Long Visibility Poems
Long Visibility Poems. Below are the most popular long Visibility by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Visibility poems by poem length and keyword.
Vostok 1
Within the time allotted
of eighty-nine minutes,
to orbit the planet Earth
at 17,500 miles per hour,
the Russian cosmonaut
inside the Vostok capsule
espies the distinctive
features of Earth,
from two hundred miles above
its surface.
And reflects upon
the physical violence
of energetic movement
that formed terra firma;
then watches the sun’s rays
penetrate the atmosphere
and thinks of the warmth
inside the magnetic shield.
He sees the beauty of the blues
deposited from frozen comets.
Out here, it’s so tranquil,
thinks Yuri Gagarin,
the first person in space.
“Cedar to Dawn,
I see Earth. The visibility is excellent, over!”
His message relays
to the Soviet command station.
Then, the Vostok retros fire over Africa
for gravity to force re-entry,
and readies himself for ejection
four miles above the Volga River
basin drainage system.
***
Notes:
On April 12, 1961, Yuri Gagarin (1934–1968), aboard Vostok 1, launched from Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan, USSR, at 6:07 am local time. The total mission lasted 108 minutes. He was the first person in space and the first person to orbit the Earth.
In order to escape gravity, the capsule needs to hit 7.9 km/s or 17,500 miles per hour, which is orbital velocity (approximately 20 times the speed of sound).
Vostok: “Vostok” means “east” in Russian.
Cedar (Kedr-Russian pine): Gagarin’s call sign.
Dawn (Zarya): Launch facility call sign.
On May 5, 1961, Alan Shepard (1923–1998) was the first American astronaut launched into space, and John Glenn (1921–2016) became the first American astronaut to orbit the Earth on Feb. 20, 1962.
Crystalline Winter Hollow
A camp fire against solid hollow black
Holds the cold and limited visibility
Hours come born without warning
Near to night, wild on the snow storm
A dim light draws us home vulnerable
It is a dot in the distance
Illusions of fireplace and warmth
A hunt for life between each snowflake
Moving on as the snow deepens under foot
Each step is sunken treasure subaqueous submerged
Cold and water take their risk in winters grip
The lake may not take the weight of passage
Camp fire is a long way off now
So is that dot of light called home
Frozen images are all that’s left
Hidden there on the distance, crystalline alone
if i take off my self
and strip completely naked
and you see a person undefined
and misunderstood, would you
love me despite the fact that i am a
nobody
would you care about me despite the
fact that i am nonexistent in the fully
clothed eyes of most
would you acknowledge my visibility
despite the fact that i am so obviously
invisible
you smile at me and give me a simple hug
and a plate of the best oatmeal cookies on
the planet along with a cold glass of
flav-o-rich
CHOMP! CHOMP!
GURGLE! GURGLE! AHHHHHHH!
Simple Answer With No Words
no more questions needed to be asked
thank you, Grandma.....
(“Loyalty Merit Badge”, 2010, original oil)
Loyal to the Last
In a dream I travel
Some journey of unknown length or destination.
It’s all good at the start
And then quickly becomes harder
A stalled engine, dirty windshield without fluid,
A narrowing road, reduced visibility,
A rocky mountain track where I’m forced
To carry the bicycle
My vehicle has become.
But as I go on and deeper into my solo trek
I still have my trusting pack of dogs
Who eagerly follow
Even as the trail becomes a narrowing ledge
Above the steep drop to a river below
Until eventually it’s all I can do to hang on
As I reach on tenuous holds to the final step
My bike and canine companions abandoned
Behind the last bend.
Dreams if nothing else
Give us snap shots of our mind
Overviews and magnifications of where we are
In a life’s journey that has included
Both the dreamer and his ever morphing dream.
But in the end the dream ends
And all that’s left is the dreamer
And the memory of those companions
Loyal to the last.
(11/8/24)
dopy
grumpy
doc…
bashful
sleepy
sneezed a lot.
happy now ;)
we do indeed
have a spicy snot
twice the mice
and a monkey
at the helm…
came a lot
she did
to read these men
disguised as
snoozen
eighth dwarf
is a gem
...she puts rouge on
and climbs a tree…
psst… “Snow White?”... she ain’t me.
;)~
"diminitioning returns beyond the event horizon
mariginal lines of visibility as solar flares
light up the sky there is no noise i wonder why"
i wonder how
an event such as
her eyes are on
can stir such wonder
on events unheard
noize is what i said
3.14159265
it’s in the air
and in my head
but when i turn
to see the sun
i thought i saw
inside a one
but honey it said…
nine slides on
and a cone
of silence
doesn’t work
without fun.
:)
I wondered why for a while
but then no one answered
so I’m making up my own how.
that's what.
Form:
Distance
“What about you thinking?” asked Master Satan.
Regarding a meeting that never took place. “Never?”
Never. “I really don’t understand you. There wasn’t a meeting?
She was there. “And?” She sat close to me. A few chairs away.
“Where?” In a church. “ In a church. Where?” In London. Beautiful.
“What is beautiful?” The church. “What church?” The Saint Osmund.
“I asked you, what is beautiful?” I understand. You are wrong. “Why?”
The question failed. “Really? What is the right question?” … Who is beautiful?
“We must differentiate between what and who. And you can. Don’t play!”
With you. “Yes. I am your master.” I am sorry. “No problem. Good student.”
