Long Thunderous Poems
Long Thunderous Poems. Below are the most popular long Thunderous by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thunderous poems by poem length and keyword.
Woeful wandering wayward soul
Hither-thither you go to a place
so lonely and cold
Dwelling and sometimes reveling in
a sunken place
Hither you go, leaving
a dark trace
Wandering and wavering, so capricious
Aimless and shift less, so pernicious
Traveling this plane
in search or maybe not
But during this course what
surely can be seen is pain
Rest wayward, soul, won't you?
Salient feeble eyes speak so much
longing for a moment to see anew
On the nature of daylight
So entropic!
The crushing blows of thunderous
midnight
O, somber cello playing as the
piercing violin harpoons the heart
In search of refuge and a new start
Strings of melancholy so dark and cold
Void of light, what 'was' remains old
No rest now ends and begins to fold
A vessel of unrest, old, weary wayward soul
AS BEAUTIFUL AS
(we all created the same way)
As beautiful as the light that raptures at
Dawn
And the gentle caress of the morning’s
Breeze
As beautiful as the melody of a bird’s early
Song
And a flower’s perfume that scents with
Ease,
As beautiful as mountains that pierce through
the sky
And the clothed in the green soft rolling
Hills,
As beautiful as the brooks that pass
Close by
And the glorious valleys where grass the earth
Drills,
As beautiful as the grace of a placid
Lake
And the screaming beauty of the thunderous
Falls,
As beautiful as a spring that water can
Make
And the river’s murmur that life gently
Calls,
As beautiful as the beams of the setting
Sun
And the scattering clouds that are set
Aflame,
As beautiful as the moon when the day is
Done
And the brightest stars that give to sky
Fame,
As beautiful as the rainbow ever can
Be
And a radiant drop of dew on an exotic
Flower,
So beautiful, oh, LORD, have created all 0f
Us
With Your compassion and Your divine
Power.
-
-
© Demetrios Trifiatis
The war is nothing but a metasexual celebration among homosapiens,
A grotesque dance of destruction, where bodies confront each other in an orgy of violence.
Soldiers become avatars of the primordial desire for control and domination,
A masquerade of power, where blood is the elixir of ecstasy and self-loss.
In the arena, hearts beat to a primitive rhythm, sprinkled with sighs and howls,
Shadows of an ancestral game, where victory is ephemeral, and glory a fleeting specter.
Weapons become extensions of bodies, while souls get lost in the battle for supremacy,
Each battle a journey into the dark abyss of instincts, with no way back.
Behind the masks of iron and gray uniforms, forgotten vulnerabilities hide,
Ordinary people transform into puppets of collective madness,
And on the battlefields, flowers are replaced by the bright red of blood,
In a grotesque bouquet, a symbol of a morbid celebration, without honor and shame.
The thunderous sounds of bullets become the soundtrack of this sinister celebration,
The entire scene is a frightening illusion, a manifestation of the darkness in our hearts.
And in each wound, in every lost gaze, lies the story of a human tragedy,
A tale written in blood ink, an elegy of souls crushed under the boot of war.
In the backstage of this metasexual celebration, the shadows of endless regret hide,
Humanity dances in a whirlwind of destruction, a prisoner of its own illusions.
Each battle becomes an episode in a tragic series, unfolding on the map of pain,
And with each sunrise, imprints of suffering and regrets remain in our world.
So, in the midst of this metasexual celebration, where war becomes a ritual,
A melancholic cry rises from the wounded souls of the earth,
Calling for an end to this macabre dance and the discovery of a deeper harmony,
Where souls can break free from the chains of war and dance in the light of true peace.
Come closer, whisper
Hold your presents distance;
Encase the beliefs was the present tense;
In bombed and in tune to what heaven's sent;
Don't you, don't you look for me here I'm flown
Don't look for me here I'm gone...
~
I rise at the calling of my name;
Heavens rejoice sing praises, clapping thunderous hands;
~
Days, months, years
Open up the casket from the loft the grave;
My true self my essence has gone...
I've heeded the call, risen I've gone...
