Long Diaries Poems
Long Diaries Poems. Below are the most popular long Diaries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Diaries poems by poem length and keyword.
I can’t say
where life begins
and death takes over:
Oh! I know of birth
and funerals--
what the church says
and what my gut
further tells me…
but my heart often
wanders above wings,
parting shadows
to a place alone
where I encounter
a loving presence
my feeling no need
to define...
I have read those volumes
both blessed and cursed
tongued caramel ecstasy
and licked the sacrificial fires
(sweat-making chilies
and artery clogging rinds of life)
but remain
mostly confounded
though comforted somewhat
by the little I know
and concisely name--
admitting more of me
has always existed outside
my libraries of
leather diaries
and embossed references….
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
I turn the leaves of my old diaries.
Wherein my passions and anxieties
Together with your dried rose petals, sleep.
They savor your scent and bitterly weep.
Our glances, touches, cuddles, and kisses
Fun-filled, playfully hopping-mad hisses
Our desires, dreams, hopes, and aspirations
Did all these, like sheds, have no foundations?
Creeds and credos weren't causes for our split.
What's the root of our emotional rift?
You left me as though I were a stranger.
Did I not guard you from every danger?
I wandered as though a mad man for long.
You refused to hear this nightingale's song.
I went on mending my shattered spirit.
What could I esteem as my true merit?
I had, indeed, moments of happiness.
My diaries have scrawls of soft stillness.
Yet, a pain, like a sword, pierces my heart.
I feel as though my soul is torn apart.
You hope that university will answer all of life’s questions, but nope.
I don’t know, 1.
There was a guy who’d been hanging around outside our residence lately. Too consistently. At first, I thought he was someone’s friend but he’s always alone. He wasn’t doing anything or bothering my roommates but that asymmetry set off my alarms.
He looked at me once (which I suppose isn’t a crime), I think, it was quick - a blink of sharp curiosity. I mentioned it to Charles who took his picture. The next morning he said the guy’s a legit student who has no criminal record, so maybe I’m all wrong.
Every girl’s encountered a creep or two before. They’re seemingly everywhere, as if mandated by law, like auto insurance. Most girls develop a sixth-sense, a creep-dar. Nowadays, creeps have a new name, “incel” ("involuntary celibate") and they’re a recognised, online subculture. Next, they’ll have a coat of arms proclaiming, “We Would if We Could.” It’s as if awkwardness, a normal human foible, has been distilled into something dangerous.
Although the campus looks like a garden or a perfectly manicured ‘stepford’ park, we joke that it’s really a locked-down, patrolled, surveilled compound, with guards, cameras and card-key access to everything. Which, I suppose, is all to the good.
Our creeper wasn’t there Friday, and he wasn’t there today, so maybe he was nothing.
I don’t know, 2.
I was in Sunny’s room. We were going shopping in a few. There was a little pink book on her bed - a diary!! I’d never seen it before and it was open, about three-quarters of the way. She too-casually moved to scoop it up, like the neglected book of a sorcerer.
My *GOSSIP-dar* Alerted like a class bell. “Hmm” I humed, head-tilted, then I laughingly lunged for the book.
Sunny’s eyes went wide for 3-billionths of a second and she snapped it up with the speed of a striking cobra, “That’s MINE” she said, rigid with seriousness.
“What’s going ON?!” I asked, but she shoved it into her night table.
Another mystery!
‘Sleeping dogs,’ I thought to myself.
The Holocaust was a reminder to us…
besides being a most horrific crime…
that dark forces of evil and intolerance
have been flowing since the dawn of time.
If you want a sampling of how cruel and inhuman
we, who call ourselves human, can be…
I’ll be frank…watch Ken Burns’s ‘The U. S.
and the Holocaust’ and read Anne’s diary.
An innocent young child who, because of her religion,
faced unimaginable enmity and strife…
who never had the chance to grow old…
to have a long and happy life.
She was but one of millions of Jewish people
who, at the hands of the Nazis, died…
a crime so horrific it didn’t have a word to describe it…
it does not…genocide.
But as I watched Ken Burns ‘Holocaust’ and read Anne’s words…thinking no crimes have ever been as gruesome as these…
I began to wonder if there were other children in the world
who have written similar diaries.
Looking back on the history of humankind…
I imagine there are a few…
and as difficult as it would be to hear their words…
I think we need to read them too.
Other groups of humans
whose annihilation was in other human’s plans…
If these children had written diaries…
would their words be similar to Anne’s?
From Native Americans, Blacks, people of color, women
who have endured so much torture and pain…
to LGBTQ+ people all over the world
and most recently…the people of Ukraine.
