Long Bane Poems
Long Bane Poems. Below are the most popular long Bane by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bane poems by poem length and keyword.
Physics, allow. Acrobat.
Flip and fling out far.
God a-ancient of the cat!
Slip under the bar!
Why not you? Indeed,O crew!
Crown me and be done!
Witches' brew? O deadly stew!
Anoint, O my son!
Thunderbolts of justice!
Rain on everything!
Horticulture, thy poultice!
Grow inside the ring!
Tympani of torment?
It pounds inside my head.
Queen Dido, thy fierce lament!
Words the prophet said!
Allosaurus, omen.
O oracle, thy song.
Blistering blight? Bane? Bowmen.
Sad stifled are the strong...
Slick like hatchet handles!
O wound in heart, glisten!
Ten thousand foot tall candles!
Dark dirge, play. I'll listen.
Cold the core and chain! Cord!
Calderas, fill with heat!
Warrior, upon thy sword!
Sickly smell the sweet!
Troubadour, toil. Sacred the soil.
Blasphemy to boil.
River, raise up. Rill, rue. Roil.
Fate a-full, thy foil...
There is a pain that drives insane
A pain so dark so deep
It robs my breath, it brings on death
And still in Shoal, I weep
There is a pain, my curse, my bane
That changes sanity
A pain that twists as it persists
To mock humanity
The pain I speak, is mine to keep
And yet I must relieve
This heart of mine, this tortured time
I can no more believe
Those untrue words, like rotten curds
Bring pain to heart and soul
It’s all a lie, and here am I
To say, I am not whole
When love has died, and you have cried
And there is none to bless
When silence jeers, and your heart fears
That you are thought of less
When absence sighs, compassion dies
And you are left to mourn
How could it be, this travesty
When love has turned to scorn
For pain I have, there is no salve
There is no pain relief
I’ll go to grave, no one can save
From pain in time so brief
Eileen Manassian
"Life offers divine moments that can only be shared with an angel."
~ by poet
Softly, she swaddled me within the warmth of welcoming wings
I shared my shadowed secrets, then she spoke in subdued voice
'Do not dwell in darkness and despair for your sweet soul sings
of sorrow for your sins. Repentance gives you reason to rejoice'
'From the courage of confessing comes clemency of concession
You have found favor with God and garnered His good graces
He has heard your heartfelt words, and my own in intercession
Our Father forgives you, and with empathy, eagerly embraces'
Tenderly, she touched me, tempering the torrent of my tears
Held me close, calmly confiding, 'Your bane of burdens I bear'
When her weeping wet my cheeks, faith freed me from fears
My adoring angel sighed, 'Persevere by praising God in prayer'
Then her golden gossamer wings fluttered their fragile feathers
Graciously given to me was a glorious gift. Solace cut the strings
that kept my suffering soul trussed in tenterhooks and tethers,
for I'd been safely swaddled within an angel's welcoming wings.
December 11, 2021
"A" Forms Contest sponsored by Constance La France
Strange invader, from the moment I awaken, you are there -
a disgusting leech that has no name.
I describe you to various doctors.
They tell me they don’t know you
and pretend to believe me on how you appeared in my body.
Yet they are clueless and cannot rid me of you.
I know how you appeared; you got inside me
through injections of an unnecessary evil called Prolia.
Stupidly, I guessed the truth too late
that Prolia was allowing you to take control of me.
By the fourth injection of that toxin within two years,
my tongue burned bright red, and I knew then
you were firmly ensconced inside me.
My brain appears to be your headquarters,
from where you perform your unholy operations.
At first you increased my saliva to the extent that
by injection number 2, I was spitting out my food.
Later you added new weird side effects such as inner spinning.
Though I stopped injections, a few years later
you transformed into other seemingly supernatural forces:
changing my mouth into feeling numerous changing textures.
These would come and go until today
my mouth is left at the bottom with a squishy feeling
that barely is relieved by the chewing of gum.
I press my lips together and they are numb.
You are the bane of my life.
Saliva still flows but not as strongly
as your effects surge through me, primarily on my back.
You have hijacked my nervous system.
Unholy parasite, you malevolently induce unnatural feelings.
The inner spinning changed to something worse.
Sometimes I feel as if I am being pushed from behind.
Other times, the pushing changes into a squeezing sensation.
I have no name for what you really are,
but I have names for your different types of aggravation.
When you squeeze my back, I name you Octopus Tentacles.
Other times you are a hard rain pelting my back.
Often you are a surge that coincides
with an excess amount of saliva in my mouth.
My one relief is to press my back against a chair
or the pillow on my bed; ahhhh, to be in my bed!
Seven years after cancer’s visit, I continue to live with YOU.
People tell me not to bring you up, for then you might go away.
But I waken from nice dreams, and there you are, awaiting me.
