Long Tundra Poems
Long Tundra Poems. Below are the most popular long Tundra by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tundra poems by poem length and keyword.
Has anyone ever wondered why that bridge was chosen
Just like a mammoth in the tundra, life blown now frozen
Being on this railing of life knowing that once you've lived
But like the meteorite, once hit, lived lives easily sieved
Me I've sat on said railing ever since I was a little boy
I've even thought where I'd sit for the thought I'd enjoy
But what would I do when I'd sit there, looking all around
Asking why am I here, wasting footsteps on the ground
What would I do now if that opportunity was ever to arise
I'd put clingfilm over my face for that would ease my cries
To cater for sudden panic when realised it's not to be
Behind my back I'd handcuff my hands, me, I'm finally free.
Time Machine
I sometimes wonder about migration, is there a moment when doors are closed and the bus leaves the station
Sorry folks, the country is full.
One of the reasons people from Pakistan and there about
try to enter Britain is caused by the BBC talking- up England making it sound like a place of milk and honey.
In 1947, the BBC had regularly sent to Norway but
I can't say anyone wanted to go there; as my Uncle Olav
“The British working class have always been poor.”
The Russian radio was in on the act telling sweet stories of a little girl lost on the tundra but saved by a heroic Russian soldier who waded out in an ice-cold river to save
the girl who sat on an ice-floe.
There was at the time, sympathy for the Russians they had sent the Germans packing and helped end the war
But politics was changing the Russian station became full of interference and eventually closed down.
It was a strange time in the forties, Norway traded with Russia and even went on holiday there The Russians bought the herring and wood products and shared coal mines on the Svalbard.
To be a car owner in Norway was a rarity, but suddenly
The country was swamped with thousands of Russian-made Fiat cars, and the heart of equality skipped a beat.
There was a man who was well-liked but was caught spying for Russia he said it was because he believed in
the system and tried to help.
After years of jail time, where he wrote self-serving books he was freed, but the Russia he professed to love had changed; he went to Moscow and started a business, and became a millionaire by working hard.
We know the truth, but it is too tedious to talk about it
One thing is sure, if you want to open a business it is not enough to make a call saying you are selling leather shoes you have to have some information on the friends
who helps you succeed.
PS What I remember has no date because when you are old all appears to be yesteryear.
Nowadays Norway is a rich nation, safely embedded in the U.S. interest sphere It might just as well be called an American state, the rumors have it the CIA is conducting its secret operations from Norwegian soil.
With this, I will say no more as my old-age pension is
paid by the Norwegian state.
Hubris makes me wait
For something better
Which is all the poisonous tundra
That my mind can take today
So, let begin, the parade
Streaming displays
Traversing
Through crowded gawkers
Who sing and cling
To verses, euphonic notions
Of melodies and maladies
Only recognizable to an audience
Of unknown disparity, such as they
And where am I
Among the spectacular?
And what am I
Sans a vat of grilled confetti
Noshing tastelessness
A fine wine, mute of
Spirit, grape and love?
So I tell you
Hope not bore you
I am lathered
In luscious deep directive
Pleased and patient
Marinate do I on
Probable emphatic winds
Maybe delaying inevitability
Yet the flavor gains momentum
Pungency stings with fire
Latent explosions
Gathering steam for the journey
Ah, but to where
And with who
And will I know I'm there once arrived
Do signs filter the highways
Breathing life into the air
Do crumbs resemble putrid possibilities
Forming jagged lines that need
Hindsight to impose the vistas
Magnificent vistas
Thomas Kinkade-manufactured plastic vistas
With colors and images, vibrant like
Disney cartoons, Fiestaware and
Ethnic displays of solidarity
Though color will go and
I will follow
As each hue, speaking eloquently
To the rods and cones which make them so
Evokes my mind, my worth
My simple plan to live
To descend
In ways that
Most journeys
Lose themselves
In ways, I suppose
That many may be unable
To reconcile
Fallen by guile
At least temporarily
Until my essence
At ease and defined
In a fractured moment of humanity
Is found once again
At the destination
My point of departure.
(10/15/04)
"Excuse me, you dropped this."
I turned and saw a beautiful female Polar.
I had seen her before, her nest was on the tundra.
"Thank you," I said, enjoying the attention.
"Do you prefer Artic Owl or Snow Owl?" She asked me.
Beyond forward, she was brazenly interested.
"I always say I am Polar."
She nodded and dropped the feather. “Me too.”
"You are incredibly white," she told me.
I had heard this before, but being male, I enjoyed it.
We struck up a little conversation and she invited me to dine.
She had fresh carrion, and it was delicious.
The beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Developed when I dropped a feather
And she cared enough to pick it up
And follow me home. Nothing better.
Age is not all decay; it is the ripening, the swelling, of the fresh life within, that withers and bursts the husk. George MacDonald
_____________________________________________________________
In a world where decay is dominant,
Arctic tundra is melting, and envy is prominent.
Friendship withered away with the lapse of time,
Moon gapes at all facts and truths, concomitant.
We jive in death-cool air and chime,
Where dreams and hopes start to climb.
As though molehills faded into the grass,
Rapture rain has turned into melting rime.
In a place where the sky spills tears of brass,
And the howling winds bestow a deafening bass.
We lingered in the natural ephemeral support,
Behind the murky cloud of the ebbing mass
Our bond, however, was not flexible to contort,
Cyclic in the way that orchestral drums distort.
