Long Confine Poems
Long Confine Poems. Below are the most popular long Confine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Confine poems by poem length and keyword.
A Nonet is something that I like
I need to think of words to find
That will fit on the next line
But then I must confine
Words to get it right
Therefore I write
A three piece
Two please
These
Ode
Ballad
Kyrielle
May do Haiku
A funny Limerick
Down the page an Acrostic
Perhaps I will write a Sonnet
But have finished off as a Nonet
Gaze into the battling fire - a whisper in savage red,
And into the clouds that travel at the blind and cyclic wind's behest.
When the murmur within starts to weave its frail thread,
Calmly, let your soul rest in arms, as both alchemist and martyr in your quest.
Don't ask if it's allowed, or if it's right,
Nor if the advice of scholars tightens its grip in your palm.
Or if Zeus, Christ, or Vishnu might smile with delight,
As you drift from the world to your infinite realm, so calm.
There, in the cradle of fire and dreams, midst the heart of the blaze,
Your echoes build palaces from whispers of silk, so faintly humming.
Your conscience grows vast, and the desert, thirsty for rains,
Answers, achingly alive, to their call, deeply drumming.
Let thought cross from the sacred to the profane,
Make a hymn of the spirits that voice your inner sanctum’s domain.
For teachings are maps of dreams, not fate,
And in the sea of knowledge, you're a diligently wandering wraith.
The leaf bows in the wind, and the star in immensity,
Just as you, before your own flame, reverently incline.
Don't ask for permission to heed your own words set free,
Their scent is sacrosanct in your temple, no door shall confine or undermine.
Listen to your voice when it sings, when it wails,
When it writhes in your chest like a serpent, or like an angel prevails.
It's more than just a flutter, it's a charter divine,
A personal testament, a chronicle of your path, through the fog and the wormwood entwine.
It is a blessing when a decision is born on its own,
when a mind chooses its own terminus.
Everyone carries the burdens of their existence
the way one carries the ugliness of silent secrets.
You chose to leave, but behind you, they will rejoice at your fall,
not out of grace, but out of a jealousy that corrodes.
Human existence holds a worth nothing can equal.
Reducing it to dust for a replaceable attachment
is a deep misdirection.
One tragedy takes someone away,
another remains with the sting of fierce insolence.
When someone erases themselves for you,
it is never proof of greatness.
It is only the mark you left eroding in them:
their trust in humanity.
If the universal force walks beside them, they will move forward for themselves.
Otherwise, their spark may drift between two directions.
Self-love remains the strongest foundation.
Everything else is disguised worry.
And when we look at those who fight to keep living,
watching a heart surrender remains a piercing sorrow.
And within that inner turmoil no one can detect,
you move forward with your story pressed between your ribs.
They think you are strong because you stay upright,
but beneath the skin, there is that pressure pounding,
a silent battle no one truly wants to hear.
They judge you by fragments,
by actions interpreted in haste,
by faults stuck on you like labels.
They forget that a human being rebuilds slowly,
like a fractured structure still searching for its center.
Those who watch you have no idea
of the hardships you walk through,
nor the intensity that fills you when everything collapses.
They examine your choices from afar,
unable to grasp the strength required
to hold your own universe together when it threatens to dissolve.
But even in the most difficult moments,
there is a discreet source that remains within you,
a primal energy that refuses to disappear.
It asks for neither witness nor applause:
it rises, simply,
like a vital principle renewing itself in silence.
When you feel decline striking you down,
remember that your existence is not measured
by toxic gazes,
nor by the departures that tore you,
nor by the words that diminished you.
Your life surpasses the fragile ties
that tried to confine you.
Your being rises beyond the old wounds
that made you question your worth.
Tell me what does it mean to be free?
I find myself not free but locked up in a creation that desires... creation! Freedom is not just to move beyond the walls of confinement. The walls of confinement are not just of mortar, brick, iron or wood. These walls that confine this creation are more than just walls of flesh. These walls are walls of idealism and ignorance. These walls are reinforced not by bone and marrow. But, these walls are reinforced by the unknown. For if it was known then the freedom of this creation would pass beyond the strings of entanglement and would fly to the greatest height and to the lowest depth. This creation would endeavor to dream and create. This creation would move freely from realm to realm and would be a part of the greatness that created it...
