Long Calling Poems
Long Calling Poems. Below are the most popular long Calling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Calling poems by poem length and keyword.
Stately surrender Jay Bird is calling.
Wait I sense the cawing.
Quakes measure the falling.
Liberty devoted to Love.
Ninja dreams of angels on the scene.
In dire straits I am resonating with my fate.
Open heart open to Love.
Yellow Bird flights with The Jay Bird and the Emerald starling.
Into the zone I confess I belong to Agape Love.
Running from the Call.
Siren song retaliate open arms open palms.
Nailed to Love I am one with The Jay Bird.
Yellow dash, Yellow Patch, Yellow Sparrow.
Jay Bird sings to me in the shadows.
Darkness overcome by Loves light.
Seasons changing now entering his flight.
Tickey Tack, Silent Jack, Cold cuts and Cold ties.
Liberty or death, freedom to speak or give me death.
Can we not say what we wish or are we forever silenced?
Every morning when I awake it is to Him that I call out
Life has a tendency to break by filling oneself with doubt
But not when He is around as all my woe just disappears
For peace is quickly found in giving the Lord all my fears
But it's not just in the receiving but more so in the giving
More so in the believing than how you feel you are living
For every time I have fallen I felt His gentle loving touch
In so now hearing His calling you too will know as much
In His fresh morning air I look up at His Heavens above
Laying my own soul to bare He only responds with love
As I sing out with glee in knowing the Truth of His Word
The good news that He set us free or haven't you heard
So many choose not to care to think what is really ahead
I myself wouldn't dare, but choose to praise Him instead
The peace comes there within for He is leading my way
He paid for all of my sin and then rose on the Third Day
Written: December 09, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Tom Woody
******************
My fingers are stone—
numb knuckles carved by the night’s chisel
Feet drag as anchors through drifts of powdered glass
The compass of my breath falters,
And silence gnaws at the marrow of my resolve.
I have always worshiped the wild
Scaled ridges where condors carve crescents in the sky,
wandered valleys where rivers rehearse their rhapsodies.
They warned me: "not alone, not in winter."
But I have always been a misfit pilgrim,
a shadow that strays from the procession.
Above me, the moon is a lantern of bone,
It's a halo crown of cold fire
I can hear as the air is so silent
the quiet of galaxies swirling,
the tiny hum of everlasting
despair hangs through me
similar to a worn-out cloak,
I wish to shut my eyes
to break down into the lull.
Yet—
In the argent glow, a vision unfurls.
Not a face, but a flame-shaped silhouette,
weeping rivers of light,
calling my name with a voice
that trembles the frost.
It is her.
My wife, my tether, my echo.
A surge rises—
not mine, but borrowed from some celestial reservoir.
Words ignite in my skull: "Rise. Rise."
And the mountain, once a labyrinth,
unfurls a path as a silver ribbon.
I stumble forward,
hearing voices braided with wind.
“Is that you? We were sent to find you.”
Before the dark folds me under,
I whisper, “Who sent you?”
And the answer drifts,
soft as snow,
bright as salvation:
"Your Guardian-angel."
“Tubman”
What colours a heart
courage?
What colours a mind
belief?
What colours a soul
unity?
Underground
we carry torches
from station
to station
We are the Light
We Lead
No colour
No religion
No epic
delusion
Where is the race?
The race to confusion?
We are One
You and me
We are One
We all bleed
Underground
we carry torches
from station
to station
Poets grieving
Vigilantes seething
Electric conductors
of Love
punching tickets
elevate the fire
Light rises
out of the numb
sacrifice the smallest
midst mountains of Moriah
signals waking
signals waving
Freedom
Glowing
Colours are All
Colours
Ultraviolet
magnetic to spectrum
silent tapping, unheard
sometimes seen
no snake doctor lectern
truth burns
souls bound to each other
all grieving
in one way or another
we all learn
Hearts beating
Lungs breathing
signals waking
signals waving
platforms all crowing,
now eyes open
listening,
debating
all signals waking
new story weaving
Souls searching
Souls kneeding
Light now is calling
Light now is leading
Tubman is not
dreaming
(LadyLabyrinth/ 2020)
“Any cause needs speakers and organizers.
Any mass movement requires
women and men of great ideas.”
Tubman, Harriet.
Harriet Tubman is sometimes referred to as the Moses of her people because of the way she led them out of slavery. The Underground Railroad operated at night. Slaves were moved from "station" to "station" by abolitionists.
Afraid of I-scream.
The winter trees are calling,
to save me,
to save me from myself.
Regrets of yesterday
How could I say what I said,
but I did, don’t know why.
I wish I could see the world
through a child’s eyes,
I wish I could see a rose for what it is.
but the rose petals, grow older, wither, and die.
as we hold it gently, in our hands
admiring its beauty,
as we tear it apart.
and we never learn, never know why.
She was eating apple fritters as she died,
the vet said she died with a smile, like a wolf.
the children who knew her just cried and cried.
The only way she could say goodbye.
I wish I could see love through a child’s eyes,
But as we grow older,
love vanishes and dies.
Through terror filled hate, violence and lies,
I saw the face of a child looking up at me
The child looked up at me and smiled.
Then universe lit up for a billion miles.
