Long Burnings Poems
Long Burnings Poems. Below are the most popular long Burnings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Burnings poems by poem length and keyword.
Despair sought a captive audience;
hope showed up instead.
Faith handed out flyers;
gave grab bags for free courage.
Remembrance was the opening act;
its recall loaded with “That’s A Fact!”
The blood of memory flowed over:
we’ve survived 400+ years of slavery.
The blood of memory flowed over:
we’ve survived the hanging of strange fruits.
The blood of memory flowed over:
we’ve survived KKK burnings.
The blood of memory flowed over:
we have survived the jim crow’s droppings.
The blood of memory flowed over:
we’ve survived unjust shoot downs.
The blood flow of memory flowed over: Yes!
we’ve survived all debilitations injected on us.
Intermission has come and gone;
veil curtains have opened on Act Two.
The stage has now been set. And
Shakespeare has duly been put to shame.
The new tragedy is merely an old reality;
and we’ll survive this ‘trumped up’ eddy too!
The curtains will close again;
but it’s not the end.
Remember, workers die;
but the work goes on.
Survive, we always have;
survive, we always will.
The reality show is over;
wipe away the laughing tears.
Get up; grab your grab bag;
let’s get back to work!
If there be any virtue
in all this; please think on it!
In the realm of night within my mind, where moonlight drips like wax,
I lose myself among old memories, shrouded in mist,
dancing at the edge of an abyss, do not come too close to me,
for my heart is a labyrinth full of thorns and unfulfilled dreams,
see me beyond the illusory happiness, forget my face that promises solace.
The winds of melancholy blow through the cracks of my soul,
and every breath is a murmur of silent pain,
like autumn leaves that decay under the footsteps of time,
do not bend to gather my scattered pieces,
let me remain among the waves, where words are unspoken,
in the weave of hidden metaphors, in the lacework of the night.
Do one thing, please, do not look for the light in me that you lose at dawn,
do not find in my wounds the healing you do not need,
my love is a storm overturning the oldest memories,
see my heart as an illusory oasis in the desert of eternal interior.
Do one thing, please, let your dreams fly independently of me,
let your wings carry your desires to your own skies,
mine are broken, crushed by the weight of the past,
do not be tempted by the charm of my ephemeral burnings,
for I am the falling star that extinguishes in the abyss.
Do one thing, please, find your dance in the morning light,
do not intersect with my shadows of despair,
for self-love is the lighthouse that must guide you,
love yourself, do not fall for my shadow.
So, in the darkness that separates us,
look towards the lost light of your soul,
let my silence remain unspoken in your dream,
and seek the hope that brings you closer to yourself—
for I am but an echo lost in the mystery
of a love that must not be found,
a song that loses itself in the flow of silent consciousness,
a realm of longing scattered in the wind of time.
Woe Be Not Unto We
In This New Staged Reality
Despair sought a captive audience;
Hope showed up instead.
Faith handed out flyers. And
She gave grab bags for free courage.
Remembrance was the opening act;
His recall loaded with ‘That’s A Fact!”
The blood of memory flowed over:
We’ve survived 400 years of slavery.
The blood of memory flowed over:
We’ve survived the hanging of strange fruits.
The blood of memory flowed over:
We’ve survived KKK burnings.
The blood of memory flowed over:
We have survived the jim crow droppings.
The blood of memory flowed over:
We’ve survived unjust shoot downs.
The blood flow of memory flowed over: Yes!
We have survived all debilitations injected on us.
Intermission has come and gone;
Veil curtains have opened on Act Two.
The stage has now been set. And
Shakespeare has duly been put to shame.
The new tragedy is merely an old reality.
And we’ll survive this ‘trumpt-up’ eddy too!
The curtains will close again;
But it’s not the end.
Remember, workers die;
But the work goes on.
Survive, we always have;
Survive, we always will.
The reality show is over;
Wipe away the laughing tears.
Get up, grab your grab bag. And
Let’s get back to work!
If there be any virtue
In all this—please think on it!
~ *~
So terriblbly concerned with a virus!
We do not see the USA standards shrink.
We'd prefer to listen to bouncy, Miley Cyrus.
Or get loaded with a good, stiff drink!
A new President wants vaccines for 9/11 terrorists?
Loves terrorist nations, so why are you so upset?
You know clearly he is far from bright nor a mentalist.
Worse, some support flag burnings and riots at sunset!
Children are at home like dogs in cages and this,you
happily accept?
One nation, not under God, leads to deadly violence.
Even Americans paying for foreign abortions, have you
no self-respect?
The free-speech doctrine is at the heart of the Constitution.
But the Dictator-in-Chief, who swore to uphold it, like an
uncontrollable child, now shreds it, with gleeful relief!
And, from every hard working American, calls on them to
pay for restitution?
The largest churches,must be punished, perhaps destroyed,
he declares!
While teachers want unsafe,deadely vaccines for innocent
school children.
Seniors, sorry,be quiet, you get none, beware!
While the dark clouds of censorship just grow in the USA empty,
wilderness, the grimness we all share
1/31/2021
~1~
In the long shadows of the evening, when the light withdraws into a silent corner of the world,
I extend my hand toward the unknown, a white, cold, and empty hand,
A hand seeking to grasp the fragile meanings of existence,
Which become like violets, delicate, lost in the wind.
