Long Avalanche Poems
Long Avalanche Poems. Below are the most popular long Avalanche by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Avalanche poems by poem length and keyword.
Everyone hates my poetry
Because it doesn’t wear makeup.
Because it stares too long,
or not long enough.
Because it mentions the body
like a room that remembers
every man who left his name in dust.
Because it’s too sad,
too loud,
too holy,
too raw—
because it does not ask permission
to bleed
where others would politely weep.
They say I should whisper.
I scream in stanzas instead.
Line breaks like broken bones —
each one healed wrong on purpose.
I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”
and call it a sacrament.
I flirt with ghosts.
I give grief a seat at the table.
I write what I can’t confess.
And then I press send.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
?
Go your own way, they say.
But I was never theirs to lose.
I won’t be your throat,
your mouth,
your Sunday-quiet muse.
Dance in the avalanche —
I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.
You butter your toast,
I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.
I’m Dracula,
you’re limpets —
clinging to shores of should.
Sinister mercy monsters
with teeth made of wood.
You won’t take mine.
I’ve bartered them
for metaphor.
For myth.
For the kind of flame
that never asks to be understood.
I sit on a throne
shaped like an electric chair,
burning truth until
only the bones of beauty remain.
You?
You live in living rooms.
You collect pretty things.
I braid your betrayal
into a lei of lunacy —
my madness in bloom.
Say I’m too old.
Too female.
Too much.
There’s something in the water.
Damn right.
I am the water.
I merge with ocean light.
The moon kisses me goodnight.
Why do I need your approval to feel seen?
Must just be a throwback trauma dream.
Your eyes — not galaxies,
but black holes,
sucking the light from my becoming.
I offered constellations,
you brought collapse.
But still—
I orbit my own flame.
Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,
sequined with scars.
I chew the fat
with better men than you,
men who don’t flinch
when a woman burns through.
Men who sip my fury like wine,
and still
ask for another glass.
You?
You watered me down,
then called me “too much”
for the mess you made.
?
And still I write.
He watched his kite,her, snap
her tail rises
in the sky
in the deep blue sky
i keep imagining of her
my eyes don't rest and lie,
my mind's eye,
of her with a bird in hand,
the one she waved off …
that i dont imagine
i keep watching her tail
so majestic
and buoyant
... as if she were dancing,
dancing
with herself,
in the deep blue sky,
her carriage
model perfect
of blemishes
with the sun shining
off her inner beauty,
she would flutter
... flutter
to the right and left,
bounce, bounce
up and down
as i continue watching,
watching ...heartbroken
for the last time,
Of life passing by,
Her,
my eyes moisten
as she distances herself
away from me
the burdens of my life
Heartaches, heartaches that
always kept suppressed in me
i say, i wish i could have stopped her flight
and see her come alive
with me,
... me with
one fleeting chance
a chance
of a snowball of goodness for once
but hoping realistically
for just that one snowflake of a chance
one little snowflake that never dropped
... i keep watching
the once beautiful kite
so lifelike, vibrant
especially her tail and direction
up in the blue sky,
a small dot now
... sucking the air out of me
as it became smaller
• i reminiscence
of the past of how our love nosedived
into an avalanche
before it started
... nosediving into sorrow and regrets
the residual of a piece of string not tying
not tying a loop...
i keep looking up into the sky
my mind oscillating, correlating
i see, clearly
her inner beauty capturing me
even from a distance
and now how ... i'm resigned to watching
so sadden
life unravel,
how can this be
or is that the line ... unraveling
again, how can this be
... the kite kept
distancing itself
fluttering itself ...
further away ...
just like myself
... the wind howling
its sharp teeth of injustice, life
grabbing me
i guess
i guess i was bad, unworthy
For her
for i hear ...
voices in my head
the once little birds in her hand crying,
crying
for not finding warmth
i hear a snap
is that for real?
i look,
in the deep blue sky
turning over, turning shades of red
she's gone
and the voice of cruelty just laughing
just laughing at me
for there is an absence, now
of that little tail fluttering
with goodness,
with unattainable borders
that i missed and missed
connie pachecho
3/3/17
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
In the bitterest of the cold polar north shadows of illusions dwell,
Reflections of light on ice, maybe so or is there more to these
Optical delusions, the natives say creatures hide amongst these
Rocky snow covered hills, and they call forth the power of the
Alpine peaks for protection!
These mountainous summits of elevation known as the
Thundering mountains, many men have gone missing here,
Without explanation or reason, without any evidences trace
Ever being found, as if just vaporizing within the alpine mists?
But legends say by the tribal chieftains, they were taken by the
Snow beasts the Yeti’s, the abominable demons for
Trespassing on their sacred icy lands!
These outlander's whom should have known better,
Warned were they not, to climb at this inaccessible remote
Elevations for this is the forbidden territory belonging to
The creatures of the rocks!
