Long Briefly Poems
Long Briefly Poems. Below are the most popular long Briefly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Briefly poems by poem length and keyword.
We walk through life floating on air
oblivious to the tears of the lonely child
his life shattered by the loss of kith and kin
Where are my parents he cries.
Dragging himself along he sees only a mirage
that disappears at his approach
What's to become of me he cries
as he hears the roll of thunder.
Dark clouds billow overhead
he has no place to shelter
He's blown by the wind and slapped by swirling dust
seeking an elusive dream of hope.
Head bent in despair his lean body grows weaker by the minute
he has not eaten or tasted water for days
except for a few drops of rain that briefly wetted his lips
leaving him more parched than before
yet he hangs on to his fading wits.
Will I always be alone he shouts at the skies
as the vultures move in for a strike
His clothes hang from his bony frame
flapping in the wind like a wind vane
that brings an airplane to safe landing.
What is to become of me how did I get
here
where are those who bore me
the ones I held so dear
Perhaps they are in the howling wind
or in the stars above
Maybe in the lights that flicker over the dyke
Maybe I won’t find them 'til
the time is right.
Oh, to be loved once more,
to feel the tender touch of gentle
hands that once caressed my brow
My tears have dried I have cried too much
my throat is parched
I feel only thirst for love
Will I ever find the ones who loved me.
Yet hope keeps his steps constant
Maybe over that hill my search will end
maybe my loved ones await me on the other side
Clawing the sand with bony fingers
he hauls himself up over the hill.
Alas, I feel it in my bones though no longer existent
I hear it in the echo off the mountains ..I am the echo
I hear it in the howling wind -- I am the wind now
I see it in the valley beyond --I am in the valley.... eternal.
I am home at last.
Just off the busy road there’s a dirt lane
that leads to a weather-worn covered bridge
where Red Tails gather at eventide.
In the sunlight the birds flicker on hot winds,
rest and watch on pylons and poles,
then rise to hover
over berms and hedgerows along the highway
driving small birds and field mice
into the shelter of scrub and thicket.
At days end they convene;
shake corn-dust from their wings,
bathe in the creek's shallow waters,
then the hawks perch
along the eaves of the bridge
while its oak rafters retreat to shade.
I arrive as the late evening
paints one last aureate sheen
over the slow rippling stream.
Hawks hunt alone - an acreage of sky
can support but one raptor.
I have photographed them many times
as they swooped and spiraled
scything the sky
with their swift-winged threats.
In this light a different picture emerges;
the row of muted birds could be sleeping
yet their eyes are wide open, alert.
A last twilight gleaming
briefly reveals their sentinel forms,
now in the gloom, only their eyes can be seen -
each one is a blood-red sunset.
Roses are red
or so we’ve been told,
a neat little truth
the world likes to hold.
But I’ve watched them linger
past crimson and flame,
softening into purples,
into vintage, into almost-gone names.
Roses are red
until time has its say,
until petals grow tired
of being bright every day.
I love them in bloom,
all full of their youth,
open and fragrant
and certain of truth.
But there’s something holy
in watching them fall,
in colors that whisper
instead of calling.
They teach me that beauty
is not just the start
it lives in the fading,
the breaking apart.
Roses are red,
yes... briefly, it’s true.
But they’re also most honest
when they’re changing too.
Walking along a road, diagonally,
through someone's house briefly
and back out where there isn't a door
across their vegetable patch and
eventually over the bones of some buried
unknowns.
Cows are currently grazing in someone's
hallway, while a tree grows in the kitchen.
As I walk, I trample through a Roman bath
where in a different time a rotund, well fed
Roman is relaxing in his water.
My next foot down stamps the hand
of a warrior who has just fallen to the sword
As he, in his battledress and beard,
lays in someone else's hearth
where a herb-filled stew is being cooked.
I tread effortlessly over walls and pits,
rooms and murder scenes, above oceans
and below oceans.
These layers of time leave layers of life
which layer the ground silently screaming
voices and echoes of stories once told.
There will then be a layer to come
where someone will tread their feet
over my life, my house and my bed.
Under the mantle of night, embroidered with hidden symbols and untold secrets,
The stars reflect infinite desires, like eternal jewels in the abyss,
With finite pages and ephemeral moments of intense passion,
But the thirst for reading and the ardor of loving remain infinite,
They surpass even death, our fears, and our ephemeral dreams of peace.
In the mysterious libraries of the soul, each book is a secret temple,
A finite universe, but the magic of words opens doors to infinity,
Chapters and phrases ignite sparks of wisdom, occult and profound,
Navigating with paper boats through the vast oceans of esoteric knowledge.
Bodily passions, like falling stars, briefly illuminate our universe,
Encounters veiled in halos of intensity and unspoken desires,
But the desire to love burns like a sacred fire, an eternally hidden volcano,
Living beyond the limits of time and space, touching the mystery of the infinite.
Beyond the peaceful flow of time, our eternal desires remain,
Echoes of our hopes blooming in a world of ethereal light,
In the glacial silence of the night, each dream rises like alchemical smoke,
Leaving indestructible traces of desires that will never perish, beyond reality.
Under the delicate cover of enchanting books and embraced bodies,
We find the essence of eternity, endless desires that transcend space and time,
In each turned page and in every thrill of a magical encounter,
There is a poetry of infinity, a mystical dance that unites and separates different worlds.
We read and love, planting seeds of eternity in the garden of our existence,
Each story becomes an incantation of the soul, each moment of passion a divine verse,
In a universe of desires that surpass the boundaries of death and time,
We live the magic of infinity, in the eternal lights of the stars and in the sacred written pages.
I wandered the desert alone, oh, what a dream to remember!
