Long Blackened Poems
Long Blackened Poems. Below are the most popular long Blackened by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blackened poems by poem length and keyword.
Enduring this long and dreadful path
I stumble and I carry on
Reminds me of soothing times
I just cannot bear to remember
Still I bring myself to sing one last song
As you think about the days
That must come to pass
Ones conscience
Just knows not what where to relax
Feel the sorrow upon my voice
Every stop you make
Back and forth
Blackened coffee in the morning
Nothing seems to satisfy
This emptiness deep down
Just a hollow opening
Beneath your chest
Nothing seems to fill
Midnight rest upon you again
You never really notice
Until you’ve missed your last meal
And no ones cold palms
Seem to cure a wanted warm hand
Alone amongst the stars you seem to stand
Working 14 hour days and attending school
You’ve become no ones fool
A many days from sleep
Nothing in life
You really look to keep
The grinding motors of decaying engines
Panted in ever shorter gasps on the voyage to the “capolinea”
And the doors in the corridor passways
Swung open and closed, biting the green-yellow light of need
Seeping in through the lacunae of an afternoon of un-affection.
Here lamenting sighs of obese monsters were carried away
Over backward sucking tracks covered with spit and urine
And the cries of spoiled over-fed and un-cared for infants
Punctuated its incessant pull, mistaken for prayers of Aeneas.
The air was wet with sugary juices dripping from their mouths
Which had already sucked out too much from Mother Earth
And their comic books were filled with old coloured obscenities
Rotting putrefied images of the Demiurge’s great untouchables.
Stinking incomplete phrases were vomited up onto membranous spheres
From an underworld of sulphur and smoke
Vomited up onto the doorsteps of the passing stations of life
Where poor miserable and violent creatures waited
In a raging hurricane of hate and wickedness
Whose centre was a blackened hole in a storm of madness.
The oxygen of life was pulled out of the vegetation
Now cancerous cankerous parenchyma no longer green
As death tried to re-create itself outside itself
In a final futile attempt to feel an instant of life
Insane within the rumbling white dust of loss and negation.
The Dark Rider
From a dark and distant time, so very long ago
In a land, time has forgotten, sunken below
In an era when the blackened heart of man
Struck fear and despair within all the land
You could feel the grip of the black cloud of fear
Blanketing over the land, everything far and near
“Tis a terrifying time for the likes of any man
Unaware of whence this tale of darkness began”
The elders would speak of a dark sinister long ago
Where a black ghostly image would appear so slow
A dark rider would appear out of the cold black night
Riding a black steed, fire in it’s eyes, terrifying sight
It was said that rider was sent from hell to avenge
Of the innocents done wrong, seeking only revenge
A hellish quest, retribution to the evils that men do
Swift reprisals to the wrongdoers he does pursue
The rider is judge and jury, not one man shall survive
Once he seeks out his lowly prey, not one is left alive
He suddenly appears, tall shadow in blackest night
Of who he seeks no one knows, until daybreaks light
Once again the dark rider leaves his mark on the town
His justice for those too weak, unable to fight is renown
The fear that evil doers feel for this dark unholy reaper
Is a testament to his judgment, an unholy peacekeeper
In the darkness of my soul
The demons howl and scream
My visions they came and stole
Nevermore to rest in dream
When the demons came
They entered one by one
I'm never to be the same
Blackened is my sun
The torment and tears
Bloody cuts and scars
Furrowed deep in years
One too many, as the stars
The demons chant and whisper
My soul learns their words
Their call ever crisper
Hailed from other worlds
Dragging me deeper into blackness
Their hush a mighty roar
Overcoming my every weakness
Their thunder makes me soar
Evermore to my own demise
I crawl at the speed of night
Their bloodied words and bloodied lies
A blackened, blinding light
Scoring far into my very soul
From broken flesh, my blood runs free
Gazing out from the abysmal hole
I see the screaming demon here is me
Part 3 -- Sir Christopher Wren
"Resurgam". What a righteous word it is!
The Latin form of "I will rise again".
I'd like it on my tomb. A scientist
I was, a humble Oxford teaching drudge,
when summoned by the king. He wanted me
to build a glorious thing, a new Saint Paul's.
Though "non sum dignus" was my only thought,
I said that I'd inspect the site.
I went.
The blackened stones were hot, still. Desolate.
I had a workman with me, to assist
my rummaging. That mighty hymn to God,
the great Cathedral, lay beneath my feet,
bleak rubble, carbonized and hideous.
It could not be revived, that much was plain.
Perhaps a new design?
I paced it out.
Palladio in London - here the nave,
an apse, just so - thoughts crowded-up my mind.
One single system, uniform and strong,
not like the hotch-potch compromise we'd lost!
If only my Redeemer would send down
some hint of His approval. Here - a dome!