Many men go there and are swallowed whole by the mighty
Avalanches, called forth by the screaming howling of the
Mountain guardians, weaving through these ice and spray
Waves as if they were made of winter wisps’ of air, the creatures
Take these hikers, or skiers unware, than devour
Them later at their leisure’s pleasure afterwards!
These avalanche waves have another name given to
Them eons ago, the claws of the tiger, sweeping
Within their mighty claws, everything living or none,
Beneath their talons of devastation!
But what if there were more to this myths story,
What if these two legends were working together?
In a tandems precisions epic motion, beast and
Mountains, both struggling to survive, against
The onslaught of humanities approach!
Endurances basic instinct of survival, natural law
Prevails, that only the strongest of the species is allowed
To continue, but what if these two natural raw forces
Combine, to do whatever it takes to achieve
This final climatic extraction, brawn concurring
Intelligence, or maybe it’s the other way
Around!
In this wilderness only the whispering winds
Knows the answers to these questions of inquiry,
And there left unheard by the deafening ears of
Progress and mankind until it is too late!
But the native people know, and warn them
To stay away for this land belongs to the Yeti’s
And the mountain protect them beneath the
Claws of the white tiger, the mighty avalanche!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I’m not afraid of rejection
I’m afraid of the phoenix that will rise from my spine with the threat of treason
Suppress the flame and walk away
Use your once tempted fingers to point yourself in the direction of least resistance
It’s not the road less traveled by,
It’s the lifeless path, ignored and left to crumble
And now it’s shapeshifting through a lifetime
With internal scars and deep holes that desperately need filling
And if you think I’m talking about a road, than you’re not the brightest bulb in the bunch
And if you think I mean with asphalt than you’re head is not as sharp as I thought it was
Waiting for secrets to be spilled
But you are the secret
You’re life is just chemicals and I’m not afraid of rejection
I’m afraid of combining the wrong elements of friction
To where I can’t come back from this reaction
A perfect pairing like the sun and the snow
Under every step, swam the quicksand
But we were too blinded by my naivety to know
Romeo and Juliet had nothing on us
But we ended even more tragically
And less enigmatically
I'm in the hunger games for your attention
And there's ever-changing rules I keep missing that you fail to mention
And breaking them could lead to my undeserving disqualification
But I’ve already demoted these thoughts into empty air
Hoping they’d vanish if I just ignore them
Sometimes you have to pretend your house isn’t haunted
For the spirits to finally exit
I’m not afraid of rejection
I’m afraid of the burning passion I can see in my eyes without a reflection
I’m terrified of the way I fall for corrupted introspection
And with a burning passion comes a burning question
What would've happened if I went through with it?
I’m not afraid of rejection
I’m afraid of the avalanche that will bury me if I reclimb this mountain
And looking up from the bottom seems so intimidating
But a butterfly never worries about what it looks like in the beginning
I’m so tied down, like a rope around my neck, I’m suspended here by something
So convoluted, is your mind a black hole or a galaxy?
If you’re Juliet, than you know who I’d be
There's lingering passion in my eyes I don't need a reflection to see
Is it gunpowder or a lack of sugar and water?
You can't be the lighter, I can't be the hairspray
Just suppress the flame and walk away
In the pantomime of pretend prose,
the moon dances on lonely nights.
Before the lights go out at twilight,
unforgiven ice cold hearts,
remain abandoned, hoping this is the end.
Her eyes like Eve were deceived,
by manipulative sea green serpents.
Stranded on shores where time has no name,
the artistry of dread, breathed in poetic chills,
inhaling life, exhaling pain like dolent daisies.
Concealing metaphors of dying embers,
behind an avalanche of emotions,
she anticipated the rebirth of an artist,
by an art nearing the opposite side of yearnings,
because in the deepest chasm of poetic love,
an alliteration of antithesis attracts affection.
I was not as naive as Adam,
searching for heartbeats from heaven,
knowing that is how you ruin a poet.
An empathic spirit ignites pens full of fire,
burning the strings of poetic puppets -
the greatest gift of entrancement.
Rumi taught me the universe is infinite,
and so am I, so I knew I would meet my muse,
like stars greet the moon in a meadow of miracles.
As roaming romance conjured my dream's horizon.
Her name always echoed in the silence of quiet nights.
An empress without an emperor in a crumbling palace,
yearning to blossom in an epodic flower field.
Her seldom smile was as radiant as the golden orb.
Despite ghosts hiding in the shadow of sunlight,
mystical silver spirits were summoning me to her abode.
Her misspelt phrases accidentally fell on my page.
I found her burying her frozen quill under six feet of snow,
with a withered heart reliving a winter wonder nightmare,
constantly bleeding pearls in a silage of tears,
cursing her tormented tongue.
