Long Crumbling Poems
Long Crumbling Poems. Below are the most popular long Crumbling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crumbling poems by poem length and keyword.
The Descent of Light
Everything that passes through the body descends and rises again, unseen,
like a river born from stone, lost at last into the sea,
water comes down from sky to hills, from hills into the deep,
and along its way it carves the bank — a wound shaped like water;
I am the shore worn slowly by my own light,
all that I was returns to mist, gathered again toward the sky.
We are what was placed in our palms, what was taken from our sleep,
blessed be the hand that gives and the hand that takes away,
for everything that comes is a gift, its meaning hidden in flight,
carried out of sight, to renew the place where we stand,
always a threshold left open in the flesh of flowing time,
and in every beginning there's a seed of nameless light.
If our cruelty tears apart the riverbed and the beautiful field,
then I must grieve, must learn that through loss I possess
the earth I walk on, stand in, am made from;
the dark and the light will hold me like a possession,
I've been reborn from pain, to love the freshly split shore
where young cottonwoods take root, golden, in the wound.
The kingfisher builds his nest in a hole in the broken bank,
the green grows slowly under a song of embers, the world's end,
and what is there to do but imagine everything that still exists,
so it may light the mind's thought and the light of day,
raised like a beacon burning over the waters of forgetting,
the dark turns back to light in his blue wing.
He falls from the crumbling bank, gathering the air beneath his wings;
in love's labor the body forgets its own weight,
and becomes song — and once more, with love in mind, I return
to what must come to me, carried as by an endless song,
the way a dancer is carried by a song without end.
This grace is gravity, this longing is my weight,
everything that falls returns to light, and calls us toward the earth.
It's difficult
for anything to grow
in completely dry ground
hard earth crusted over
gritty like sandpaper
abrasive
yet crumbling
at mere touch
unable to hold together
or support weight
Yet rain doesn't always
help that much
when it's too hard
or too fast
or not long enough to last
The best help of all
is a gentle sprinkle
now and then
or a slow steady shower
to soak things in
Our minds are made
like that, too
ideas carefully
firmly planted
can't take root
in dry destitution
Even ideas
of the hardiest constitution
will wither away
and decay in our brains
without that simple
life-giving rain
a gentle shower
of information
knowledge
truly is power
Without your love life is lonely
All I have is meaningless today's
I am lonely and you are taken...happy
You have your happy days
I have lonely days
I can't lie, I wish I was your happy ever after
The movie in my head never stop playing of us
No matter how I cry, yesterday is over...we are over, all I have is goodbye
There is no more us
It's just me
Just the sad lonely girl
Some people only are here with us for awhile... For a season
Our season ended
I am facing life alone
I am walking this journey on my own
I have my shadow has my only company, my only friend
I have no best friend... No lover...no life partner, it's just me
I am on this life journey with a broken soul and crumbling heart
Just facing life on my own
A fault line runs across the land
from blue to red in angry lines
accusing those who do not stand
for views like theirs, in changing times.
With shouts and cries, some march forth
refusing outcomes, demanding change
others "speak" by silent vote
a different view, still freedom reigns.
The fault line widens, a behemoth gap
a frightening chasm across the states
states, once United on the map
are crumbling under a gigantic weight.
This land needs understanding, unity to mend
it's faults, a consensus, a common ground
to preserve it's freedoms and put an end
to hate that threatens to take our nation down.
Written on 11/20/2016
"Cured" by the medication, my mind goes numb
Is feeling nothing better than feeling it all?
Screaming in my head becomes a constant drum
Do people really love me or can I not recall?
They say to me that I act okay, like I'm totally fine
But behind closed doors I'm crumbling
So where do I draw the line?
I have a list of names I want forever seared out of my head
The fire can burn but I won't feel it anyway
Am I scarred until I'm dead?
When the ducts finally hit their peak
And the tears they overflow
You can call me such a freak
But the lines on my thighs don't show
Cuts and slices, blood on keys
Call it my mental disease
Flashbacks play like pictures on a film
And my thoughts, they grow so dark and dim
They tell me I'm strong to carry it all
That I should feel proud that I remain still alive
But when the weight cracks my fragile facade
I'm doomed to watch everything fall
One is the crying, the sadness it brings
Two is the pretending, the smiles I enact
Three is the screams, the echoes, the lies
Four is the nightmares, that haunt me to sleep
Five is the images that cause me to scream
Six is the knife into my own skin
Seven is the death I will ensure upon them
In this life, or the next...
