Long Ashy Poems
Long Ashy Poems. Below are the most popular long Ashy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ashy poems by poem length and keyword.
There was a dense fog upon the land
not a fit night for animal nor man...
the moon did change its silvery view
replacing it now was a blood red hue....
There just beyond thicket of the marsh road
lies the endless tar pits of bubbling black
It has been told that should one fall in it ~
There would definitely be no turning back....
Oh, how the populace did dread passing the pits
for all knew what dwelled within it...
Goblins dared not cross over it... and the vampire bats
would not go anywhere near it...
Even the witches feared this Halloween night,
as they packed their caldrons and potions...
preparing their broomsticks readying for flight...
too escape the diabolical one, known as Dark Blight.
Alley cats sat on fences and drank black draught, tonight
thence, sang they a harrowing song full of fright...
As the draught turned their multi-colored coats
to the colors of pitch black midnight...
The domesticated dogs remembered
their kindred brother wolves....
Soon they gave chase to lost souls,
while howling at the man in the moon...
So it began... with large boney fingers liken to ashy white talons
Dark Blight emerged scatching its way to the surface... its massive black shoulders
bearing a skull revealing eyes which burned
liken to red hot coals with yellow pupils set a glow...
With a sinister grin he did appear from within the pitch black pits
pentagrams and talismans were etched upon his sinewy back....
such slimy black skin mirroring centuries of horrors from many Halloweens past.
Oh, indeed there would be no rest for the weary wanderers this night...
Unless, a champion should appear in time to put things a right....
until then Dark Blight would continue to pass through the night; slithering upon his
belly ~
all the while leaving a dark trail as red as raspberry jelly...
Even the Ghouls knew and would stir clear of the sweet sticky pools
The Gnomes stood careful guard over homes,
whilst watching over all babes and fools....
For such tender flesh made the Dark Blight's lips drool...
The crows cawed thrice and the hoot owls hid their eyes....
Oh, the night was nothing nice, as blood chilled like ice....
Who would put a stop too the dastardly Blight...?
I will not be late to work today
I will get there on time
I will brush my teeth
Without singing songs
Without thinking about birthdays
About gymnasiums
About TAKS
About sound
About war
Republicans
Democrats
Independents
I will get there on time
I will eat my oatmeal
Without thinking of
Broken valentines
Strewn against a wooden
Fence
Like dropped goblets
From a robbers pillowcase
I will be there before the bell rings
My papers will be checked
My hair will be combed
My mind will be alert
Ready to begin my lesson
I will not wonder why
My oldest son doesn’t have a job
I will not pray too long
For my daughter who is taking the bar today
At 10:30 AM in New Orleans
I will not scar my knees wishing
For some alternate world
Where children are never neglected
Or hurt
Where there is no abandonment
What nonsense to try and order the world
Just get to work on time
Put your things in the car, your projector and
The white binders that you didn’t look at
All weekend although you were supposed to check the papers and put the
grades on the computer
I will leave now
Before it is impossible to
Be on time
I will cream my ashy ankles
I will not focus on the white
Cat on the black pillow
With the green eyes
I will not water the plant
I will not watch TV
I will not write poetry
Before work
I will not write poetry
Before work
I will get to work on time
I will be ready
I will not be daydreaming about fog
Wondering if I’ll get Alzheimer’s like my mother
Or colon cancer like my dad
I won’t be thinking about that stuff
I will be locking the front door and
Closing the gate and clicking the clicker
And starting the car and leaving
I will not be in my living room
Wondering if there is any reason to love
Because I do not love for reason
I love because He first loved me
It is not incantations or intoxication
Or imagination it is my life and
The structure will come with the
Clearness of Bajan water
So clear you can see the fish
Fly float across the Atlantic
It is time
This poem must end
I will not be late for work
This morning
Not for nothing
Not for nobody
Not for anything
Not for everything
This poem is over
the work day begins
(APROPOS OF 11/21/2018)
i
The fires came and the winds blew;
Nothing remained the same—
If only they knew…praying for the rain;
The floods came the next day
And the flowing mud had its way:
Houses that had remained
Went down the mountain drain;
But they vowed they would build again
Knowing that they were not the blame
And that the old Devil would be put to shame;
For they remained filled with sparkling hope
And fueled by igniting faith in ways to cope;
ii
How could they have ever known
That the fire next time
Would be so dreadfully blown
Consuming all they held so sublime?