Her winter kisses were as tender as butterfly snowflakes,
but at first, her rage slashed at my wrists,
drowning me in her obsidian grieving seas,
but my soul is like a seasoned samurai full of scars.
I always believed small steps lead to great places,
and I would kiss her sorrows goodbye.
Upon realisation there's no blood in my veins, only poetry,
together we portrayed pastel coloured sunsets,
illuminating a celestial canopy of light,
sowing trees of forgiveness,
surrounded by colourful petals,
leaving behind the dark long road home.
In our internal garden of Eden,
there is no darkness,
there is no forbidden fruit nor sinning,
only an aura of love personified.
TYPICAL 30 - The Start of the 2013-2014 NHL Season
30 of them began their battle with hopeful beginnings
But 14 of them will have their early exit...
As for the 16 teams, their Stanley Cup Playoffs dream begins
The SWEET 16 were chosen, who will be the ones to take the fall?
Round 1 of the 2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs
Let the First Round Battle Begin!
SWEET 16 - The First Round of the 2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs
16 of them sprinted out from the starting line
But 8 of them fell short to advance...
The Tampa Bay Lightning couldn't produce any more thunder
The Detroit Red Wings ran its last engine
The St. Louis Blues have played its final note
The Dallas Stars could no longer lead the charge
The Columbus Blue Jackets fired its last cannon
The Philadelphia Flyers have crashed down
The Colorado Avalanche buried themselves in the snow
And the San Jose Sharks couldn't take a final bite
The ELITE 8 were chosen, who will the ones to take the fall?
Round 2 of the 2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs
Let the Second Round Battle Begin!
ELITE 8 - The Second Round of the 2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs
8 of them advanced to the next stage
But 4 of them failed to advance...
The Minnesota Wild could no longer pull a wild run
The Pittsburgh Penguins were left on frozen thin ice
The Boston Bruins were hunted down
And the Anaheim Ducks quacked no more
The FINAL 4 were chosen, who will the ones to take the fall?
Round 3 of the 2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs
Let the Conference Finals Begin!
FINAL 4 - The Third Round of the 2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs
4 of them advanced to the next stage
But only 2 of them will go to the final stage...
The Montreal Canadiens were left in a cold state
And the Chicago Blackhawks final stand ended in complete defeat
The TREMENDOUS 2 were chosen, who will be the one to win it all?
The Final Round of the 2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs
Let the Stanley Cup Final Begin!
TREMENDOUS 2 - The Final Round of the 2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs
2 of them danced on the big stage
But only 1 of them was crowned as the champion...
The New York Rangers could not lead the way to the finish
The ONLY 1 was chosen, a team who won through it all!
Los Angeles Kings - The 2014 Stanley Cup Champions
Let the Stanley Cup Playoffs End!
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day!'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight,
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
*******
...a tribute to T.S. Eliot's 'Rhapsody On A Windy Night.'
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day!'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight,
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
*******
...a tribute to T.S. Eliot's 'Rhapsody On A Windy Night.'
The afternoon's a fire, but my head still frozen to the pillow.
The fan blows soft and I lay softer.
Without a signifier I'll get up for the 4th hour in a row,
I'll stay ignorant to all the day can offer.
That's the sixth day out of eight I've laid, late.
Fostering doubt.
Guess I'll try out gout.
Stuck in the bed that I've made.
They took the trees down on Spring Garden
"Regrowth is a process" I said lying
I remember stretching out my arms when
I spread out these roots of mine.
Branching out, I watched bark harden
As we were dying on the vine.
I used to see the pasture line
Far beyond what I can describe
These days I just can't seem to find-
The right words
Make all the difference.
All your sins laid out before you, which ones would you keep?
What misdeed really makes you proud?
I know you have one too, that ball of black down in the heart, deep.
But you just won't say out loud
It's okay, take your time
It's a tough question I know
Could be a theft, maybe a lie.
Could be something darker though.
I betrayed the one I loved
I did my very best impression of Brutus
It's what I'm most shameful of
When I broke the trust between the two of us
But it set off an avalanche
That broke the mountain, truly
Memories of our last dance
Taunt and tease me cruelly
But then I saw another chance
So I reached out and pulled it to me
I was looking to come to terms
With the people I hurt and the lessons I learned
When I saw the sun set on the skyline through someone else's lens
And I waited for my new life
And my old one to end
It inspired me to live again
To put the past behind
Take the opportunity to make amends
"Regrowth is a process"
I mean it this time.
So this is my confessional.
Every passage is a penance.
I put myself on trial.
With every line a sentence.
No doubt it was bad, I couldn't prove you wrong.
Afterward it really dug into me
And I tortured me for so long
But there's a lot to personality,
People are complex
And when you do the work it seems
Your personage resets
So judge me all you want you see
I'll gladly be the black sheep.
Because without it all where would I be?
All my sins laid out before me, which one would I keep?
I think I'll just keep all of me