But the lady was there. She was a very beautiful young English lady. “Hmm.”
Yes. A woman. Medium height. Slender. Half-length blonde hair. Twenties.
“Nice blue eyes?” Yes. “And?” I waited for the mass. A few minutes. Only
I was looking for my Catholic Peayer Book in my backpack. I found.
Then I pulled out the book. In my backpack were my work clothes.
“What exactly?” Trousers, T-shirts, a high-visibility vest, and safety gloves.
“But the trousers and T-shirts were hospitality style.” Yes. “Why?”
Because I worked in an agency. Make sure everything I kept was gloves and a vest.
Never know your next workplace.
“That’s right.”
“Then what happened in the church?” The lady saw the contents of my bag. And..
… and she never looked at me again. An elderly couple behind us smiled sympathetically at me.
“Hmm.”
Yes. She was a beautiful English lady. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Nice shape, legs.
Nice summer dress, skirt.
“Hmm.”
Hmm. Yes. This is the distance. I was well dressed. She saw me as rich.
“What is the lesson from this case?”
The mass
“Really?”
I am not lying
Read my poem
In the Saint Osmund Church
Eddy lives in the gullibility and cohesibility of a gritty city
Between assimilability civility reality and triviality
Here Eddy’s senility is merely an eligible technicality
A wink of eccentricity fragility debility futility impossibility risibility
Still under that mighty illusion of invincibility virility and viability
Invisibility’s equivalent to gentility favouring stability and incredulity
Eyes void of deceptibility infallibility predictability divisibility
Eddy is still irresistibly witty with intelligibility bordering geniality
The indelibility of his ability versus disability for agility and flexibility
Gives Eddy eligibility admissibility accessibility feasibility visibility and divisibility
Implicit credibility whimsicality spirituality frivolity and squeezability
Eddy believes there’s no margin for self-pity when you own a pretty itty bitty kitty
AP: 3rd place 2025
Submitted on March 25, 2018 to contest ALLITERATION POEM sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 2ND
Zip pose zing the weather forecast
donned wafted air
fragrant with flowered flora
visibility for miles
if ether crystal clear,
this high da way countless yards
off the ground presented flare
approximating pristine floral display
with powerfully poignant immunity
against cackling, jeering, scowling,
parents or other nemesis with glare
ring (smoke emitting nostrils),
an idyll escape for this heir
to the throne of the mountain king,
(lion share of original tract
kept by Donald Neilson empire)
this make believe verdant submerged lair
unwittingly left a gaping hole,
when Gambone Brothers
industrial machinery voraciously
made clean sweep,
without a trace of former imp pier
real resilient stately structured heart
of "Glen Elm" could no longer rear
the well built “grand Etta face dame”
helplessly, holistically humbly
brought to her knees (gory detail aye will spare),
nonetheless more than one pearl jammed shaped tear
trickled down chafed
sad reddened cheeks,
whose head must veer
away asper thine subsequently
blotted out never never never land
eclipsed by transient rubble,
thence vinyl city (dis) graced sacred space,
no doubt a great ache,
when Saint Nick sought
sought in vain for
324 Templed throne everywhere!
(In honor of my husband, a paid Firefighter for 27 years
who retired as Assistant Chief in 1986)
It's 3:00 am on a frigid, dark winter night.
A piercing alarm shatters the silence, and
he speeds away on a truck, lights flashing,
horns blaring, to respond to the emergency.
At the scene, all three floors of the building
are engulfed in flames, which are spreading
to some adjoining apartments on either side.
With selfless dedication and strong courage,
he rushes into that raging, roaring inferno.
He is a firefighter on a mission to save lives.
But many people never think of the virtues
which carry him through his difficult work.
What endless stamina and courage it takes
to race into a burning structure, alive with
flames licking at him from many directions;
to enter the interior filled with dense smoke,
where the visibility is zero and requires him
to wriggle on the floor, on hands and knees
where it is less thick, to see anything at all
with the perils of the floor collapsing under him.
But he forgets the risks. He needs to rescue
the trapped children, mother, elderly couple,
or anyone hiding beneath a bed, in a closet,
out of sight, behind a stove or refrigerator;
or those stranded and crying by open windows
where he leads them to stay calm and come
to the ladder to be carried away to safety below
where paramedics can assess medical needs.
Yet, so many times, he must face deep pain;
those lives lost, no matter how hard he tried.
This is courage.
Years ago I did so choose, to go on a Caribbean clipper ship cruise,
and, in addition to several other islands,
anchored off Nevis, northwest of Saint Kitts,
where, in the late 1780's, Nelson had lived,
and still bears traces of his presence today,
in various parts, pieces and bits.
When our windjammer Skipper informed us,
'Shopping here's good, snorkeling is bad,'
I avoided the former, sought out the latter,
and, as a matter of fact, a good time was had,
for no sooner had I ducked under,
two feet from the waterline,
in about one foot deep (shallow) water,
tho' visibility was, in inches, no more than nine,
I espied a white clay churchwarden pipe,
which I retrieved, broken, not whole,
with one third of the stem, and most of the tobacco-burned bowl.
1787, Nelson married the widow Fanny Nisbet on Nevis,
and, as the island he was about to depart,
'Desist smoking or else!'
Horatio may have heard her insist or impart,
and that which I found, I've a mind to say,
was his very last pipe, he'd reluctantly tossed overboard,
on that sunny day, when, as Captain of Boreas, he sailed away.