Oh, my eyes, your sparks have been extinguished in the darkness,
In the pale light of forgotten memories,
You open bare, without brilliance,
Wondering, what are the jasmines for, what sweet words can they still say?
Suns set over the cold silence of my heart,
Leaves rustle in the wind of memories, candles flicker out,
Harp strings move slowly, crystal dreams cracking,
Arms raised in despair, teeth clenched with lost desire.
The cries of the soul echo in the silence of the night,
And tears flow from veins that have known lost love,
I don’t know, I don’t know what purpose all these feelings serve,
I have burned my forehead on the pyre of unfulfillment, I have burned my innocence in the flames of betrayed hope.
The deepest intimacy, the highest hope,
Everything has turned to ash, my bread is ash, my yields are the wind,
I have burned my soil that once bore life, and I have burned my life-giving water,
And now, what remains for my weary soul?
Yes... these pages,
These empty pages await to weep silently before the universe,
In them, perhaps I could recount the story of my burnings,
In them, perhaps I will find the peace I seek in vain among the stars.
if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist
what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon
what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice
the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub
the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening
the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming
it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive
then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva
then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel
the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality
if their frequency be touched
then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured
by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon
the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite
it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt
now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees
why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded
those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their semen
also make friends with the group-photos
now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone
From predawn birth, you dwell alone,
Preferring deep shadowland over light.
So much easier to conceal what is shown,
Nascent ember forelimbs that daunt your sight.
With growth in undying murk, and wings in flames
In brilliant reds, yellows, golds all blazing.
Flying is hopeless with birds of other names.
Passions rage from wings, arresting, so amazing.
Oh firebird, searing, sizzling, soaring, scorch,
Torrid your dazzling, craving fiery force.
You blister iron night like a blowtorch,
A fuming, fever unleashed from an innate source.
Transfixing terror, tormenting trusted truth,
Firestorm fervency awakened in sleep zones.
Fire wings of lasting, lusting, lingering youth.
Each breath covets and dreads your roaring cyclones.
Your infernal dance, your ardent limbic rapture
Descending, curling, exploding, and unfurling,
Brassy, flammable breeze is dream conjure,
Ascending, arcing, igniting in fine sterling.
Oh firebird, you rise from rudimentary wings,
From embryonic burnings, and larval aspirations,
From timid beginnings to radiant pinion waving,
with Inspiration, you bring her brother, Trepidations.
Date: 02/24/2022
Title: The Rudiments of Wings Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
ODE TO THE RAIN
A rare happening here, this dreary drought:
The dry earth chokes and trees are fast fading,
Reservoir water stock is drying out.
The dry weather is truly worrying,
We bear the foul odours of wind-blown haze,
Health concerns with ash now escalating.
We feel the choking air in smelly daze,
See long clinic queues with breathing ailments,
Polluted smog and hazy fare spurs craze.
Our dry ordeal lingers with harsh statements,
Our nearby neighbour's post-harvest burnings;
Political talks brought vain agreements.
No amount of talk brings clear resolving,
So here we sit and wait and pray for rain,
Our medicine men are busy chanting.
Forty days of drought feels enlightening,
And suddenly a burst of wetness falls:
Due change of healing moisture now drowsing.
Truth heralds clear that prayer brings rainfall,
Faith still moves mountains and wet clouds charade,
The heartfelt word goes forth to echo call.
Drenching rain and more rain on our parade,
Happy children rain-dancing wildly free,
For water pools and cools and moves all trade.
This aqueous spring revives all greenery,
Smiles and sheer delight for wet weather shows,
See wetness bring freshness that now sets free.
An attitude of gratitude funds glow,
A sparkle of delight now flows and grows!
Leon Enriquez
16 Mar 2014
Singapore
They simply had one Ministry of Truth
for news.
No others allowed.
Wake up, it's happening here!
They found a group to paint, as the
source of all evil.
Stores were closed, windows smashed
of hated businesses.
Book burnings? Now we have Social
Media churnings!
One group, blamed for Society's Fall.
They don't sport a yellow star, yet.
But AOC wants enlightenment camps.
She, the new Fourth Reich Squad Vamp.
Think it can't happen again?
It's already in progress here, my friend!
~THOSE WHO FORGET THE PAST,
ARE DOOMED TO REPEAT IT~
We are already well on our way to establish
Auschwitz tomorrow!
VOA was shut off due to your new Resident
in DC!
There is space now for a patriot's sorrow.
We no longer have a valid Constitution.
Just one party who seeks pain and
illegal, unjustified retribution!
1/24/2021
~5~
For the next three poems I choose "I don't know?" and "baptism" since these are old poems that I found that survived the burnings. I no longer write like this, but the last of the three is more my slant towards Robert Creeley.
untitled
A tropical sunset, wallpapered, eleven by fourteen,
Stares at my daily awakenings;
The sun, like a sleepless eye on the verge of closing
Can never blink,
But once cried a salty foreground sea.
Beyond the wall, deep in the horizon,
Hemidemisemiquaver rain, in four/four time,
Fills potholes with puddles,
And not knowing when to stop,
Makes lakes for romantic rowboating couples.
But in the dark night, frogs grate,
Sounding like a carpenter
Rasping an almost finished frame
That will border contorted perceptibilities
Or images in placid pastel.
Form: