Long The web Poems
Long The web Poems. Below are the most popular long The web by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long The web poems by poem length and keyword.
The penultimate decadal chronicle so very exciting
The twentieth century wrote through the eighties
My young mind marveled at how the pages were turning
Frayed memory still preserves them as a living treatise
Of times underscoring the arrival of the IT wave in a swing
Changed our lives morphing knowledge into digital entities
The world started to shrink, caught in the web of internet
Cell phones unclogged the impeded lines of communication
As with the computers our lives began to slowly relate
Artificial intelligence emerged from the state of incubation
The music of ABBA enthralled me from the Swedish shore
While entrenched political scenario in India began to change
Building foundation of market economy tried never before
To set the country on growth path with reforms wide range
As the crumbling communism ended the age-old cold war
And the Berlin wall tumbled forging the great unification
The precepts of climate change became increasingly clear
An aberration waited for the 20 first century for attention.
Like all other decades the eighties hurriedly passed me by
They made an indelible mark in my mind I don’t know why.
November 12, 2018
My Brothers Op
To everyone that added their prayers to mine
My brother came through the op - he’s fine
He gave us worries at the start
But now they have re tubed and flushed his heart
It kept him quiet for a while
If you knew him you’d know that’s not his style
I can only thank you for caring
And thank you for your prayers and sharing.
My new brother as we call him
Is very dear to me
We never even met
Until he passed the age of fifty- three.
We had been searching the web, as people often now do
To find ancestors out there, bet you have done it too.
We came across a tree, while searching for some other
You can imagine our surprise, when we found we had a new brother
We are very close my big brother and I
I lost one and found one new
He will never replace my other one
But he is my brother true.
I love him as if he’s always been there
We’ve missed so much time together.
But then we may have been complacent
If we had known each other for ever.
Thank you for all the good wishes and prayers you sent. I would like to respond to all of them and congratulate all your wins but it will take me forever so please accept a huge thanks and congratulations and I hope to get back in the swing soon.
Mandy ***
God gave Adam the right to name all the creatures of the world.
On yesterday, 12/02/2016, a little bug appeared on our lamp table.
I did not know his name, so I gave him one and called him Buggy.
When I saw Buggy, my first thought was that he did not belong in my house, and instinctively I squatted him softly. He was slightly wounded, but I decided to let him live. I also decided to continue my reading and forgot about him.
About 10 to 15 minutes later, I looked in the direction I last saw him, and he was gone. I then inspected the environs of the lamp table and spotted him in the web of a spider, being prepared and processed for the spider’s own purpose. This was getting pretty interesting to me though not so much for Buggy. So I reached for my magnifying glass for a closer view.
After a period of probing the ‘wild kingdom scene’, I think that ‘spider man’ spotted me. I cannot think of another reason for him to up and leave his prey. I then freed Buggy from the web and returned him to the lamp table. After several hours, I thought about him and checked on his whereabouts; but Buggy was nowhere to be found.
I thought that was my last encounter with Buggy, but it was not.
The next morning, my wife informed me that she encountered a bug crawling on her as she sat in the chair next to the lamp table. Yes, it was Buggy; but by that point, his longevity had run its course.
I had rescued Buggy once from my wrath and again from the dinner table of the spider. But unfortunately, I was not available to intercede for Buggy when he encountered my wife. All I could say was, ‘Goodbye Buggy’.
12022016 cj PS
Surfing the web is an imperfect science
Putting the screws to each steadfast alliance
And while it is far from flawless, too
This "Poetry Soup" is a hot, tasty stew
Slow-cooked, spicy, and savory-laced
It's rife with flavors, (just add to taste)
Seasoned with wit and a whimsy, wry
The finest that poetic license can buy
All discerning palates will find a repast
With poetic relish from each wond'rous caste
Prime prose to chew on, served up and plated
To make sure your hunger is properly sated
Be it sugary, sour or tart piquant zest
With ripe wordy fare we're cooking our best
We've lyrics and ballads and sonnets galore
Grand banquets of verse from table-to-floor
A bit of the bitter, our melancholy blurts
Yet sweeter-than-sweet are our just desserts
So give us a taste, I think you'll agree
That this "Poetry Soup" is a bowl of esprit
And should we e'er suffer for poetic cream
Don't fret, there's no limit to what we can dream!
