Long Anticipation Poems
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I behold the rose in bloom, and I cry,
I weep and I wail, then I sigh.
As the night draws in, my painful thoughts begin to wake,
I retreat into my mind and with fear I do shake.
Your clammy hand on my neck, your touch just like lead,
I close my eyes so you will go, you bury further in my bed.
I know I’m worthless, but please do not hurt,
And I try not to scream as you begin to insert.
The deed almost done, your sneer of disgust,
Your toes curl as we prepare for the final thrust.
You roar with delight, I exhale with relief,
My virginity now taken by a wretched old thief.
The memory still haunts, and the damage goes on,
I unravel the silk cloth that my knife lays upon.
Slowly but surely destruction is on its way,
I fear for my soul, but my body must pay.
Anticipation takes hold, and the blade does its work,
I press firmly down, blood appears with a jerk.
Is this the pleasure I've longed to have?
And a voice deep within screams "YES! ONE MORE JAB".
I am so frail, my young flesh so weak,
I can not go on, for my virginity he did seek.
The cold steel blade tattoos my white maiden flesh,
And the untouched skin becomes like wheat for the thresh.
I must abate, I must restrain,
This is the only way I mask the pain.
My eyes glaze over, my body feels weightless,
Each stroke is a prayer, and every cut a caress.
The guests have arrived, my relief has been fleeting,
He stands there staring, my heart is beating.
He looks at me inquisitively, mouth gaping,
And my mother knows not that her brother likes raping.
His gaze upon me, I'm his gift to unwrap,
He would rip me open and toss me like scrap.
I wish he would vanish and leave me in peace,
But his lust won’t be sated, and on me he would feast.
My legs are so withered, and my wheelchair’s a cage,
I wish that man in the Skoda didn’t have road rage.
I guess I should be grateful I can’t feel a thing,
But my mind is alive and every inch of him stings.
He gives me a present and pretends to be nice,
But don’t be fooled, it comes at a price.
He wheels me outside for a fresh of breath air,
When no one is watching he sniffs at my hair.
I wish I could lash out with my thin spastic legs,
But they are as useful as ice-cube clothes pegs.
I hope my diary doesn’t land in the wrong hands,
And if you’re reading this now then I’ve suck-cummed to his plans.
- Anonce
As two, hearts dance the embrace of a fire,
plucking your heartstings as a lyre
Distrust, lies, eclipses love's satellite true- natal
loon, into a suicide hot air balloon ride!
Moves aside bend of light, chooses,
side, of a dark malignant side of moon !
In the twilight hour blues,
where passions softly stir,
emotions start to blur, turn sour,
painting pleasure in the night maw to devour two
In the depths of the night, a solitary light wound
casts a shadows upon the heart,
where darkness slowly seeps through
With every stolen kiss, a crescendo of desire,
a symphony of emotions that sets souls afire
Strings of anticipation strum
in rhythmic delight tuned to
caressing secrets, where fantasies abide, nude
Signs, who, hides moons of the truest kind!
O a tale apart
Moves side winds, breath of the dark arts,
to align into hearts maligned
arms folded in death to make with
as a stolen kiss ignites a flame,
like a symphony, our hearts fall prey to again
be betwixt in the game
With every stolen kiss, a crescendo of desires,
hollows,
a symphony of emotions that sets
souls adrift from the shallows
In passions dance in the shadows,
at Night, where secrets cannot hide their gallows
from the ghouls that preside in it's marrow
In a tale ripped apart...
