Long Watchers Poems
Long Watchers Poems. Below are the most popular long Watchers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Watchers poems by poem length and keyword.
Dolphins
Watch the aquatic mammals reigning warm waters
Riding ocean waves zestfully flexing playful behavior
Jumping high in air performing acrobatic maneuvers
Synchronizing movements impressing fond watchers.
Be dazzled by their graceful moves peeking up for air
Turning around buoyantly raising caudal fins in pairs
Diving elongated noses under great depths of ocean
Resurfacing with gallant jumps stirring up emotions.
See a dolphin show joyous amid human interactions
As gray mammals emerge like torpedoes in action
Looping in air artfully, bowing to cheerful reactions
Dancing on water regally evoking rush of passions,
Admire as they toss a ball delighting in jovial acts
Walking like penguins to rise and kiss human hands
Splashing water impishly they rejoice as kids laugh
Dipping under water to perform upside down dance,
Amazing to see how they obey human instructions
Jumping through hoops upon listening to directions
Adorning choreographic motion for grateful crowds
Waving hello intelligently as people loudly applaud,
Don't miss gracious goodbye as they retreat in style
Being aware children are grinning with lofty smiles
Saying thanks, rising high-up to accept their reward
Brilliantly they pause to acknowledge the applause.
December 29, 2017
First place in Dolphins contest
Sponsor: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
Placed 3rd: Strand Pick 6 Contest by Brian Strand
Those who crown themselves with miters and croziers
Are dry and barren canals to which I shall describe
Boats remain frozen in their abandoned and void place
The waters being a simulacrum of doctrines
Only the arid wind gives a sense of forward time
The bubbling and fizzing spring they cut from themselves
Those who pass by recognise there is nothing to drink
Only worms and serpents live within the canals
Their waters of void do not show heaven’s face above
No vision of sparkling angels appears anywhere
Nor can people see their face on the canals
Behold the crown jewels of those called servants and watchers
Inspired by this verse "Those people are dry canals." from The Apocalypse of Peter:
http://www.gnosis.org/naghamm/apopet.html
late November air,
crisp
pale with the steamy breath of borderless joy
for children who sit curbside
bundled in the bulk of layers softening cold
children (mitten heavy)
waiting
waiting
for a parade of mother goose, hand-stand clowns
fairy tale floats
and glitter princesses glassy
as if stars shivered into pieces
children, free of complications
their rosy palettes of cheeky faces
their laughter scribbled like graffiti on walls
unknowing of the bloody passion that shakes the walls
of peace
children,
resistant to the frost,
shift
with each marching band in praise of winter's pull
like pumped fists in the air
halting (briefly) endless clips of time
for children with vantage points to catch the reindeer tow
of Santa
with festive thoughts that scurry like mice in a maze
passing parade
holiday hardy
a glitzy show that snaps bare trees to attention
like watchers
to mimic the sassy steps of elves rotating
in a world crying, seeking magic
pitter-patter propelled
like children's kite-high wishing
The Endless Poem : Part One - Requiem
This is the Endless Poem.
I shall always add more to this…My Requiem.
Requiem.
The Song for the Dead.
In life and death,
In thought, in breath,
In song I sing,
To The Restless Dead.
In life and death,
In thought, in breath,
In song I sing,
To The Restless Dead.
May they all rest in a sleep of peace
And never be forgotten.
For they have all once upon a time,
Allowed our hearts to be softened;
Or affected, or captured, or hurt.
But they are all gone now;
So celebrate their lives on this Earth.
In life and death,
In thought, in breath,
In song I sing,
To The Restless Dead.
In life and death,
In thought, in breath,
In song I sing,
To The Restless Dead.
The watchers,
The seekers,
The believers and non-believers,
To all Gods up above;
May we all rest in peace please?
In life and death,
In thought, in breath,
In song I sing,
To The Restless Dead.
In life and death,
In thought, in breath,
In song I sing,
To The Restless Dead.
This; I’m afraid to say,
For anyone who just began to feel at home.
This is the end of the first part of
The Endless Poem
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Who will be first to climb the dawn light?
Daybreak stretches its gray tendons
to high windows,
dim reflections foreshadow
strings of geese -
all is a leaving.
