Long Swoons Poems
Long Swoons Poems. Below are the most popular long Swoons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swoons poems by poem length and keyword.
The soldier, he looked down at me
While I protested vociferously.
He seemed to be but twenty-five
An age that weathered eyes belied.
And as I turned to walk away,
I heard the soldier up and say:
“It seems that you don’t understand,
What it takes to protect this land.
The price we pay for what we do,
What we suffer for folks like you.
The cost of keeping people free
Is letting go of the fantasies.
The stories all you people tell,
Burn away in war’s fiery hell.
The illusions that most people hold,
They Sink away to depths untold.
To keep you safe we confront truth,
And force along the end of youth.
You chant and say ‘Let’s end all war,’
It’s understandable deplored.
But you never seem able to derive,
That the end of war is the end of life.
As long as folks can think on their own,
Conflict will exist, and war will be close.
To end it all, the cost would be
All trace of individuality.
A price too great for man to know,
Better the chance of trading blows,
Than giving up what is our essence.
It’s a bloody but important lesson.
And since the battle can never end,
You’ll always have need of warrior men,
To fight against chaotic tides,
To hold a line against the night.
And as for seeing an end to war,
Only dead folks will see no more.
We don’t as much for what we do,
In money I make less than you!
We ask no power, small or large,
We don’t demand to be in charge.
We don’t need swoons or genuflects,
We ask only that you show respect.
And though it makes bleeding hearts burn,
It’s a respect we’ve dearly earned.
By watching buddies die and scream,
By hearing them in haunted dreams,
By seeing our peace-time lives crimped
By missing limbs and nagging limps.
We just want you to understand
What such a life does to a man.
To keep peace for this country, wide
A piece of all of us must die.
And even if we survive steel rain,
What comes home will never be the same.
We do it ‘cause it must be done,
To those for fear no law but guns.
We stand up strong and take the blast,
So common folks, the rage will pass.
And had we not chosen this life
You’d all feel the weight of death-run-rife.”
And then the soldier walked on by,
I could not believe he’d bought the lies!
The fool, he probably stayed up late,
Thinking up new folks to hate!
If he’d only go to college, he’d see
The real heroes are protesting…
Consciousness seeps,
the air moves.
Quickly reach!
Break forth from your tomb.
Visability blurred as my head swoons.
Instincts react! Frozen in place my eyes roam.
What was that?! I am not alone.
Instincts react! Quickly I'm gone.
Hidden in back. Allowing my senses to hone.
My vision now intact. I search the unknown.
Momentarily my sanity cracks. Unbelievable what I'm shown.
Spiderlings scurrying I'm taken aback. As the big One grips a door-like throne.
Where am I at? This isn't my home.
Quickly taking stock of the shell that now houses my existence.
The panic grows instead of lessens.
For now I realize I am a spider curse or blessing.
Adaptation is survival I start assessing.
Eight strong, stocky yet creepy legs.
A body and thankfully not two heads.
Two eyes in the center, three on the right, three on the left.
I open my mouth to speak and feel a fangs sharp edge.
A sinister emotion emerges from the deep.
Realizing with these I shall kill and eat.
The shock is gone as I quickly creep.
From shadows to corners I emerge and sneak.
As each one of my siblings meet with their defeat.
One by one I locate them before they retreat.
I pounce fast and sink in my teeth.
Two pops as within them I be.
Their life oozes and squirts in my cheeks.
Dropping them to the floor at my feet.
On and on I go like the Goddess Neith.
Killing each one weaving my destiny.
Right before I reach what seems like the last.
I catch sight of something but it was too fast.
Before the next breath, I was snatched up and swung. Flying into the wall where the trapdoor hung. Crash!
Quick to recover I face my assailant.
But with a size surpasses gigantic.
And at the moment not a fanatic.
Deadly glares from the mother, a dangerous combatant.
I quickly mask my aggression and pretend to be gallant.
My heavy breaths release the heat of the fight.
As I see through the cracks that it's no longer night.
The trapdoor that feeds us closed up tight.
Food is given and taken much to my delight.
Snagging mine quickly enough then hiding from sight.
Safely tucked far back in a crevice away from daylight.
I eat and I sleep well maybe not quite.
For a hunter must always be prepared for the bite.
HUNGARIAN RHAPSODY
Her hand’s swan-like dance,
ivory shadow puppets
romance. Hungarian rhapsody.
The musician sans existence
as emotive fingers move
imaginary marionettes
with splendiferous precision.
