Long Belied Poems
Long Belied Poems. Below are the most popular long Belied by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Belied poems by poem length and keyword.
“She knows everything about everyone. That's why her hair is so big. It's full of secrets.”
~ Quote from ‘Mean Girls’ (2004)
Secrets in the locks of love
she knew everything true,
well, sort of,
as true as any gossip could bring.
Plastic rollers, as useless as her friends,
curled from her lips in hateful sprout
and spewed vile comments from her mouth.
She grabbed the secrets of others and shared them.
She didn’t mind her tangled ends belied her credibility.
Curling her mind around the struggle,
when all was said and ends began to fray,
it was she who brushed the cares away that day.
THERE IS BLOOD IN MY TEARS…….MOTHER INDIA
POKRAN AT PULWAMA
YESTERDAY MY CHILDREN HAD STARS IN THEIR EYES
TODAY WITH ME THEY TOO HAVE TEARS IN THEIR EYES
DID I SAY TEARS, ONLY TEARS, OH NO! GOD BELIEVE ME
THEY HAVE BLOOD IN THEIR TEARS AS ONLY I CAN SEE
‘CAUSE IT ISN’T THE ENEMY TO THE COUNTRY WHO DID IT ALL
TRAITORS AMONG MY OWN COUNTRYMEN WHO MADE IT ALL
MY HUSBAND A VERY BRAVE MAN WAS ON DUTY’S CALL
HE JOINED MANY OTHERS LIKE HIM FOR A DISTANT CALL
IN A CONVOY OF BUSES THEY DROVE THROUGH ICY ROADS
SOME SLEPT AND SOME SANG HAVING MIXED THOUGHTS
AS THE TREES WERE BARREN AND WINTER SO RUDE
ALL HAD A FAMILY TO CARE AND NO TIME TO BROOD
ONLY THE PRIDE OF NATION THEY CHERISHED IN MIND
AND TO WORK FOR ITS GLORY THEY NEVER DID MIND
I PROUDLY SENT MY MAN WITH ALL HIS MIGHT TO GUARD
THINKING MY NATION WILL ALWAYS TREATED HIM AS GOD
LEAST WOULD HE HAVE IMAGINED HE WOULD BE NO MORE
FOR SUDDENLY FROM NOWHERE ITS A FIJAYIDIN FUROR
BOMBS BLEW BUSES AND BRAVE MEN TO SHREDS FAR APART
THERE WAS ‘POKRAN IN PULWAMA’ AS BODIES CAME APART
ITS ALL OVER TO ME AND OTHERS AS 44 MEN WERE LOST
ALL OF A SUDDEN MY MAN IS DEAD, HOW LONG WILL I LAST
ALAS TRAITORS IN THE COUNTRY DID IT IN THEIR MADNESS
IN HATRED AND SPITE, HEARTLESS TERRORISTS KILL
THIS COUNTRY HAS MANY HEROES ALL OF WHICH I BELIEVED
THERE ARE MORE KILLERS THAN BROTHERS I AM NOW BELIED
NEVER DID THEY TEACH IN SCHOOL, COUNTRYMEN KILL
MY PLIGHT IS SAME, AS THAT OF MANY AS TIME STANDS STILL
OH MOTHER INDIA, WHERE WILL I GO? AREN’T YOU MY MOTHER?
TO WHOM SHALL I GO AND CRY? MY CHILDREN HAVE NO FATHER
ALL OF US LOST OUR HUSBANDS, WILL THEY COME BACK EVER?
LET MY COUNTRY PROMISE REVENGE FOR DAMAGE DONE TO ME.
THAT’S THE LEAST MY COUNTRY CAN DO……..
I espied her regard and deemed her depth.
She requested that I "Hold this for me."
I dare you, do not let it fall on earth.
It's gotten loose to point at agony.
The locket to my meek heart was broken.
Stomped upon, as such dealt using disdain.
Used amiss and bared to prime misspoken.
Spoiled, as well as swindled of money gain.
I flashed the largely adorable grin.
She looked into my eyes and smiled softly.
Her charming grin belied her truth within.
"I'm different from those," said utterly.
I'm a slack ocean rolling sea to sea.
Now in your arms, I'll never roam again free.
