Long Departed Poems
Long Departed Poems. Below are the most popular long Departed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Departed poems by poem length and keyword.
What is life without joy and happiness?
what is life without self honour and pride?
Upon this mountain hell i lay every day
Battered and frustrated
A man of sorrow, forsaken
My spirit groans for mercy which failed to come
All is taken away from me including the smallest pin
of what is life without a mother?
painted black and red
I mourn every seconds for that pretty damsel
swifter that the eagle, my heart pounded
Joy whispers sadness in my ears
and tears becomes my friend
In despair i feast and dance sorrowfully
they mock and throw me around like a forbidden coin
men are evil, my spirit moans
Raising my eyes to see my ears
i could tell of their wickedness
my goats, cows and jewelries gone
Hear me evil souls, the nature has its judgment
Once in life, it cometh and it hard to escape
It hard to escape the judgment
look at father native compound
it been taken away by strangers
those who once dance with us
In good fortune and share our breads and barns together
NOw, they are against us in fury
Dare point us in the face and laugh
Hear me old friends, nature has its judgment
The nature has its judgment, beware
In my old age. bitterly i weeps all day
in affliction and harsh labour
my foes had become my masters
the roads to my hut mourns
my compound groans and grieved
None to comfort me, all my friends had betrayed me
All the splendor has departed in the air
this is why i weep and,
my body shivers
My eyes overflow with water
All who pass my way clapped and laughed at me
Enemies open their mouth wide against me
my grieves are many and my heart fainted
i am in torment within, disturbed and distracted
I remembered my wandering and pains
In the dark forest alone
Covered my self with anger
perhaps my father had sinned
And i didn't know and,
we now bore the pains
Getting brad is at my life risk
Because of the sword beneath
look and see our disgrace
Those who pursue us are at our heels
my siblings scattered abroad sorrowfully
No one to caution us and drag us back
Till end i know the earth has it judgments
i shall sing beautifully with joy in other phase of life
when the gate shall open.
ALL RIGHT RESERVED (C) JOHN CHIZOBA VINCENT 2013
Before my flowing, poetic pen is hushed in Quietus,
And I have reached my journey's end with folded hands;
Departed into my dreamless sleep beneath violets,
Let me write one everlasting, eternal, immortal verse;
Of the ravaged garden of my life.
I want to hear a bird song when I quietly glide away,
With a sigh, I will lay my pale form down peacefully;
I have willed my Keepsakes and my musing poems,
The Angel of death, will take my hand into another realm;
And the drums of time will cease.
Oh, it has been a life full of happiness entwined with sad,
I have travelled many different roads to get to Tranquillity;
The chapters of my life are full of the dead and undead,
Memories of childhood, family, friends and pets I loved;
The scars of life stab my soul.
I do not fear death and I am ready to go through the gate,
But I will miss nature, the woods and the waters moving;
And as I walk the silent passage alone to my eternal night,
Think of me as being set free and soaring high up above;
I lived a life weather-stained with tears.
Leaving life is something we all must do; it is written,
I was held by a thread in this earthly realm until that last gasp;
Now, all I know is the peacefulness of a leafy tree above,
Drifting blue clouds and rain falling gently on my resting place;
I was a shadow on the wall of time.
Do not weep over my eternal grave heartbroken my dears,
I have followed the beautiful Angels footsteps to heaven;
My poetry is timeless, ageless, and will always remain,
I have shed this earth bound life and I am a butterfly set free;
I drank from the deep blue cup of life.
So come, dear hearts and plant some pretty flowers in Spring,
I am at last united with all my beloved who have gone before;
Touch my name and remember me for my beauty,
And although my life was but a whisper, I loved every moment;
Now, I exist in another realm.