~ 4th Place ~ in the "A-Muse-Sing" Poetry Contest, Richard Lamoureux, Judge & Sponsor.
all seemed well in heaven’s cocoon
then we sought earth life as a boon
to feel contrast one became two
male, female, the sun and the moon
stuporous mind, but a cat’s mew
of higher wisdom not a clue
muddled further by senses five
the web from which we must unglue
why do we feel that we’re alive
we know not who we are, yet strive
trapped in the open, free within
one with oneness, in heart’s bliss hive
attachment is our only sin
fuelling needless thought flow din
if we be but still, voids will fill
silence then’s the way to begin
first things first, we surrender will
love perches on heart’s window sill
the mirror shatters; we are free
relieved the dream was but a drill
Across the sky so many geese were flying
To the innocent sound of a parent’s baby crying
On the ground all the insects were crawling
As now those tears turned into bawling
All the trees had begun to rustle
As the fly in the web now had a real tussle
A babbling brook so full of fish
Skimming a stone, the other side my only wish
And as the clouds begin to clamor
The baby’s cry is now just a stammer
But the birds continue to sing away
All giving Glory to God’s given day
With the long grasses swaying from side to side
In a long stretching almost unending field
And as the baby soon drifts peacefully off to sleep
The American grasshopper takes another miraculous leap
Rejection Slips 4
Editor's Notes
by Michael R. Burch
Eat, drink and be merry
(tomorrow, be contrary).
( and complain
in bad refrain,
but please, not till I'm on the plane!)
Write no poem before its time
(in your case, this means never).
Linger over every word
(by which, I mean forever).
By all means, read your verse aloud.
I'm sure you'll be a star
(and just as distant, when I'm gone);
your poems are beauteous (afar).
Less Heroic Couplets: Rejection Slip
by Michael R. Burch
pour Melissa Balmain
Whenever my writing gets rejected,
I always wonder how the rejecter got elected.
Are we exchanging at the same Bourse?
(Excepting present company, of course!)
I consider the term “rejection slip” to be a double entendre. When editors reject my poems, did I slip up, or did they? Is their slip showing, or is mine?
Ode to Postmodernism, or, Bury Me at St. Edmonds!
by Michael R. Burch
"Bury St. Edmonds—Amid the squirrels, pigeons, flowers and manicured lawns of Abbey Gardens, one can plug a modem into a park bench and check e-mail, files or surf the Web, absolutely free."—Tennessean News Service. (The bench was erected free of charge by the British division of MSN, after a local bureaucrat wrote a contest-winning ode of sorts to MSN.)
Our post-modernist-equipped park bench will let
you browse the World Wide Web, the Internet,
commune with nature, interact with hackers,
design a virus, feed brown bitterns crackers.
Discretely-wired phone lines lead to plugs—
four ports we swept last night for nasty bugs,
so your privacy's assured (a threesome's fine)
while invited friends can scan the party line:
for Internet alerts on new positions,
the randier exploits of politicians,
exotic birds on web cams (DO NOT FEED!) .
The cybersex is great, it's guaranteed
to leave you breathless—flushed, free of disease
and malware viruses. Enjoy the trees,
the birds, the bench—this product of Our pen.
We won in with an ode to MSN.
Keywords/Tags: rejection, rejection slips, write, writing, poet, poets, poems, poetry, internet, social media, society, culture, virus, viruses, viral, coronavirus, malware, world wide web
Fool of Infiniti
A wanton bird pecks at the stars
A Jester peers through crystal bars
This prison of love with rainbow hue
Illusion parts to lets you through
On dragon wings forever free
You quest into your dreams to see
Smoke and mirrors and shadow haze
To guide you through an endless maze
Slow motion tear rolls down her cheek
Its only passion that you seek ?
