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.
The Morning View from Snappy Shine
David J Walker
7 AM
and the doors
of Snappy Shine
Are open
The lights turned
on for the
Artists already at work in
Palettes of kiwi and spit
Lawyers and Bankers await
Their turn for their
Usual seat with
Greetings passed
to the Rhythm of
rag-men relaxed
Skillfully mixing politics with spit
and blackened wax
The Friday morning crowd of
Gumshoe salesmen and Lawyers
Tread one-way streets
Surrounding the
County Courthouse lawn
Dreading rejection
Shopkeepers sweep the stoops
Of discount shoe stores
While bootmakers raise their
Awnings
Advertising salesmen find new ways
To tell the same old lies
A million feet
Have pound these brick streets
And saved every lead
of each contract let
Reporters crowd the
Courtroom corridors
hoping to vet the next
breaking story before
the deadline of the
noon news edition
Just Down the street off Broadway
A few blocks Away
The Greyhound Bus Station lunch counter is
Busy with breakfast for arriving passengers
Meanwhile the corner café`
Across the street from Snappy shine
Clears its tables
Readied for the coming lunch run
A raven quill wakes beneath the chapel roof,
scratching on vellum by a blue, sleepless flame;
its ink is ash from vanquished wings
that Heaven will no longer claim.
She once had guarded Heaven’s verge,
with pale obedience and a solemn song,
until the lower darkness breathed her name
and beckoned her to join the silent throng.
A jasmine veiled with jinxed jewels,
of blackest pearls and midnight dew,
breathed perfume through the chapel dark
to wind itself around her view.
For now she heard that sound again,
its ancient music stirred desire;
now dancing with my sweet demons,
she woke the Fangs of Fire.
She heard the first white feather singe,
a warning in the flame;
yet still she followed that dark sound
and let it speak her name.
She’ll have to Learn to live for lovesick lies,
for now the truth will leave a colder scar;
her broken wings must fade to ash
to keep alight her dreaming star.
...and I wane, an angel without wings,
beneath the heavy, blackened dome;
no hollow prayer can stitch the air behind
or carry these burnt ashes home.
If only I could forgive ...
the choice I made to cross the flame,
where demons taught me hunger first—
and now I must do the same.
The quill drinks down the final ash
from wings the skies cannot recall.
For grief is a ghostwriter
whose quill records their tragic fall.
Is there still time for us?
vs 1
I wake up to a sunrise,
and a beautiful blue sky,
so many questions unanswered
I'm still left with the big why
vs 2
I see that the earth still turns,
we watch as our planet burns?
will humans never learn?
Is there still time for us?
Chorus
Is there still time for us?
Haven't we seen enough?
What happened to the way we cared
Dear God, please have patience
Listen to my earnest prayer!
Vs 3
I look to the blackened space,
I wish I could see your face,
Our past cannot be re-traced
I raise my eyes to the skies
Vs 4
I'm sure that you're still there,
Help me believe you still care,
I'll follow you anywhere,
Listen to my earnest prayer!
Chorus
Is there still time for us?
Haven't we seen enough?
What happened to the way we cared
Dear God, please have patience
Listen to my earnest prayer!
Chorus
Is there still time for us?
Haven't we seen enough?
What happened to the way we cared
Dear God, please have patience
Listen to my earnest prayer!
Chorus repeat and fade
John Derek Hamilton
April 25,2021
As the angel of death there is a job I must do so when the time comes
I will appear to you
In one hand I hold a scythe and I am dressed all in black
where you are going you are never coming back
You cannot see my face it is hidden beneath a blackened hood
there is no use in running and hiding from me as it will do you no good
I will check you off my list and put a red mark though your name
it makes no difference who you are to me your all the same
So when your near the end of your life and you know I am on my way
Don't try to fight the inevitable just close your eyes and pray.
In your temple, you rewrite me with glass letters, infinitely breaking me,
And I pronounce the mantra of forgiveness, like a saint in the agony of purifying ecstasy.
Her voice vibrated, a flame in the storm, signing with the pain etched on her face,
Her finger trembling toward itself, a lost guide in the labyrinth of withdrawal.
"Why do I return to you, after you've walked me through the hell of suffering?"
There's a psalm in me, echoing, polished by the intangible dream of an answer.
Her words are like gashes in flesh, the sour of indifference cutting deep,
"I'm caught in this turbulent circle, where I can do nothing but welcome you again,
Even with a broken soul, knowing all too well, you will step into the sanctuary once more."
A metempsychosis of longing, in a cage of time, where your shadows heal in their wandering,
I carry my dream towards you, passing through the moon's fleeting multitudes.
With each reliving, a penumbra in the cutting wind, a tale with blackened pages,
Understanding with a tacit gleam, that your gates, even shattered, always wait for me open.
And so, a ballerina in the masquerade of renunciation and rediscovery, I step into the round of forgetting,
My spirit, a tapestry soaked with torment and aspiration, fluttering in the eternal story,
With every redemption of fidelity, the dance grows tighter, pulling me away from silence,
But I refuse to close the gates of the heart's understanding.
In this pantheon of the eternally slumbering, where twilight brings no amnesty,
I trace the sparks from this fateful detail, with a heart like a butterfly on an altar of forgiveness.
Her toenails had spikes that could stop a train
Her fingers were claws that could dig through a drain
Her teeth were jagged, her breath was ragged.
There was no doubt we would have our work cut out.
Her dad left instructions loud and clear.
To reform and re-create his daughter dear.
We knew she would take time to get ready
For a man, a potential suiter, and maybe a steady.
We washed her hair seven times before we had suds.
We made her face mask out of St Lucria’s holiday muds.
We brushed those blackened teeth, and her sour tongue.
Our reputation as matchmakers by a thin thread clearly hung.
You said you could do it, my husband reminded me.
We thought we would be finished by nine, it was a quarter ‘til three.
Who will we find? Will it be an old geezer?
We picked off the roaches, and threw away the tweezer.
What about old man McGoogly? His eyesight is bad.
He has a mail-order bride. She arrived yesterday from Chad.
When we were finished we made a little list, trying hard.
But we did not have to bother for here came Jimmy McBard.
He did not recognize her a bit; he was struck with her now.
He began to date her. At her engagement he got a cow.
Her dowry was plentiful, her hair was smooth a comb.
They lived happily ever after, with her Dad, in his home.
Once they named me god.
At my mouth they placed figs, oil,
to the lip of my fire,
sang their children’s names
into my warm, sulphurous breath.
They named my smoke a blessing.
They read the fire in my throat
as fathers read a child’s brow,
and trusted the mountain to sleep.
But then I awoke
The seal of my deep heart fractured
and poured night over their doorways.
My rivers of flame took the olive groves,
the market’s clay jars, the bridal veils—
took every voice that had sung to me.
Now my blood lies blackened,
cool as a curse beneath the moon.
Yet it retains the mould of their streets,
the shallow bowl where rain still gathers,
the doorway’s buried threshold,
the clasped hand none may uncover.
Pilgrims come with polished lenses.
They praise the dark waves of my skin,
say:
How still. How beautiful.
They do not hear the dead
turning in my stone.
I hear them.
In the long moonless watch,
their prayers return unbidden—
not as incense,
nor as praise,
but as small voices under rock,
calling the god
who did not spare them.
“As you live deeper in the heart,
the mirror gets clearer and cleaner” ~ Rumi
what does it mean to live in the heart
the centre wherefrom soft stirrings of love arise
our hand goes there automatically when we say, ‘I am’
‘tis where we feel the anguish of sorrow and the joy of surprise
spontaneous effervescence of love is free from fetters of mind
magical radiance of love dissolves illusion of separation
beholding God’s presence within all sentient beings
entwines our consciousness with His creation
we are all born as such, love and light replete
then ego manifests, a cloud of dust, veiling our soul
over time we begin to believe we are only this organic form
becoming self-serving, selfish, lustful, heart blackened like coal
the journey from head to heart is then but our journey back home
cleansing mirror of our heart, we reconnect with the source
discarding conditioned belief, letting go of identity
we reclaim inner light without use of force
Stepping closer and slowly reaching out
The gossamer being vanishes once again
The terror within releases a curdling shout
And night is upon my blackened soul once more
The haunting reality of this life
What unthinkable things it has in store
In the deep dark recesses of my being
I crumble to ash and dust on concrete floor
Releasing a whimpering moan as I lay dying
A stricken pile upon this icy stone
Nothing, nothing more, nothing
The silence rings out like bone on bone
The oozing mass of my internal unrest
Settles as a simmering stew
The demons worst has done its best
A gentle breeze uplifts my dust
Like a swirling devil it rises up
Scatter me to the winds if you must
Fiery gentle kiss upon my ashen lips
My Goddess golden before my eyes
Touching the edges of my soul with her wingtips
Her breath gives life to my awakening
Angelic mesmeric touch
Takes me to a new beginning
With a mighty blow I become one
With all living things since now and before
With a whisper this tortured life is done
I feel her presence all around
I hear the call of every living thing
I listen as my demons make no sound
These evil things once born of flesh
Their screaming hatred lost in the past
And like my body they are nought but ash
She is mother, wife, and sister, she is earth
The serenity of all things
This sister, wife, and mother, who gave us birth
Form:
Slow flames under the blacktop,
simmer-ghost rise
from the sloughing road.
Rubber scorches its skin
shedding blackened snakes.
It's a hot day,
creeping turtles fill pot-holes
with their hot-plate shells.
The highway drums along
to the churr of cricket songs,
along the way, either out or in,
dead-eyed samurai
rage-on at the speed of silence.
A fly in a warm margarita
brain-waves a thought of heaven,
then drowns in a wet question mark.
Sneakers, crocs or Jesus sandals?
Whichever way we walk
the town will be further away then we thought,
and the heat-hacked pigeons
will light the way like Tiki torches.
I guy reads about Maui
and its hills of ash.
A place where ice runs hot.
Dry tears run up
into his eyes.