The glass of images is just a mere reflection of creation. Images are reflected from the ice of hatred. Images are reflected from the heat of illusions. Images are created from pain, sorrow and defeat, and yet, images are created from victory.
How the heart is smothered in the sorrow of defeat... Yet, the mind soars as if freedom is the energy that propels the heaviest soul. Tell me again, what is freedom? Adventure is the glow that shines from lucid eyes not hindered by life taught.
Life taught? Walls are made from experience, from damage, from the hurt of another creation. A child. A new life. A beginning fresh and untouched by creation. Adventure seen through the eyes of a child... freedom from entanglement, freedom from illusion and images.
The prison begins it's walls of confinement as each day becomes weeks and months. The walls become stronger and impenetrable as the years go by and turn quietly into decades. Hardening of the mortar brings a numbness that reaches beyond the tenderness of kindness. This hardening grows colder as the eyes no longer are lucid. There is no fear in this state of prison... Nothing can tear down these walls of confinement. Nothing!
Yet a sparkle of remembrance goes unnoticed as a new life begins and thoughts of freedom start a crack in the walls of a hardened fortress. As a bubbling brook in spring cracks the ice of a cold winter, a heart begins once again to search for the freedom that will bring to life the adventure that no image of defeat or sorrow could ever again mire the soul...
Tell me... what is freedom?
Pernell Rodocker 8/19/13
Ft Leonard Wood Mo.1961
Combat Engineers
Miracle Man
10/18/2024
Most days we awoke feeling quite asinine,
choice wasn’t to get up or remain supine.
The bugle was telling us rise and shine,
fall in formation “cruits” and ditch the whine.
After a five mile hike you’ll be feeling fine,
with their way of thinking we wouldn’t align.
Our canteens contained water tasting like brine,
with spit shined boots each cleaned his carbine.
K.P. and cleaning grease traps is hard to define,
another duty intended to harass but was benign.
Just one lousy gig got us a barracks confine,
but finally after 9 weeks we were on cloud nine.
All this happened with purpose and by design,
to make men of boys that would toe the line.
Form:
I do it often,
drag a perfect morning
in through the front door of myself
and make it a reluctant guest,
replace its colors with my own
dour palette, drown out
its soft voice with noise.
It has become a habit, trying
to confine the morning's
width within my space,
hold its edges so it doesn't stretch
beyond my reach. Its freedom
is almost an anathema to me
for it exceeds my own.
How small my world has become.
The distance from one side
of myself to the other is getting
narrower, the little room left
is depleting breath by breath.
The light squeezes through
ever smaller windows.
And yet, as it came upon me
this morning, I was met
with a bright abundance
that had gathered at my door,
carrying forgiveness
for my habitual ignorance
and an invitation to step
outside myself, once more.
#The_writings_are_on_the_wall
How do I turn my heart back on, how do I shut my eyes on you, when all I have to live for is only you, how do I sleep when you are not well, how do I smile when your eyes are teary, how do I live, when you are nowhere near me, how do I breath in your absentia, when the world suffocate me beyond my endurance, where should I go when to you is where I'm constantly led to, where do I hide, when your shadow spooks me, how do I unshackle myself from you, when you are always everywhere, and in everything I see and touch, who do I become when you are map my life navigates on,
When distances shuts us apart, when the world is busy pulling us sideways, when after all the fighting and temporary rejections still in my tattered emotions, walking back constantly to where you are, where do I go to heal, when you constantly have stabbed hope lifeless out of my heart, where do I go for the writings are on the wall,
Where do I go, where do I hide, where should I confine to, when I'm welded to your destiny, how do I breath when my lungs have shed the last of its least, when my body has lost the last drip of blood fighting for you, where do I go when all I'm left with being shelves of strength lost in trying to make you understand, to show you the writings on the wall, where do I go when I'm stripped of my pride, dignity, loosing myself to prove a point to you, where do I go when my efforts are shed in vain, when beyond hopless my emotions have dried to, where do I go when the writings on the wall blocks me from seeing beyond you, from thinking beyond you, from hopping beyond you, where do I go when all I have is you
Where do I go, when the writings on the wall haunts me day and night and everywhere and in everything I do, where do I go, with this chain on my soul, constantly reminding of the writings on the wall
For you, I will risked it all, when life is ebbed out of me, my world shattering, for you I will drop in my last breath on your feet, for the writings on the wall are me and you and no one else, the writings on the wall
#Poetic_Ink
I love Paul Merton
I just wish he'd keep his shirt on....