Gone on home to be with the Lord;
Don't you, don't you look for me here I'm flown
Don't look for me here I'm gone...
6/29/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
From Anthology “Intermittent Praises”
May showers are brewing underneath the clouds and the temperature keeps bouncing up and down the ocean floor and the pregnant skies drips water from inside and my heart is singing a sweet lullaby.
Lightning flashes across the horizon, hitting street and burning up bodies in the cemetery waking up souls that have gone before and elevating them to the top of the tree.
The cracking trees cries from the distance and a thunderous storm breaks yonder, filling rivers, dams and the streams and soaked my pillows eroding my midnight dream.
It was like the clouds were dancing in the skies with a passion originated in the grounds pulling the leaves from the tree and scattering them on the ground and the mutation begins.
I have never felt this way before, something strange was walking about the shore, I peeped in the binocular to get a glimpse of it but something in the distance start making a strange sound and all of a sudden I saw a barge of bird start flying around in a circle opening in a straight line and flew away in V shape.
I search for a symbolic meaning but in split seconds a sudden rush of wind creeps in and the birds began to sing. It is the kind of melody you hear in the safari when the wild animals meet and danger lurks in the street.
You search diligent for an escape route and saddle up in a new pair of shoes, but the times passes quietly and my mind continue to stretch across the wilderness and a voice in the distance keeps calling.
A voice in the distance has a story to tell, the voice in the distance is crying out for help, the voice in the distance is struggling against the wave, can you hear the sound from the underground the voice is coming from there and it is resonating all over the town.
The voice in distance is climbing in the tree, the voice in the distance is looking for me, the voice in the distance is climbing the mountain, the voice in the distance is me.
Keep searching, I am stuck between the rock and the mountain, if you dig deeper, you will find me.
-O Lord
The morning sun taste like almonds and cinnamon;
And your daughter her voice smelled liken lavender;
~Florescent Father breath resonates~
As the music sounded heavy as thunderous rain storms;
So the color green feels like satin emeralds pearls;
The color red taste like licks from a new born pup;
~The Father's touch embraces me~
As midnight rain is bitter as heated cactus leaves;
The wind look as a muddled dream as:
I'm seeing him walk envisioned was like hearing:
Bells from the church Cathedral;
~Florescent Father breath resonates~
-Tasting the night’s dinner was like watching Angels eating heavenly manna;
Hear her cry was like tasting honey nectar
Smelling the gasoline was like touching autumn's camp fire
~My Father's eyes and heart kisses me~
Touching her dying father’s hand was like seeing
A brazen burnt horizon, orange scene dry compensating;
We're yet alive as my Florescent Father breath resonates~
-O Lord
The Father's touch embraces me~
My Father's eyes and heart kisses me~
We're yet alive as my Florescent Father breath resonates~
8/13/19
written by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
written for project North Omaha Writers Group (NOW)assignment
(To commemorate the final flight of the Space Shuttle Discovery)
A majestic bird flared for a picture perfect landing on this historic day.
Its tires gently kissed the welcoming earth in a magnificent display!
With 39 missions and 5000 earth orbits, Discovery was put to the test!
Today, she returned home from her final flight for a well-deserved rest!
In August of 1984 she flexed her wings for her first giant leap into space!
Roaring flame lit her tail leaving a graceful contrail as she left earth's face!
With a thunderous blast, Discovery loosed the fettering bonds of earth.
Her many creators wished her Godspeed for a safe return to her berth!
Mere mortals' exploration of The Creator's universe is ever expanding,
To define the mysteries of space and add to humankind's understanding.
Brave astronauts comprised her crew with both men and women commanding.
The performance of those fearless heroes and Discovery was truly outstanding!
Ah! The splendid view the crews had of the wondrous handiwork of God!
The planets, moon, stars, the vast celestial dome seen from their tiny pod;
The beauty of their beckoning earthly home as in the realm of space they flew;
Beautiful and wonderful things that earth-bound dwellers will never view!
'Tis fitting that this stalwart old workhorse of America's space shuttle fleet,
Will repose nigh the Wright Brothers frail craft in the nation's seat.
We salute you, Discovery! Your mission is ended! You did marvelous things!