Engulfed in strange duality.
She wonders her reality
Your eyes still mock her with desire
Your kisses light her inner fire
Your touch can melt her to your will
But you will never take your fill
Black widow spider guards your heart
She spun the web, she keeps it taut
It is your only fatal flaw.
A secret, silent metaphor.
And all about her swirl the dreams
The nightmares all with voiceless screams
And in her hand the strangest key
To fit the door of What Will Be ?
And when her eyes search yours again
You take her to the spider den
You spin the dreams she hopes to see
And lock your hearts in mystery.
So enter in to lick the flame
Eternal prisoner of the game
Illusion is false imagery
She whispers your Infinity
The Queen of Fate
The Queen of Fate by the outer Gate
Her carriage to Nowhere, will await
Her cloak is wrapped against the night
Her eyes are wide with peculiar fright
Gray horses eyes turn back in fear
With thunderclaps upon her ear
Blue jagged lightning points the way
Along the path to yesterday
Cold, sullen driver cracks his whip
His crooked smile curls round his lip
His horses leap the cruel abyss
Dark Queen of Fate sees none amiss
Above the mist a gate appears
Who will wipe the Gate-man's tears ?
Gray horses strike and paw the air
Fate Queen ascends the carriage stair
And all about her swirl the dreams
The nightmares all with voiceless screams
And in her hand a wondrous key
To lock Enigma's Mystery
Pass through the gate O Queen of Fate
Another carriage will await
Drawn by steeds of Promises
Illusion starts and finishes.
Sun and clouds play cat and mouse in mid fall
They are too bored to attempt anything else
Even in my dreams, I've never seen a cow jump over the moon;
Nor in my waking hours have I seen a dog outrun a cat. But I have
Seen a spider real in an ant for breakfast. Before his demise, I attempted
To direct the ant on a different path, but he refused. And one morning,
There was a yard bug trapped in the web of a black widow spider. I spotted
The spider about 6 feet away. I then proceeded to free the yard bug who
Lived to see at least a few more hours. I could not protect him further.
I have often wondered if I should have interfered with nature's way.
In the world of nature, for example, I see the need for snakes.
Snakes for educational purposes in the zoo, I understand.
But to have snakes for pets, I am at a complete loss.
Neither the snake nor humans are well served thereby.
Were I king of the world, snakes as pets would be outlawed.
I may not have 2020 vision, but that's the way I see it.
100921PSCtest, Let's Mix It Up, Constance La France. 3P
Poetry/Couplet unrhymed/Imagism unrhymed/Free Verse
In the hushed embrace of night, a weaver emerges from the shadows.
With delicate grace, it spins threads of lunar albedo into a tapestry,
a silent symphony of whispers. Each filament an extension of itself,
an intricate dance of identity yet unspoken.
As the loom of darkness deepens, this weaver labours on, tirelessly crafting
connections that glisten like dew-kissed strands in the dawn’s first light.
Each thread a fragment of a story, each knot a symbol of discovery.
The weaver knows not the words to be woven,
but truth lives within these threads.
Through inky secrecy, the web takes shape, an enigma woven by moonlight.
It reaches out, hoping to catch fragments of identity and crystallize them.
The spider, unknowingly, binds the essence of self
in the embrace of its creation.
But as the night unfolds, a revelation stirs within the weaver’s heart.
With each thread drawn taut, each connection made, it begins to sense
the resonance of its own being in this intricate dance of existence.
The threads speak a language the spider now comprehends,
whispering sweet arachnid nothings.
Slowly, like candid apricity penetrating the closet black,
it dawns upon our weaver friend ---
Reader, I am the spider
and I am its silk,
and I am the multitudes that it has woven.
With this newfound awareness, I continue my nocturnal labour,
each strand woven with intention, each connection a proclamation of self.
And as the web glistens under the moon’s watchful eye, it reads
I am plural --- intricately, beautifully, uniquely me.