Long Aftermaths Poems
Long Aftermaths Poems. Below are the most popular long Aftermaths by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Aftermaths poems by poem length and keyword.
Stay
Go! I screamed. Leave!
Start spreading the distance between you and me.
Why is all of this happening so quickly?
Go, I roared.
Stay I whisper…Stay
As I watched you walk away.
White is black, black is white
I don’t care about anything tonight
I know it’s not wrong, but it doesn’t feel right
People strike first to take the lead
Others continuously choose to fight
Some sink low and kill the heart
I feel we should end it before it even starts
Hoping I could come or you could stay
Knowing you have to leave
Go, I screamed, wishing you’d listen to me
Pleading God gives me the strength I need
To sacrifice what I love most in order for you to succeed
I know you would do this for me any day
Leave I said, release me from my fears
Go I smiled, trying to hold back my tears
I’ve known you for too long, too many years
I see you, I feel you, I need you, I think about you everyday
I hear your voice in my head, in my ears
Go I said, the sooner I can forget
Leave I cried, before I start to regret.
This is why I don’t attach.
It’s better to be alone, my skills unmatched,
Nothing to hold me back, my armor unscratched.
It’s a never-ending cycle; it’s all the same
People come and people go.
That’s never going to change, and there’s no one to blame.
The moon is up, it’s full and bright
The stars are out, there’s so many tonight
The doors are locked, my heart has stopped, and I look at the clock.
It’s over, it’s done, you’re gone.
Why do the happy moments happen so fast, but the painful ones and their aftermaths last so long?
It’s cold, I’m cold, I’m numb inside.
Goodbye I said to you. I love you, I’ll miss you
That’s what I said to you.
Listening to my logic.
Keeping my pride as my soul cried
What to do now I wonder?
Moving on isn’t easy.
Taking one step at a time, as my head throbs, my heart aches
My stomach feels queasy and my lips shake
Go! I yelled, Leave! I screeched with all my might
Finally finishing this internal struggle I faced and ending this endless strife
I need you to go, I want you to know, it’ll be all right
I wonder and dread how many more times I’ll have to do this in my life
Does it ever get any easier?
Was it worth it in the end?
Leave, Go
Stay here…with me
I don’t know
You tell me.
A humanity Slain by a black ghost flame
Because their God was an unspeakable name
A Mournful, Insane, multitude with emnity and self induced labor pains
An Eon that has never awoken - A Copt of Souls- skin of the seas soaken-
in the foamy afterbirth of aftermaths toil, in spoil
by the Unspoken strains
Alone without a soul, or meaningful, rich soils of cultivation, to be grafted in,
birthing anew, and not staying long enough to become unattended, mud from the rain and eroded by sins,
splitting image is a sea splashing your brain
i see all that you do, your stratas of civilizations
Unveiling me of the Mystery of the Unseen, in indignant stagnation
but mildew of what once was a nation
fingertips form fitting on the sill of the stranded looking after loves
dead bug
Dust dried, shriveled and Unspoken for encapsulated in your dung
The Unfitting glove, trying us on for size, tongue in cheek,
begrudging the nudge off the cliff closer
Eons are all too slow for you to fully comprehend its reign
As you grow further in age,
The light of the star
Beside you, fades, phase shifts as darkmatter
and becomes blacker still like soot on the page
Turn you cron-icon along its path
As the dark of the age "Comicon of the lost"
Engaging, you, along its malevolence you are its Priestess, caught
giving burnt offerings of garbage you made special issuance not
all your glimpses, a mirrors tear, somewhere in Time's, Lots
snapped on the dancing diadem dragons lair plot, Dune sand trap, left
"sleeping "in the rough" at the Gates Of Aurizen, a Phoenix Unrisen,
to the Denizens, of the left
Layers of nothingness-spinning placebo, cursing the dark side of our moons
And only silence in raft upon the voided rift
The Unspoken, unspoken,Apathy, ingratitude TheM Ulktra Violence
Them, Humans once lived
We cowardly witnessed the genocide of many human beings
Live, live, live in real time
That was an odious, callous and vicious crime
We said nothing, absolutely nothing about the sad and awful events
Many of us were either silent or complacent about everything
Even God was absent and quiet. He did nothing, nothing
Evil doers are not humane; they are hardcore criminals
We witnessed the bombings of babies, buildings and animals
We saw the massacres and the aftermaths. We could smell the blood
And could hear the cries coming out of the television screens
We saw the live and dead bodies, the hearts, the livers and the spleens
Rotting and spoiling in the filthy streets. The color of the mud
Is grim and abnormal, because of too much sufferings and tears
Too much pain and misery, too much disgust and shame
Too much atrocities and killings. We all know whom to blame
We know who are responsible for so much evilness and wrongdoings
Humanity got thrown out of the window in this part of the universe
We wonder if these two legged machines have a heart and a soul
We wonder if they ever look in a mirror, in a clear pool
We wonder how it would be if everything were to happen in reverse
Where is God? Why this ignominious silence?