4th Place Contest Winner
Written: June 21, 2022
Forth Place Contest winner.
One In Five Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Chosen Theme: The Broken Locket
Checked by HMS.COM / 10 Syllables per line
(thank you All Poetry, Facebook, family
Poetry Soup,... et cetera global friends.)
A network of cherished kinships allied
forged, and linkedin analogous
to union of groom and bride
thru electronic bonds engender intrigue,
nonetheless unconditionally accept,
no matter I chide
self, and reference mine existence
as if...this mortal already died
now more appreciative than ever,
cuz younger days witnessed
peers that did elide
me accompanied with relentless
teasing, snubbing, roasting
akin tubby kindled over a fireside,
thus...solitude shadowed me as sole guide
peopled with books
to escape and hide
from so called "real"
webbed world, yet inside
this former grievous
lad through alienation,
emasculation, and isolation no joyride
valuing myself less than a pawn on
chessboard of life
envying extrovert as kingside
station depriving, insulating, and
ostracizing yours truly belied
to Matthew Scott Harris
marginally functioning, and denied
him camaraderie, dating, enjoying
female friendships due
to lack of confidence and pride
and at the cusp of
pubescence...a slow descending ride
into the hungry (anorexic)
maws of suicide,
which ideations hammer psyche,
now aghast how I tried
(without success) to disappear sundering
mine complex edifice
into the wide
abyss of nothingness, hence to treasure
those electronic connections,
perhaps...totally no more'n four score
(and seven years ago)
all told of unbeknown village people
comprising worthy chums,
sans human league roar
ring (okay pardon the hyperbole),
but letting this foo fighter explore
a greater range of interpersonal
(no matter virtual), but each
unnamed cyber buddy worth more
than simple rhyming galore
words express, some
or all those who sprung
from Earth, wind and fire,
viz cosmic toreador
this poet would their
physical presence adore,
who realizes genuine experienced love
second best option
communicated thru the Internet...bonjour,
hence please accept at the least
(even thee lovely cousins,
daughters, sister Shari por favor,
a hug emanating from within mine
integrated central processing unit core!
belied expectations
caused feeling of hurt
inability to let go
made resentment spurt
the earth rotated
and seasons changed
but the ego-mind
remained deranged
reinforced by thought
suffering amplified
soul’s light within heart
seemed to have died
the witch doctor
offered a cure
choose cessation
and make heart pure
stagnation is death
flow like the breeze
sensations any
embrace and release
what causes shadows
that opaques light
ego is the blockage
which diminishes delight
first forgiveness
a Ho’oponopono prayer
then acceptance
spake the soothsayer
the bubble of anger
burst noiselessly in the void
soul’s light was revealed
pure and unalloyed
In darkened wood he takes a knee and weeps
The blood trail’s gone, and with it all that’s good
He knows not where the stag has gone to sleep
His children’s aching bellies want for food
The blood trail’s gone, and with it all that’s good
Dappled shadows hide the trail he seeks
His children’s aching bellies want for food
A stoic face belied by tear-washed streaks
Dappled shadows hide the trail he seeks
Until the sun reveals it at his feet
A stoic face belied by tear-washed streaks
With hope restored that soon his brood will eat
Until the sun reveals it at his feet
He knows not where the stag has gone to sleep
With hope restored that soon his brood will eat
In darkened wood, he takes a knee and weeps
6/6/2017
I had a dream that there appeared to me
a little girl whose hands I touched were silk.
Her tender eyes belied the purity
of angels, and her skin was white as milk.
She said, “In your despair, I heard your call
for comfort, which I’ve come to bring to you.
My hands do not look strong, for they are small,
but used in prayer, there’s much that they can do.”
Before me, in the darkness of that night,
with palms upturned, she gently closed her eyes,
and as she prayed, I saw a stream of light
shine down with myriads of butterflies.
I woke most splendidly refreshed in bed
to see a monarch flutter near my head.
Written 12/20/13 by Andrea Dietrich
and Based on Visual #7 in nette onclaud's WITH THESE HANDS Contest
She had a languid demeanor as all eyes were upon her.
Her face like porcelain, never allowing a smile to occur.
