
still screaming those chorus lyrics,
my lifeline so many times before.
I shout the bridge
with one of my favorite artists.
The grief releases,
the anger frees,
the gratitude hums quietly,
a note still lingering in the dark.
Can’t you see
that it’s art that saved me?
The song ends
as I make amends
with those versions of me
who arrived in tears.
I applaud and scream once more,
and cringe at the people I used to be before.