Long Blood filled Poems
Long Blood filled Poems. Below are the most popular long Blood filled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blood filled poems by poem length and keyword.
A new dawn,
Unveiled hopes and surreal ecstatic.
The smiles on their faces,
Heralded news,
The folks were delighted.
It was worth every ounce of struggle.
Though, a dilemma.
Afraid of separation.
Yet, desperate to experience the journey.
The ambience compelled me.
I was finally seen off,
I was on a voyage to satisfy nature's balance.
Now I learned the way of flying.
They had fed me once, now the tables had turned.
The man I was had been called a coward.
They celebrated my bravery now.
Decorated badges shone and made them proud.
I lost one and two things to earn it.
Was it really worth it?
The grasp of my anxiety grew.
On a bright sunny day,
I was summoned by a great war.
The fallen heroes' cries haunted me,
They never let me close my eye.
Though I dodged death,
My mates did not.
When consciousness returned.
A stream of blood filled my sight.
Decapitated bodies, blasted arms,
Eyes bulging out of their sockets,
The fallen were the luckiest.
One who lived was burning in hell.
Men begged me to put an end to their agony.
Our eyes shed blood,
Tears dried out.
I wished to shoot my brains out too.
The nefarious haunted site was too much to bear.
"I couldn't" I cried ....
A bullet shell dropped beside me.
I had killed my own man, or had I helped him?
His heart wide opened, and my shank.
My shin mangled, my eardrums burst.
"Medic! Medic! Medic!"
A few men rushed and took me away.
I only saw them talking but heard no word.
Certainly they would cut it.
The pain fainted me right away.
A chunk of metal cost me a leg.
What would a hurt man do?
Run away to his folks.
So did I.
The smile on their faces now faded.
They hardly talked about their dream again.
Blames encompassed a loop.
Still celebrated as a hero.
The shell-shock and vivid imagery of the war,
Ran through my mind every now and then.
I never slept again.
Trapped inside a war I had never waged.
It had now changed my periphery of life.
I despised it.
The fallen were the luckiest.
I couldn't even stand on my own.
I barely opened my mouth, only to be fed.
There it hangs, my greatest achievement,
So the folks claimed.
Why did I live in guilt then?
Was it to hide my sins,
Or to make me feel proud?
The barrage of questions and bullets,
Never left my conscience.
I may have quit the war,
It still ran inside my head.
Daring to Walk Around the House Shirtless
I am a daring woman, a wanton woman, a top heavy woman.
My 44 Double D’s are pressing down hard on my chest today.
I decide to free them, to let them loose, to give them some air.
Which is nervy because even if you are an old lady, and I am….
If you have a husband like mine
Who is still seventeen
And still thinks of me as sixteen,
you know he is going to run up and play with your boobs.
My back stops him in mid grab.
What is on your back?
Apparently thirteen wood ticks.
He is completely grossed out and says he will take off six of them.
Thirteen is too many.
I am pretty sure he got all their blood-filled ugly rounded brown bodies.
The heads are still in my skin though, I bet.
Those heads are keeping him away from the booby grab.
I guess those stupid ticks bites are good for something.
HEY!
Never mind….
A strong hand reached out to behold a soft smooth slender hand. "Do I touch, do I press or do I tap?" It pondered. The soft hand only anticipated the thrill.
The strong hand reached out to take the soft hand, to tap it, or poke it, or maybe rub against it. The soft hand kept still as warm blood filled the veins of its palm, pondering the thickness of the strong hand.
The strong hand desired to maybe brush over the soft hand or even caress it but wondered whether that would be kind, cruel or cunning to the soft hand. The soft hand panted and craved for the touch it could not initiate.
The Strong hand reached out to tickle or fiddle the soft hand but discerned the soft hand yearned for more filling than emptying. The soft hand sighed with its index finger.
The strong hand gently opened its palm wide and outstretched, its fingers preparing to lock into the clasp of the soft hand with a grasp. The soft hand pinched its fingers before softly reaching out with a surrendering open palm to be clutched, clenched and gripped by the thickness of the Strong hand.
The strong hand landed in the unusual softness of kind finger prints ready to carry and bear this soft hand all through. The soft hand rested in the thickness of big fingers of the strong hand and cleaved to the power thereof.
A hand shake happened!
Wilting in withering light
I'm afraid I lost the will to fight
Demons dance in the abyss
Between us monsters a soulless kiss
Impurities fill my mind
Perhaps how I'll be defined
Burn them like tea leaves
Nothing will be left for the thieves
I sing of all that could have been
Before the bottle and before the sin
Deep inside is the hero held down by this weight
Damned by a black fire fate
No deity ever sought to save me
So this tainted soul is all I have to set free
It brings me pain but I don't seek pity
Because the truth isn't pretty
In my hand is a blood filled chalice
Which I gaze upon with serene malice
Truthfully it's to hide the malaise
As I ready myself for the blaze
Wilting in withering light
I'm afraid I lost the will to fight
Demons dance in the abyss
As I meet the flame's fateful kiss
The Valley of dead Souls
Jewel encrusted guardians of stone stand before the gates to the abyss of eternity. Above engraved in gilded stone inlaid with silver and gold are the words. Dearth of light and filled with gloom for all that enter seal their doom.
With deaths sweet kiss of nights never-ending silence to comfort them as they walk. Fires burn and give no warmth unto the abysmal souls that travel the path into the void. Pail from life drained drifting through eternity without regret for days long past. These lost souls march on in their misery, no sunrise to inspire the eyes or sunset to charm the soul. Only pain to burden the flesh and dark sorrow to tire the spirit, as the fires of hell light the path.