'Twas a place of extremes. Gorgeous yet frightening. A swelteringly hot
Barren terra incognita that stretched far beyond the horizon.
I walked for miles and miles; feeling more lost by the hour,
I turned, following my footprints back to civilization.
But unbeknownst to me, a sandstorm roared, erasing footprints I made earlier.
Staggering, fighting my fatigued body and moribund spirit, I paused briefly,
Barely standing upright, with arms akimbo trying to catch my breath.
"Where am I?", I wondered in a panic. Sweat streaming down my
brow, I continued traversing the never-ending stretch of desolate wasteland.
The chances of finding my way out of this vast sea of sand, improbable.
"Is this how it all ends? How will I make it out here alive?"
I asked myself, drowning in an ocean of pessimism. Thoughts in my head
Dark and morbid. I'm lost. A nightmare come true! The chances for a rescue
In this unforgiving no man's land couldn't seem more unlikely.
An oasis, a needle in the haystack. I'm increasingly asphyxiated by thirst.
Before long, I chanced upon a tree trunk still standing tall, frozen in time.
I took shade on its shadow across the sand, defeated, begging God
For a quick end to my misery. Instead, heavens opened up, and down came
The rain. An augury of hope...my salvation! Oh, what a dream to remember!
Date written and posted: 10/02/2018
Should 21st Century poetry
For the new minds of a culturally bombarded generation
Be limited from 3 to 7 lines?
Before you answer
To me personally, even though to answer, makes my Heart aches
I like reading poetry built around subtlety
Concealed layers or secretive depths
Relatable interchangeable meanings
Powerful raw stuff that sometimes leaves your eyes wet
Unearthed within deciphering their carefully crafted imagery or subtext
3 to 7 lines of reading, might sound like heaven, but I'm old school
Give me Lord Byron
Shelley or Keats
But I guess
Like an Ode to a Nightingale
Maybe that's the beauty of poetry as She walks in Beauty
And like To a Skylark
It must sing
So I can only hope new generations enjoy poetry, so it continues to thrive and still live
Within whichever form, and exciting tales that will continue to make their own hearts beat
With all it can give
But for me
Reading deep poetry
Feels like sitting briefly, metaphorically, underneath a Cherry Blossom Tree
Enjoying a delicious drop of spiritual tranquility
Are you too, old school and what emotional fluctuations resonate with you?
Are you a three to seven or more like:
Eleven or more is heaven
Reader or writer
Who enjoys late all-nighters
(C) Copyright John Duffy
The middle class here can't be saved
When 0.001% act so depraved
Their wealth without end
These royals* still pretend
Did not come from us—their
enslaved**
*The Royals: CEOs, Banksters, Revolving Door Regulators, The FED, Congressmen for sale, Lobbyists, Board Members of Big Corporations, Major Shareholders who vote for these Board
Members, Corrupt Managers, Dishonest Used Car Salesmen, Presidential Candidates with more than two Residences, Elected Presidents (and their lackeys who pretend to regulate but look the other way)
**The Enslaved: Workers, Career Regulators who are trying to protect the public, Honest Hard Working Citizens, Students--some with oppressive loans, Immigrants, Soldiers, Police, Firemen and Firewomen, Parents, Children, Orphans, Disabled, The Sick, Small Business Owners (who don’t hire lobbyists), Volunteers, Health Care Workers, Welfare Recipients, Inventors, Investors, Entrepreneurs, Actors, Artists, Journalists who do in-depth investigation (not like those with FOX News, ABC Radio or many other of the outlets where they mouth the status quo), Non Profit Corporations, Charities, Teachers, Transportation Workers, Waiters and Waitresses, Dishwashers, Servants, Farmers, Managers, Ship Hands, Cooks, Unemployed
Author' s Note: Have been at Occupy Wall Street 8 days in the past two months--which is why I haven't been here--plus I have to work. Miss you all, but it's for a good cause. I am very briefly seen on Conan's feature: Triumph the Insult Comic Dog at Occupy Wall Street if you are looking for some humor with a little umph.
Hot summer sun in clear blue sky
golden light pounds down on pavement black
searing heat reflects on walls near
boiling hot the wet summer air
shingles of white reflect to sky
captures the heat that lies beneath
wire screened windows were no wind blows
moist searing heat in stillness lays
cold clear water now called forth
shocking contrast within the heat
freely flows running down
too quickly lost into the ground
weaving mesh of shocking white
clinging tightly on moist curves
trapping holding moisture there
growing warm within the air
quickly dancing within the flow
chilling frigid unbearable cold
washing the heat quickly away
coldness clinging within the weave
cold white linen clinging tight
to quickly warming within the heat
briefly cooling what lies within
giving form to what responds
searing heat wrapped in cold
shocking message boldly told
slowly fading diminished away
moisture hot lost in summer air
suburban walls lock away
burning heat on a summer day
frigid cold of waters clear
cannot long the heat contain
Don’t think about the pink elephant
Dammit!
Being told not to is one thing
Deciding you won’t is entirely another
I must not think about the pink elephant
I simply don’t have time
I’ve got plenty to work on, Lord knows
I really don’t have the time
Not until January at least
When I’m doing a little less
But here I am in August
Daydreaming
How is it that just weeks ago I was fine?
Recovering, maybe, from last time
But now they’re everywhere
Pink elephants
Probably because I told myself not to bother
No surer way to make it so
Suddenly they appear at every turn
How did I miss them before?
A week ago I saw one
Making eyes at another guy
I briefly wanted to kill him
But I spun on my heel and there is another
I need to focus
Or I'll start dropping classes
I realize I haven’t been praying
God, this is miserable
But in January I’ll be done
No more classes
No more volunteering for a while
Just work
And I’m afraid there won’t be any more
Pink elephants