We can almost sense a satisfied sigh as you proudly fold your wings!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved - 9 March 2011
THE BEAT POETS BEAT
In the heart of San Francisco, Beat poet and publisher, Lawrence Ferlinghetti's City Lights bookstore shines bright, where words dance like shadows and the Beat poets ignite the night/
October 7, 1955 history takes a breath and five souls step onto the stage at Gallery Six, defying convention, flirting with death/
Allen Ginsberg, with fire in his eyes, unleashes “Howl” with a thunderous cry, a manifesto of madness and a rebellion against the lie/
Philip LaMantia, haunted, reads to his dead friend, his poetry, weeping, echoing a voice that refuses to bend/
Michael McClure paints images, Gary Snyder sings with the trees and Philip Whalen whispers wisdom, each line a gust of the breeze/
Jack Kerouac, a slick cat, the pulse on the side, cheering from the sidelines at the Six, his heart a drum, a ride, his “Beatitude” was full of pride/
Man, he was having a poet’s blast and wrote about that first gig of Beat poets at Gallery Six in The Dharma Bums/
Dig it people, Kerouac was a hipster and juicehead all rolled into one, his words will last into the beat of a new jazz thing/
The rhythm of jazz where poetry flows and grows, drunk poetry fans are lost in the haze, sipping inspiration, caught in the craze/
So, dig the jazz of Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker, Miles, Diz, and Monk where each note is a heartbeat, each beat a junkie’s funk/
Bebop intertwines a new vision in the structure of their poet dreams, crazed improvisational jazz solos are a tapestry of spoken word screams/
So let us raise a glass to words unchained, to the Beat Generation, where poetry reigned/
The echoes of City Lights, let their legacy shine bright, for in the lines of their verses we find our voice, our fight/
There was a ranger
Keen in spotting danger
Dealing with a hurricane
Violent storm giving a stage name
Bringing weather notoriety and fame
In the meteorological game
With an assistant
Being persistent
One time sung the Broadway blues
Trying to live a life honest and true
Before blowing a fuse
Had everything including a private jet
Her dreams were met
And set
Until things went down in flames
Lightning struck her capital financial gains
Landed in Vegas to be a comeback star
Contributed to society dancing on the bar
When a golden knight appeared
Looking good carrying a lance and spear
Pushing back an emotional tear
She watched him put up a fight
Using his physical might
Since money was very tight
And knowing he was in the right
When the issue was done
And entertaining was no longer fun
She took the glamour situation on the chin
Knowing this card dealt would make her win
“I am a ranger
I protect campers from danger”
This blonde God started stating
When they were mating
Ready to be a Canadian
Living in a wilderness stadium
While enjoying the outdoor enchanting view
Where romantic black hawks flew
It was then she confirm striking oil
A match truly royal
Despite her red carpet dreams foiled
“This storm
Is the norm
For me
I do see
It will pass
Like bad dinner gas”
In two love bird tradition
Came to a decision
Preparing for the worst
This was their first
Thunderous roll
After a performing life ever so cold
Sleigh bells jingle as o'er the crystal snow they glide,
To the little country church this Christmas Eventide.
Folks anticipate the fellowship that awaits them there,
As they celebrate His birth with carols, love and prayer!
Steeds were eased to hitching posts with a gentle "Whoa"!
Faithful and patient horses snort and paw the drifting snow.
Folks greet others with a special glow upon their faces,
With a "Merry Christmas to you" and unabashed embraces!
The old pastor had arrived about half-past five o'clock,
To stoke the potbellied stove to warm his faithful flock.
The organist who'd served nigh on fifty years in that capacity,
Was at her post pedaling the organ with strident tenancity!
The pastor with a short Christmas homily had his say,
Followed by the Sunday School's annual Nativity play.
A warming glow flooded the church with candlelight,
As the service closed with the singing of "Silent Night".
Though on this Holy Eve ,from cathedrals oratories occurred,
And ancient cantatas sung by thunderous choirs were heard,
The souls of this faithful, God-fearing congregation,
Were just as blessed by their simple Christmas celebration!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved