Long Delivery Poems
Long Delivery Poems. Below are the most popular long Delivery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Delivery poems by poem length and keyword.
If we steadfast seek it,
feel we truly need it,
heed it as heart moving and joy fueling,
then spirit will send it, but the when
we decide is a date He will override.
Faith is more than asking, it’s relaxing even when
time leads us to believe too much of it has passed for
Him to show up on our behalf. Faith is knowing we
need not know what He knows about the perfect
timing for all things. From revealings to healings to
tangible needs, delivery time is only perfectly
manageable by Him.
When a need realization first dawns so does
the course start that will bring it forth.
Extending impatient hands will not hasten
the accumulation of factors needed for
manifesting a blessing we are after.
Too many details can lessen blessings compared to what
our Flawless Crafter can entail.
Perfection is an intricate creation, many elements converge
to aid it that only Spirit is aware of. Just the universe is
posed to spiritually know the truly ideal blend for the
ultimate, fulfilling send.
While the universe combines
many ingredients for our answers,
we, as an unaware factor, begin
an ebb and flow in thoughts and
feelings that grow us receptively
prepared for what, how and when
the universe shares.
Problem with Adonis was his dogged tendancy
To battle heartfelt causes
Ominous obdurate tore us
Tenure, he died fighting against white supremacy
Before he departed, dear reader, acres of passion
Burnt sharper than stars
Aches when we're apart
Tap water sureity came each time turn on happened
I never knew how he loved me so tight, intensely
I admit I present aesthetic enough
Adonis possessed man's best stuff
A muscle hung magnate, somehow meant for me
It fell in co inciding with cruel hook moon crescent
Night prior to my darling's departure
Anenomes bent by dancing's laughter
Crushed beneath our undulations, entwine pleasant
Million finger foliage, amorous wood anenome reach
Myriad of green furrowed feathers
Held my hips, to his vigour tethered
My insides hummed tremors' tune, tangy blush peach
Trampled anenomes watched our praise of abandon
Petal centres shared precious nectar
Raised my buttocks, Adonis so tender
Readily able to press me closer, carefully one hand on
Electrified legs, sent buzzing from his matching forge
Intermittent rippled shoulder kisses
As he sank to me, summoned blisses
Melted insides drizzle seasoned gyrating bones scorch
Ripped from my conciousness, entirely on his platter
Patch of anenome puff flattened
Melded forever in larva orgasmed
Minted delivery of ecstasy, the world ceased to matter
Firm dedication remaining, reluctant shapely loins lifted
Plucked a hundred secret seed filled tributes
One by one, delicately on my body, distributes
Jealous stars sizzled, shot to oblivion by romance gifted
13th September 2020
' Night of Passion and Desire'
Sponsor: Faraz Ajmal
Approach of Wind, it chills
in a particular way.
Unexplainable, how it carries in competing tandem,
of unknown elements brought into the arena, bare.
Doctor's bag opened of winds,
surgical biopsy underway,
in new mandated trailways.
Membraned channels of envelope streams
holds aloft vapors of vial serums,
like a bassinet with black wings.
Intheorium sends it's postage.
It soothes the Cesarean Earth in her pangs,
for mankind's evil is great. How can it stand to be.
So he sends them a strong delusion
so that they may believe a lie.
Armies shall pillage the Family and
upend the carts in the Marketplace.
Souls shall be scattered to the four winds, looking desperately for a compass
that can find the head.
Delivery, once slow, has increased exponentially.
Magma rivers will haunt the landsape like lions,
Nemian.
Great forges looking for gold to smelt into idols of Pompeii.
For he shall stand in his Pomp in the Temple,
then sit, as if he is God.
Black kitty, my sweet cat.
The memory you left behind,
A small cardboard delivery box—
To you, it must have been a micro-universe.
And close to my bed,
Near my notebook where I look at the screen,
Sits the backup mouse
I bought for the frantic Nasdaq futures trading.
Unable to forget you,
Who has departed from me,
I just sit on my bed,
Gazing and gazing at you,
The you who is no longer visible.
Yet, I must sleep on this bed.
But my feet keep drifting over to that spot,
Inadvertently pushing your space away.
Then, the memory floods back.
Because I never, ever want to push
Your precious memory away,
Before I know it, I curl up tightly like a grub,
And fall asleep.
And then, I awake.
And that memory comes alive once more.
Do you feel the chaotic concerto?
The cloaked and clandestine composer
Plucking at the ivory keys, exactly eighty eight
With even more ways to tangle those
Countless red strings of taut linear fate.
To be a being, we first must begin
To begin, we must be born, then torn
From the lively, slick, loud, and slimy link
Of mother’s umbilical cord, now
Cut.
Cartwheel your baby body from the delivery room
To sitting criss cross applesauce atop a cedar stool
It’s snack time at age four,
Celery sticks, peanut butter, milk in a plastic cup
Chug whatever lies before your youthful eyes-
Slam the glass down, now look at you, twenty two
Disillusioned with the notes you hear, but cannot play
Plucking the strings, now we all sing to the song
Of a puppet on a string dancing, dancing
To the melody that is tied to us as we trudge along.
“And now here we are at eighty eight,
Did you think you would make it to the retirement home?
The fuzzy television screens, the dementia, the barely palatable
Food that nearly slides itself off your plate, look at you
Still slimy, still newly born.
Let me cut your cord
You made it, this is your reward.
Is this all that you have hoped for?
