Long Completely Poems
Long Completely Poems. Below are the most popular long Completely by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Completely poems by poem length and keyword.
She still cries over the heartbroken pages of a good book,
but a stranger’s cold word will never break her again.
Call her stupid or ugly, and she just walks past the noise—
she knows she is smart, and her worth is already proven.
Her appearance is different, her posture is tall,
wearing whatever she chooses without seeking permission to exist.
Let them talk about her all day; it rolls off like rain—
she owes no one an explanation for the space she takes up.
But dare to speak against her friends, her family, or her home,
and you will find a fortress standing in the breach.
For her grandmother, she would still move heaven and earth,
sacrificing anything to keep her protected, safe, and held.
Her laugh with her friends now rings out completely unguarded.
Her smile at a passing stranger is given to brighten their day,
no longer ducked in fear, no longer hidden in fright.
She is relentless in the pursuit of her dreams,
working every day to claim the career she has always wanted.
And the girl who once flinched at the quiet threat of love
now leans toward its warmth, opening her heart step by gentle step.
She didn't rebuild herself to win the world's applause.
She did it entirely for her—and she deeply, fiercely loves the girl she has become.
Form:
We left home one day
In search of food in the month of May
Our armour shone in the sun
The scent of food a message sent
The road now seemed all uphill
We trudged along to get our fill
The twists and turns were strange
We stuck it out our pace was slow
Our goal now near on the go
We heaved and lifted twenty times our weight
The prize was big, and knew not what lay in store.
We turned about and felt unease
A noise was vibrating through our feet
The blow came now it bent our line
We stuck it out and refused to quit
Reaching our colony we entered with pride
Our prize now stuck to our hide
We are the workers of the Ant Brigade
The queen was pleased she upped our line
We are soldiers now protecting our kind
One step closer to the Golden Throne.
26.08.2020.
Completely New(27)
Any Form, Any Theme
Written For: Brian Strand
N/A on 27.08.2020
Mist descends like an apparition upon the hills,
pinching every blade of grass and barren branch between its fingers.
It's omnipresent-
seeping into every crevice and tunnelling under doorframes,
filling the gap between the Earth and Heavens.
I wander within the mist.
It's light- almost as light as the air,
and yet somehow it so completely smothers
the overhead roar of New Year's fireworks.
This year I've shouted with passion, cried without hope;
I've stared disconsolately and smiled in sincerity.
This year, spring was fleeting and summer rushed by in panic;
autumn left in blazing trails,
leaving only winter's arms dangling around my neck.
Though I knew this mist must form,
for the sky is never as warm as the Earth,
I cannot help but implore "How much longer will this last?"
or, quieter, "How much more can I endure?".
But what is the price of stopping
if not the world?
I am reminded that life was not meant to be lived
like that of a beached whale
proud only in its size compared to the grains of sand,
nor was it to be spent despairing over one's insignificance-
No. It is to ascend the highest peaks,
to brush the void above the snowcaps;
It is to see the world and in it see myself,
to dive deep in the ocean and swoop between the clouds.
So let the past year crumble.
Even as last spring, summer and autumn vanish,
let winter's chilling hands take us by the waist
and sweep us forward into the storm.
Fear not;
it cannot contain us.
The sun will rise
and the mist
will lift.
These poems I've been chronicling
Are for my children's sake
If I die tomorrow
I want them to have the skills
to watch out for false love
That through my journey of healing
from the sociopath that is their father
They gain understanding and insight
For them to see I truly love them
It's in a mother's soul to protect
her children in her heart
I've wrote poems about love bombing
I've wrote poems about psychopaths
And most importantly I've wrote poems
about true blue role models who can
impart skills for us to use
To be safe and self sufficient in this world
that can take from us if we let it
None of these poems are a seduction for
anyone I know
These are just my artistic soul
Like a love song that's sung for everyone
and no one in particular
To enjoy the artistry of it and take what you
will from it
So be safe my babies
When mom is gone
Imagine me tucking you
under your covers at night
and saying sleep tight
I won't let these psychopaths bite
I love you deeply and completely
Goodnight
The pitter-patter flutter of a lover’s broken heart,
Like a contorted portrait painting or a Picasso piece of art.
The stream of roll’n, swollen tears on the jilted lover’s face will start,
As our spurned tragic figure faces a world now torn apart.
The completely empty prospect of a future all alone;
The world in which our broken soul violently has been thrown.
The heart that beat out songs of love, now hardened like a stone;
The King and Queen of Happiness, abdicate their royal throne.
If in time you don’t lose your mind you surely will survive;
Mouth to mouth from the next in line; your sick heart will be revived.
But be advised the smear of tears won’t be the last ones that you’ve cried;
Love that stays or goes away equally can hurt our pride.
Where remains narrow thought, when two hearts entwine,
dissolving completely in each other’s eyes,
cosmic fire birthing rapture as souls align,
with divine magnetism causing bliss to rise,
renewing its pulse as love for love does pine,
presence delighting in each offered surprise?
Seraphic music soft and slow, hearts aglow,
makes eye single, as love continues to grow.
Where remains our will, when we choose to be still,
relying solely on the mind of our heart,
sipping divine nectar of gods to our fill,
breath by breath thus feeling, bliss ignition start,
union of polarities, a sublime thrill,
wherein compassion deems no soul stands apart?
Continual rapture of soundless thunder,
is beheld by presence in childlike wonder.