____________________
August 26, 2015
Poetry/Epic/'Before My Pen is Hushed'
Copyright Protected, ID 15-1216-704-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted into FGI Blog Special - Epic
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
i was eight
the first time-
i saw Yin-Yang Mountain.
the height of it’s peak
contrasted by
the light on one side
dark on the other.
as the sun travels
from east to west
the color of the slopes change-
the light becoming dark
the dark becoming light.
i stand on the peak of Yin-Yang Mountain
watching the shifting
light and dark.
the line dividing the sinuous halves
is my being.
am I dark or light?
a white line or
a black line?
i am the curve between.
i am the difference.
i am the deciding factor.
i stand now
beside the River of Life.
my feet bare-
i step into the cool waters
observing the shifting reflection
and shadow.
the current swirls the dark and the light.
this life giving, fluid filled gully
brings darkness when one is consumed
by its waters.
above the light is reflected-
below it is swallowed.
soothed i sit-
resting below the shelter
of the Tree of Constance.
the trunk is thick
made of layers of living matter within-
dead matter out.
the dead bark surrounds
the living core-
protecting.
from this sturdy core
branches shoot towards the light.
from those branches shoot buds-
which contain life-giving seeds.
the seeds fall to the ground below.
laying upon the dark
mineral rich earth-
i imagine.
below my body burrow
insects and roots.
they depend upon the fertile
ground for survival.
humans have turned this earth into
a burial ground for the fallen.
the rotting bodies consumed in darkness
feed the creatures who dwell
in the earth.
these departed whisper
knowledge to fallen seeds.
imparting wisdom-
to ensure growth.
I return to the peak-
of Yin-Yang Mountain.
from this peak i observe
the mixture around me.
here on this peak I know
the answers.
i am the wisdom.
this knowledge has paralyzed me.
with this gift i have been silenced.
i am the dividing line-
i am the question.
with faith I fall-
from the peak of Yin-Yang Mountain
into the icy waters of the
River of Life.
it’s turbulent ebb and flow
fills me with life
and destroys me when dragged upon its floor.
i wash upon the shore
gasping for air-
clinging to the root.
I succumb.
i begin to rot-
feeding the earth-
that feeds the tree-
that thrives beside the river-
which dwells upon the slopes
of Yin-Yang Mountain.
here i will remain-
until discovered-
and then understood-
this
my Youth in Asia.
I awake with the sweat of a distant dream....
Thinking of what I'd seen
Remembering what was in my mind's eye
Such sad, sad thoughts of a time gone by
I remember the heat of the desert and the dangers of camouflage men
of small remote villages.......and the people within
I recall a child.......I can still see her smile
Black was her hair, her hands they were oh so small
I can still see her face.........I remember it all
Erelah, yes that was her name
and ever since I met her my life's not been the same
She'd come to our station almost everyday
coming for her hunger, always to play
running round and round, hiding from us all
I still can hear her laughter........ I remember it all
Such a small girl, born into a ruthless world
A world where men prey upon men, and life is simply discarded like sand to the wind
Sunlight and shadows
One illuminates while the other falls
As days become weeks, distant voices call............
Messages of distress come over the wire
speaking of death, fire
of a small village, of evil men who rape, murder, and pillage
Cloaked with the tools of Azreal, the tarmac erupts
Awash in wind and sand, we're elevated into the air
Nap-of-the-earth quickly, mountains, valleys pass by fast
Distant souls burning, we ascend upon the village at last
Pyre smoke engulfs the senses, as it swirls around and around
Hovering high above, we descend swiftly to the chard ground
Toils of men are revealed in the dawn's light
The departed are scattered about as we scour for signs of life
From one burnt structure to another
We find nothing but hopelessness and despair
Only the dead and the dying, Iblis has been here
A familiar door, one I passed through many times before
Reluctantly I peer in, and to my great sadness I'd see
Little Erelah laying by her mother, still deep within a "dream"
But from this "dream" she'll not awake, nor shall she ever play
Both her innocence and life were taken
Never to learn to read, never to learn to write
Never to run and sing again, due to man's mindless strife
I promised to protect the children ever since that day
And always defend them against man's evil ways
And never ever forget her
That angel from above, or her simple message
LOVE.........
To me she was a moment of Spring, in a lifetime of endless Winter
She is but a dream..........
Young Raymond worked the bakery
was up 'bout ten to three.