Strange invader, you have made the inconvenience of cancer
seem entirely minor compared to you.
solemn bay
falling teardrops like rain
from grey clouds of bane
thunder rolls across the soulless bay
lightning strikes a hearts shudder
down
down
down
sinks the pleasure tide
a place where
destressed waves toss and turn
against the up and down
the to and fro
chaos lurks
then shouts out to have its say
solemn bay
a place where
ships become shipwrecks
tighter
tighter
twists the sailors knots
till they become tattered and frayed
treasure sinks to a mighty depth
then
into the abyss drowns silver and gold
solemn bay
a place where
out of the gloom birds fly by
singing a cheerless nighttime song
where
a blackbird sings along
solemn bay
a place where
dreams of a warming sun
is a reality of cold and grey
and out of the hollow the hurricane blows
a frenzy chaos of confusion
coming up from the undertow
Leftover Willpower
David J Walker
I know
I know
What I said last night
After the last bite of
Turkey and dressing and
Cranberry sauce and
Pumpkin pie
That I
Would never eat again
At least, not this much
So much
That it stretched my belly to
New dimensions forcing me to
Unbutton the waistband of my
Khaki dress slacks
I know
I know
How good it all was
and yet how
Bad for me at the same time
And how I fell asleep in the
Recliner watching reruns of
“It’s a Wonderful Life”
And the morning after
When I cannot think of putting
Any more food in my mouth
Somewhere in the back of my head
Hatches a plan for later
Sliders
Maybe one
Reheated roll with
Turkey and dressing and
Cranberry sauce
Small Sliders
Maybe two
Just two
No more
But surely not three
Would you think it profane to
Curse the names of every Pilgrim
Who landed on Plymouth Rock?
The bane of my weakening
Leftover willpower
IT’s ALL THEIR FAULT!
In the vortex of a maelstrom, I was rudely thrown
drowning in turbulent waters for an error I bemoan,
a blunder of loving someone who chose to whittle
away at my heart until it became fragile and brittle
Bereft beyond the point of caring if I lived or died
My eyes were scarlet, burning from tears I'd cried
But they became transfixed, immutable on a fire stoked
for my normally tenuous demeanor had been provoked
I was a genteel lady, who demurely acquiesced to love
but it was time for me to throw down the gauntlet glove
I was chaffed by what had been just an interlude for him,
an escapade, a mere dalliance, a rascally romantic whim
I drew a rough sketch; in likeness of my vagabond swain
an abstract portrait, in Picasso's style, the face of my bane
Black eyes were hollow, blind orbs that would never see
that his trifling peccadillo tryst was a brutal betrayal to me
The painting was delivered as twelve bells pealed midnight
I watched as he unwrapped it, but carefully kept out of sight
A formidable opponent I had become to his knavish ways
In the moonlight his face turned pale; his eyes were glazed
I wandered lonely as a twig
that fell into an endless stream.
I’d turn and sometimes make a zig
or bob along in a bad dream.
No longer on a branch was I
to gaze steadfastly at blue sky.
Instead this stream was moving me
so rapidly – I knew not where.
Oh, how I missed my tall oak tree
and breath of autumn in the air
when wind would blow my leaf so small
which had turned scarlet in the fall.
One day that tiny leaf was gone.
Not long thereafter, I was too.
Gone was the field I’d smiled upon.
A course unknown I would pursue.
How strange! Although I once knew rain,
this too much water was my bane.
No home had I, nor pretty views
like once I had when I belonged
to that great oak. I did not choose
this fate so cruel. I felt so wronged
till wood debris stopped water’s flow.
Now friends are twigs I’ve come to know!
Sept. 21, 2022
NA in the "I Wandered Lonely As...." Challenge" Contest, judged 10/22/22
For Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
There’s a voice in my head I wish to hear,
but I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it yet.
To even have it whisper in my ear
would be for me the most awesome asset.
That “still small voice” that’s mentioned in 1st Kings -
it must be the sweetest tranquility
that to prayerful people the Spirit brings.
Oh, how nice would be the ability
to access promptings if I were in need.
But always I’m restless, so in my brain
it’s my own voice I hear going at full-speed
most of the time, and that’s become my bane.
I’m trying deep reflection so I might find
the inner peace I seek inside my mind.
#92 on the Top 100 New poems list as of Aug 10, 2026
In rhyme, I’m a perfectionist;
In other things, I’m not.
You’d think I’d treat all things the same
But rhyme is what I’ve got.
For patience is a virtue which
I really don’t possess.
I’ll rush though projects though results
Will surely not impress.
My sewing comes out crooked
And my seams don’t seem to match.
My baking skill are mediocre,
Though I bake from scratch.
You’d never want me as your chef;
I clean, but things don’t shine
And wrapping gifts has never been
A special skill of mine.
My ironing leaves creases
And technology’s a bane.
My plants all droop and getting rid
Of clutter is a pain.
But when I write, I’ll work each line
Until the rhyme’s in sync.
My pencil and eraser let me
Change things as I think.
Some people are obsessive
‘Bout so much, and all the time
While as for me, that just applies
To writing poems in rhyme.