We carried out a solemn pledge on the floor,
In divine draughts, brambles flood the report.
The Meadow Brook gave us richness galore,
Black valleys where floods shred and roar?
We could not deny such a reservoir of devotion,
As with the wilting branches and dwindling door.
Our bonds faded, plagued by wide demotion,
Secrets below the land, a flurry of blades of notion.
In a world where deterioration prevails supreme,
Time and distance cast a curtain on our emotions.
But even amid such decay, there is a dream,
Darkening and drooping, we creep and esteem.
With the truth that humanity may split and slope,
Crows chirp as they drop twigs and scream.
While passing across acrid rings of mope,
Our ties are fraying. Teach me how to hope.
It shines brightly behind the gloomy overlay,
A dazzling beacon in the depths to grope.
In this universe of inexorable decay,
We acquire courage with each raw day.
With percussive pulses of love and delight,
Our ties will last for a span we cannot deny.
In a world where decay holds its might,
We defy its grasp, shining with an inner light.
Through the drills and tribulations we face,
Whatever embers burn our ego and sight.
Coming Or Going Not
by Odin Roark
Such might be the way
Where bearings
Like yin and yang
Energize one another
How early we pick goals
Paths seems endless
We start
Yet quickly find interest off course
Amidst the untraveled choices
We find flower-covered tundra
Unexpected ruts
Fissures beneath
Deep recesses of chance
Unchartered lessons
Part way
We question
Go East
West
Ascend
Descend
At some point
The vortex of decision
Swirls our sense of harmony
We panic as if to stumble
Only to find
Without submitting to the precarious
We learn not our balance
We ask
Without such equanimity
Can the markers ever be ignored?
To be consummate
That sense of not needing
To be coming or going
Where all signposts are faceless
Is to know one’s true heading
The being in exquisite sync
With the now
Well-favored Winter Jasmine,
how have you managed to survive?
It's long past the briskness of Autumn days.
Yet, your exquisite beauty lingers, and you thrive,
lovely petals still intact when you shouldn't be alive.
Oh, wondrous Winter Jasmine,
your plant has lost leaves of jade green.
Such a picturesque paradox within my garden,
botanical glowing when moonlight casts a sheen
upon you, creating the glint of a glimmering scene.
My perfect Winter Jasmine,
as white as the day you bloomed
on your stout stem you still stand tall,
scenting the air around you, softly perfumed.
Visions of you laced with snow, my eyes consumed.
Winsome Winter Jasmine,
I fear you're encapsulated in ice.
Not grown in freezing tundra on earth
like alpine flowers of stark white, edelweiss.
I hope your stunning show has not been a sacrifice.
Enduring Winter jasmine,
I hope you remain until Spring.
When you are warmed by the sun,
to your greening bush will you still cling,
attracting pollen seekers; honeybees on the wing?
I'm a polar bear, just that.
Don't ever call me bi-polar
or I'll angrily maul you to death!
Take a good look at me;
I'm a hulking menace.
Don't let my elephantine size
fool you. I'm surprisingly agile;
fast enough to chase down
an Arctic fox!
I'm a formidable apex predator
and wanderer of the North Pole.
When you don't see me,
I'm probably in hibernation.
My hunger is unslakable.
I can eat up to 10%...
of my bodyweight in 30 minutes!
My dense coat and body fat
insulate me so warmly that I...
sometimes overheat in summer.
When I do, I cool down by
plunging into the ice-cold sea.
Did I mention I can stand and
fight on my hind legs? I'm like the
energizer-bunny; incessantly mobile,
roaming hundreds of miles across
the barren Arctic tundra
in search of seals and fish.
I'm all dressed in white;
the snowbank, the perfect camouflage
for me to suddenly sneak up on a prey.
Invade my frozen kingdom at your peril.
I rule the arctic wastes like the king lion
rules the Serengeti!
Submitted for...
Strand Select A ,Any Form ,Any Theme Poetry Contest (Winner: Honorable Mention)
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Date: 02/01/2020
Date written: 01/24/2020
I am the tundra barren cold and numb
A frozen wasteland where no light can reach
Between these poles, my insatiate self-succumbs.
In icy silence where no whimpers humb
My thoughts like glaciers grind, erode, and breach
I am the tundra, barren, cold, and numb.
The Amazon within once vital thrumb
Of life and hope now withers out of reach
Between these poles my insatiate self-succumbs.
Anxiety a howling blizzard's sumb
Entombs me deep a creature bleached of speech.
I am the tundra, barren, cold, and numb.
Depression creeps permafrost of my slumb
While echoes of lost joy my soul beseech
Between these poles, my insatiate self-succumbs.
Yet in this waste, where all seems overcome
A seed of strength cracks ice defies the leech
I am the tundra, barren, cold, and numb.
Between these poles, my insatiate self-succumbs.
Winter never ends above the tundra line
Where snow falls sleepy on outside rocks
Mounts up like sand on midnight dunes, and
Around the tiny cabin built by splintered hands
Where inside the fire burns to warm the soul
Slowly, as the wood thaws from the bitter cold
Brought in hours ago to dry beside the fireplace
Sleep will help us to forget about mortality
Under deep covers where no one can find us
Crackling embers burst alive with heavy sound
Alerting the wild that lovers still survive
For miles around animals keep their silence
The void keeps coming with blizzard frequency
We embrace it to avoid catastrophes unthinkable
Cuddle up in warmth which is simply how we are
In love and bracing for another storm to be born