Drama drops onto piano keys
occasionally taking a gentle stroll
then in sensuous sway, sashaying
like an exotic dancer. The musician
plucks and plinks as if
with chameleonic charm, like an
angel playing a harp.
Her fingers fast walk the keyboard
then resound tremulous keys.
(The audience swoons, spooned
by a rapturous torrent that enters
the heart, strokes and kisses
the yearning flesh, like the taste
and feel of brandy, burning and
tantalizing in breathlessness)
The musician’s slender fingers
now strum along in gaiety, like
paramours on the streets of Paris,
Springtime in the air. Palms nearly
rest upon silent keys as if two lovers
lay back upon a bed with puffs of smoke.
Dawn’s crescendo, with peaks of happiness
reside upon streets of ebony and ivory.
Life’s serendipitous monologue begins
once more with foreboding or adventure
or both. Is there loneliness upon this crest
for what has happenstance brought,
are they star-crossed? Do we see the sun
and the moon racing through their pulse —
days of birth and mourning?
(The blond marionette in concert black
seems to be mesmerized or hypnotized
by the muse of music. She’s like a dream
on a performance stage. Practiced in
illumination of flame. She releases the arrow
and the audience brightens up like a chandelier
with clinking and brilliant crystal pieces)
Happiness once again but with ferocious fervor
sends the keys to a heavenly place - to ears,
to mind, to soul...a cheer of a great parade,
and then the shivering of climatic peak,
followed by a lullaby of dreams - we imagine
a newborn wrapped up in a life well-lived.
The darling gal still doesn’t give up the ghost
but plays and plays...can you hear the needle
stuck at the vinyl’s end...spending all love gives?
Only the Creator Himself can lift the arm and
carry the musician still incubating all her charm.
3/19/2018
She feels the sun's heat despite sitting in shadows
Feeling heart beats as loud as drums - and the drums weren't just beats.
They were clocks ticking down to zero, waiting to explode -
Tears as implosions and the cracks of television screens.
That was the moon,
And I am the sun.
//
The world had never knew this until the day she was born. She had eyes like the sun that could heal a mourning soul. We looked at golden and could have sworn that at night, she couldn't have been the moon.
Where eyes like hers were the moans of quiet suffering, and at dark, when the moon took the sun's spot, a tune no sane person had easily bought.
You could say that the sun and the moon were night and day, and that was exactly what they were. Two personalities fasten together despite not wanting to. Daily actions of pricks and prods, trying her best not to look at the open wound. Mounds of fears and questionings of "did they put enough anesthetic?" As if a gallon of bleach wasn't enough, heart beats like drums - constant ticks and tocks of a fate that would one day come.
This was the sun, right before dusk.
//
When the moon met the stars, and when the sun met the clouds - reality itself just seemed too far. Rusty arms went out to reach the stars, and golden hands shrouding clouds when she meant no harm. Help was out there, but that was something that the permanent anesthetic just couldn't bare. To her, all of this - was just too fair.
Too many clouds mean rain, anyways.
//
There was a night, when a star had met the moon. Creating swoons of happiness that created dark to light.
When the moon morphed into the sun, and when the star became a blanket for her golden rays.
Just so a prevention from harmful crowds would wash away, he hid her under his blanket of allocation of clouds. Patting snow-white on scars marked with words. A cloth on her forehead in case she became warm.
This was the kind of treatment the sun or the moon could get used to. Slowly, stars brightened away, and crowds of clouds washed abroad
Just so you could see their baby or midnight blue.
We Danced written by Poet John Heck
I penned a couplet for you today.
Rather, a quill manipulated
my hand and scrawled mendacity.
The misanthrope's who read the ode
applauded with flippers on.
Such insight. Such depth.
Mussolini meets Monet and
the Mephistopheles Mambo mounts.
Call me a scribe and I murder myself.
Call me a liar and I impregnate your charm.
I purposely dislocated my arm today.
Rather, your tongue severed bone
and flesh was torn from my shoulder;
a needed braised boomerang
to stimulate my poetic prowess.
Such clarity. Such wisdom.
Lenin leads Lichtenstein and
the Lucifer Lindy is launched.
Call me a poet and I gnarl my fingers.
Call me a fabulist and I bow to a crooked smile.
A jellyfish swam through my veins today.
Rather, the tentacles of a tyrant
triggered a fabricated Tanka.
Maudlin stumbles when I laugh alone -
more comedic when we cackle together.
Such simplicity. Such compassion.
Bundy befriends Berchtold and
the Beelzebub Bossa Nova begins.
Call me a dramatist and I gag upon reflection.
Call me a simpleton and your wishes are granted.
I solemnly yearn to expire today.
Rather, a fool fires in a fury
and a mannequin lies in his casket.
The curse you've driven towards me -
a combination menu
when a lone Woolf inconspicously
devours a battered Browning.
Such diversity. Such nothingness.
Stalin seduces Seurat and
the Satanic Samba softly swoons.
Call me a parodist and I choke upon perfection.
Call me a realist when I'm sleeping on nails.
Disclaimer:" We Danced" poem written in the year 2009
by Mr.John Heck,a wonderful poet to be known who is no longer in our P.S family.
Being new to this site ,very sad to know few of them
have already demised.
Let's explore the treasure box by reading their works.
I am sure we can gain lots of knowledge and in fact
improve our writing skills too.
May the demised soul's RIP.
We can keep them alive through posting
and re-reading their dedications.
1-7-2020
Note: Submitting in "The Uncontest" Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco.
by Michaelw1two
Worrisome ways is hunger’s wile,
the body swoons as in the pot water boils;
the idea stirs, steam fills the air,
alas alone, in the water’s rip hunger rides;
a pinch of salt, and nothing else,
this mournful dish, a daily task seen to end;
the dream is stirred, the lid is closed,
the mind awash with thought’s taste of hunger’s grind;
meal’s essence, now made of life’s dreams,
catch the tired soul in visions of days long past;
the spices, meats, and vegetables,
that in lost times, so graced the watery brine;
this aging hand again now stirs,
the pot of water, salt, and broken down dreams;
such emptiness, in empty hands,
in this moment’s mourn, an elder’s teardrops fall;
to this point, comes America,
land now awash in exclusionary ways;
there is nothing else left to share,
except end of life, for each of profit’s slaves;
yes, this picture so sorely fits,
at fifty or so, the masses kneel and die;
to this within this lands divide,
those that have, are not charitable at all;
they will to see the people cry,
and those below them, crushed between hunger’s claws;
this is no fallacy, all know,
in each community, hunger’s lines go long;
prices rise, and quality wanes,
a pound of ground, equal to gallon of gas;
these aged hands again now stir,
the water’s boil, shakes and rattles the pot’s top;
to add to this, again one dreams,
a families meal, made for all in better times;
tap water and salt, nothing else,
the meal for each, who could not play profit’s game;
only in America, no!
this does exist, and further the numbers grow;
each of US, know someone who falls,
into the swirl of having to do without;
so lend your mind to this extoll,
make an effort, lend your helping hand to all;
let no one around you suffer,
be brave and more than equal to this great task;
don’t wait for hunger’s face to creep,
onto the narrowing paths you all now walk.
Michael Darrell Walker
(A Thank You To God)
1.
God!
I love this life so much,
How your creation turns me ON,
I wake up singing the joy of each new day,
Even as my body aches with age.
The gift of every morning’s light,
And rain, that precious gift,
Gift that keeps on giving,
Fuel of your abundance.
Seeds, barely seen, that feed and house my soul
A daily miracle, whisper the truth,
Of Your ever present love.
How farmer in me swoons in admiration
At your abundant provision,
Your love, like the rainbow, has many aspects.
Poetry and music that the ether carries,
Fills every dream with water
That like a fish, I have learned to swim in,
And star dust’s sexual nature,
Whose secret longings birth all living matter,
Though inert, how its dreams of movement,
Forge our very nature.
Oh Lord, the fertility of Your imagination
Fills me with such a longing,
Stand by me like a midwife,
Husband me into Your Presence,
Thus make my OFF a new ON.
2.
Take me,
Take me to where your heart so open
Waits only for my laughter,
Thrills in each moments progress,
Stumbling, I fall before You,
Never fear, your hand in anger,
Plant me, plant my feet on Your Path,
Make my life a counter point
To your melodic line, your leading
Show me how my tiny spark
Enriches even Your existence.
3.
Forgive me
Lord, when I’m pissed OFF at You
Or at some inner failing in me,
Open my eyes to the truth
As You’d have me see it,
Those disappointing strangers,
Help me to hear with both ears.
You who have always loved me,
Even before Your Son’s blood washed me clean
And made my every stain as white as snow.
When life takes something from me,
That I think really matters
And anger blinds me to You
Remember I still need you...
When I’m OFF at the races
Putting ego through its paces
Remind me that the battle’s won already,
Loving You is all I have to do....
Life in You so easy,
One, Two, Three!