Yet, despite the devastating cost
Etched memories would not be lost;
The heavenly Eagle had stirred the nest
And their souls’ spirits had survived the test.
iii
Without caring to warn, fiercely famished
Flames came knocking at fuel’s gate—
Like flesh-eating bacteria
Scorching the ripe Cali landscape;
Most were devoured within the path of the flames,
Leaving ashy structural architectural shards
And remnants of charred human remains
Laying naked among charcoal baked clods;
If only they had known—even imagined—at least…
Nature’s unleashing of such a power—a roaring beast,
With strange winds carrying sparking needles of pain’s grief;
iv
Destruction and death raised ice bed thoughts of long ago—
Of the charred cities of Sodom and Gomorrah—
But healing memories fired flaming faith with spirit filled Gloria:
Remembering Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah—
Also known as Meshack, Shadrach, and Abednego;
In the end, deliverance came sweeping along the charcoaled way,
And the sunrise of time granted them a new blessed day
As the mournful death charred journey remained to be tread;
The Most High, Jehovah, heard their prayers and nodded His head.
v
Everything under the sun and moon come in due season;
Whatever nature brings, the Creator will reveal His reason.
Know then that for what has come, you are not to be blamed;
For in due season, the old Devil will surely fall and be shamed.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined.
I am powerful and fierce.
I am the pure golden baby and the lioness that hunts.
I am a girl with ashy blonde hair and blue eyes, the perfect woman as many would say, but I desire to be more.
I know I am more than a prize; I am a gift only given to those who ache for me.
I am intelligent and beautiful, but not the way that you would see me.
I am deep and residual. I echo in the streets.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined.
Look into me, not just at me.
See the pain I have been through and appreciate things about me I never knew.
Look at the things I strive to be: the strong woman, the fearless woman, the earth-shattering woman.
I am only as good as I think myself to be.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined.
I will wear whatever I please and expect the same service and respect as any, whether I’m asking for it or not.
Look at me, my hands are softer than yours but have been through just as much.
I am a human being, I live and breathe the same as you.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined.
I am the student sitting next to you, earning my place.
I am the mother in the next booth over with two crying children in her lap.
I am your equal, and I am not to be confused with anything less.
My strength comes in the way I comfort and my unpredictability.
Yes, I am a woman, but I am not weak and fragile.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined, but I am not hard and cold.
I ache for a sense of belonging, for something to grind against the softer parts of my heart.
I am intense, but I am not ruthless.
And I am more often than not moody and unstable but love me, despite it.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined, because so often it is.
I am smart, sexy and worth it.
I am a woman and I am tired,
tired of explaining and justifying myself.
I am a woman and I am exhilarating.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined.
I'm going through my morning routine
still at least half asleep,
pondering what was I pondering?
while preparing morning meds
and showering my daughter,
helping her dress,
filling her snack pail
for her long school bus ride,
changing my son's overnight diaper,
lotioning ashy skin,
tying shoe laces,
hers, mine, ours,
feet walking onto the bus,
hooking all four corners of her safety harness
and walking back toward our house
thinking
I've been up for an hour
and now I'm ready to begin my day.
What was that first hour?
Its quality of dream
heading toward future investments
in life as more full consciousness.
Consciousness of a different dream?
A different sense of identity?
A different quality of life fullness
in contrast to dreamy half-consciousness,
on back to less than half,
and then the alarm clock
too quickly buzzing louder
to interrupt
whatever it was that had felt so ponderous
pondering what I had been pondering
before I drifted back into sleep.
Self awareness,
self and sometimes also other consciousness,
has this liquid flowing quality
of investment in life
and disinvestment through dreaming,
loss of self-embodied awareness.
I wonder if life could feel richer
if cash followed this same investment in conscious flow preference
over disinvesting in interest paid for over-dreaming
together in WinLose (0)Sum assuming societies,
Eden economies of Paradise Lost,
Bodhisattva Warriors
tying each other's shoes
as necessary co-investment
and physically possible
and ecologically optimal
to get to that part of our conscious warrior day
we can re-invest in deeper consciousness
loving together,
investing in our cooperatively-held healthy water,
and nurturing air for the grandkids
and the back yard chorus of birds
and their grandkids
to breathe,
and fire for cooking and heating, but not hating,
and retelling family and tribal recreation stories,
Earth's continuing liturgical investments
in self with other nutritional flowing consciousness.
