Long Abodes Poems
Long Abodes Poems. Below are the most popular long Abodes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Abodes poems by poem length and keyword.
she carries the child on tired hips rested on chains ‘round her waist
wasted on freedom designed to serve a white man’s lustful desire
branded inferior as time repeats itself and the pain knows no end
a tattoo on her skin confirms her as chattel in self-righteous shackles
festering wounds of Apartheid resemble the foul stench of humanity
as her child suckles from an empty breast and cries out for more
they did not really abandon slavery merely gave it a different name
too sweet are the rewards of exploiting the world as we know it
division of labour and they enshrined her firmly as an illiterate pawn
her soul wrapped in skin and bones and her eyes like rusted steel
an empty gaze almost gave up on merits of justice from hollow eyes
camped in concentration of power domination she is raped daily
of her dignity while she ploughs on in fields of plenty and the dust
of history and yet she never gives up on struggle for emancipation
some got the vote in a rigged system with dice slicing the fortune
disembowled by wolves in capital’s fangs her innermost treasure
has become hope that succumbs to memories of her forebears
born into poverty and meant to stay there she rattles her manacles
in vain in defeat because leg irons and handcuffs are made from
diamonds and gold in the heartland of theft and misappropriation
when her child dies she carries another from the master’s loins
expendable and forgotten her tears are salty and polish the gyves
and just maybe might help to corrode bilboes and unholy bonds
because human emotions do not forget who triggered the hurt
outcast in a so called homelands or locations she requires a pass
to enter the kingdom of opulence in which she serves as a maid
but the young maiden has become old and dies cleaning their dirt
a stolen life is all that her daughters will remember with hatred
and when they rise they too will die by the greed of their captors
but one day the tables will turn and revolve in anger and retribution
20th August 2020
‘Apartheid’ in South Africa was the system of racial discrimination
Workers needed a ‘passbook’ to enter rich suburbs for work
‘Homelands’ were the allocated regions where black people would live
Their abodes where called ‘locations’ to sweeten the tongue of evil
It was the month of June,
When the whether had changed its tune,
The rain was lashing down,
It's wrath had drenched the town.
All the human beings succumbed to their warm abodes,
All but me, who was wandering along the water filled roads,
It was dark, and a blue umbrella in my hand,
Walked on and on, till I saw a lone girl in a bus stand.
She was hopeless, she was searching for help,
Until she saw me, she ran to me with a yelp,
Without hesitating, without asking, she reached under my umbrella,
Shivering and content, she chirped "thanks, fella!".
And I saw her face, clearly,
She had scars, wounds and charred, nearly,
She was an embodiment of abuse and painfulness,
She was an incarnation of fear and grimness.
She was happy, she got a companion in me,
she was hopeful, she was blindly trusting me,
I asked her " why are you alone?",
She replied " I was always alone".
"Hope always repelled me,
Happiness is scared of me,
But I never gave up,
I always have, with poise, my chin held up".
"Evil always have wandered around me,
The aura of submission always strayed around me,
Time have shown me the most difficult phases of life,
But here I am, with memories imprinted on my face, throbbing with life".
I was numb, I was mesmerized,
She was some angel, she had me enlightened,
She was ugly in looks, but she was lovely,
Oh god! I have fallen for her, she was so lively.
Till the moment I met her,
I had called myself a loser,
I was the famous, rich and handsome, who, within was a loner,
I had lots of friends, fans, followers, but they were friends with my money, fame and my power.
"Have I seen you somewhere?" She asked me, eyes wide,
"Might have, but not relevant", I was enjoying this edified ride,
I had no destination, I just walked by her rhythms,
I had no worries, she led me softly like a calm zephyr.
And suddenly we stopped, she had reached her destination,
She smiled at me, thanked me and went away to an unknown direction,
I was blank, reached out for the rain,
It had stopped long ago, for my umbrella was completely dry.
Again I was solitary,
The cold wind stopped, which was once fiery,
I adored her, but was sorry for myself,
I wasn't good enough for her, an unfortunate pal for a fighter like herself.
K.S.Lakshmi
The azure ocean, home to the embedded enormous incomprehensible riches of mysteries and riddles,
More than the Mars, lies unfathomed, underneath the conundrum of oceanic colossal rhythms.
From the The Milky Sea Phenomenon, a sight captured as bioluminescence illusion,
The Purple Orb of the ocean floor of California and the Baltic Sea’s anomalous puzzles,
Like the alien spaceship put foot on the colossal quagmires of oceanic chasm!