As the bus rode
through the molting pine forest and
the crumbling ochre rock formations;
bits of colorful cellophane litter brought the only relief to the eye.
Inside, behind a profusion of people,
boxes, backpacks and assorted baggage
babies slept.
The bus creaked, shook and groaned
its way down the serpentine,
asphalt, mountain track.
Passengers chattered away in Indian, Nepalese, Danish and English,
abrasively punctuating
a Universal discourse;
As the vehicle draped from roof to bumper,
careened from rock walls
to sheer ledges, beeping.
Stray pets and wayward cyclist dodged its downward flight
Into the valleys maw.
The mobile mind rides indomitably the rolling waves of life,
on their curled crests caressed by the fractured moonbeam.
The gloomy troughs of agony drowning the fading stars
spread with silver lining on the shifting shore of the past.
The collapsing sheets of sand carve seaward faint footprints
in the weathering antique contours of the destined decay.
The time arrow points to the tapestry of tempting topography
of the sanguine shore far away from the eroded wasteland.
The landslide of anguish devours all the abandoned hopes,
the weed-webbed terrain languishing livid deep within,
piles up the wreckage of life lingering so long to be lived,
as the gorgeous garden turns into a lonely bare landscape.
As the mesmeric meadow of tomorrow waits to be walked,
the alchemy of memory invents the magical glitter of gold,
coating the patina on crumbling crust of the wilted present.
That’s when marigold blooms in Midas-touched metallic mind.
February 10, 2021
Contest : All Yours (Feb 10)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Life happens and never asks for our permission.
There are situations that are relentless in their mission
to test and try us, often to the breaking point. They
test our will, our resolve, our faith, and our love.
When you pledge allegiance to the USA flag, and your
fellow countryman legally burns it right before
your tearing eyes, do you LOVE HER STILL?
When your fellow American changes the meanings of life,
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, making laws
that point in every which way but right;
Do you LOVE HER STILL?
When you see vast numbers of your fellow citizens,
your amazing America, longing to remake and reinvent
itself, seriously trying to fix what is, although
not perfect, still works far better than most;
when you see your blessed country crumbling from
the inside, will you still defend her, fight for her,
forgive her wrongs, and pray fervently for her?
Will you LOVE HER STILL?
With gushing tears rushing down your saddened face
as you are forced to swallow America's bitter pills,
again, I ask, will you LOVE HER STILL?
070323ps
in the autumn breezes silent trees shed their leaves
in shades of vivid yellow, orange, red
purple, brown, and maroon
and the many hues 'tween
they rustle
beneath
the quiet weeping trees
then, fluttering twirl, leap
painted by nature's watercolor brush
divine, sublime are the withering leaves fading away
shortening daylight days, temperatures cooling
and leaves gather in stained-glass heaps
pigments and tints dwindling
fading, fading like an
old vintage
photograph
I love to touch veined leaves
trace those souls dying
that fall apart crumbling away, falling
they are quite dead ... but to me they are still beautiful
*Based on Plato's Allegory of the Cave
Numb fists with bloody wrists
chained to crumbling walls.
Glazed eyes that never spy
a single truth or fault.
Dim light impairing sight
in spaces dark and shallow.
Stone walls where lies are scrawled
by murky phantom shadows.
One breaks free on frail knees
stiffened by disuse,
to leave behind the dumb and blind
who welcome this abuse.
He climbs in pain against the grain
toward a distant light.
With bloodied hands, he finally stands,
exhausting all his might.
Dazed at first, he's cursed by thirst
beneath the blazing sky.
The sun is bright and plunders sight
from eyes too dry to cry.
Lesions crust as eyes adjust
to find a foreign land
with greenest grass and sea like glass
caressing strips of sand.
He stands amazed before this maze
of truths he's never seen
and vows to save those in the cave
whose ignorance demeans.
When he returns, his words are spurned
by those chained to the wall.
They have no will to brave that hill
or risk the chance to fall.
He cannot go back to this show
of living shadowed lies.
Now that he knows the truth below,
he needs the open skies.
And so he climbs to search, to find
the knowledge that he craves.
No more a slave to the dark cave.
He's left that mindless grave.