every 'plete of your heart
Strings of anticipation strum in
rhythmic delight tune
turns to the knife of sacrificial rite
In the twilight raimant so blue, where passions fly,
the jolly roger of motley fools,
selling the fine line
sailing the live mines
Embracing the darkness' essence,
a tale yet for reason
harmonies of ecstasy reaching
a breathtaking peak of reasoning
Oh, the cadence of desire, intoxicating and divine,
as crescendos rise and fall, our spirits intertwine
a symphony of emotions, wild and misconstrued,
leaving souls aflame, forever marked,
for death do you sever
apart partaking your
passions dance in the shadows,
at Night, where secrets cannot hide to
desires lever toggle with every touch, new,
every sight of slight or bruise
Urban decay of a dream,
dream theater of a tragedy
playing looped scene
In the Twilight raimant so blue
With every beat of your heart
Moves side winds, choose, sides,
with a dark maligned tune
Un-revelling Rivalry
Who am I to speak of historical rivalry I cannot contest
all the clever myriad truths conjectures and refutations
about the two masters the two foes with huge presence
when history acclaim appreciation is subjective personal
up front and back stage up all artistic ins downs and outs
My parachute helicopter mind wants to give first prize to
to Leonardo for free flying inventive rebellious mind and
he helped me with anatomy dissecting corpses and all I can
still smell fragrant formalin preserving miraculous tissues
when I had to learn those medical terms and cut into flesh
But then Michelangelo shares my middle name though I am
no angel but who can proclaim that I may never be biased in
associate vein in quite shallow post-post-modernist anticipation
when the great man also painted in narrative personification
Deluge Drunken Noah Creation of Adam Madonna and Child
Okay family man that I am I resort to holidays with my children
and am so sad to admit that we never so far made it to Rome
sacrilegious or not but how could I pass The Last Judgement
when seeing Sistine Chapel’s altar would alter the verdict
of Ignoramus with leisure time spent on Normandy’s beaches
Well now I recall that trip to Euro Disney when we walked
from Tour Eiffel to the Louvre where I temporarily lost my
little boy Moritz and almost my temper when the devious villain
hid from the artwork was sulking because the Mona Lisa was
so small and he was so tiny could not see amongst masses of
tourists the smile and metaphorical writing on canvas and wall
So in all earnest while giving a toss I could-would have to resort
to tossing a coin in regards to whom why how and whenever the
rivals could measure up to history my history my story and life
Even and because of my whacky literal critical stance and my
stanzas bordering on mockery heresy subtle subjectification
you must remember that I have one tongue and two cheeks
And while seemingly ridiculing an important theme of historical
prominence I still bow in awe admiration yet lodge my own angle
perspective whereas the two grand master’s problem was not
what I would behold in my eyes and my soul in full radiance but
that they chose not to consider each others contrasting beauty
as compliment complement Leonardo Angelo Michel Da Vinci
01st September 2016
The idea of a living constitution
has the same forensic indeterminacy
as a committed dream.
I am content to trust this dream to the end
to have it fill my cup of hope all day and night.
I am content to receive its order
to hasten to obey without a pause.
But, the old voice sounds
unrelentingly in the chamber: Do not
compromise. Punish.
Crucify him.
The infirm musing of a perpetual dreamer
rising up with eyes wild for relief.
I am content with the terror and anticipation that
keeps turns by watching me:
Justice, once imagined, cannot be undone.
I have been left to think along these lines
to look for the abandonment of arcane unfairness
months after months.
The months
burn up as a fading lantern
homage to the majesty of the absurd:
A muse easy to bear, Camusian laughter to
suffering’s exalted well —
what single rule might break the dry spell?
Sometimes the unforeseen, the unpredictable
springs in the heart of justice
bending its way upward
again and yet again
towards a distant point
all unaccountably, into the strengthening clasp
of fresh now-born idea,
nearer to binding faith
than wild dismembering injustice.
When the far-distant element
of suffering humanity
looms out more clear;
the faint, far, complex notes of hope
its head moves near
and new flicks of justice’s well
unfolds beyond the known.
Is there any new depth to this well?
Say, what is its true nature?
Quietly nature covers over
the dying bird and the dead rover.
If justice’s dead, it is as though
a robin died beneath the snow
tucked away neatly, whose bright eyes
once stared with impudent surprise
at every tit-bit flung to her.
Now every season we must bear
to live without its whistled air,
for law lives beneath the Spring,
like a sequestered paradise
exiled from the steady hammer of faith,
a trackless rice field
ever trudging through groves of
crouching, unconquered territories.
Oh enchanted universe
conqueror of earth’s stadium
in your wild, singing glory
the faults you committed live.
Come hear my sharpened cries
surely, you can hear my note of crisis.
Ceaselessly I raise my cry.
My cry ascends and floats away
scattered by whirling winds afar.