Live, live, live in real time
That’s an odious, egregious and beastly crime
How can anybody sleep at night? That makes no sense
These days, everything is live, eerie, vivid and instantaneous
Grotesque things are never acceptable, admissible and hilarious
We want peace and we dream of peace
But the guilty ones must pay from west to east
And from north to south. We want peace and justice.
P.S. This poem is dedicated to Love, Peace, Equality and Justice.
Copyright © June 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
She is not made of atoms,
but aftermaths
the kind that linger in a room long after
the lights remember to flicker back on.
Her spine?
An origami of fallen yesterdays,
creased by collapse,
but folded forward into flight.
They call it resilience,
but she knows better
it’s architecture,
a cathedral of nerve built from
"this will not break me,"
hummed on repeat until it didn’t.
She speaks fluent scar.
Not in pity,
but in translation.
She translates grief into gardens,
anger into architecture,
your silence into a symphony
with minor keys,
because sadness, too, deserves an audience.
Her empathy is not soft.
It is surgical.
It sees you,
sutures you,
and leaves you with just enough scar
to remember you survived.
And her creativity?
It’s less coloring-book, more quantum mechanics.
She rearranges particles of pain
into poetry,
invents emotions that haven’t been named yet,
spins metaphors out of moonlight
and missed calls.
She is the punchline of a cosmic joke
you didn’t know you were telling
a glitch in the matrix
that decided to build a garden in the code.
Not here to be understood,
but to unmake the question.
Not here to fit
but to fracture the mold
and plant sunflowers in the cracks.
She is not your mirror.
She is your prism.
Try to define her
and she will refract.
"She takes the words from clouds of hue,
She poets the thoughts from skies so blue.
She hears the wind in silent things,
Like teardrops tied to sparrow wings.
She weaves her lines from dusk and rain,
And finds her muse in joy or pain.
She writes the world in verses small,
And turns soft nothings into all."
~Krishika upadhyay
My demeanor, the aftermaths of recklessness
A child once, a man to soon
The glory to my name gone, the grace faded
Change do I offer no opposition to
Derogatory remarks, have I afforded restraint
A new cry heard; my steps subtle.
Your age, can I speak not of
Every moment, filled with more youth than the first
Memories created; gems remembered
Your hand in mine, a single entity we formed
For each other, were our lives
The joy spent, a cost to you.
A meeting of hearts, the night inspired
The ecstasy unspoken, but felt
Our naivety the error, unconsidered
An unthought conception, implanting itself
Impulse driving our passion, forth
Creators we became; the end I found.
Your figure lost, its voluptuousness
Atrocious had you seemed, to my young mind
The tips of your caress on my palm, offered no connection
Conditions to my love, a reality
Together could we be, never again
The burden was yours, my eyes were free.
To witness I chose, an obligation it was
The lights so bright, intensity I felt
Your tears and screams, nourishing life
The mistake shadowed, by bare beauty
My hands were gifted with purity; my luggage fallen
Reconciliation was to late, but my hands knew no release.
My depart planned, my destination unmoved
His gentle touch, redirecting my path
The regrets unknown, my chin's resemblance I admire
Your forgiveness, I do not desire
Mutual feelings, the base of our relations
A conditional love, the root of an unconditional one.
Once a burden, now a source of joy
The end of had I decided, devoid of reconciliation
His subtle cries, owning my love.
I can bring you a holy war.
Of souls and sour things…
I feel your slings and arrows of poison sight!
I dealt with your Hypocrisy your lies, your bitter night.
I simmer in your black bile of self-loathings
and
small Petty aspersions
and
Other annihilations!
I can bring the rain, the rage the righteous holy war of faith and abandoned grace!
In your ignorance and hysteria, they’re abject hypocrisy, I boil in brazen apathy and sour thoughts…
I can bring your whole-e-war
to your Door steps
to your living room
to your sycophantic neurotic soul.
You fester with black bile of Lies, hypocrisy
At its finest a testament to your Atrocities
As you think you’re aristocracy.
See!
See the harrow narrowed duplicity or poison animosity,
I bring you holy war and holocaustic ash.
Bombastic.
Fantastic.
Annihilatistic, dead?
A jihad of the soul and flesh.
A holy war.
Feel the coming rage,
in an age, at the brake of day.
I will rule my inner dominions.
I can bring you your holy war
of wars
the war of souls and flesh…
The war of machines and man made of history
Of souls and sour things blackened to ash
Holocaustic aftermaths…
I feel your slings and arrows of poisonous second sight in profane fluids; blood n sack cloth and lashes as lies; damnation crimson crime,
Feel the ruination of lies and ash in night!