Just eighteen, still in high school he
had dreams of flying free.
He worked as hard as most grown men
then walked to school and slept.
Took all his wages home to Mom
who thanked him as she wept.
His forte's were science and math
in those he could engage.
Yet beneath all his knowledge was
a silent, anxious rage.
He dreamed, "I'll be an astronaut,"
but worked the fierce hot stoves.
"Impossible to soar," he'd think
while baking bread in loaves.
Young Raymond lost his childhood by
the time he reached sixteen.
Quiet brilliant in mathematics he
soon knew bread as his dean.
Scattered among the loaves of bread,
the flour, water, yeast,
he lost that precious dream-hope and
became an aged beast.
One fine May day in Physics class
with windows opened wide,
most students lolling at their desk,
our Raymond jumped and died.
His skull was broken on the sidewalk
entrance to our school.
Striding across the room's wood floor
he dove into a pool
of warm spring air as he took flight
toward impending death.
We gasped and ran toward the bay
while holding back our breath.
Some of us thought he'd stand upright
until we saw the blood.
Our teacher pressed the intercom
he'd shuddered at the thud.
Somewhere inside that bright young mind
with dreams of soaring high,
the walls of Raymond's world caved in
and left him asking why?
Not old enough to be a man
yet lost to days of youth,
his brilliant mind found no escape
he couldn't cipher truth.
Epilogue
While deputies worked at the scene
we all departed school.
With camera, tape, and clipboard they
applied fact-finding tools.
Yet none could reason why he jumped
and in May chose to die.
His teacher and the Sheriff would
return to find out why.
A physics book lay on his desk
a paper on the leaves.
Mathematically he'd worked it out,
two grown men were bereaved.
He knew the precise distance from
the window to the walk.
His pen the feet per second for
his keen mind to meet shock.
He'd chosen one three story flight
over stacks and rowd of bread,
abandoning the ovens that
had given him deep dread.
I think of him on fine May days
rich with ambrosial air.
I hope that Raymond soars the skies
and sees his world as fair.
Losing Raymond
Season of death plays her melancholic tune,
tragedy portrayed through a chorus of birds.
In regret, I ponder why you left so soon,
still mourning the impact of your last words.
Demons hid some pieces of your jigsaw brain,
lost in your black abyss, troubles began to form.
Alcohol, drugs and abuse turned your life insane,
but your tongue was silent, battling the storm.
Sometimes I read the note you left behind,
saying you were sorry, but life was not kind.
If only I knew a way for time to rewind,
maybe I could have eased that troubled mind.
Guess you felt death would bring an end to the pain,
hope you found peace from a life you left in vane.
Silent One
27 October 2020
I lost a very special friend to suicide, on new years eve 1996.
It was not my only experience with suicide, but it was one that had a big impact on my life, because, I was the last person she spoke to.
Sadly, I did not get to her in time and she had already departed the world that troubled her so much. At the time, she was only 18.
For years, I struggled to come to terms with it, my coping mechanism was to blank it all out, suppress the emotions. But every new years eve, I would not do anything, it was my way of rebelling against it, I guess. I lived with regret. Sad thing was I never spoke to anyone about it.
I learned to deal with it through writing. My first poem about what happened was in 2015.
Some think suicide is selfish, but it is not. It is difficult for those left behind to deal with it, but we need to understand, people who leave the world in such a way, do not want to die, they want to end the pain.
Sometimes, no matter what we do or say, it may not help.
Always keep an eye out for family and friends, who you may think are feeling low and at times worthless. Many of us, at times, feel we do not belong.
Sometimes, the smallest act of reaching out could make a difference.
If you are feeling suicidal, there are helplines available in your country. Please call someone to talk to them. It could make a difference.
When we feel confused, oppressed, worthless, low, unloved, live a life without affection and understanding... Please remember there is always someone out there who loves and cares about you and will miss you so much if you are gone.
Sorry for the sad poem and thank you for reading.
WHALING SHIP CAPTAIN"S LOVER part 3
Now Jorgie met a new love
He begged to make her wife
First, they’d fetch her small boy
to start a fresh new life.
So East they went to Minot
To find her cousin there
But when they came to his big house
His smile for them was spare.
The cousin was not happy
To relinquish that fine boy
He said his wife would waste away
Without her greatest joy
And Jorgie, solemn, studied them
The woman and the child &
Wept with great compassion
Her broken heart ran wild.
Determined to do justice
Twas no one she could blame
Jorgie hugged the boy good bye
Her soul in raging flame.
She bid the woman love him
And tell him she was aunt
And with her newfound husband, John,
Departed pale and gaunt.
Now John, he was a good man
Who worshiped his new wife
They agreed to keep a secret
About her former life
And so away the years passed
Son came after son
Jorgie had a fresh life
They built a solid home.
Each month she mailed the letters
To the ‘cousin’ in the west
She parceled up the photos
true siblings in their best
But Sadness haunted Jorgie’s eyes
She tried to hide it well
But her husband knew her---
She had him in her spell.
So sad she was and so forlorn
He needed to confide
To someone who could help him
to cheer his cherished bride.
And so he told his sister
His wife had longed to see
From her past her loved ones---
Her own sweet family.
So sister Lena planned a scheme—
For Jorgie wild and free
the gift would be a great surprise
And John he did agree.
They would take the children
Aboard the westbound train
Jump the train at Minot
To see the boy again.
Wait they must til autumn
For Jorgie twas the best
In May would be a newborn babe
Nuzzling at her breast
Then hit the plague of ‘17
Entire towns were dead—
And in their midst was Jorgie--
With her newborn-- cold, in bed.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note: Jorgie : (pronounced Yor’ gee) was a nickname
Her name: Sena Jorgine Larsen
My father’s mother. The baby named Clara. My was nearly 4 when they died. His father, John Anderson—Jorgie’s husband , never remarried. He lived to be in his 70’s. His sister, my great aunt, Lena Anderson Hildebrandt, told me this story in 1971.
PS THERE IS ANOTHER PART TO THIS IF ANYONE WANTS TO READ IT LET ME KNOW. I DON'T WANT TO BORE ANYONE TO DEATH! vat
**Being in the Moment**
My mother believed in prayers more than my father did. My father preferred to tackle his problems with a flask of white rum, while I believed in the importance of being present in the moment. There are hidden compartments within us, my poetic friends. "Being in the moment" can serve as a helpful reminder if we understand it more expansively.
Perhaps it was true what someone said about dealing with situations as they arise. I refused to grieve for my dearly departed husband because past experiences had taught me to suppress my emotions. My lack of dispassion and willful stubbornness made me question my feelings:
Did I love him? Did I forgive him? Perhaps it was the disrespect that prevented me from doing so.
The truth is quite different. Forgiving an offense empowers the offended. It is to a man’s glory to overlook an offense (Proverbs 19:11). While I can’t change the past, I can learn from it. This wisdom might prevent me from walking through a fire like that again. I would look at his picture on my refrigerator and feel a mix of love and hate toward him. In that same moment, those emotions coexisted within me.
I yearned for companionship, craved to be held tightly throughout the night. If someone can fulfill needs for companionship, love, and intimacy, there’s a greater chance that the other person will fall in love again and again. But not me. You burn; you affect me deeply. I have invested so much and ended up the loser every time. Love seems elusive to me; instead, loneliness has become my captor.
I know that loneliness does not have to be the final word. Even when the world feels against me, I will shine through, like ancient wisdom. I lost the love of my life due to jealousy. He lost me because I loved him enough to let him go. I experienced a breakthrough; I had given up on loving a mortal again. I would rather be alone than live with someone and still feel lonely.
I am not programmed to fail or to tolerate foolishness. Call me stubborn, call me high and mighty, call me the new modern woman. I refuse to age as a failure but instead strive for greatness, relentlessly pursuing my happiness. I know I deserve this. The poet within knows it, too.
As my online followers watch my journey, they should go ahead and do their own thing—after all, life is too short for anything less.
