Long Throngs Poems
Long Throngs Poems. Below are the most popular long Throngs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Throngs poems by poem length and keyword.
Excitement filled the bushland as December was near
Every creature had been waiting for Christmas time - all year.
Wallabies hung their stockings on a gumtree branch with care
Just as all nice children do – everywhere.
Meanwhile those more up to date logged on the internet
sending E mails to Santa to see what they could get
Koalas draped high treetops with shiny garlands green
And furry possums lined their dens in golden glitter sheen
Wallabies joined in with bright balloons hung on their tails
All the crows tied streamers, cascading from the rails.
Kookaburras’ laughter changed to Christmas songs
While magpies and peewees piped along in throngs.
A wombat and a bandicoot made honeysuckle punch
The parrots came too early and drank’ til they got drunk
And when the’ Magic Pudding’ came to help with Christmas Dinner
His taste was so delicious he left a trifle thinner.
With a Kangaroo as Santa, his pouch stuffed full of cheer
hopping ‘round the outback in the hottest time of year
Just guess what all the drovers got- lots of ice-cold beer.
Suzanne Delaney
For Children's Christmas Poem Contest for Carol Eastman
Onwards men
Let us succumb
Like a lion with its pride
We shall certainly play our prey
Off we March
Into the fray
Hold your rifles to your heart
Squeeze and muzzle out your fears
Hold the line
Let's reunite
Release the gas of integrity
Let our quarry bleed in peace
Out from no-mans land to the Isle of doom
The Pen will prevail us lasting victory
Onwards men
Let us succumb
Such are swarm of locusta
We'll devour to all ends
Down we go
Cradle your Spears
Invoke the senses of your being
Crush, destroy no confessing defeat
Out beyond the missiles range through the cordoned plane
We Hum a hymn, our salvations whistle
Onwards men
Round up the troops
Sound the cymbal and it's tears
We shall taunt our ears with courage
Drop those shields
Vibrate your throats
Far and wide we'll spread these tales
Historical legends they'll bathe in our eminence
Far to the darkest dreads into the deepest trenches
We'll bare the boast and eternal throngs of peace
From whence come incentive of Thanksgiving song?
Excitement to offer thanksgiving is strong.
Calls writer of lyrics and musical notes,
And bring forth glorious praise from thankful throats.
From whence come the lyrics of Thanksgiving song?
Written by hand of men or from angel’s pen?
Words speak of God’s gifts granted straight from His throne,
Grants so undeserved; so wondrous given.
From whence come the glad tune of Thanksgiving song?
Heaven’s melodic, angelic sing along.
Divine power for weary souls all the day.
Reminds the Lord walks by His child on the Way.
From whence come the voices of Thanksgiving song?
That this grateful anthem be heard by the throngs,
By human voices, words in musical attire.
Praise to the Lord, Leader of Thanksgiving’s Choir.
Today, I was reminiscing about Independence Day celebrations of yesterday,
And how happy throngs commemorated the day as compared to today.
Corona virus and rowdy mobs have seized our orderly domain;
I'm left wondering! Will the Fourth of July ever be the same again?
I recall home-town parades with John Deere tractors and prancing horses;
Marching men and women in uniform representing our armed forces;
Will this year, unruly rabble riot and treat Old Glory with disdain?
I'm left wondering! Will the Fourth of July ever be the same again?
I recall flags displayed along Main Street undulating in the air;
And spirited Sousa tunes played by the high school band with flair;
I recall picnics in the park and backyard barbeques with friends and kin;
I'm left wondering! Will the Fourth of July ever be the same again?
I recall concerts by the Philharmonic Orchestra in Memorial Park;
And the magnificent fireworks later when daylight turned to dark;
Will this year, misguided goons topple historic monuments they consider vain?
I'm left wondering! Will the Fourth of July ever be the same again?
I have many fond memories of The Fourth in my nearly nine decades,
Teaching my kids the significance of the day and marching in parades.
I pray the courage of The Founders will not have been spent in vain.
I'm left wondering! Will the Fourth of July ever be the same again?
Bob Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
American madness, a fury unbound,
A lost nation teeters beyond solid ground.
We've crossed the stark line, flags droop low and still,
The hour grows late; has reason lost its will?
I walk as a stranger in this fractured land,
Where those I believed would lend a saving hand
Have turned, it seems, their faces from the light.
This country I knew now vanishes from sight.
A nation of shadows, where darkness takes hold,
Insanity whispers, a story untold.
Madness now drives us, a train off the track,
Into a dark future, there's no turning back.
This is not the haven of justice and truth,
The land of my dreams, the promise of youth.
Fury for the masses, a bitter refrain,
This broken landscape is a source of such pain.
Not this the country where voices are chained,
Where autonomy falters and freedom is profaned.
Beneath the sway of a ranting command,
A hollowed-out future slips through trembling hands.
Perhaps the time calls for a fierce, bold ascent,
But now, only tears mark this moment's lament.
My national spirit, ripped cruelly apart,
Fury for this madness that shatters my heart.
This desolate land, where hope finds no root,
No soil to nurture, no life to bear fruit.
Yet in this despair, a fierce ember may glow,
A future ignited from seeds of this woe.
Black masses at midnight, a nation astray,
Fury for the lost, who have stumbled and strayed.
A nation unmoored in a fevered, dark dream.
Much like a fragile figure, weak and frail,
Whose trembling limbs can barely keep their hold,
Here at our guarded, sunless walls, grown cold,
A shrieking woman with a snuffed-out trail
Of light extinguished whispers a sad tale,
A Foe of Strangers. From her listless hand.
No welcome sunshine; her harsh gaze can't withstand
The bridge-linked harbor where grim cities wail.