Some wake up in cardboard boxes.
Some drive ahead of themselves,
the overheated skid backwards into empty garages.
Cops in Irish pubs drink whisky
with black morning coffee.
The night is slow to die.
There’s a virus going around they say.
Some wake up dying,
some night-walkers go home
to their daydreams.
The town will wear a different mask for a while,
on the freeway rubber rolls to elsewhere.
A limp light gutters,
shadows run low, scuttle into dank corners.
A last skein of geese has passed.
I am at my window watching,
some concrete cells are empty,
some watchers will not sleep again,
not before the next gasp of night
steals their breath away.
Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle:
once more memory rides the rails.
Childhood song for railroad watchers -
a tinge of hobo in my veins,
longing for the lonesome whistle
like a lost child for his name.
Life began beside the railway,
an open door to fantasy;
my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor
hearing that whistle witchery.
Hungry tramps in search of breakfast
found our doorstep every time;
hobo network communication
marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine."
Bleary eyes and beards all stubble
made child imaginations fly
and the tales with which we clothed them
were wilder still than hobo lies.
Oh, for the days when trains were magic:
iron dragons breathing smoke and fire,
lashing long tails through the valleys
with monstrous strength that never tired.
Oh, the secrets that were hidden
behind the doors of plain boxcars;
feel the untamed urge to mount them
and plunder treasure from afar.
Delight was ours beyond measure
to waken on those special days,
finding, in the night, the dragon
had brought the circus train our way.
See the bearded lady waving
and catch the fat man's twinkling eye,
smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor
beneath our magic big top sky.
Grown up am I; steam train magic
comes swirling by once in a while
to view autumn's fleeting pageant
and make train lovers like me smile.
Nostalgic, rhythmic beating,
staccato yelps and sobbing wails
make my soul a mental hobo;
once more memory rides the rails.
Copyright, 2000
Faye Lanham Gibson
The watchers eyes focus within silence
bombarded by messages of pure malice
many suffer so much hate towards an individuals choice
everyone with deep vision can see these festering souls
Those whom support the culture of death no longer hide
openly denouncing God's right under Divine law
When push comes to shove hellbent
certain agendas have highlighted uncivilised heathens
a dark side underneath your skin is clearly exposed
Manipulating the truth has only one verdict
when examined properly bringing justice to this court
and the relationship between lies
In the face of an honest opinion warlike beggars cry victim
no amount of evidence will sway these possessed bodies
They are so filled with pride and baseless egos
to acknowledge the twist in their own tongue to explain
Judging others with a cold heart separates them as wolves
with such bitterness showing teeth stalking every word howls
In that which does not suit their ill agenda behind a mask
trampling on the innocent with racist views
masked as caring with sweet stings a scorpion
Loveless bullies self ordained bigots uneducated liars
twist the very meaning of life backwards
where the sick are incurable they are never untreatable
there the blind have already opened their eyes and can see
The southern slope kept a secret—
a slight tear where a shadow learns to grow.
I felt the pulse that pulled me in,
past where the daylight breaks,
down to where the cold, clear water flows.
The entrance wore a veil of living lace,
stretched tight across the limestone seams.
My hand caught the web—snap.
A sound like a severed nerve,
a frantic flight of silk in the dark.
A thousand eyes of jet* looked back at me,
skittish guardians shifting in the bend.
They sensed the weight I carried,
the heavy, hollow ache of winter’s end,
and pulled away into the rock’s silence.
I moved the stone, one by one,
shimmying into the throat of the hill.
Leaving the world of coffee and schedules,
of letters never sent and cold, still rooms,
to trade the sun for the smell of wet flint.
The air grew thick—a history held in breath.
The mountain drank the noise of my life,
the schedules, the fears, the static of days,
until the gravity beneath my feet shifted,
as if the earth were re-calibrating its mantle.
Deep inside, it was not empty.
It breathed in a bioluminescent hum—
walls bleeding a spectral, bruised blue.
A path snaked away, a vein of light
offered by a world that had forgotten me.
The cavern opened—a limestone cathedral.