* “Endure what you suffer as being a father’s punishment.” (Heb. 12:5b-7)
Author's note: written on the anniversary of Harvard's abuse of my human rights
When you return home after many years,
stepping onto familiar soil,
your heart stirs with bittersweet anticipation.
The sun-tinted house that once witnessed your dreams
now stands a stranger, with cold eyes afar,
overgrown vines clinging to its weathered walls.
It is as if time has woven arras of indifference,
forgetting the dwelling you once held dear.
Your gloomy eyes , yearn for the sight of loved ones.
Brimming with longing and delight,
search for the comforting presence of a mother’s love.
But her cot is empty, an echoing void
that resonates with absence.
The silence lingers, a haunting reminder
of the void left behind.
Your ears strain, longing to catch
the timbre of your father’s call,
but the emptiness engulfs you,
and his voice is but an echo in the time.
Oh, how it pains you to realize
that the essence of your childhood has vanished,
scattered like fragments of a forgotten dream.
The trees you once nurtured
no longer extend their branches in recognition,
their leaves now whispering unfamiliar secrets to the wind.
The birds that sang in joyful harmony
have embarked on their migratory journey,
leaving behind only mark of their melodies.
In your room, where time stands still,
A sanctuary of memories, both tender and surreal.
Your photo on the tinting wall,
Whispers tales of laughter.
In this moment, you stand suspended
between the realms of nostalgia and reality,
caught in the delicate dance of remembrance and loss.
The evening glows, once bathed in golden hues,
now cast their gentle glares upon your soul.
Days spent in the backyard beneath the sheltering heaven
of a tall tree flicker before your eyes,
like fragments of a fading painting.
As you wander through the corridors of time,
retracing the steps of your youth,
you come to realize that home is not merely a collection of tiles
not a building, confined within four walls,
it’s a dropbox of your heart, where dreams are saved, love and laughter sprawls, a symphony of whispers, of joy and tears combined,
an abode of cherished echoes, forever intertwined,
an eternal flame that cannot be extinguished.
As you stand there, amidst the overgrown ruins of the past,
You find the lost essence of being, imprinted upon your soul.
No matter how you wander, how far and wide you roam,
You know you’ll always return, to the place that owns you.
…
Strangely, the world – strange
Has transformed from graceful,
With stardust laughing across the plains,
Sunlight silences the darkness, the night
Falling beneath the shadows of light…
As I lift my eyes to see the alterations,
Changes that speak to my spirit,
Stirring up the silence, lifting the ability
To reach out in anticipation, for the wonders
The amazing – bravely coloring the earth
In spectacular shades of joy so worthy
Fluctuating between silence and sound,
The inspirations imagine a softness, gentling
Hearts, trembling through the spirit in waves
Passing through the seas of memory, the past
Warms my faith and reminds me to listen
To the abiding truth, the ancient – forgotten
Among the memories of my youth, my life…
Before the new – before I knew paved roads,
Skyscrapers – cars who break through my dreams,
Singing of places I’d never imagined or believed
I might see – because in my past, where I lived when
There were horses everywhere, dusty roads,
Fighting with swords and fists, never expecting
The police to carry away the problems in shackles
Yonder, where there once stood a barn – a fence
A cow and a sheep, the horses in the pasture…
There stands a building, a sidewalk or some car
And, everywhere I look… there are people checking
The little boxes they’re carrying, taking chances
Never looking beyond their hands where the mysterious
Little boxes appear to be the reasons for their attentions
To be drawn away from others, into the mightier lands…
The lands of mobile dreams, ideas that seem to bleed
Through the impossible cells where they believe
Others can read all their feelings, their thoughts, their
Opinions… alive inside the little boxes they carry everywhere,
Revealing the wonders of the future that has come to us,
The ones who once knew freedom in living with the natural world
And, finally, discovered – here in the present, a life that will
Silence the past with its slow moving theories, lighting today
With the stars, twinkling in a sky that still has not changed
Despite the transformation of the entire earth, - the natural
World erases every doubt, each cloud, that dims the candle
Lighting up the past’s memoirs of what once was so normal
Shakespeare in 2023 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
January 12, 2023
She needs to feel in love to drive aside the night,
I love to feel in love, ONE source of joy and light,
When love is not at home, she’s sad to be alone,
When love is not in sight, the world is mine to roam.