I used to think the long smoke filled tables of NA were the answer.
The stalks of faces nodding with my inflection, up up down downs left left right.
Like a goddamn contra code.
Happiness charted in days, two years glowed clichés rolled.
Waning white key tag applause.
I bolted before they found out I burned on the way in…
rolled straight to the methadone clinic. Grown men in in ankle length shorts and sideways hats, Whining………….clean??
I even tried to buy a few weeks out of the trunk of an Oldsmobile… wafers or sick pills, my choice…
stared deep into the eyes of socially acceptable at a scientology rehab.. Mingled with cruise and Katie Holmes, then got the boot for hoarding gasoline..
Impatient in eastern Pa, courtesy of the Canadian national railroad. I sat circled breathing from garbage bags of Freon. Sneaking from a mandated meeting to the Reeding open market clutching everyone’s night in my wallet..
I’ve never been here before though alone without prospects, no subs nada nothing…
I am all feelings now and I know
I “m still trapped inside of her, screw you sarah, your abstract cards,
7 th grade year book pictures locked together, from your mind to my stalled heart.
. I wanna run back to dark rooms your ashy cotton tongue kisses..
I need someone to water down my vodka. Ash my burning cigarette..
, Hug me.dammit. Lie to me through late night emails.. Your still speeding through, drowning in Pabst. I’m stuck my mind still sears you picture Short waves of blonde always searching for a quiet mole behind the right eye. I’m scared I’ll never feel it again. Waves of breath stolen from a line. You will always be exalted.
Work is good, but everything is missing. No rush, no rocket of feeling when I touch someone. No raised hairs from a shoulder squeeze. I can’t even find a mind to throw venom at my writing. Attacking my inability to move forward.
I must be Too sober now craving your extended leg and swinging dolce bag…
The landscapes I paint have a fence or two
Some with pegs stout and straight
Some with bars broken and bent
A fence between the grey gravelly pathway
And the flashy flowery garden swathe
Or between the rippling river and the verdant vale
Or between the swelling sea and the rocky ridge
Or between the dancing desert dunes and the smoky sky.
You ask me why?
I delve deep in my mind
And find me lost nondescript in the crowd of chaos
Searching for a definition and a space singular
Of my own.
The landscapes I paint have a section of shrouding sky
With creeping clumps of cloud
Some ivory and dry, floating high
Some ashy and moist, lying low
A solitary scrap of cloud clinging in the blue bowl
Isolated and shapeless
Or slumping formless and forlorn
Down the sloping hazy horizon
Or wrapping the in-situ indigo hills
And telling them how to fly.
You ask me why?
I delve deep in my mind
And find me fly with the flow of life alone
Searching for the meaning of living and a mooring zone
Of my own.
The landscapes I paint have tall trees
In the foreground fresco
Some young and green, erect and stout
Some old and brown, scaling and hollow
They bifurcate the boughs skyward to conceal
Other trees in the bleak background
Or in the leaves' shadows the stunted shrubs
Or shed the fawn foliage that covers the green grass
Or spread reticulate roots that grind the ground to dust dry.
You ask me why?
I delve deep in my mind
And find me desolate and discounted
Searching for a foothold and an identity
Of my own.
The familiar faces I paint have birthmark
On the right cheek
Some russet and sleek
Some grey and glossy
A mark sketched on the face as the blessing of birth
Or giving the ugly face a spot for beauty to breed
Or fashioning the fluid face to take the shape it seeks.
You ask me why?
I delve deep in my mind
And find me hidden in the birthmark on my face
Wanting to be seen and remembered
To have made a mark
Of my own.
The taste of a warm, clear liquid runs through my throat.
The bitter taste of love, feelings and emotions all in one clear bottle of venom.
How did it end to this, how did i end up doing this?
The taste gets bitter and bitter just like the flavor of you.
The fiery burn is hotter than hell itself, but i continue going on.
With every drink is another memory to forget, with every drop is another story to be forgotten.
The numbness of feeling no pain gets stronger and stronger, Every action, every word ever spoken completely disappear with just another drop.
I soon forget but that doesn’t make me stop, why?
Shouldn’t the void clear up now? shouldn’t the emptiness fill up with the venom, filling me up?