Brian Johnston
January 6, 2015
The Wonder Boys
by Michael R. Burch
(for Leslie Mellichamp, the late editor of The Lyric,
who was a friend and mentor to many poets, and
a fine poet in his own right)
The stars were always there, too-bright cliches:
scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew
as baffled poets winged keyed kites?amazed,
in dream of shocks that suddenly came true . . .
but came almost as static?background noise,
a song out of the cosmos no one hears,
or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys,
lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared.
They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks
electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke
of words poured from their overheated hearts.
The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope . . .
You will not find them here; they blew away?
in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung
by fingertips to satellites. They strayed
too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young,
their words are with us still. Devout and fey,
they wink at us whenever skies are gray.
The Singer
by Michael R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp
The sun that swoons at dusk
and seems a vanished grace
breaks over distant shores
as a child’s uplifted face
takes up a song like yours.
We listen, and embrace
its warmth with dawning trust.
Dawn, to the Singer
by Michael R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp
“O singer, sing to me—
I know the world’s awry—
I know how piteously
the hungry children cry.”
We hear you even now—
your voice is with us yet.
Your song did not desert us,
nor can our hearts forget.
“But I bleed warm and near,
And come another dawn
The world will still be here
When home and hearth are gone.”
Although the world seems colder,
your words will warm it yet.
Lie untroubled, still its compass
and guiding instrument.
Celtic Sun
Celtic sun, one such wonder,
Sending her rays unto the woods,
Celtic sun spun her golden silk,
Oh, such beauty on kiln dried land.
In this mystic cool Spring air,
Soft wind blowing everywhere,
As free as a maiden-fair-hair,
Butterflies fluster and fill the sky,
The Monarchs of black, yellow bright and blue,
Cardinals chirping, flapping their wings,
Hummingbirds swooshing by,
Drinking from sweet vines and Morning Glories,
Near Plumeria trees, they fly, happily glide,
Catalyst vision of rainbow prism colors bright.
Celtic sun, shines as glorious about,
Casting shadows on fluffy white floating clouds,
Majestically high on blue yonder of mountain ranges,
Fields of magical wonder, Spring flowers and herbs.
Tulips, Daffodils, Silkwoods, Sages, Lilacs and Lavenders,
Honeysuckles hang higher on climbing fences,
Lemon scents in the garden of Rosemaries,
Thymes, Parleys, Fennels and Oregano flowers .
Dancing with plummelling Plumerias,
Butterflies & bees swarm for nectar of flowers.
Morning light shines on desert tan earth
Birds glide and chirp among tall trees
Dew drops crystal dancing with the moon,
Heat swoons and soon it's melting by sun light,
Atop the Delphinium petals blue and bright,
With sweet scents of Hyacints and Java Jasmins.
As dark sky shines on bright stars, so fair afar,
August moon fading soon over the horizon,
Golden sun rising and basking on the sky line,
Over the rim, it shines on the blue azure sea... and behind.
As the ocean waves rush to the shores,
I adore natural earth that I saw, in awe of her beauty,
Forever more, and again, I am in heaven,
Oh Celtic Sun - alas, one more truly happy day.
Jieranai Maier ©2002
Here is a short list of life's many stories. If we take the time and slow down and notice, there are stories going on around us all the time. Stories of life, death, happiness, anger, love and laughter. Real stories that have real meaning to teach us all.
Mommy pulls her newborn baby to her breast
The woman puts ice on her eye and cries
The little girl peeks over the pew as her mother prays
The man wipes the sweat from his face as he lays down his axe
The man slams the door behind him as his wife screams
The dog howls as they carry the old man away
Mother brushes the hair out of her sleeping child's eyes
Dad's eyes fill with tears as he gives her away
The old man slowly and carefully feeds his wife
The young soldier waves goodbye to his family
Grandma pats her husband's hand one last time
The old dog lays his head on her lap
The bride smiles and falls into her husband's arms
The man throws the hammer and grabs his thumb
Everyone cheers as grandma brings the turkey out of the kitchen
The little boy dances as he pulls the fish out of the water
The teacher looks at his watch as his student reads her report
Papa jerks awake when the preacher hollers
The young boy taps his head with his pencil as he takes the test
The toddler laughs as she runs away from her daddy
Mama rocks her crying child
The old woman in her veil and white gloves neatly folds her handkerchief
She watches hopefully as the chemicals slowly drip into her vein
The groom swoons as his bride is escorted down the isle
Father can barely remove his shoes after work
Mama lies awake listening to her sleeping family
The writer yawns and lays down his pen
7/24/19
Writing Challenge 3, July 2019
Sponsored by: Dear Heart