Short Bombard Poems
Short Bombard Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Bombard by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Bombard by length and keyword.
Why do I care?
Why was I there?
Why do I love you?
Why do I want to?
Why is life so hard?
Why do worries bombard?
Why? why? why?
victory was a hope
never again make war
never massacre and invade
never bombard
always negotiate
remain pure by peace
be love forever
eclipse
erase
shiver
deliver
gaze
& masticate
then bombard
the
pompous
viscous
lush
&
organic
tender
yet
cold
I concur with the Psalmist David
That You are my Lord and Shepherd
When down, deflated and trapped
When my enemies plans is to bombard
When they rejoice that am defeated
Out of their snare You have rescued me
I concur with the Psalmist David
That You are my Savior and my Lord
When down, deflated and trapped
When my enemies' plan is to bombard
When they rejoice that am defeated
Out of their snare You have rescued me.
You
are beautiful.
like the moon.
cracked and cratered.
You
life meteors.
bombard.
You
do not pull away.
from the earth.
enlightened and light.
-maria
11.8.15
*remembering typhoon haiyan victims and survivors
The thin barrier breaks,
And you're now bathed in cold, dreadful liquid.
The shock doesn't hit right away.
When it does,
You realize you're screwed.
Your life is now altered.
Your friends are about to bombard you with more water balloons.
They just found your hiding spot behind your father's truck.
Corona has made a hot soup
caught us unawares, in a coup
a hothead.
We love to touch, hug eachother
enjoy our drink, chat together
with hotdog.
This weakness Corona exploited
mutating, making us doited
a hotrod.
Wanting to do damage contain
caregivers hurried, to maintain
a hotline.
Humans' old habbits die very hard
older and sick, it did bombard
as hotbed
13.5.2020
D i s c o m b o b u l a t e d
By Dane Smith-Johsnen
Deeply hidden
In the back of my mind
Somewhere, somehow
Closets of pain
Open and bombard
My consciousness.
Blistered by young loves' scorches
Overbearing. Smitten. Why?
Bewildered factions of trust
Undeniably eroded
Laughter to hide the pain
Altogether crushed
The heart of me cried.
Endless tears for I am
Discombobulated!!!
Like the flames of a candle,
Thoughts flicker through my head.
They keep me awake
As I lie on my bed.
I feel lost and confused.
They swarm like locusts.
Do they have meaning?
Or are they hocus pocus?
I'm tossing, I'm turning.
These visions bombard me.
I want to scream out,
"Enough! Flee far from me!"
I just want to rest.
My eyes feel heavy.
So I scribble these words down.
I think I'm finally ready.
Form:
The umber canoe
floats. The long curly leaves
of a weeping willow
casts eel-shaped shadows.
The mocha river
swirls when the bass are caught,
they twist the nylon lines.
The clouds are heavy
monsterous shapes; shades
of violet, deep greys-
they change the summer sky
into rain. Winds push the canoe
towards the muddy edge.
Earth colors merge; the rain-
drops bombard and rise
with the waves, wood splits.
Holding on tightly without fear,
You made all my pain disappear,
What the world has thrown at me to tear me down,
My trust remains steady, i can only hear the sound,
Your voice, your promptings put my heart at ease,
You quiet my mind, and give my soul relief,
The struggle of thoughts that bombard my mind,
I keep turning my focus to you all the time,
I would rather have my eyes on you,
You plant my footsteps, your love is my truth,
National Poetry Month
You don’t stand a ghost of a chance,
I have a lot of patience.
I’ll do what it takes to win your heart
no matter what comes.
Day and night I’ll bombard you with gifts so
you’ll not be able to erase me from your mind.
My love for you burns so brightly
it blots out the sun.
I will write tender love poems
that will melt your cold exterior.
Nothing will keep us apart.
MIDNIGHT RAIN
sky-less night
empty black filling space
surrounding me
concentric circles ripple the surface
of miniature midnight oceans,
asphalt-bedded, curb-held
minute droplets bombard
the streets gentle
a rhythmic refrain
accompanied by the faint droning
on a distant roadway
a motor caravan sliding
redolence of damp hay
embraces nostrils
the calmness overwhelms
a oneness
standing omnipotent
sheltered from the rain
July 1978
Blinking and breathing, is your soul alive?
I bleed poetry cutting deep with my pen;
Poets do what we can to survive;
Where we’re going, where we’ve been
a tower with an endless beam of light;
Scars cover the poet drenched in caffeine ;
Blood splattering every letter we write
open a vein, faint, and keep on crawling;
Candlelit verses bombard you all night;
Is it your job or is it a calling?
Would you bleed if no one was watching?
Brick buildings bombard the burden of solitude;
brought on by the blossoming horizon.
Winds weave through walls of concrete;
waylaying waves of waste upward.
Sounds spawn the scent of the season;
sun shines sharply in the surreal sky.
Demons doomed, retreat to the depths of darkness;
destroying the dull and dreary day.
Gray curtains gown gloomy ghosts;
gazes engulfed by a glowing globe.
Natural notions of the inevitable occur;
uncovering nights nexus.
Under a red derided sky
do we masquerade as
misshapen mannequins
within a material vortex
of ubiquitous satirical lies,
as our individuality
is consumed, even crucified
within a mantra of ‘must have’
in a commercialistic existence
we naively profess to accept
and allow to permeate
into our everyday lives,
as ‘they’ bombard our instincts
and distort the innate desires
we so rationally justify
as ‘their’ subliminal messages
enter our sub-conscious minds?
I tumble from my bed
As sleep beckons, instead
To math I do head
This one class I dread.
Math is not my skill
Nor does it thrill
But I take it still
Like a bitter pill.
I study extremely hard
My brain now scarred
As math does bombard
I feel a little jarred.
I do so carry on
As the day does dawn
To use my mental brawn
To prove I am not forgone.
Though this is not my forte
Here comes the final day
To see if study does pay
I get my grade...it is an "A".
We always called Cassandras
immature the way she ran
through town with her electric hair
and torn clothes, telling us
that we already know:
that regiment of clouds
that cloud bombard us soon
with snow, cloud burry us;
that art in an equivocal gift,
that every flower awaited
it's proper place
on out funeral wreaths.
We knew all of that
she waas our own child.
But once betrothed to grief.
What could we do but morn?
we let her speak and speak,
all words so angry
are metephors.