Stop flexing his pecs
In front of Ant n Dec,
Even Vladimir Putin shows more respect
To the long suffering viewer;
Paul:- climb out of the sewer,
Resist the urge to flash
Your naked rippling torso
You're rightly famous cos you're so
Frivolous and witty
It would be a real pity
If your elegant urbanity
Was eclipsed by this inanity,
The soul of wit is brevity
So confine yourself to levity
And keep that sex god bod, son
Securely wrapped in cotton -
Think of all the panel shows you've got on
Whilst staying fully clothed
In doublet and hose,
The paps dont need to see your nipples
It just creates unnecessary ripples
In the light entertainment pond
You are never going to star as Bond!
Stick to your faintly surrealistic reflections
On whether Cumberpatch keeps Capons,
And for pity's sake Merton
Just keep your blooming shirt on!
Champion of Creative Freedom
The mind is a boundless realm, where thoughts take flight,
Craves the open sky, bathed in freedom's light.
Confine it with rules, a cage for the soul,
And stifle the spark that makes humanity whole.
Creativity's flame, a beacon so bright,
Burns with innovation, banishing night.
Art, music, and verse, a symphony bold,
Challenge the stagnant, stories yet untold.
Think of the sculptor's dream, etched in lasting stone,
Or the poet's fierce quill, where injustice is overthrown.
From unfettered minds, revolutions take wing,
A vibrant tapestry, progress' joyful ring.
Advocate for Boundaries
Untamed freedom, a stormy sea,
Can drown reason's voice, a chaotic decree.
Without boundaries clear, a compass to guide,
Art descends to chaos, where meaning can't reside.
Vulgarity rampant, a cacophony loud,
Erodes decency's ground, a shroud for the proud.
Should creativity trample on all that's held dear,
Traditions and values, held sacred for many a year?
Imagine a sculptor's chisel, carving hate with each blow,
Or a poet's warped verse, where seeds of discord grow.
Freedom needs guidance, a gentle hand to hold,
To channel its power, stories are wisely told.
Champion of Creative Freedom
Boundaries, yes, but not with an iron fist,
Let them guide, not suppress, where true genius exists.
From the clash of ideas, new truths come to light,
Diversity's chorus, a symphony bright.
Let dissent be heard, a questioning tongue,
For progress thrives where challenges are sung.
Censorship's shadow, a chilling embrace,
Stifles the garden, where innovation finds its place.
Advocate for Boundaries
But freedom unchecked, a garden choked with weeds,
Where potential withers, on the fertile ground it feeds.
Let responsibility guide, a filter refined,
For the power to create, a gift for humankind.
So let us find balance, a harmonious blend,
Where freedom ignites, and guidance befriends.
For creativity's flame, a force ever vast,
It needs a channel, a purpose, to last forever.
Both Champion of Creative Freedom and Advocate for Boundaries in Unison
The unfettered mind, a treasure to hold,
A canvas for stories, both brave and untold.
Let us nurture its power, with wisdom as a guide,
And create a future, where humanity may truly confide.
Writers are like painters
who define the deepest emotions
by reflecting on the human condition;
it's a burst of inspiration
which can't give an explanation,
or expect definite answers!
Writers posses that magic key...
to unlock each forgotten,scorned
or revered feeling and reveal it
with stimulating sentiment;
and if they are hesitant or afraid
to make everything known...
they'll be compared to cowards
who confine, alter or hide,with implicity,
their identity for the fear of prejudice,
or because of a tainted reputation!
Writers possess that magic key,
more than the greatest composers...
creating sumptuous melodies;
our words are immortal as their works,
but they can be read aloud
and be pleasant to the ears:
however tragic, delightful,sad,
funny, or happy they may be!
Writers are able to turn
every story into a memorable one,
those lines into extraordinary verse...
however sober or humorous,
and all songs to withstand time;
we'll be gone, but they will live on!
Writers possess that magic key,
and we are fortunate enough to use it
to our advantage or someone's disadvantage;
we can cause much turmoil, joy,
inspiring awe or unexplainable rage over it...
and effect every heart in innumerable ways!