Beginnings bring disquiet, thoughts that might implode,
Anticipation puts my heart in singing mode,
A friend’s departure makes her shadows fall,
But I hear stranger’s voices lighting up the hall.
Experience has made her doubt her heart it seems,
While all my failures just enrich unending dreams,
Her mounting fear makes her the slave of every rule,
My foolish faith makes me a 'dead' God’s guileless fool.
She stands alone in following the crowd du jour,
While I’m more fascinated by a life impure,
Imputes blame to the victim’s of life’s latest farce,
While laughingly I stoop to kiss God’s ****.
Responsibility can’t live behind her door,
It must be me, (I know I’ve heard this line before.)
One lesson learned (defining sensibility),
Seems all that happen’s my responsibility.
So childlike in her need to feel that all is well,
It fills my soul to tell her, ‘Things are going swell,’
And though it’s true her doubts at times can cause me pain,
I hunger for the chance to tell her so again.
Oct. 12, 2014
Poet's Notes:
Man's redeeming strength, woman's affirming weakness! What makes the world go round! I find it works for me! Even when it's reversed! Viva la difference, viva la diversity! May we ever aspire to the giftings of those we love without jealousy, men learning that bending is not always a sign of weakness, and women learning to trust the strength that comes from God.
The lines...
1. My foolish faith makes me a 'dead' God’s guileless fool
is meant to be tongue in cheek, i.e., even if you thought you could prove that 'God is dead' I would continue to believe in God, your proof of no consequence. I am a questioning but mindless devotee I am afraid. No God is worse than death!
and
2. While I’m more fascinated by a life impure
simply means I take to heart Christ's teaching that no one has ever reconciled himself to God through his own effort, i.e.. justification by obedience (except Christ). If God/Christ can love the sinful you and I, shouldn't I? So yes Merov Tac (PH's resident Troll), that means I feel called by God to love even you, even though I personally hate your behavior.
The steps come easy
Almost hurried as I tread
The uneven trail before me
The sun is low in the sky
Distracted by the long
Angled shadows
Before me
Brought back to you
By the rushing sound
Of your breathing
Like a stony brook
I reach for you with
My eyes
My hand
I take hold of your smile
As my groping fingers
Stroke the small of you
We see in us
The other’s lust
Compelled by anticipation
Bottles clank to my side
As we descend the
Bluff above the river
You take my hand for keel
As your other is bundled
With music and quilt
We find our spot
That secret spot
Bathed by the whole day’s sun
There is shade in reach
But it’s the sun we seek
Chilled by the morning mist
As I knelt
We spread our quilt
Cornflower blue
Where clover eagerly grew
Placing my bundle at the head
Our riverside bed
Frames us like a
Masterpiece…
lit by the
Late morn sun
Hours we’ve spent
Upon wine, cheese and laughter
Drunk on smiles and lust
Have us we must
As the breathing grows
Rapid and musical
Moans of hunger
Filling the air around us
Joining the singing birds
And dancing trees
Our bodies move as one
Locked in the rhythm of all
Like pixies of spring
Undressing slowly
Taunting on the breeze
Sunlight hot upon
The angles of us
Soothing deep
Melting into the
Melting of you
Reaching over
My shoulder
Moonlight sonata
Gently echoes across the water
The music enters in
The midst of us
Tickling the ends of us
Driving our dance so smooth
We draw on our wine
Crimson and fine
And merge the delight
With a kiss
I nibble the flesh
From nape to breast
Easing scrapes with
Ministrations… soft and wet
Feel your blades
On my back
Shoulder to thigh
Tickling my eye
So naughty – take
My breath away
Kisses long and deep
Breathing passion
At the others gasp
Feel my hardness trace
Deftly the center of you
Break our embrace
Kissing a trail to
To the scent of you
Hearing our music
As I do… you offer
You to me, frantic
Wet, setting my pace
Grinding the face
That’s grinning through
Your desire
Dripping…
Off of the corners of
Of my thirst
I taste of my wine
And mix it with thine
As we taste us
Upon the Mage’s grape
Flesh quivers and begs
Girded with legs
A tempo in flux
Beethoven conducts
My bow across
Your cello
Sweet medley of
Body language refrain
Haunting and deep
With a key to the keep
Tis a trembling click
The door spasms ajar
It’s heard from afar
As the passion of the meadow screams back.