A mighty, unifying symbol-shape!
Excited now, I did some calculus,
and called the workman. Could he find a stone?
A thing to mark the mathematic heart,
the point where all the angles intersect,
the fulcrum of my noblest work...
"Will this,"
the workman asked, "supply Your Worship's needs?"
He'd found a slab, just perfect, tall and flat.
He set it where I told him, at The Cross.
And when I lined it, flipping it, I felt
some carving. What was this? I had my sign.
Saint Paul's would rise again, and at my hand!
A single word from heaven. "Resurgam".
“Hansel, why have we returned? I know that witch is toast
But what if she’s around here someplace as a blackened ghost?”
“Gretel, do you not recall, these flowers were not here
That when the witch was still alive these woods withered in fear.”
“But, Hansel, when we came as kids, complete with dirty knees
All we had to guide us was a dirt path through the trees
And now the very path itself is hid by vegetation
So tell me how you plan for us to find our destination.”
“Gretel can’t you smell that spicy scent of gingerbread
It’s even stronger than the flowers upon which we tread.”
“Hansel, please don’t tell me there’s some dumb scheme in your head
Like when we marked our way with crumbs on which the sparrows fed.”
“Gretal, Gretal, sister dear, just give a guy a break
Can’t you just for once forget that minuscule mistake?
But, lo, I see the witches hut; it’s right there up ahead
I won’t pretend that I’m not glad that awful witch is dead.”
“Don’t you ‘Gretal, Gretal’ me; I know you all too well.
I’d even bet you came to get some gingerbread to sell.”
“Gretal, I’m so fed up with your patronising grin.
But here’s the door; it’s up to you, but I am going in…….
Okay, now I’m puzzled, because inside there’s a bed
And in it there’s a grandma with a hairy face and head.”
“Hansel, as expected, seems you’ve led us both astray
You’ve brought us to this place from which, if wise, we’d run away
But no, you cannot help yourself, you’re quite beyond belief
So go back in and shut the door and talk about big teeth!”
You once called me stupid
How stupid could one person be?
Because you thought you were strong in deceiving me.
You once wished me dead, over and over again
Then drifted into darkness to play with my friends.
You once sang a song, a song from a blackened heart
But hearts of lies are never hearts; they are simply piercing darts
You once played a game, hoping to leave me in eternal flames
But shame can’t last and pain will pass
when there is a God who still reigns.
I now call you stupid
How stupid could you be?
To deny the God of the universe who came to set men free
I now call you foolish, you’re not so wise
Your entire existence is based on all of the devils lies.
I now call you damned
Damned if you don’t see
All you ever did in life has eternal consequences indefinitely.
I now call you a clown,
The clown of this whole town
You stole from lives and paralyzed when no one was around.
I declare there is an appointed day,
When you will fade away,
And wish and yearn while you slowly burn
That you would have just took heed and obeyed.
By: Sabina Nicole
Near my home, small town West Virginia,
beside the roadside marked by historical sign,
is a simple nature area, Raven Park,
an Edgar Allan Poe memorial shrine.
Uphill, a stately mansion, overlooks the valley;
estate boundaries used to touch the river,
home of early, wealthy town settlers,
before times changed, divided into slivers
all the large, gracious property tracts.
Here, it is said, Poe visited years before the war,
and spent time visiting the family,
heard the raven quoting, "Nevermore."
In an upstairs bedroom, dark of night,
Poe had his famous poetic vision,
dark raven visitation, prophetic dissertation,
and realized with blackened reason
that from the spell and darkened shadow
there would never be freedom from beautiful Lenore.
Still today, we quote his song of passion
and tell the legendary love forevermore.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, September 22, 2014
They sit in cold judgement,
their modern eyes cast baleful stares,
passing their false prophet's law,
upon his ancient blood;
eyes of blackened ice reply in silent amusement.
Still they judge him according to their ways,
money, property, suited jobs and cars,
he has a future of reputation's immortality,
his art will last beside his words;
as the bones of his persecutors become dust.
He smiles in a single wave of cold indifference,
as he watches them realise their fate,
small minds shaped by small cages,
dying in their living corpses;
as the wanderer shows them his back.
©David Nickle Read 2015
The wind burnt the chill of infant cheek angling for sinkers
unable in the lavender light of dusk to rise, the wind purrs.
A catfish, with finger long whiskers, thrashes in the dusk;
just landed by the hunter, a salt peter pounded writhing husk.
Lost in hunger's lust the fish hunter's fire dies without pain,
hooked by the wind's burn, chilled, the sink holes now blackened, drain.
The wind stills, no longer lithe; it lies, no longer owning, anything;
no longer moaning, not intoning, not even groaning.
Calm now lies angry in the hollow seeking its rebirth,
slipping round and round, it sorrows, wind winding the earth.