I dealt with your superiority, your fictions
your scalding eyes, and ragged lips, stained,
And heavy thighs under raven eyes…
I simmer in your black bile of loathing and small Petty aspersions burning away in nihilistic ash.
All of the aftermaths occur after the wake of a bunch of terrible events: Hurricane
Katrina, the September 11th attacks in New York City, War in Iraq, and others. these types
of tragic events and a bunch of aftermaths have been around since the day the world was
created by God. There's no telling what will happen next if these tragedies keep coming
unexpectedly and stuff. It seems to all of the Americans today that after these tragedies
like the deaths of their loved ones, the deaths of most U.S. soldiers, Hurricanes Ike and
Rita destroying Houston, Texas, these people are trying to deal with the loss of their
homes and other people have been mourning the loss of the ones who've lost their lives to
these tragic events or by the hands of evil people. The aftermath of those events have
been haunting the lives of all U.S. citizens since day one. What makes most people sad is
that they have to deal with the fact that their loved ones are gone and other people are
still trying to deal with the fact that America almost lost its innocence, even after
9-11. These events have been talked about on the news at 5:00 p.m., 6:00 p.m., and 9:00
p.m. This is so wrong, especially for us Americans. Tragedies and the aftermath of all
heartbreaking tragedies are starting to make us even more sad and depressed. Everybody
doesn't like it. And if all types of tragedies continue to rise and there's going to be
more aftermaths after those tragedies or whatever, we'll be in for a rude awakening.
She is not made of atoms,
but aftermaths—
the kind that linger in a room long after
the lights remember to flicker back on.
Her spine?
An origami of fallen yesterdays,
creased by collapse,
but folded forward into flight.
They call it resilience,
but she knows better—
it’s architecture,
a cathedral of nerve built from
"this will not break me,"
hummed on repeat until it didn’t.
She speaks fluent scar.
Not in pity,
but in translation.
She translates grief into gardens,
anger into architecture,
your silence into a symphony
with minor keys,
because sadness, too, deserves an audience.
Her empathy is not soft.
It is surgical.
It sees you,
sutures you,
and leaves you with just enough scar
to remember you survived.
And her creativity?
It’s less coloring-book, more quantum mechanics.
She rearranges particles of pain
into poetry,
invents emotions that haven’t been named yet,
spins metaphors out of moonlight
and missed calls.
She is the punchline of a cosmic joke
you didn’t know you were telling—
a glitch in the matrix
that decided to build a garden in the code.
Not here to be understood,
but to unmake the question.
Not here to fit—
but to fracture the mold
and plant sunflowers in the cracks.
She is not your mirror.
She is your prism.
Try to define her—
and she will refract.
Bathing with Bathsheba
By Mark D. Stucky
As you bathed bare below the high palace
were you intentionally seductive?
The citadel was in plain view,
and so apparently were you.
Or were you simply innocent,
and the king abused his power?
Was it a me-too moment
those three millennia ago?
Nonetheless, you became complicit
in David’s paternity cover-up.
You closed your eyes to consequences
of a conspiracy plotting betrayal,
and unfortunate Uriah
lost both his “lamb” and his life.
When David’s resulting infant
died from a fateful illness,
did you whole-heartedly mourn
for your late husband and child?
Did you desire a do-over
to undelete their ended lives?
. . .
But is today a we-too moment?
Are Americans all Bathshebas?
Will we bathe in regrets for sins
of commission and omission,
over our actions and inactions,
flirting deliberately with danger
or acting intentionally ignorant?
As a complicit collective,
with democracy endangered
by a groper and his groupies
and eyes carelessly closed
to gun and climate violence,
will we grieve aftermaths
with broken, anguished hearts?
(See also my poems "The 2023rd Psalm" and "The Art of the Devilish Deal.")
(Edited photo taken originally by hike4life687 on Pixabay.)
Today I wrote a valentine to myself
Happiness as I sealed the envelope;
For to truly love', one must first love themself
I placed the valentine in the drawer of my vanity
Thinking I may need it on a stormy day
I sat on the chair, looked in the mirror and brushed my hair
I took notice there were not many lines,
though the vibrancy had once left me
The door I closed so tight on his love took many years to do
and when it was over,
through a near by window, the sun!
Today I wrote a valentine to myself
and I must admit I rather enjoyed a chocolate
Suddenly,there was a faint rap upon my door
And when I opened it stood the most handsome gentleman I've ever known in my life
I could tell that he had missed me though a kiss I was unsure if he would like
I politely asked if he would like a chocolate?
He accepted
We talked of school days and it was nice
I asked him not to say a word about the chocolate but somehow, I knew he would
He waved Bye to me and said, Okay Grandma!
Its times like these when your know your heart is alive and able to give
For sometimes such beautiful things come from past tragedies
It is just God's way
I see it nearly every day
I somehow believe that many aftermaths have a snow, white dove
Faith, hope and love
And the greatest of these three is love...