Electorate on tenterhooks until...
outcome of 2020 presidential election announced
Polling places slated to open seven o'clock
in the morning November third two thousand twenty
heightened tensions will strain patience
to breaking point concerning
extreme anticipation common joe experiences
(biden his/her time)
regarding which candidate trumpeted
as de facto commander in chief of United States.
Carpe diem the echoing refrain
heard and seen dispensed and broadcast
across telecommunications medium
cuz the very survival of democracy at stake
ruthless political machinations employed
to seize inalienable codified rights
couched within Declaration of Independence
and Constitution, written ethos, dogma, credo...
compiling aggregate of fundamental principles
or established precedents that constitute
legal basis of a polity, organisation
or other type of entity and commonly
determine how entity governed.
Understanding North American government
inextricably found yours truly agape
when chance occurrence brought hefty tome
into self assigned reading material
which storied author David McCullough
wrote engrossing John Adams biography
I read aloud with measured deliberateness
clearly enunciating each syllable of every word
despite runaway enthusiasm
to acquire historical premise
whereby original thirteen colonies
teetered on brink of immediate collapse
soon after majority representatives
swore fealty among themselves
despite ragtag soldiers
easily overwhelmed courtesy
fighting force of British Empire.
As a staunch affiliate of democratic party,
one veritable common joe
just biding his time,
I trumpet how crass
deleterious, egregious, fractious...
usurpation of power
jackknifed, kickstarted and linked
endemic flood (gushing) hatred
malicious, nefarious, opprobrious putrescence
laid down at the feet
upholding seventy five inches
of corpulent doughy flesh
regarding one conceited, haughty, and obstreperous
politician orchestrating machiavellian leitmotif.
Mark my words, that bull headed incumbent
will clamor, foment, incite, loose chaos
if Democratic candidate garners more votes
at the ballot box nsync with absentee citizens
casting their lot with the worser of two evils
otherwise put head between legs,
and kiss tuckus goodbye,
cuz hell in a handbasket looms on horizon.
I remove my glasses to blur my view,
of my disgraceful face, that’s painted a strange hue.
Reality peers back at me, from the bottomless
shallow mirror,
My self peers back at me,
with disbelief, regret and horror.
I remove my glasses so that I cannot see,
that which I’m not and that which I’ve wanted to be.
I close my eyes, so I’m now in a trance,
of an alternate universe, a new theme,
a new life, a new romance.
I remove my glasses and put them aside,
and think back to better times, waiting
for my pain to subside.
But as I shuffle through my memories, relief -
I cannot seem to get,
because the past is filled with insurmountable regret.
I remove my glasses and put them in their case
and reminiscence about my beliefs, the dreams I used to chase.
But all this sorting reveals only mistakes,
mistakes, mistakes, mistakes
Oh, so many mistakes…
I remove my glasses because it’s time to sleep,
I wrench today’s goals from the thought bubble,
and discard them into the unachieved heap.
As I sink to the bottom of the bed at the end of the day I've fought,
I plummet into the depths of my innermost thought,
that preaches ‘useless’, ‘ worthless’, ‘hate’
that preaches ‘loser', ‘ugly’, ‘ late’
that dictates my action and my inaction,
that dictates my speech and my silence.
And as I lose myself to the seduction of rest,
I try to revive in me, an anticipation for the morrow -
a dying and hopeless, bedridden zest.
The sun will bring with it, a new day,
the day will begin coffee, sticky notes,
in the same old unaccomplishing way.
I will remove my glasses to blur my view,
I will remove my glasses to disillusion myself,
I will remove my glasses to remove myself
to a new fantasy, a new retreat, a new game.
I will remove my glasses to feed my escapism,
and let the footsteps of my desires lead me into a new daydream,
of wonder, success and fame.
But still,
I can hope.
And still,
I will hope,
that the morrow is not barren of new opportunities.
But still,
I can pray.
And still,
I will pray,
that the morning air instils a new confidence,
in me, as, from my lucid dreams, I wake,
in me, who limps behind the forerunners of the race.
For there is life to be loved, and life to be lived,
and mine is a future in the making,
a future to face.