Shouldn’t the dark turn to a grey color and shouldn’t i be satisfied with the warm, fuzzy feeling of forgetting?
No, because how could you forget the emptiness, how could you forget those words, how can you turn an addiction to nothing more than a piece of forgotten string.
How can you turn love into hate, and how can you turn me into a person?
With the month of addiction, the month of trial and error how did i end up being hurt the most?
How did i end up turning into someone i’m not, how did i turn to the venom for forgiveness and hope.
5 years old, 8 years old, 10 years, 11 years old I swore to myself i wouldn’t.
I swore the poison would never go into my body, and become my only resort to the paradise called hope.
I swore i would never let substance control me.
But the ashy taste of cigarettes and the burn of venom became my best friend.
They became the only thing that let me forget, and let me feel something more than an endless void, a dark hole in my heart and vibrant colors in my mind.
They became the only thing to look forward to in the day, the only thing i wanted.
It became very clear to me that the venom i depended on was the poison you left me with.
The only thing i had left was the taste of the warm, clear liquid showing me hope..
A continuation of The World Above Me, a special collaberation between myself and my good friend Justin Connor
8/17/12
------------------------------------------------------------------
The shelter opens its door to the world above me
Never have I seen so much destruction
My eyes get used to the brightness,
An unwanted tear trickling down my cheek
But once they are accustomed to the light,
I want to close them again
I feel the urge to turn back
But they push me forward,
Whispering low, consoling words
I look around to see what humanity used to be
Before the devastation
And I marvel at what the old world used to be
But one question remains:
Why did people destroy their lives,
And end the world we used to know?
I walk my feet on the unknown terrain
Ruins. . .debris. . .the air placid and still
All around is rubbish
My mother whispers a prayer from behind
And then I wonder. . .
If God was ever here
As I look around I notice a book
Lying there, upon the ashy wreckage
I pick it up and read. . .
It details a nation’s fight for freedom
A large statue of a man is in the building I stand by
I stare at the brazen figure in awe
The features are crumbling but here it still stands
Watching over its obliterated land
I squeeze the book in my hand
His eyes show loyalty and courage
No sadness—not even a speck of fear
Looking more outwards I see a tall structure
And past that a building with a large dome
The architecture of the old world amazes me
What wonders men have done—could have done
If they hadn’t let each other come undone
In violence and death
Yet still I wonder how these incredible buildings
Could possibly remain after all that has happened
Like the buildings, we have survived
And hopefully, through lessons learned,
We can thrive
My father tells everyone to clear away the ruins
People even use old machines with cranes
The old world is gone
But from the ashes we can start anew
We were in the shelter for the good of humanity
And now, because of us,
There is hope
You made a lot of money
selling lewd photos of nude
Then you parlayed your profits
into cyber surfing —
triple X cinema ***** crude
Nasty video sex business you were so into
Your vested interest was
a skin flick portfolio bankroll ...
Dirty money bottom line
Letting curious customers
put their cyber bit coins into the virtual pay slot
So they can take a ride on the carnal carousel
Then make them get off ...
Have them taste naked flesh boiling hot
in an abominable lascivious pot
You are so proud of yourself,
Mr. Sleazy bit coin billionaire
You make it so easy —
sex suckers love to lick poisoned lollipop sticks
Getting minds addicted to wicked desires,
those tempting tokens are gonna take ‘em there
You’re so filthy rich cavalier ...
crushing souls, you really don’t care
What those turned-out cyber tramps,
hopefully, will come to one day understand,
those grimy bit coins
is greasing somebody’s dirty hand
And that palm is on a beach somewhere
getting a penthouse triple X suntan
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty old man
with a Howard Weinstein leer
Bit coin billionaire,
you got sticky floor hands
and semen oil slick hair
Spreading your cyber surfing
triple X flotsam everywhere
You’re just a devilish voyeur,
a nickel-and-dime fleshpot billionaire
Your trashy ways smells like
a STD flea-bitten garbage can
And your infectious craves are a
CDC health hazard quarantine
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with semen snake oily hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy green scaly skin
In need of some brimstone lotion
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with sticky floor hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy lucre ashy skin
In need of a brimstone suntan
This poem was inspired by the
talented Richard Lamoureux’s poem,
“Church Perfect Surface.”
— Romantic Warrior