Long Circumstance Poems
Long Circumstance Poems. Below are the most popular long Circumstance by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Circumstance poems by poem length and keyword.
A huff and puff brittle wall
created out of receding grains of
hopeless sinking sand
Purpose built to keep standing tall
protecting the meek
Something in
Or
Something out
When placed up against the ravages
of circumstance and the elements of time
Will eventually succumb crumble and fall
As even a wall no matter how well built
Can only withstand an allotted
amount of slings and arrows fired
and slung at it
Until eventually it let's something in
it was purpose built in order to keep out
Perhaps upon reflection the sand
would have been better off being
used to pass through an egg timer
Or for someone who had placed all their eggs
in one basket or traded for some magic
beans instead
One slow motion jagged tear
found me after you left me here.
Its wetness sits still upon my face
as I stare at absolutely no place.
What I do live and what I dream
and all sundries fitting in between,
now struggle in a frenzied dance
passing thru, in and out, this circumstance.
My brain is mush circling a clueless groove.
Surely, I need an enlightened next move.
Calm failed to enter when you shut the door,
and life as I knew it quit being anymore.
I simply cannot find my identity.
Maybe it left with you and my clarity.
I seek to ease a primal urge to shout
at frenzied thoughts dashing about.
Perhaps I knew years had grown weeds
while I prayed for fertilized love seeds.
Perhaps I knew time long held this bleed
while I prayed true love would succeed.
Perhaps my heart just died in your stampede.
Rain ©
I walk on slick shine streets
in the night with my lover.
Freshly out of bed and ravenous
for other food, he pauses and
licks the tears and rain drops
from my face.
Rain in its many moods
quickens to sweep the earth and
skies clean.
Settles on the skin like a damp
kiss. Cold, warm, sweet, clean,
sharp, rain.
Is designer bottled water
merely rain drops from afar?
The dog romps through the rain,
in his perfect raincoat, oblivious
to the wet.
Blinking owlishly when a drop
should fall into his eye.
Mysterious primates of the forest
sit forlornly, beneath the
umbrella leaf.
Forever patient as the skies
rupture with a torrential deluge.
Human-tender eyes reflect their
disgust and sadness at the wet,
messy coats they must wear.
The equine turn their haunches
to the storm to show their scorn
for nature’s tantrum.
Cats run for cover, sit
majestically removing the
wet rain from their person with a
wet tongue.
Wild fowl dance across the circle
patterns of the pond’s face,
beating their wings and singing.
They frolic and dive celebrating
the sublime circumstance of
being wet.
Man spends energy and money
to keep himself dry and safe
from the rain, darting from
doorway to doorway.
What does he fear? He won’t
melt if he gets soaked, he won’t
become ill or grow fins, and he
just might get clean.
Snow is rain in its wedding attire;
no two brides alike.
The rain drop falls into a rivulet
of other rain drops atop the
mountain.
The rivulet runs into the creek,
the creek into a stream.
The stream rushes to the river
and the river falls into the sea.
The rain drops turn to salty tears
as the journey ends.
It is said that chickens, if left out
in the rain, will lift their heads up
to the sky and watch the rain
until they drown.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
First comes Serenity, born of sunlit air,
From Latin's serenus, meaning clear and fair.
It is the soul's untroubled, cloudless sky,
Where storms of passion pass and gently die.
It is not born of circumstance or place,
But from a deep and internal state of grace,
An inner sanctum, where the spirit thrives,
And in acceptance, finds the peace it strives
To know. Serenity's a quiet art,
A settled calm within a trusting heart,
That even when the world is filled with strife,
Remains a constant, steady flame of life.
It is the core of stillness, deep and wide,
The tranquil center where our truths reside.
Three trains
The first train was bereavement, in the cab the driver died
pulling a coach of grieving souls, unknowing yet, inside
The second train was unemployed and heading where it will
no scheduled destination and so many miles to kill
Third train was steaming in real fast, relationship express
out of control, the brakes applied but flat out, nonetheless.
Where the tracks all crossed was a signal box, manned by a crew of one
who bumbled by from day to day not knowing what was wrong.
But up there in the box he heard, and from all sides could see
the trains approach their final stop, and that last stop was me.
Bereavement got there first and there was nothing I could do
no lights nor signals made a difference, it just ploughed on through
as unemployed converged at speed and rolled on to it's side
the pair of them went in nose first as relationship arrived
the signal box was crushed beneath, it didn't stand a chance
buried in the twisted wreck of flaming circumstance.
Shock finally subsided and the smoke began to clear
just left with total darkness and no way from out of here
all the wreckage pressing down meant nowhere else to go
just curl up in a tiny ball, try not to move, get low.
So there I stayed as unbeknown their night turned into day
the sounds of all around me going on their merry way.
Many days entombed were spent, not praying for release
comfortable in misery, my loneliness my peace
until the silence broken by a piercing warning shout,
'No rescue's due, it's up to you to dig your passage out'.
From where the voice had come from I could neither hear nor see
until the realisation that the sound had come from me
skin tearing on the razor steel I slowly fought my way
and finally emerged, bathed gratefully in the light of a new day.
No fanfare, and no wild applause, no ticker tape parade
life went on, oblivious to the escape that I had made.
Since then I've built another box around me, much much stronger
and hope the time till the next train will be, Lord, much much longer.
For contest 'Get low', sponsored by Casarah Nance
In memory of that dreadful year 2002.
As I lingering in the doorway
Looking upon everything that was destroyed
By the fire of circumstance
I think to myself
“My god how does one soul
survive so much for so long?