This is the fate of souls devoid of a moral compass to guide them through life. Their sins guide them to the gates like a moth to a flame in the dark. In the wake of blood filled rivers of despair, innocent children cry tears of anguish upon the waters. Purity defiled by lust and greed feed the gluttony of their desires. Passion and love lost to indifference and hatred by the mindless desire to dominate the destitute and subjugated them to servitude.
All is lost to those that choose to walk this path to oblivion. None shall truly know the futility of wealth and power until they trudge this path of oblivion.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
We remember
That night of horror
When the future was stamped and the cogs were slain
When the execution ground shone red with blood
The blood of the helpless cogs
We remember the horrors
Gunshots like fireworks
The cries of cogs like wolves in the night
As devil's favourite demons feed on raw flesh
We remember the depressed winds
The howling of the tortured winds
The breeze of grief. Of cold steeled grief.
As the cogs kneel with tears in their cheeks
Hands grasping the blood stained shield
Songs of hope in their trembling lips.
Fire! The only noise from the blood crazed hunters
As more cogs fall on the blood soaked floor.
Mother's in pain
Father's groaning inward
Siblings gathered around the dining table
Waiting for the blood filled dinner plate.
We remember the silence
The blood thick silence
The howls of the winds
As it whispers "gory" "gory".
We Shall Not Forget.
Does God exist
I look at my body
it seems so complex
the heart pumping blood
blood filled with oxygen
blood built within the bones
everything is so complex
the brain the heart the lungs
yet science would have us believe
that cells to small to be seen
without a microscope
design something so complex
cells with no ability to think
can design a brain
surely some thing
that has cognitive thinking
had to design the body and brain
Yes I think God exists
but God did not create wars
God does not molest children
God did not create your pain
People do that to each other
people create wars
people create poverty
people create suffering
we could use our brains
to make a better world
we could believe in God
and learn to care.
surely something
with a brain
needed to create the design
from there the cells
would have been programmed
programmed to repeat
and improve the design
surely behind
the human body
is a design
that require's intelligent thinking
THEY MARCHED* for miles in blistering heat
THEY MARCHED with nothing to drink or eat
THEY MARCHED as soldiers, Filipinos alike,
THEY MARCHED over trails others had hiked
BLOOD FILLED the path of those who balked
STOPPING MEANT death--thus, they walked
THEY MARCHED through mud caked to the thighs
THEY MARCHED on stones and hills that rise
SOME DROPPED from heat and thirst combined
SOME FROM slashes to throats from behind
THEY MARCHED together or marched alone
THEY MARCHED and marched into the unknown
Present-Day WSMR Bataan Death March Memorial
Each windy March over mountainous paths,
men and women brave Spring's gusty raths
Military groups join those walking alone--
a veteran in wheelchair, pushed by his son.
For exercise class, short march is their pick
others, with heavy packs, march twenty-six
Almost ten thousand from around the world
Many with their banners proudly unfurled.
Some view it a contest, some endurance test,
some view it a chance to perform their best.
Finally, they do it to honor those souls
who marched to death in war's bitter tolls.
*In April, 1942, approximately 20,000 New Mexico Guardsmen, from
all branches of service, and 50,000 Filipinos, were force-marched 66
miles across Bataan Island by the Japanese military near the end of
WW2. They endured extreme hardship and no food or liquid. 16,900
died during the march. Many others later died of dehydration or star-
vation. They are honored each year with a march. Often, many Japanese
join the march.
You roll over the edge of an eyelid, measuring your body
through a window.
Once you fit, you go outside of yourself
where the sky is rising.
A part of you is stirring coffee. Another part is beside the
windowpane
glancing edgeways into your tongue.
Crows crash out of bare branches. The wind is in
from lost town.
You find yourself observing the nerve endings of bare branches,
even though the trees you are watching
are made of blood-filled dendrites
pushing through thoughts.
Robins flush out snow drifts, leaping like tigers. You shake
mist out of your shoes, follow claw marks.
You can see clouds swimming in the dim fathoms,
where geese fish for meadow grass.
Roads are passable. Wind-whales plow through
narrowing perspectives,
pushing insomnia ahead
of a dark sleep.
Freezing rain wrings eyes into hands that hide inside
closed fists.
Because of the cold, there are warm regions of you
that will not surface today.
Dawn hovers in-between night and day.
For a long moment
gray ghosts pluck the ground like scavenging gulls.
The Ballerina
A little girl no more than three or four
She spends her day listening to the music from her mother’s radio
She dances a beautiful dance for her age
Even the clopping of her feet is magical
Yet, she will not allow anyone to watch
Stopping the moment she feels eyes upon her
Years go by and the little girl never gives up her dancing
Schools and practice are a daily routine
The rest of her life is a mere dream own by her talent
Sore ankles, swollen knees and bloody toes are her curse
Yet, she never gives up the dance
She dances in untold choruses with a thousand other girls
An unknown she dances every night in one show and every day in another
Years of practice grow and strain in every muscle she uses
Audiences applaud every performance but it is not for her, never for her
Yet, she never gives up the dance
One night she is called to be the central character of the show
Her dance is flawless in its technique
As graceful as the swan she portrays she glides through every moment
This one night is the fulfillment of a life of dreaming and work
All the classes, the pain of strained muscles and the blood-filled shoes fade away
The audience…they are not there
She doesn’t care that no one knows her name
Fame is something she had not desired since she heard her mother’s radio
At that minute the music and the dance are the only things she knows
And all of her life has led to the moment
So many years of her life she strived for this
She still does it just for the dance