When the underwater volcanoes erupt to perplex beyond imagination in huddle,
To probe and discern those gems of oyster shell’s luminous pearls dazzles,
Deep beneath sleeping peacefully in the ocean’s cradle!
The fatal enigma of the unplumbed immensely profound oceanic mysteries will never dwindle.
The more one plunges to pierce in deep muse its vastness engulfs to diddle!
The superficial waves in corrugation, are mere widening its hitherto horizontal hurdles.
The bizarre sounds emanating from beneath are like giant icebergs scraping the oceanic floor in madly rhythm!
The obscure oceanic realms, its myriads mystical appearances remains timeless, fancy of millions!
Eras and eras pass, the mythical mermaid’s riddle are yet to resolve,
As centuries pass, may replete with the witness of numerous human civilizations!
Like the Atlantis of Japan, from time immemorial, the oceans are abodes of colossal confusions.
The voyages disappear in the Mystic Triangle, who knows what lies beneath the mythical abstractions?
The twirling sounds of infinite ocean swirling in the sea shells are quite captivating, attract admirers attractions;
The archipelago one after the other vanished without the trace, as in Marina Trench’s aberrations;
As if the Phantom Islet of Bermeja, in its murky abyssal cradle’s magnetic composition.
The Crop Circles discovered beneath its bosom as if the signage of other world’s manifestations;
The oceanic phenomenon of green flashes meets the red tides, reveals your magnificent disposition.
Wants to plunge, swim like a mermaid in your mystical cerulean temporal lilting motion;
Oh, the oceanic conundrum more we try to fathom, the more we entangle in your cryptic chasm!
© Silpika Kalita
After years of grad school, I decided to get married,
My parents found a beautiful girl a few years younger than me,
After the arranged wedding, our love life began,
She came to USA from India when she was cute young girl.
Getting adapted to the new environment was tough,
Everything was new, and different, she was lost,
English was as new to her as the new surroundings,
I advised her to watch soap during the day to learn English fast.
To my surprise, within six months, she could communicate in English,
We will go out in the weekends, enjoy the great outdoors in States,
Take pictures in slides and prints, to take it to India when she visits,
Still, she found lonely as she did not find many friends to keep her happy.
I tried to get her in yard work and backyard gardening,
She would happily help when I was around,
Still, she found this boring, the produce was cheaper at stores nearby,
The next excitement I thought would be shopping to keep her happy.
She would go to malls. spend hours looking for outfits
I made sure I appreciated what she chose,
An appreciation she loved more than making Taj Mahal for her,
Sometimes she will spend more than the set limits,
She will say, don’t worry I will pay when the bill comes,
When the bill came, she would say,
You pay; you control all the money.
Life was evolving, she found many friends,
She loved two baby girls and a boy, we were blessed with,
It was an enchanting era to watch the kids grow,
Their birthday parties were full of excitement, I still remember.
In the early days before videos came, we would go to the theaters,
I must remind her at least a day in advance to get ready for the show.
If we must go to a wedding or anniversary,
A week's reminder was barely enough to get her ready.
In the old days, when GPS was not around,
Going to new places used to be adventure many times,
She will be the navigator with road maps,
Hardly knew how to read it properly.
Still, life kept on moving,
She came late and left early to heavenly abodes,
The fun moments we had,
Still lingers in my mind.
Savage mountains spit out rocks,
Sputter rage and die for a second
And rise again with fire yellow and red
Particles, sparks, explosives
Of the daemons from the past
Burying a nation.
In God's saffron robe
Appears a trace of red
And in face a tinge of regret
For His men.
He knows the immoral daemons
Are flourishing, destroying
What is good.
God is the partial man
And he understands the problem.
He says" To speak truly, a man of genius can do"
"A total man from the stardust"
He calls out to the constellations to intervene;
And make every rock to be battered
Into myriads of living atoms.
We therefore make leaders
Made of constellations
Spearheaded, supreme
To kill the roguish volcanoes, abodes of daemons
And that's why there are stars.
We need them to be there,
Out in the dark space;
At least we think they should be there.
We make stars.
His wish.