A child never understands the hate,
between us; you and me.
When playing silly buggers in a tree,
Snow angels in the park,
Playing dead ants, before it gets too dark,
Children run their little fingers through your hair,
While, pretending that they’re not there.
Running, Running, giggling all around,
Playing silly buggers on the ground.
Tears and laughter at your feet,
Secrets and whispers never told.
A child knows that,
Today and yesterday often meet.
Bedtime stories after dark,
about the Pixies in the forest,
Scared of monsters after dark.
Whisky lullabies cannot see.
The world through a child’s eyes.
I scream, ice Cream, you Scream,
The children forever in my heart,
Will laugh and play.
(c) London F. Buss
I'm a nervous wreck when my anxiety makes its presence known
It swallows me whole; my happiness a sinking stone
I want to rise above my insecurities, soar above my flaws, float weightlessly over my obstacles and have confidence I won't fall.
Why can't I just face this anxiousness? Why can't I just be strong?
I want to rediscover my own strengths and find courage to carry on.
Am I even in control of my thought process? I feel like a prisoner in my own head.
Please understand this is something I can't control ; I'd rather be fearless instead.
I see you all with your head's held high while mine faces towards the ground.
I feel beat down; defeated. Anxiety has won this round.
I cannot help my perception is lacking because I'm so lost within my head.I'm calling out for help but can't seem to shake this dread.
I'm begging you anxiety do this one thing for me.
Release my mind and set me free.
Yellow lamps illumine closed eyes
yet shed a pale light upon black noses.
There are unsynchronized tail twitches
there are breath-blown whiskers.
Then there are the bodies
the sleek or fluffy, the trans-gendering
of their eclectic, electric souls
forms that can stretch to a feline infinity,
each one is a varied shade of languid.
Their limbs run like rivers
in an ocean of stillness.
They are yours; they are mine,
but they dream not for us
but we for them.
We are doors for each other
both entrances and exits.
The litter box our sacred calling,
to labor as one.
We look through the same windows
see sparrows dancing with garden tigers -
purr together.
Lost in an algorithmic alleyway
I shuffle papers seeking warmth’s rapport
each page a heartless memory gone numb
rustling sheets - torn sails - confined to shore
catch still the drifting scent of distant seas
translate life’s deepest dreams so weeping eyes
can taste the salt sting spray of breaking trough
lie still amid the silence when it dies
Yet still I scribble tales of truths that lie
amid the shifting moments of life’s tides
a ghost ship lost at edge of sea and sky
unsure of what it knows and what it hides.
Shipwrecked in tattered sails no longer free
condemned - I curse the calling of the sea.
John G. Lawless
©4/9/2019
I try to be humble
when it comes to evaluating poetry,
reminding myself, that my penned gems
may seem paste to others – addicted
to cuneiform glitter, my mining deeply within
our shared reality tunnels sometimes left mere holes
for better landscapers forced to fill in – the dirt
I scatter to the surface,
the rocks, thousands of years' old boulders
pulverized for dear expediency, justifying actions by
use of strong verbs and a lot of campie adjectives –
the new normal, I am told, nouns are fluid...
I guess, the rain piss, and the sun an insidious thirst
for those shunning government sanctioned kool-aid
to drink, like myself, finding shelter in the holes we
have dug for self and others, calling them natural
abodes, or bypass for an earth
desperately in need of new moral
arteries – Well...having belittled who
I am and what I do, for me, my pen yet lingers
a rod and staff of sorts, a pacifier habitually in search
of divine nipples....
Yes ma, mother tongue
my ears are not deaf to your calling
even when I am dead at night
and far I have gone in the world beyond – world ceiling
for not like others, stumbling
waddling
falling
dying
is your voice in their ears
I have wanted to die my ears
to this calling
to die it like a day old life-less infant
for even if it is animate
it could neither see nor hear
O what a powerful! Pricking my ears
your wailing a spear
Now I have prepared and I am set
to embark on the fruitless errand of yours
Listen, mother tongue
like proud-less river to my words
I have gone and I have seen her prettiness
I have moved close to her and smelt her scent
O sugary!
This strange tongue is fascinating
her luring tone is so sonorous
instant she sings
your children sleep and snore as frog
O mother tongue!
Opened are my eyes
and covered are my ears
tightened, tightened like thin can
but only your wail rooms my ears
O mother tongue!
You are a mother
whose belly is the ocean
that streams in the flesh
You are a pool of blood
which within flesh you room
Can someone dry water and blood in the flesh
so that you can be no more?
You are a mother
whose no child can tell of her beginning
You are umbilical cord
You are immortal, yet you are dying
O mother tongue!
I have prepared and I am set
to embark on the fruitless errand of yours
Listen, mother tongue
like proud-less river to my words
The children
which because of them your eyes stream
will neither listen nor ear you appalling
O mother tongue!
I am set and it is time
to embark on this errand of yours
Perhaps if their sense would sense
and their eyes would see the beauty in you
and your tone that as sweet as honey
that can never bereft it taste
O mother tongue!
If you die in their house
who will, indeed, cry if not them
in amidst of mockery eyes
or can a strange tongue be their tongue?
A wake up write for whoever cherish other culture above his or hers.