Long Denied Poems
Long Denied Poems. Below are the most popular long Denied by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Denied poems by poem length and keyword.
The woman is she
who waits for a dream
hers are the treasures of pleasures she brings
her gift to the one
whom caresses her soul
the river you’ll know where her life water flows
The woman is she
who waits to let go
of all inhibition and boundaries she knows
for the one she can trust
to reach deeply inside
where you have to let go cause there’s nowhere to hide
Where all is exposed
no secrets are found
no problems or worries or thoughts are you bound
the moments transcending
this most sacred place
washed warm in her life water rivers embrace
The woman is she
who secretly yearns
to know the sweet scars of a passionate burn
As called by the river
from deeply inside
It can’t be ignored so it won’t be denied
The woman is she
whom is waiting for you
waiting for just the right magic you do
to take to her river
where life waters flow
where the truest of lovers are destined to go
Dear future
I am Sorry
Sorry we used nature as a credit card
with no spending limits
over drafting animals to extinction
stealing your chance to ever see their uniqueness or become friends with them,
Sorry we poison the ocean so much that you can't even swim in them,
But most of all sorry
for we lie to our mindset
and we had the nerves
to cause all this destruction
in the name of Progress
but the thing about the truth is
it can be denied but not Avoid
I am so sorry my dear Future generations,
in the name of progress,
I am sorry that our footprint
became a sinkhole and not a garden
I am sorry for we made up excuses
to build high tech homes
instead of planting more trees
But At last, This Future I don't accept it,
because and error
doesn't become a mistake
until you refuse to correct it
So people hear my cry
Hear Mother natures tears
I am no activist, no politician, no farmer
But am the sun of earth
and mother earth is telling me like the wise man
when the rivers are all dried up
and the trees have been all cut down
Man Will then realize
he will not be able to eat money
But I want to believe it not too late
So Do I have all believers
or are all of you guys
already transform by the partial good,
If not is not to late too make it right
It not too late to make it right
The attire was set ablaze,
Consumed by a mystical haze,
A moment lost in sudden daze,
All sparked by a reckless craze.
He poured his heart in investments,
Joy climbed high with increments.
But wealth, with weighty requirements,
Turned triumphs into bleak laments.
And when the errors made their rounds,
He found himself in ruin’s bounds.
Instead of wins and hopeful dreams,
His world unraveled at the seams.
He set his own attire aflame—
All he’d gathered, all his claim.
Before he even saw the shame,
The ashes whispered his own name.
He traded cauldrons for a bowl,
Chased greed, losing self-control.
Blinded by desire’s toll,
Now stripped and shattered, heart and soul.
Under the sun, his treasures burned,
From riches to rags, the tables turned.
No cloth to cover, just empty strife,
A glimpse of his once lavish life.
The fire took it all away—
Dreams that seemed too bright to fray.
He watched them crumble in dismay,
And tried to fight, but lost his way.
Now peace eludes his troubled mind,
Extinction comes, the ties unwind.
In pools of tears, he finds no rest,
For silly desires that failed the test.
The fire roared and took its prize,
Leaving him to realize
Success demands more than his eyes—
It needs the heart, the soul, the rise.
He got what he wanted, then it was clear,
Desire brings more than it may appear.
Without wisdom or patience near,
He lost what he held dear.
Regret now cools his fiery pride,
He sees his blindness magnified.
Relief? It comes in waves so thin,
Yet the sting still lingers within.
No more crocodile tears to shed,
For no one cares, the cold instead
Will bite and gnaw, his only dread.
His dares have left him hanging by a thread.
They warned him not to take the road
Of selfishness with such a load.
But careless ears turned from advice,
He chased his wants and paid the price.
Now the boomerang swings back,
The song of trouble beats its track.
Remember all the boasts and tags?
Now a weaver stands in rags.
The race is lost, the shame is here,
The path ahead is less than clear.
But maybe, tracing back his stride,
He’ll find the strength he once denied
In our next life,
let's swap lives,
You become the poet , i become the muse
You yearn for me while I stay oblivious
You write books on me,
while I don't bother
In our next life
I get the flower and you deal with the thorns
In our next life
I love me like breathing
while you admire my dawn.
After all, the knife was your's and the wound was mine
Yet, Yet 'I' called it love every darn time
Everything you made up
Everytime you gaslit
My brain denied but my heart didn't
The fire of desire was to be smothered by ice
But neither did the fire burn my ice( My Brain), my ice was frozen in
Into neither believing nor confrating
for confranting was forbidden by fire(heart)
and acknowladgement is mocked ice.
But now when ice melts fire
the birthing sunshine kills desire
here l am standing still
Standing strong like never before
For now I have learnt the art of letting go
The letting go of love
the achievement of wave pain
Now I have learnt that love doesn't circle
I have learnt that love maybe was just mend for us
For now I know my smothered desire and my shaken fire Would STILL ROOT FOR ME
But I am still fond of the time
When I thought the stars aligned
aligned to show love
But soon realised thats not how they rhymed.
And now when I am learning the lesson of faith and letting go of your vain
When ice is estinguished and fire melted
And Now finally ,
When I can not unlove you
I envy the people who never met you.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
In fiery depths where shadows dwell,
A tale of torment I shall tell.
Of a realm where unbelievers tread,
Where darkness reigns and hope has fled.
In the depths of Hell, a fearsome place,
Where sinners find no saving grace.
The flames lick at their souls so cold,
Their cries of anguish, never told.
Unbelievers, lost in their disdain,
Denying truth, embracing pain.
They wander aimless through the night,
Forever shrouded in eternal blight.
No light of mercy, no solace found,
Their hearts imprisoned, tightly bound.
Their eyes behold a twisted sight,
A realm devoid of love and light.
Each step they take, a constant burn,
As punishment for what they spurned.
Regrets and sorrows, their constant guide,
In this inferno, where souls reside.
Their voices echo in the abyss,
The price of ignorance, their eternal hiss.
For in this realm, truths they denied,
Now haunt their spirits, amplified.
Yet, let us not forget the grace,
That offers hope, a saving embrace.
For even in darkness, redemption's light,
Can bring the lost back from the night.
So, heed this warning, unbeliever dear,
Seek truth and love, let doubt disappear.
For Hell awaits those who turn away,
But in belief, find salvation finds its way.
Sometimes we are tortured in many ways, left alone, left afraid, befriended, unloved, and made to suffer torture.
Some of us have felt tortured, we can reflect and think of Moses, think of Saint Stephen and others that have suffered like Jesus.
Jesus was tortured for his truth, the word of God he spoke, for truth is the way to everlasting life, this life is just temporary and a test.
No good deed goes unpunished, as we learned from Jesus’s life on earth, he suffered, died, and was tortured, hunted before he was born, and suffered many ways while on earth.
God is always with us, he gave us our guardian angel to always be with us, to help us on our way through this life and hopefully we make it through heaven’s gate home to God.
Torture is felt in many ways, we long for the things that we are denied, like money and food and love and other things we need.
God is always with us, he gave us our guardian angel to always be with us, to help us on our way through this life, and hopefully we make it through heavens gate home to God.
We pray to find our way, to forgive, to learn and live in a God-pleasing way, to be kind, to be loving, to remember all of the commandments of God.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
Evening was upon us and we were running late.
Our reservation at the Hôtel de Paris Saint-Tropez,
was for 9:15 pm.
Be not careless with time
for you will be judged.
My favorite garms for Héraclée eveningwear, are
a sleeveless white linen tee-shirt over linen shorts.
That works perfectly well in the bars and dance clubs
but not the luxe, formally inclined, la-tee-da Hôtel de Paris.
Let custom serve reason, not smother it,
Let obedience not be given to feed another’s pride.
We had rushed from a kite show on the beach.
We were eyed and side eyed - like sketch vagrants -
but not denied a table off front-of-house eye-lines.
You can’t look askance at beachwear, on a Riviera,
in a beach town. I was honestly dressed for vacation moments.
later..
I was dropped into a conversation
with a guy in a bar Peter and I were at.
When talking to rando guys in bars
I give them one of my more boring,
backup personalities.
Anyway, this guy was saying that
dating is now a “rich person’s game.”
I get it, things are bad all over, but here
he is, in the Saint-Tropez Lounge Club,
buying ‘Pornstar Martinis’ at €22 a pop.
Isn’t he actively funding his problem?
Couldn’t he bring a date and buy twice
as many basic martinis at €10?
In the dating market, we all hope to be chosen.
Status anxieties often speak for themselves.
In courting, glitter isn’t always persuasive.
When I met Peter, he was a penniless doctoral student,
existing on a meager stipend and part time jobs.
When in doubt, try authenticity or charm,
both are stylish coping mechanisms.
.
.
Songs for this:
Someday, Someway by Marshall Crenshaw
Silver Heels by Fleetwood Mac
(Author's note: It has come to my attention that the U.K. has decided to eliminate Holocaust
education from its curricula, on the grounds it may "offend" some groups)
So, for fear it may offend,
The truth is to be turned without the door
Beggared for its embarrassments,
By force forgotten, evermore.
The ghostly pasts to which we choose to blind ourselves
Will not, for that, pass on and disappear.
Each unremembered victim bides and waits
For fresh companions year to year.
A death denied is no less true.
The twice-wronged dead are owed their due.
So are we now, for comfort's sake
Never to remember the strange hot snow
That once was people, blown wide below
Poland's leaden skies,
The murder born of casual lies -
Steal from the dead all final dignity
Because we lack the will or strength to see
The open catalogue of Man's mad mistakes?
The road away from truth is dark and long,
Wrong forgot breeds greater wrong.
One hundred times one hundred centuries
Should bear the memory of our darkest deeds.
Denial sweeps the slate as we forget,
Then plant tomorrow's evil seeds.
I read the lies upon the page
As inwardly I rage, and rage.
Never remember - yet again the cycle starts:
Sand Creek, Sarajevo, Nanking, Rwanda all repeat
With all their gathering ghosts replete
With all the sly excuses as to cause;
Humanity subsumed within the legal clause.
Never remember - and arm the State that separates
The "Us" from "Them", that sanctions hate.
We close our minds, we seal our hearts.
I sit and rage and move my pen, but shall I yet pretend
My wearied words will take effect? After all, they may offend.
Where steeples reach to touch the sky
and faithful bow their heads in prayer,
a wondrous sound fills wintry air
as choirs sing “Angels on High”.
Exalted words take wing and fly;
good tidings are for all to share
where steeples reach to touch the sky
and faithful bow their heads in prayer.
The morning of His birth is nigh;
each celebrates a Love so rare –
one precious Gift beyond compare!
His presence cannot be denied
where steeples reach to touch the sky.
~~+~~
1/10/09
Writing Challenge- December, 2019 - I Want Christmas Poems
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
*Rondel - a variation of Rondeau