Why Are There Stars Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
DOE: 02nd July-2018
Memorial service ~10:00 A.M. October 21st, 2020...
at Cherry Hill, New Jersey Unitarian Fellowship
Boyce Brandon Harris cremains
(approximately one fourth entire contents)
offered, interred, and eulogized
within ‘Tristan’s Pollinator Garden,'
which constitutes minute arboretum
bore witness to immediate family of said deceased
yours truly plus eldest and youngest sister
each of us communicated solemn words
to recall admirable, inimitable,
and unfathomable father,
whose passing (evident previous six months,
whereby his declining physical health)
unfettered, presaged, and indicated imminent death
now his invisible spirit
dwells amidst the spiritual abodes
encompassing three offspring,
he and the late Harriet Harris begat,
whose lives analogous
to quasi orphaned grown children
all adults with independent lives of their own.
We (progeny of our father and mother,
the latter deceased
approximately fifteen and a half years)
convened at above mentioned site
see fourth line of poem
to consecrate, designate, and generate
extemporaneous heartfelt sentiments
honoring his wishes,
mixing joys and sorrows,
regaling poignant occasions
before shoveling soil
punctuated silent benediction
courtesy Reverend Margret A. O'Neall,
Developmental Minister eloquently enunciated
reassuring, healing, and comforting words
to small congregating crowd
comprising half dozen plus people.
Come spring two thousand twenty one
a hearty shrub or tree,
(yet to be decided upon)
will be planted within sanctioned
space, whereby Mother Earth
will allow, enable, and provide
nondescript ashes to mingle
subterranean flora and fauna,
whence roots of former will help filtrate
cremated body once housing
Boyce Brandon Harris.
He who helped bring us
(meaning Amélie, Matthew and Shari)
into existence forever spirited into the future
linkedin by actions
genetically, indirectly and knowingly
hashtagged, kickstarted and tweeted
said son and daughters
who possess his corporeal heritage.
AntiPoem 2
You know only one thing and that is:
Dying is not on the agenda.
Let us march now inside St. Mary’s,
March reverently through these green repentant doors,
These holy portals to grace and absolution,
Into a stain-glassed sanctuary of sinners kneeling in disguise,
These sullied souls coming in through the out door again,
Figuring death is furloughed from the crucifixion business,
Two thousand blurry years later.
Let us still march forward now to the glassed tabernacle,
Resting up there ensconced upon the marble altar,
Beyond human touch;
The host inside now transubstantiating as with earthen time,
From dry crusty oatmeal,
To omnipotent King of the Universe.
The boy holds his new Sunday missal,
As the family drives to ancient St. Joseph’s,
Up the asphalt hill, there on Gold Street,
Amidst the tentative Yuletide presentations,
Of tinsel-lit trees and blinking avenue abodes.
In the distance Lady Lassen wears a white bonnet,
As the Redding Christmas Tree stands exuberant,
Seventy-three feet into the icy air on Market Street,
A rainbow-glowing giant with a thousand staring eyes.
Brenda Lee is singing,
Rocking Around the Christmas Tree,
From blaring radios inside Oldsmobiles and Studebakers,
Cruising Placer Street to the Cascade showing Butterfield 8.
The boy is counting the neon cocktails,
While riding in the backseat on blue polyurethane,
His father is intently driving the blue ’58 impala,
Into a gravelly hilltop parking lot.
Blaring outward from the church there I heard voices,
A bubbling sacramental bouillabaisse of silent
Parishioners all genuflecting in pristine Latin confusion.
The girls choir wearing skirts of curious plaid, is
Singing loudly and softly their angelic vocal renderings:
“Gloria in excelsis Deo"
Father Elliot is extending his arms outward now,
Bestowing the final expectant blessing;
He is giving absolution to the captives driving Cadillacs.
You know only one thing and that is:
Dying is not on the agenda.
In a World brimming with wealth and grandeur,Where opulence dazzles on every corner,A tale unfolds of disparity and strife,
Where poverty thrives, tormenting countless lives.
Inflation, a cruel tempest, engulfs the land,
Whispers of hunger and despair, hand in hand,
While riches multiply, soaring high and free,
The less fortunate struggle, longing to break free.How can this nation, adorned in gold and gleam,
Allow homelessness and hunger to remain unseen?
Abandoned houses, empty and decaying,
Dancers of sadness as time keeps on fraying.Enough money circulates in gilded hands,
To wipe away sorrow's desolate sands,
Yet greed entangles hearts, fierce and cold,
Turning a blind eye to suffering untold.But oh, hear me now, you who hoard excess,
For in your chests, souls weighed down by duress,
A day will come when you'll face your transgressions,
Questioned by fate, facing divine concessions.For every empty mansion slowly crumbling,
There exists someone's hope, endlessly humbling,
Why not embrace these forsaken abodes,
Giving shelter to weary souls with sores?