There are times when the stream of evil begins to overflow its banks
and no matter how much we pray…
its waters rush in determined to eliminate
anyone who gets in their way.
When groups of people are signaled out…belittled…
made to feel different and small….
until more diaries our discovered…
Anne’s words must speak for them all.
Anne never got to finish her diary…
she died just before the end of the war….
but I imagine she wouldn’t mind if it was finished
with words from Eleanor…
Eleanor…who throughout it all…remained steadfast…
resolute and strong….
She said there can be no compromise at any point
with things that we know are wrong.
Perhaps one way to keep the stream of evil contained…
to keep it from overflowing its shore…
would be to watch Ken’s series
read through the pages of Anne’s diary…
and heed the words of Eleanor.
When our eyes met the first time
I feel wedding bells will soon chime
You had captured my heart
I never wanted us to part
You gave life a new meaning
I now see joy in everything
I spend many a sleepless night
Dreaming about you
Your perfect eyes
And your charming smile
I gaze at you every day
I smile when you smile
Hoping one day you will be mine
It’s a secret I keep to myself
Entire diaries dedicated
only to you
A fairy tale begins
When this princess
Finally meets her prince
Date written -3 April 2019
Name of contest -I’m Crushing On You Poetry Contest
Name of contest Sponsor -Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
The Dilettante Diaries: "In Stasis, Black Iris"
Oriental Lily's
Stamen bleeds
blush ochre dust
like icing sugar
duelling tongues
sweet captive
musk
over stagnant
white pure perfume
Stains soft feather fingerprints
sweet bruises across warm velvet skin
imprints a new story
a kiss lingers
there just there
you know where
secret whispers begin
Again
Again
Ripe Tiger Lily
purrs
petals opening
languid longing
Luscious
Laugh
Vibrant
Sin
Again
Again
Velvet revolver
deep
like
Turin
Worships
the
Holy Ground
She grows in
new secrets sown
something grows
something begins
Again
Again
Aquarius eyes
languid pools
for windows
drinks her in
like a
hummingbird
drinks her
charms within
Leo addictive deep
crimson
she is vibrating
Life
draws you in
Luna cool
kisses her
heat
she is the
Sun
revolving
you her muse
a lesson for now,
lean in
A revolver cocked
for killing past hurts
opens petals
ruinous
deep ripe purple
plum
unfurls
begins
begins
again
again
Evergreen
Verdant
Elixir they
sleep to dream
Just words
in the
luminiferous aether
waiting
waiting
waiting
intoxicating
New Chapter
In Stasis is
Black Iris
Surrenders
control
relenquished
Souls are
transforming
trading
Black Iris
lies in waiting
(Lovejoy-Burton/September, 2018)
1. Georgia O'Keeffe, "Black Iris", 1926
2. https://www.georgiaokeeffe.net/
3. https://www.npr.org/2011/07/21/138467808/stieglitz-and-okeeffe-their-love-and-life-in-letters
4. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEdKPHGHoMc
It’s a tryingly featured world to be in,
In which every restless heart minds
Pleasant principal affairs of its own;
Where spurned soul no solace finds.
It’s an unresting space to occupy,
Where every stirring brain thinks
Of its own idiosyncratic concerns;
Where tired limbs totter on brinks.
It’s an interesting place to have share
In unique diaries of fellow sojourners,
Sparing oneself yet giving some part
To other mortals of diverse manners.
It’s a pretty striking existence to pass
Best seasons doing stuff you’ll leave,
And still feel okay despite knowledge
You’ll lose all fiscal efforts that peeve.
Respect your pains, give it all hidden tears...
It might mean nothing to those seeing you cry;
It takes real you to be strong amid fears
When hidden tears must have run your eyes dry.
You would surely know,
When you're good enough to go...
Off what violence grow.
Don't leave your dream all because it seems tough,
The tougher it makes you unhappy, so
It would make you great through means life makes rough...
Threats; seen and unseen making you go slow.
Less care people run...
Saves enough for timing fun,
When trying seems done.
Shame don't for once care of your happiness,
Threats only brag of loading fear or not...
PEACE never set to put back riskiness,
Until craziness put down doings so hot.
Miss, watch what you share,
Before truth becomes unfair...
Tease best spear's affair.
Please, I beg of you darling; cry... cry fast-
Do not waste too much time hiding worries
Behind fake smiles not enough to shine, past
That only hands you lessons in diaries.
Write each to your heart;
Face the truth, put lies apart...
Hope dreams, dare restart.
In the end, you- alone with your blind thought
Only takes to mind, all regrets that come,
For the chances not taken; by luck sought...
What a nice joke you wouldn't have become!
You waited too long,
To make decisions while young...
Ought avoid sad song.
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.