Along the red carpet she gracefully stepped slowly,
Not considering others, as if she felt them somehow lowly.
An elegant gown draped over her perfect goddess like form.
On such an icy night, it was hardly designed to keep her warm
Her delicate hands were pale, fingers slender, nails pearly.
She was not a minute late, nor even a minute early.
Pausing for a camera shot, she took a pose utterly divine.
Her ruby red lips caught the light as they shone like wine.
Raven hair shimmered caught by the cameraman’s flashes.
Her blue eyes beguiled, with the languid flutter of lashes.
Ushered to her seat, she failed to acknowledge anyone.
Many engaged in conversation and many drinking having fun.
She spoke not a word. Still no smile from her beautiful lips.
The wine poured, she raised a glass and took tiny sips.
When a question was directed to her, she answered politely.
Obvious she felt otherwise concerned or discomfort slightly.
Her undeniable beauty, that she must be adored, belied her.
Reason for the languid demeanor, the empty chair beside her.
"Snapdragons and Dandy Lions (Part 1)"
“Don’t move,” she smiled gently,
“stay there, stop fidgeting, let me put these in your hair”,
I was sitting cross-legged
on the lush green bluegrass lawn
it felt like 70’s Shagpile carpet,
long and unshorn.
“I said, don’t move! There’s a Blue Tongue over there,
you’ll frighten it away, they don’t like to be scared.”
She was shielding her eyes surveying the yard
like a pirate on the high seas,
a ship on the Ocean,
while the Sprinkler
kept raining a moving waterfall
automatic motion
here and there buzzing bees
in the Kumquat Trees.
She was pointing to the boulder
next to the Lychee Tree
close to where I was
legs now unfolded
scrambling around on my knees.
It was around 5 in the avo not morn
we’d been there covered in sunscreen
for a coupla hours and
tired from the heat
we were all stifling yawns
in the sweltering sub-tropical garden
amongst her verdant jungle of flowers and ferns
there amongst the strawberry patches, passionfruit, Lady Finger trees,
Pineapples, PawPaws, grapes, tomatoes,
and towers of fragrant sweet Jasmine, Lilac-mauve Wisteria
plunging Deep Velvety Red Bougainvillea,
flirty Sweatpeas and
the pungent Pink Frangipani
impregnating the air with it's fat-belied
perfume, the scent of which to this day
sends one into absolute delerium; then
came the whirring blood-suckers
that bombed us in buzzing swarms
never foiled no dignified treaty -
one was never forwarned,
that left itchy-bites and
eventually weeping sores,
feeling sorry for ourselves
the breeze carried our songs of retreat to which she’d
impart, “Shush! Don’t carry on,
everyone will hear you way out on the Street!”.
“They like your blue blood, that’s why!”,
she explained in exasperation, kind of worried
spraying us with Stingose.
“Tonight we’ll put up the nets and
burn the Tiger Coils”.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2017 Dec)
For Lynette
(1)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izQsgE0L450
Inside my house – inside myself
Hushed in the reckoning of my living
I drift in streams that have taken me here.
As I contemplate my age, my years,
Now belied by restful wisdom
I am complete and unalterable.
I have come to my final destination, my end.
My mouth is agape in the sullen silence of remembrance.
My hair, a turbulent gray, draped like ghostly storm clouds-
A torrent flooded by a life that tested my courage and strength.
My skin slumping with the weight and furrows like rivulets
Of weary responsibilities now embedded
Awaken me to the toil of pain and endurance.
My eyes weakened from flooding visions-
Monuments of life, death and love
Retreat into a myriad of sentiments.
I now reside with gratitude and humility of the meek and mild,
As I translate my time on earth as mere footsteps before my grave.
My pride is diminished by years of compassion,
For all trials I have faced and challenges I have met-
I stayed in the stream.
I flowed within a hurricane of waters that surged mercilessly
Along the divide of faith and love.
Now I am enraptured in the subtle estuary of love remembered
Where joy triumphs and promises become the virtue of living.
My moments fly overhead like rare birds in forgiving skies
Beyond oceans of turmoil they find their place of sanctuary
Where the islands of contentment greet them
As they wistfully land to take sanctuary in my heart.
September 23, 2021
Islands In The Stream Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish