Long 9th Poems
Long 9th Poems. Below are the most popular long 9th by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long 9th poems by poem length and keyword.
The sea keeps its dead
by teaching them
the language of salt.
Time is less gentle.
It teaches them sand.
Each century bends above its work,
patient as a millstone.
A king becomes a grain.
A child becomes a grain.
A hand once held by another hand
becomes a grain.
By morning,
the glass is full of them.
They gather in the upper chamber
like pale weather,
pressed shoulder to shoulder
with ruined cathedrals,
unwritten letters,
the last breath of a wolf
in a forest that no longer exists.
Then the falling begins.
Not all at once.
One ancestor at a time.
One promise at a time.
The neck of the hourglass
is so narrow
that forever must pass through it
single file.
Listen.
The sound is almost beautiful.
An empire brushing against a lullaby.
A wedding ring
striking the rib of a shipwreck.
Snow settling
inside an abandoned mouth.
The grains arrive below
without their names.
Without their faces.
Without the color of their eyes.
Yet something survives.
A warmth.
A longing.
The faint memory of being awaited.
Sometimes a grain hesitates
at the throat of the glass.
Caught for a moment
between what was
and what will be.
I think that is where ghosts come from.
Not from death,
but from the brief terror
of becoming smaller.
Outside the window,
another generation is planting gardens,
building houses,
swearing forever into the dark.
Already the hourglass
is learning their weight.
Already the centuries
are sharpening their edges.
The glass says nothing.
It has seen oceans
made from bones.
It has watched stars
shed their light
and join the falling.
Still it stands,
holding two worlds apart:
those who are becoming memory
and those who do not yet know
they are.
When the final grain descends,
there is no judgment.
No trumpet.
No great unveiling.
Only a hand
older than history
turning the hourglass over,
and the dead rising together
like a constellation
returning to its first shape.
Trying to steer a car on snow
Is something I would rather not know
How to do, for it cannot be done
It is all kinds of weird, none of it fun.
If you have ever bowled in a lane,
Let me make this rather plain.
Your car is like a bowling ball.
Traveling into a gutter, down deep and all.
You watch it happen with disbelief
Not a thing you can do, as your day turns to grief.
If you think you can do this, good for you.
But what if we throw solid ice under your shoe?
Do you get in your car and try to drive on ice
Not listening to the radio who is telling you twice
The interstates are closed, the roads are a mess.
Why do you do this? Would you like to confess?
Trying to steer a car on ice, is like trying to steer
A house that is falling from the sky.
How to do it? It cannot be done.
It is all kinds of weird, and none of it fun.
Written 2/08/2019 Contest Feb Week 2, Any Form Any Theme
Sponsor: Brian Strand
That's when it happened, I was just fourteen years old, and I
what I am looking for-
only that something inside me searches·
something that searched before·
Before the name my mother gave me‚
before the mirror taught me shame‚
before the world said‚ "this is you"
there was something without a name·
Not something I discovered later‚
Not something I turned on inside myself-
this burned before I was born‚
and it will burn after I die·
I've found peace in sacred spaces, and felt the warmth of a gentle fire.
let the smoke rise‚ and disappear‚
and felt behind the prayer
A silence no one can speak·
not empty‚ fuller than full‚
more present than my hands can hold·
The soul known to sages,
before writing in Sanskrit‚
before crossing the seven seas‚
before becoming me·
There is a boy in Fiji, he's wearing a uniform that looks really neat and tidy.
the badge glinting on his chest‚
carrying questions no test can ask:
who is the light that shines?
Not the eye--the eye closes·
Not the mind; the mind loses itself·
But something observes them both·
between sleeping and waking‚
it does not rest when I rest‚
does not dream when I dream·
Never awoke‚ never slept·
Never sought‚ never lost·
It contains both the dreamer and the dream
without needing to explain·
I'm looking‚ I'm looking outside·
in notes‚ in names‚ in being seen-
but the scripture whispers back:
the seeker and the sought are one·
So I look inside myself‚ frightened and light‚
a young soul before an open door‚
not entering‚ just standing there‚
trembling at the center of it all·
The eye behind my eye asks for nothing:
No approval‚ no title‚ no name·
Everything was a blur, and it felt like my whole world was crashing down around me, like it was all being consumed by flames, before suddenly, everything just started to fade away, bit by bit, into darkness.
And it will burn when all changes·
It simply is‚ and in this being‚
Older than my blood and bones‚
I was not found…
I was never lost·
I was never alone·
Light reading
We are striding into the new year with news
of an earthquake that got people to sit up instead
of slumping on the sofa watching a Netflix
banalities
Inundated with film, one realizes most of them are hastily put together and consist of a dramatic fight
scenes, the hero wins and gets the girl.
This morning, the news again focused on Japan
a plane landing collided with a stationary plane
five people were killed, which was lucky
we give great press by airport accidents
Ten people dead in a motorway accident have not
much drama unless you are in the pile-up
In Libya, the slave trade capital of Africa, this dubious
honor happened when Qaddafi was murdered
He, the dictator, was not the worst of his kind,
there are times when the only thing that protects a country from sinking into chaos is a strong man.
With him out of the way, the human traffic commenced
South Africa had a plan to let Qaddafi leave Libya
settle in an African state, but no, the west wanted him dead
I have read so many rich people (millionaires) have not
got their riches from the production of things such as machinery
or engineering, with the possible exception of Elon Musk
I suspect the entertainment press is trying to lure him
into a life of glamour.
The middle class is not producing but get
titles working in the social sectors, both public and private, but it is not a type of employment that creates anything of lasting value
As for the working class, the hard hat section is
of immense value their contribution to the welfare of
our society is not recognized properly
This leaves us with millions of people who have no
function at all, and with very little education
We see them in big cities where their life is so tedious they take to drugs and think ***** is a love life.
If nothing is done to harness the destructive power these people represent we will end
being ruled by the mob
Puzzles, playdough, toys galore.
Come take your pick as you come through the door.
Your stuff is boring; I want a lot more.
Not the same-old- same crummy junk again.
I want new stuff, by my chinny-chin-chin.
What about the puzzles? I ask, with surprise.
Studying his face, studying his eyes.
You loved them last time. Don’t you remember?
We had fun with them way back in September.
They are the same, every day, every week.
It’s new puzzles I want, it’s new games I seek.
What about this, the child said,
Let me get my phone out, and I will talk to it instead.
What about this, the child did say.
I will leave you alone, we will not have to play.
What about this? I said to the child.
Let’s be pirates, and ninjas, and we will live in the wild.
We can growl, and say mean stuff, and it will just be in play.
No, said the child. I hear mean stuff at my house every single day.
If you follow someone else ‘s idea of what you should do
You might well become upset or enraged over the tiniest of slights
If you seem always depressed or mad,
your soul
Might be is urging you forward
in a new direction of your own choosing.
Begging you to take a leap of faith,
To figure out what your heart needs
To become happy.
What you needed was there all along,
Happily waiting to be discovered
Knowing if not in this lifetime
Then in another
So do not lose sleep over being
Angry or mad for unknown reasons.
Your essence understands.
If you pray or meditate
Or build a fire or stare
Into a candle
Your soul has an opportunity
To let you know what is wrong.
It is only in genuine quieting of
Self that you can progress
Forward and find your bliss.
We all have a mission.
Once completed the love
You deserve will encompass you
And bring you to new heights
We call it heaven
Now that I’m sixty years old,
I need two things
To survive another day,
My Bible and some black coffee,
Would I add some cognac?
Writing is not that important,
I have to walk every day,
To treat my diabetes,
Now that I’m sixty years old,
I like to smell the roses, mauve ones,
Thinking of my dear sisters,
I need two things,
My Bible and some black coffee.
Maintenant, que j’ai soixante ans,
J’ai besoin de deux choses
Pour survivre un autre jour,
Ma Bible et du café noir,
Ajouterais je du cognac ?
Écrire n’est pas si important,
Je dois marcher chaque jour,
Pour soigner mon diabète,
Maintenant que j’ai soixante ans,
J’aime sentir les roses, mauves,
Penser à mes chères sœurs,
J’ai besoin de deux choses,
Ma Bible et du café noir.
Once upon a time there was a sweet one-eyed gal.
She lived her life, alone, let’s call her Little Mal.
Her mother and father kept her in the dark.
They hid her away, and made her feel stark.
One-eyed Mal, in a one-cat-owned house.
Lonely girl sadly raised by a louse,
Except in her case it was not only one,
It was two, and life was not so very much fun.
When she was six she broke free of her chain.
She ran outside, and she danced in the rain.
The neighbors quickly saw and ran out to see…
She was a nice little girl, this one-eyed sprite, so wee.
The community took her in, and gave her a life.
Took her away from this horrible man and his wife.
She learned to love, and she discovered herself.
She learned that one-eyed gals don’t belong on a shelf.
She runs an orphanage for the ones who are hidden away.
She has a pet owl who brings them all swiftly her way.
One-eyed Mal, living her dream, thanks to a day in the rain
When she danced in the rain, after breaking her chain,
Moral of the story is easy to see, in a little bitty rhyme…
If you are miserable discouraged, or sad most of the time,
Then please break free, and fly, right now, yes, you, please do!
Life should be wonderful for you my friend, yes, you, Honey, YOU.
She’s dead they said!
She I thought. Who is she?
I stared straight down at a frumpy old thing.
On the bed, a lump, so dead.
Was that me? I asked my spirit guide.
My guide laughed; he always loves it
That it takes me a while to recognize my flesh body
Between life times.
Let’s go figure it out, he suggested.
We watched a video; my entire life as a woman.
As a she; I was still trying to get over it actually.
I was a mother and a grandmother? What was that like?
You don’t remember? He asked me.
He is amazed at my lack of long-term memory.
My short term memory is not that great either.
I do not hang on to bodies with much admiration or reverence.
We sat around watching other people’s movies.
These are your possibilities he told me.
Parent possibilities. It was all coming back to me now.
I do not want to be a girl! I told him sternly.
He laughed. Impregnating me as a boy, but the egg split.
So I came back around as a twin.
I was damned mad when I saw that the other twin was a boy.
And here I was a girl again. Some idiot doctor slapped my butt, and
I could not stop bawling!
The task master walked into the room of hopeful job applicants.
All the blacks over there, he said, pointing. No one moved.
All the whites over there, he said, pointing. No one moved.
All the people with hair and skin and teeth over here, he said.
They all came forward.
The task master stared at them. Do you not category yourself? He asked.
His voice was loud and mean.
The applicants stared at him.
I have to know who you think you are, he said.
We are Americans, one said.
We are spiritual beings another said.
So he knew he had been outsmarted, and he categorized them a different way.
All of you with April birthdays over there.
Two moved.
All of you with the number nineteen in your birthday over there.
Everybody else moved over there.
This was not helpful.
How in the world do others label people? He wondered.
At this rate they were never going to get started with the training.
I have an idea, someone said to him.
Why divide us at all? Why not just train us?
This made him mad, because he was in charge here.
So he dismissed that smart ass and trained the others.