My wife and I have lived in our present home for more than 14 years, and I think that the loveliest time of the year in our community is the fall season. One look at a tall leafy tree can take your breath away. One such tree is just across the street from our house. When I saw it, one word sufficed. Wow!
Although I am certain that this tree has grown taller and broader over the course of fourteen years, there were years that transpired before I even noticed it's beauty. For years, it's beauty was more than 'bark deep' and staring down at me, but I never noticed.
It was only about four to five years ago that I was walking down the hall on the second floor of our home. When I looked up, I was deeply moved by the sight of the tree. It seems that all things simply came together at that particular moment. Both the door and the window blinds in that North facing room were open, and I was treated to the awesome sight of that tall fall tree.
It was as if I had just awakened from a long sleep, or had hidden in a cave. The summer green had turned a beautiful golden yellow. It was as if a voice yelled out and said, "Just Look At Me! ". The power of orange captivated me, and I was arrested by a live portrait, painted by the hand of God. I have looked forward to the sight every year since.
The tree did not have a facelift or makeover, and it had not moved closer nor farther away from my view. But at that moment, it cried out for me to notice and observe its stunning beauty. With pleasure, I was mesmerized and beheld its awesomeness. On that occasion, I did not glance or pause for a quick look, because this time I was not hurried or too busy to look, as I must have been for so many years prior. I was stopped completely in my tracts and drawn toward the tree for a closer view.
Perhaps this fall tree encounter speaks so much about my life and thinking that has slowed and changed over the last few years. Perhaps I can see and feel more of what really matters because the pace of my life has been slowed. I have a much clearer view because the hot summers of my busy life have departed. I am no longer blinded by the forest because a single, exquisite, and distinguished tree has yelled out to me. The tree of picture-perfect orange has ordered me to stop and stare.
11212011 PS Contest, 09142017, Autumn Colors, Nayda Negron, 2P
Sappho fragment #2
translation by Michael R. Burch
How can I compete with that damned man
who fancies himself one of the gods,
impressing you with his "eloquence" ...
when just the thought of sitting in your radiant presence,
of hearing your lovely voice and lively laughter,
sets my heart hammering at my breast?
Hell, when I catch just a quick glimpse of you,
I'm left speechless, tongue-tied,
and immediately a blush like a delicate flame reddens my skin.
Then my vision dims with tears,
my ears ring,
I sweat profusely,
and every muscle in my body trembles.
When the blood finally settles,
I grow paler than summer grass,
till in my exhausted madness,
I'm as limp as the dead.
And yet I must risk all, being bereft without you ...
Sappho of Lesbos was so highly regarded by her peers that she was called The Tenth Muse. That was high praise indeed, because the other nine Muses were goddesses! Sappho has given us our terms "sapphic" and "lesbian." And she wrote the first "make love, not war" poem more than 2,500 years ago! She was ahead of her time, and probably ours as well. Keywords/Tags: Sappho of Lesbos, Sapphic, Greece, Greek, translation, woman, women, girl, girls, girlfriends, love, lovers, lesbian, homosexual, passion, desire, longing, lust, sex, sexy, sensual, sensuous, relationship
SAPPHO'S POEMS FOR ATTIS AND ANACTORIA
Most of Sappho's poems are fragments but the first poem below, variously titled "The Anactoria Poem, " "Helen's Eidolon" and "Some People Say" is largely intact. Was Sappho the author of the world's first 'make love, not war' poem?
Some People Say
Sappho, fragment 16 (Lobel-Page 16 / Voigt 16)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Warriors on rearing chargers,
columns of infantry,
fleets of warships:
some call these the dark earth's redeeming visions.
But I say—
the one I desire.
Nor am I unique,
since she who so vastly surpassed all mortals in beauty
—Helen—
seduced by Aphrodite, led astray by desire,
departed for distant Troy,
abandoned her celebrated husband,
turned her back on her parents and child!
Her story reminds me of Anactoria,
who has also departed,
and whose lively dancing and lovely face
I would rather see than all the horsemen and war-chariots of the Lydians,
or their columns of infantry parading in flashing armor.