There, glyphs bled from the stone,
a language of weight, of tectonic patience,
etched by hands that knew the cooling of the crust.
The "Litany of Compression"—the agony of eons.
The "Silent Watchers" warned of the breathers,
the map of veins reaching toward the mantle.
I knelt in the dirt, finding the charcoal
the ancients left for the next ghost to arrive.
I did not write a name, or a date, or a prayer.
I traced the suture of my own breath
into the wall, a frantic, uneven line.
My body began to chime with the cave.
Limbs turning to cold, heavy mineral;
skin thickening, pores sealed with dust.
I was lifted to the ceiling, a slow drift,
tethered to a sister-spire of quartz,
the two of us holding up the dark,
holding up the sky of the hill.
Outside, the spiders return to their work.
They knit the entrance shut with elastic silk,
weaving the wound of my entry back into stone,
hiding the secret from the reach of the sun.
The hill holds its peace.
And I, finally, have found my own.
* Jet black eyes of 125 spiders
AFTER HOURS
Dudes in duds broken down brims
cocked and bent creases in trousers
when thugs were gents
People with attitude women too
demeanor and outfits like
Ebony's front pages
Dudes in duds broken down brims
Money on backs eyes watching
the eye's of watchers
Entrances and exits.
Wink or nod jazz in smoky
rooms groomed and manicured.
sashay across the room stepping off in
Bally's shoes shined no scuff
after hours.
high profile.. Dudes in duds
broken down brims.
Men creating temporary illusions
Clean to the bone
deliberate sashay tempo exaggerated
tempting and teasing pleasing the eye
karat's on fingers scents linger
Exquisite cologne clean to the bone
faded edges -role playing no script
Dudes in duds
Broken down brims cocked and bent.
Attitude in threads
We wait to be called in that back room
Where they'd spit "Gangsta Wit".
before videos
Was dudes in duds with sweet tongues
making their points in after hour joints.
Live and direct we upstarts
learning our parts we'd sit
internalizing gangsta wit
like understudies to a movie script
In after hours joints........... delighted...
I
Hear the bouncing of the balls--
Basketballs!
What a sound of merriment they cause when each ball falls!
How they echo, echo, echo,
Inside the gymnasium walls,
Arriving at a crescendo
While the spectators shout “Bravo!”
Drowning the referee’s calls;
And the players start
To make their last dart
Amidst the reverberation ricocheting off the stalls
From the balls, balls, balls, balls,
Balls, balls, balls--
From the bouncing and the dribbling of the balls.
II
Hear the ticking of the balls,
Ping-pong balls!
What a soft and easy sound comes from their bounce and rolls!
In the crowded room that’s bright
How they fill it with delight!
Like the ticking of a clock,
Steady but fast,
Or the picking of a lock,
What tune they make with their ceaseless tick-tock,
Until at last--
Oh, what a miss that appalls
The audience that has remained speechless in the halls
How it falls!
How it scrolls!
And the erring player rolls
His fists at his own pitfalls
By the swinging and his missing
To hit the balls, balls, balls
The balls, balls, balls, balls,
Balls, balls, balls--
To hit the light and small and saffron ping-pong balls!
III
Hear the loud thud of the balls--
Volleyballs!
What feeling of suspense is caused by their great falls!
Across the nets stretched tight
How they gracefully take flight!
The watchers anticipating,
Who would win they keep waiting,
Breathlessly.
Until the umpire from his platform blows a long shrill whistle,
And the balls drop on the ground like useless heads of missile.
Then tempers start to bristle
In the air there is a rustle
From both player and spectator
To win the set or never
Hold the trophy covetously.
Oh, the balls, balls, balls--
"Pick them up!" the umpire bawls.
Once again
The balls are hit, tossed, and passed
And the game goes on full blast
While the players on each side dare not complain
Yet the audience fully knows
By the spiking
And the digging
How the game would sooner close.
Who would be covered in palls
Suffer beating,
‘Cause of losing,
And forced to receive catcalls
For dismally failing to score and keep afloat the balls,
The volleyballs--
The volleyballs, balls, balls, balls,
Balls, balls, balls--
In the scrambling and the spiking of the balls!
March 18, 2023