And what of sustenance, cast away as waste,Sentenced to rot, not a morsel to taste,
Stores and restaurants, brimming with excess,
Starving bellies pleading, pleading for redress.Can't we forge a path of empathy and care,
Sharing provisions, enough for all to share?
Let no child go to sleep, stomach unfed,
No mother or father mourn their daily bread.Greed, the villain that plagues our mortal realm,
Shall guide you towards an eternal helm,
Inequity's burden, you cannot forsake,
For in the end, it is your soul at stake.So let us rise against these walls of greed,
With love and compassion as our sacred creed,
Dare we bridge the gap that threatens to eclipse,
Uniting as one, erasing poverty's abyss.For in a world of abundance, so profound,
No reason for homelessness or hunger to be found,
Let's breathe life into the forsaken, the lost,
And redeem humanity at whatever cost.
Written By:
Jamie L. Williamson
Enter Alice, the bestest girl.
Enter Kobalos, The gruesome goblin,
(You may just see him in the middle of the tree, (or not))
Alice:
Rachael! Rachael!
What an ill forgotten wood this is
It nerves the jingle jangles from my soul
Where else to look, though stupid if I do
To gaze up to this tree and ask for help.
Kobalos:
Now there! The jingle jangle eh!?
What panic stricken minx has woken wood?
The jagged edge of branches each a notch
So tantalisingly close above her head
Instead of calling Rachael, are yea dead?
And the torment of imagination lingers
When children at this time of day are scared
Look! my eager branches seem like fingers,
Equally as long as you've been there.
Alice:
Hello! Is someone there, I hear a voice,
Kobalos:
Then maybe who shall Rachael be, hello!
Come climb, the view is excellent you'll see
Projecting what are acres more than mellow
My dear, Rachael, is up here with me!
Alice:
No! I shall not look for if I do!
The curse of Goblin Wood shall all come true
That they who talk to trees shall be as well,
A tree for ever more, and this they tell!
Kobalos:
Bunckernuk and dribdroch nichentoct,
Weirdy words of wood like magic spells,
Entice the girls and boys like any noise
As if the gaze itself was indeed there.
Alice:
You mean to say, it doesn't matter if
The tree I talk to doesn't hear a thing,
Yet if I were believing this were true
Then, why the wait, lets make a fairy ring!
Kobalos:
Humpdunk, toodletrash, mock of wisdom wise
Scandal monger, fairy rings, to seal a goblin's eyes.
Alice:
Trees are all around, and shaking mad
Oh! No!, The curse is fighting back, don't fall!
But what can Alice do, she has to call!
It happened, when I came here with my dad.
enter, The Narrator
Narrator:
Where hollowness should echo flaking bark
Abodes to goblins seven days a every week?
No! Just listen silently, there! hark!
Rachael's in the tree for Hide and Seek!
dead end street …
mostly elderly when we came
always quiet …
empty nests side-by-side
aching for spring
but winter came instead
(the winter of life)
friends … good people -
town folk who raised this little
borough with pride
came to this blind alley to wait for God
and He obliged …
one-by-one, this road of
retirement rolled over …
the reap saw these quiet abodes
flipping fast and furious
and the once-aged occupants were
replaced with families -
young professionals and upstarts
fresh-woven nests filled with
chicks and younglings -
little voices and wings to test
upon the breeze
training wheels and swing sets
where lounge chairs once grazed lazily
backboards and rollerblades
and a valid reason for the ice cream
truck to loiter, it’s silly music box
jingling the afternoons with cold, tasty
wonder-in-a-cone …
time - passing like a subway car -
just a flash in the dark …
grain-by-grain the
hourglass steadily sifted
and a once-peaceful lane became
a circus of activity -
giggles and screeches replacing the
silence with the music of life
the rarely-a-car avenue, vibrant and joyous
picnics and lawn parties
birthdays and showers and fireworks
playballs left unattended
bicycles laid at the curbs in a rush
pets being walked
and the commonplace, everyday things
started being … every day …
oh, no mistake -
I loved the quiet when we came
and tho’ I dread the winter months now -
the post-Christmas cold, dead and
long-dark days, grinding on me
like a ragged old dirge -
that quietude and peaceful contemplation
is STILL one of life’s greatest
“little pleasures” to me …
yet … it’s the NOISE that I’ve come to
miss the most this time of year -
those little voices of
youth and vibrancy that sing me
through the warm months,
reminding me what being here is
all about, and making me
yearn more than ever
the sweet, joyous, callow kiss …
of Spring.
(Photo of Maplewood Drive by yours truly)