How does one find themselves in the midst
Of the chaos thrown at her to bury her soul?”
Easy you keep getting up.
Instead of the fire that is trying to destroy me
I became the fire
I no longer accepted what I use too
I am no longer the door mat
To feet that will not walk for me
I am no longer the ear that listens
To voices that speak over mine
I am no longer the rock
To people who just wanted to throw me
In the river and watch me drowned
I am no longer the compassion I have shown
To others who just hide behind selfishness
I no longer tolerate anything less
then what I deserve~JAZ~
Songs and chords they sing to us
Almost every day,
Some are very musical
Some just sing their way.
Though today when I was tuning in
I heard it word for word
The message from the greatest ave
Our clever lyrebird…
“I’ve talked with all the animals
Of present circumstance
The mourning of our people
From gifting such a chance
To share in all the beauty
You preserved and kept
Thrown back at you with scornful spew
And total disrespect.
We’ve witnessed all the suffering
That humans have endured,
How every time you rose above
Goodness you secured.
Harmony had come to be
Right from the dreamtime
Lines are strong and never wrong
Where Peace is yours and mine.
So, You will overcome this
That conflict and that strife,
Soon there’ll be tranquility
And a happy life
Once there was for yet to be
The cycle carries on
Here upon our sacred land
Under our great Sun”
Then he looped around me
And vanished in the grass
Leaving me awakened
With glimpses of the past...
I'm just one of God's children conceive from him with a woman and a man I am trying my best to realize my circumstance trying to understand I am missing something in this life it's special you don't understand all I ever want to be is just loved you don't embrace me you don't like me all you want to do is hurt me but I believe that I can withstand your evil ways Which at hand I always wondered why you strive to do the things you do inside filled with hate you never loved but you two were created by God now with this I release from the powers up above I think you need my brother and sister just a
HUG
The man in the clan don't like me cause I'm not like him relishes in his hatred because he can't stand the color that I've been placed with but within sin nature I find it amazing you hate me what would happen if you were placed unconscious chemically alter your skin color then awakened in the room covered floor, wall, ceiling of mirrors and you saw you're naked skin and all you saw was me now we're the same color what will you do now hatred hater of your soul but you know what I still loved you then and now so I will embrace you with the
HUG
Maya a teenage girl who is not like them the cheerleaders the beauties
the ones with perfect skin all the girls laugh at her all the boys shun seems like everyone makes fun of her because she cause she's full figured now she is not a beauty by the words of this world but her true beauty is in her soul she loves love and life she does she's just want to be remembered as not one of those though she is committed with the vision thank God knows her heart true beauty is not what you look like so no bulimia, finger eating , fonicating beautiful teen girl
By the world standard Gonna Keep Me Down because we are all God's children so unforgiving I'll keep living I'll forgive the girls and boys because in your spirit in your inner self you and I both need love an Jesus so get up and come over here or if you don't I'll come over there you are all forgiven we just need a
HUG
The Peterson Directed Handwriting System...
Tis beyond the depth and scope
of this electronic post,
and author, what triggers deliverance
housing bounty full memory absorbance,
yet no matter how many
heat sinks plumb cognizance,
most ordinary happenstance
often dredge up old nettlesome
rusty mettlesome names
of teachers forbearance
nearly half century ago
recalled in a flash,
and helped birth this poetic instance
break open literary
piece de resistance,
yet I will make
no subsequent reference
albeit once, about Peterson Handwriting
non cursively typed poem
filled with nonsensical abundance
dashed off viz seat
of my squarepants
typed, via strong arm lance
meant tubby considered pure entertainment,
so...,this rhyme merely hints
at cerebral imbalance
as minor rave and rants,
culled from convenient
20/20 hindsight stance,
while this quiet as bobbing sponge
minutely straddled across
space time continuum expanse,
and (analogously, invisibly,
plus quixotically perched circumstance
amidst wide webbed worldly metaphysical,
intellectual, and existential kants),
yet unable to disguise me
porous (poor ass) student advance
barely getting promoted,
cuz sigh re: Seine ed lee
imaged myself prince charming
to frolic and prance,
and dreamt about being in France,
when teacher called on me,
I immediately (whistled like
a little teapot) appearance,
whereby steam issued
out chrome dome
(scanned hull – i.e. numb
skull) affixed on
short and stout genetic grants,
which noggin always
(automatically) looked askance,
while me got alphabetically seated
from grades three to six
(mrs wells, mister stout,
missus shaner, and
miss rinderle respectively)
with absolute zero exuberance
(at Henry Kline
Boyer Elementary School,
I just recalled aforementioned
randomly accessed memory by chance
casually rifling thru
memory bank, freelance
sing, while pissing
away time performing,
"I gotta urinate dance,"
thus rendering painstaking years
perfecting penmanship style
(reference poem title)
executed with Liberace flamboyance,
whereat yours truly obsessively and
compulsively excelled at
duplicating signature compliance
plus crossing T's and
dotting I's with rapacious
perfectly ruled slants.
No one really can explain
The mystery of death.
When someone’s time is up there’s just
That quiet final breath.
An X-ray, scan or bloodwork
Or the beeps from a machine
Give some stats to the physicians
But what does it really mean?
We’ll all arrive there someday
And, despite the circumstance,
We can’t refuse the Reaper
When he asks for one last dance.
So all the doctors’ test results
And autopsies combined
May not be quite enough to bring
That longed-for peace of mind.
But thinking of a life well-lived
Might comfort those who lost
A loved one whom into the
Great Beyond has sadly crossed.