"Hold, selfish shores, your meager scraps!" she moans...
With bitter tongue. "Keep all your strong, your frail,
Your joyful throngs who freely make their own
Bright destinies upon your favored vale."
Reject these weak, by gentle breezes blown
Away from me on steam & iron rail...
Turn away your tired, your poor
Fury for the huddled mass beside a silver stream.
Feeling the nation unmoored...
Standing to fight
in the heart of the city
The jungles of asphalt
where neon flashes evil
as sidewalk dwellers
window shop hate
and find peace labeled “Not for sale”
I cling to my beliefs
in lamp post graffiti
Spray painted wishes
fading in color
and store owner nightmares,
defacing the brick walls with burnt flags
surrounding my very existence
Fear falls in pamphlet raindrops,
pages scattered
beyond the welcome mats
of big box politicians
in paisley ties
and pastel pant suits
shaking hands and scamming votes
Promises made
circled in cigar smoke and cheap eye shadow
fall on unsuspecting ears as truth
until the “sorry we’re closed” signs
spin in favor of loss…
opening for business
to the throngs of the thoughtless
I see their eyes, hollow,
faltering of sorrow as worry
becomes the next day’s problem
Reaching into my pocket I retrieve
the French braided wings you gave me…just in case
and I fly to be with you
Unable to face the fall…of humanity
I see an aging Panagiota with the soul of a youth.
Untouched by hatred~yet despised for, as she's always telling the truth.
Utterly, unwilling to be a crowd pleaser.
She has grown to know the hollow emptiness of being a groupie-gratifier.
A big Heart to her, counts more than the brilliance in any word play in the head.
She loves poetry of Shakespeare that throngs here consider quite dead.
She knows the arrogant here who knock at her heart's door, oh my so loud?
And evaporate quickly,as insignificant raindrops after a storm followed by a golden-bright cloud!
She knows the hopelessness of playing life's little victim.
With the onset of great pain, hardship and lonelines,she blossoms, right as rain.
Threatened by males here to "change her poetry style or else,"
These macho nobodies have lit her soul afire, nothing more ignorant delights to ainspires her.
She knows quite well the legion of names of the BEST who ignore her.
She really doesn't care, she realizes she is, indeed, first and forever,God's poetic daughter.
You won't find thousands of one-line poems from her.
She wants her poetry to make your velvety-heart positively beat loudly and almost purr.
This is the self in the mirror, I have found at Poetry Soup.
No big arm of trophies nor winner am I, just an ordinary woman, with her quill in glory, acknowledging God in the sky.
To God be the Glory. Thank you, close friends and ones yet to come....
All my love~
Panagiota Romios
February 5, 2020
7:00am PST
POTD. February 7, 2020
I ran not bound by fear’s relentless chain,
Nor stirred by chase’s sharp, alluring strain.
I ran not from some silent, urgent plea,
Nor from the depths where ravened tempests be.
I ran not for the flight of fleeting throngs,
Nor for the dreams that night’s soft veil prolongs.
I ran not burdened by the past’s cold hand,
Nor tethered to a purpose sternly planned.
I ran not for a gleam of golden light,
Nor for ideals that blaze the soul’s own night.
I ran not from desire’s consuming fire,
Nor for applause, nor transient praise’s pyre.
I ran not to ascend a haughty throne,
Nor seek the laurel wreath to claim alone.
I ran not to bewilder or impress,
But simply moved — like skylarks in their dress.
Across the arid sweep where sands unfold,
Beneath the eagle’s gaze, majestic, bold,
I ran with wings unseen, yet spirit high,
A sovereign flight beneath the burning sky.
Yet from the shadowed cliffs, a raven calls,
A darkened herald where the twilight falls;
Its voice, a whisper threading through the air,
A solemn echo of the wild and bare.
I ran because within each measured stride
Awakened something vast, serene, and wide;
A freedom soaring, swift as falcon’s flight,
A whispered song that greets the dawn’s first light.
Like nightingales that sing when shadows fall,
My heart took wing beyond the boundary’s call.
I ran to find what nests beyond the known,
Where wild wings beat and spirits roam alone.
If there's one thing to remember as you travel life's highway
We're all made of the same stuff
Bones, skin, hair, and smashing good looks
Oops sorry, not everyone is blessed with good looks like this dude
Mummy and Daddy's genes combined
For an extraordinarily handsome specimen of male virility
Had to fight the girlies off with a big stick
I know, I know, shouldn't be complaining... right!!!
Some of us just have to endure these minor inconveniences
Hollywood movie stars have much the same “problems”
Have to admit, at first it was very flattering
But that soon wore off and it's now quite a nuisance
Having to sign autographs every time I step outside the door
Guess it's the price us over the top handsome folks have to pay
For the adulation of the adoring throngs
You may ask, “IS THIS GUY SMOKIN' UP?”
Sure sounds kinda whacked out to me, I must say!
Aww! But he's got such a sweet heart
Hang on, hang on, I'll soon be back to my humble self again
I'm sorry... it ain't easy being humble you know!
My tongue's stuck in my cheek!
Cool throngs of stars formed one vast arm to sweep
the coal-black clockface of the sky. To watch it
was to reel beneath the slow, imperious creep
of the never-ending circle. One could reach out,
it seemed, and almost touch the tart cicada song
which throbbed in soft insistent insect waves
with formlessness of drizzle, mass of stone.
But more than these, the patient ancients blazed
blackness from their gnarled necrotic trunks,
more ominously sensed than seen, and bled
into the dark those summer suns they'd drunk,
as tired as immortality, as dense as death.
We hope on heartbeats, count on slivers of light,
but hear within our blood the rhythm of night.