No thoughts, no desires, love yet inflicts a burn,
transmuting each cell of form as living light
and as nodes within churn, for God’s touch we yearn,
becoming the beacon that banishes night,
paving the way for soul’s heavenward return,
growing in wisdom and garnering clear sight.
Joy, empathy, compassion; colours of love,
magnetically draw in grace from above.
It is a self woven garment that blankets the soul
And over all these years it has taken a treacherous toll
Never allowing your heart to be truly at rest
Never allowing yourself to be your absolute best
For guilt is always pulling and constantly nagging at your conscious
Creating so many emotions that soon become oh so immense
All of this continual wear and tear upon your own self being
For this whole entire time you just were not seeing
All that guilt and shame you feel so deep from with in
Is but a worldly remnant of all the damages from sin
Now so deeply entrenched it has you so tightly bound
I guess the Lord Jesus Christ you have never found
For in His presence guilt can only cower and hide
Now you are seeing how in each hour guilt has only lied
His Most Precious Blood has washed you completely clean
Know His forgiveness and you will know what I mean
Only three of us now who knew
both sets of our grandparents.
The three of us, 96, 94 and 88,
how much time have we left?
There are sepia photos from the
old, first Brownie cameras, a few
portraits of some from a bit later,
all still, silent, as they were not in life.
Being the oldest, I recall two great-
grandmothers, albeit vaguely,
one only in a darkened bedroom,
the other short, chubby, with the
horn she put to her ear to listen.
My mother’s father, Grandpa Jones,
studied his Bible lessons every day, but
he died when Dan and I were little.
Who but we three now remember the
stern but kindly mother of my dad?
Grandma Pope had endless patience
teaching my small hands to make jam,
can tomatoes, make pie crust and bread.
She had an infectious laugh which sent
tears rolling down her cheeks.
She let me go alone to
the bakery to buy penny rolls.
Grandpa Pope first showed me a keyboard
and named the keys. An accomplished
pianist and organist, who had worked
for Chickering Pianos, he didn’t play
often any more, as he had toughened his hands
in the factory where he worked during
the Depression, but when he played
everyone was completely entranced.
My mother’s mother, Grandma Jones,
was Boston proper, a wonderful seamstress
and seemingly stern, but very loving.
I often would crawl into her bed at night.
When I had mumps she made me hot chocolate.
She would be sure I had hat and gloves
and take me to lunch at Jordan Marsh.
We did endless puzzles in her sitting room.
So much more to these people than
ever can be seen in a photograph.
Even this poem only scratches the surface.
The love, quirks, personalities are missing.
I suppose, some day, my descendants
will look at pictures of Doug and me
and wonder what kind of people WE were
and what WE really were like.
I made a decision to move her just a few feet away.
Either she wanted it her way, or was having a bad day.
As I attempted to move her, she resisted and said, "Nay!".
She then brushed me with her stickers to my utter dismay.
Her roots had dug a pathway through the pot and into the soil.
She liked where she was, and had become absolutely spoiled.
When very young, she was planted in a large flower pot.
But within two years, she had grown an awful lot.
At first, she completely refused,
as if sending her roots still deeper;
Perhaps thinking I wanted to abuse;
or that I was a plant grim reaper.
The rapidly growing flower had to be moved; so I wet her roots real good.
For a while she continued to resist most daringly, standing strong.
But I was stronger, and certain that she would succumb before long.
That pot dwelling cactus knew I loved her still, and completely understood.
072221PS
The ancient forest breathes a
timeless song,
A brilliant flame within the
quiet night,
Where roots and ancient
rivers drift along.
The towering sequoias touch
the sky,
A burning and eternal
beacon light,
As silent, golden eagles soar
on high.
The mountain peaks arise in
frozen grace,
Are guiding stars forever
shining bright,
A wild and completely
untouched space.
The whispering of wind
begins to fade,
A captivating truth within our
sight,
A secret world within the
quite glade.
The silver morning dew
begins to gleam,
A sudden flash of inspiration
flight,
Across the surface of a
winding stream.
The velvet moss adorns the
dampened stone,
A heavy warmth that
banishes the fright,
Where gentle forest
creatures walk alone.
The autumn leaves of amber
slowly fall,
A golden shield of armor
gleaming bright,
Obeying winters quiet,
freezing call.
The ocean waves crash hard
against the shore,
A steady path that leads us
to the right,
A deep and echoing, eternal
roar.
The desert sands shift under
heavy heat,
A sudden burst of
unexpected might,
Where scorching winds and
endless horizons meet.
The meadow blooms with
petals soft and bright,
A lovely form of ultimate
delight,
A tapestry of color and of
light.
The thunder rumbles in the
heavy air,
A driving force that shatters
through the plight,
A sudden display of power
grand and rare.
The canyon walls reveal the
passage of time,
A glowing spark that makes
the darkness white,
A rugged beauty steep and
quite sublime.
The winter snow descends
without a sound,
A crystal crown that
glimmered in the sight,
And blankets all the cold and
frozen ground.
The violent river carves the
rocky stone,
A soaring bird that takes its
final flight,
A power that belongs to it
alone.
The summer sun warms up
the open field,
A constant hope that makes
the future bright,
Where nature's hidden
wonders are revealed.
The cycle of the earth will
never cease,
A guiding hand that keeps
the balance right,
And leaves the quiet world in
perfect peace.