Well it better be, for this is the sound
Of your string’s final, echoing chord”
Snap.
Break your celery stick betwixt
The anger you feel, your fear,
And the peanut buttery memories
That stick to the roof of your mouth,
The ones you hold so dear
The first offense
Was enacted through violence
Too little to comprehend
Adults needed my silence
I learned to stuff the pot
It wasn't difficult at first
But many years of sorrow
Brought my pressure cooker to burst
The person present when it happened
Experienced all the anger on reserve
He got splattered with matter
Even Satan, himself, did not deserve
Patterns and politics about delivery
Can never be a part of broken hearts
Domestic violence is the ride
The finishes at the point it starts
Who is to bear the pain of yesterday
And carry the aftermath of today
It is the co-dependent needing value
Who seems to never have the courage to say
...STOP IT!!!
Written by Trudy Schrader on 05-23-2026
(For: those who fell on the hills of Liberia)
I hear a song from my hills
I hear it sound from afar;
And towards my homestead
Near those aging banks of the Niger
I feel the disturbing songs
Of drummers announcing with cannons
The ravages of Monrovia
Like ancestral funeral men
But these drummers are different:
A shadow of their ancestors?
Is it something beautiful
For Doe’s ever-haunted soul
That Sulima should breathe of
Blood-fouled air?
Does it touch the heart of Taylor
That St. Paul’s river should mirror
The dying souls of pregnant mothers
On forced premature delivery mats?
The guns are eating
New diets in broken skulls
Everywhere!
And all my kins
Are traded for the mean
Prosperity of war
The smell of their black blood
Slapping the face of our dignity:
And does this dunghill of skulls
Touch on the human side of Johnson
And those other warlords?
How long would the orphan’s bones crack?
When would a man walk freely
Across the streets?
Tell us! you noble warriors, tell us:
When the guns would stop singing;
When would fear stop celebrating?
Here as I sit in my hut
Fully fed-up with homicide news
Of thousands and countless of my kins
Dragged into early and tombless deaths
I dreamt of slow-walking hunger
Load-bend of the souls of my kins
Like ants in a dry season:
Would you tell me the number
Of black skulls cracked
On the top of every hill?
Tell me the quantity of black blood
Spilled each day along those currents
Of Mao and Sherbro rivers
And the quantity of children’s bones
And ribs ript open near Monrovia:
Would you be brave enough
To tell these and more atrocities
To the deaf ears of the world,
O! strongmen of noble Liberia?
Form:
We have hungerly kissed
lovely, lifeless corpses
when eating plants and animals,
which daily nourish our bodies.
But do we pay our proper respects
to those dearly departed food sources?
Are we grateful for their slaughter?
Do we understand their sacrifices?
Native Americans, after successful hunts,
in seeking ecological peace and harmony,
thanked the deceased animals for gifts of their lives
so that the hunters’ families could go on living.
Today, we complain about lunch breaks too short
and drive-through waits that seem too long.
We grumble, but we do not raise livestock, or fish, or hunt,
or sow, or reap, or gather grain into barns for baking buns.
Although flavor and fast delivery are desired,
who yearns to kiss insipid, lukewarm burgers?
Who experiences ecstasy in eating
greasy, unhealthy food in a car alone?
In contrast, heaven is described as a fabulous feast,
that is nutritious and infinitely sustainable,
a messianic banquet where prophesied
“righteousness and peace will kiss each other.”
All those invited who will come are seated as guests
in loving, intimate community together.
The everlasting supper, served by the Heavenly Host,
will provide even more than divine desserts,
more than bread and wine with mere remembrance,
but divine presence in-the-flesh with us forever.
People will be filled, not just with luscious food,
but also with joy, everlasting joy.
And we’ll be perpetually grateful
for the loving sacrifice by the Lamb.
First published in I Will Set a Place for You (Solid Food Press, 2024) 63-64.
Yes
Wide eyed
And Oh
So small
Little man
He fits
In both my hands
I still know
How to hold
The little one
"Does it bring back memories"
Her question
Stayed with me
For days
Than weeks
Flowing along
Past
Distant times
In that
Expanse
Of memories
Times four
I explored
Cuddles
Hugs
The first
Fresh
As a field
Of shinning sunflowers
If that's what you call
A Delivery room
Or humidicrib
Does not matter
Those cuddles
Are there
Fresh
As with the smells
Pinetarsol
Talc
Their hair
Blankets
And tears
Reaching
Reaching for up
With hugs
Those pains
Away
Bed time
Hugs
Love you
Never
To much
But one hug
Eludes me
Can't remember
By four
The last
One
The last
Time
I pick up
One of four
For a hug
A ritual
In love
Faded
Without
Within
Fanfare or acknowledgement
A transition
Without notice
Or
A reason to recall
That which
I cannot recall
Until now
So many
Years later
So many years
To late
My shoulder bag is zippered;
The zipper up and broke.
I needed a replacement;
My inner genie spoke:
You're going on vacation.
You cannot have a bag
Without a working closure,
For that would be a drag.
Check Amazon and order.
You have a trial for Prime*
So you will have a new one
Before your leaving time.
I found a likely suspect;
It's cute but small as spit.
My wallet (like Costanza's**)
Won't let other items fit.
The obvious solution?
On Amazon today
I found a mini-wallet
Which will soon be on its way.
*guarantees 2-day delivery; I have a free trial.
**a character on "Seinfeld" with a ridiculously fat wallet