Long Dispossessed Poems
Long Dispossessed Poems. Below are the most popular long Dispossessed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dispossessed poems by poem length and keyword.
Graceful predator perched on the precipice of woe
Your satin crown, ebony feathers cannot camouflage mision of misery you'll sow
Your balmy wings caress as dark shadows grow
You sharpen your talons lethal grasp your helpless prey to show
But only quicken the hearts of foragers nestled below
Shrill call does not alarm wary prey; only emboldened, novel defenses bestow
Slower prey their extended units disband; bountiful feast now in escrow
Stealthy ears pick up the feigned, stressful calls of dispossessed lying low
The harried remnant recedes into veiled canopy with their cargo
Confident dive bomber, you plunge into the shielded canopy mayhem to strew
Only to have pleated wings torn by thistle, thorn guarding the undertow
Injured, but deadly weapons your armada still doth tow
With sharp beak you shred the stragglers who venture into twilight's afterglow
With bristling talons you scratch and claw causing stiffened backs to bow
But their desire to live trumps marauding havoc laid in stow
Shorn of limb but not of hope, scurrying from nest to nest to and fro
Storm clouds gather over Dover cliffs; thunderous chorus from nest doth bellow
On the sparring range, a docile, prevailing wind no longer doth blow
Wearied from long chase, depleted eagle from bleeding strand doth go
(In his opera ‘Nabucco’, Verdi included this song.
The dispossessed Jews represent Verdi’s own
Italians, who were being oppressed by Austria.
It's an anthem for exiles everywhere.)
Go, my thoughts, on golden wings
to where my feet would love to tread,
to where the blackbird of the twilight sings
as day subsides and shadows spread,
to where the gentle murmurings
of languid streams console the dead.
Oh my land, so fair, so lost!
All our troubles come from men.
Can the sunlight crack the frost?
Will I see my home again?
Carry me across the waves
to where my soul will sleep at peace,
to where the ageless architraves
disdain our turbulent caprice:
where none are owners, none are slaves,
and winter yields to summer's lease.
O my country—
I cleave to you through cataclysm and grief,
even as avenues bleed vermilion
with the coagulated ire of the dispossessed.
The atmosphere quivers
with the dirge of the abandoned,
their supplications dissolving
into the ashen ether.
Yet, in the clandestine chamber of my chest,
a prayer still germinates—
fragile, obstinate.
Your rivers, unwearied,
intonate their primordial canticle;
your fields, still fecund,
proffer aureate abundance.
But the firmament, once lucent,
is now barbed with malevolence,
and the throats of the guileless
are muted mid-cry.
Once, benevolence flowered here,
now calcified suspicion
roots itself deep in the soil.
And yet—
if the hand sows fraternity again,
if mercy’s sap ascends,
perhaps a concord can still unfurl.
Let the splintered heart reconverge.
Let compassion accrue
like rain in a desiccated land.
Let faith, austere and indomitable,
illumine the labyrinth toward amity.
Through maelstroms I remain,
through conflagrations I endure—
for even the umbral abyss
concedes to dawn.
Your essence is unyielding,
your anima indestructible.
My country,
through the alchemy of hope
we shall resuscitate your breath.
When doors close, there's more to it than denying you access to what’s inside. We often think that what’s inside is something we cannot live without.
So we feel disappointed, disillusioned, dispossessed, disabled, depressed.
Sometimes, we are overwhelmed, feeling shut out, as if no other doors exist.
Often, it takes a little time, the kind that heals all wounds, as new doors open.
Coveted things inside the closed door loses their appeal as we were healed.
We discovered our life’s purpose down the hall or across the street;
Our phone rang with a new opportunity, as we sat for a bite to eat.
Some doors are meant to be shut, because there is nothing for us inside.
At first, it’s painful to the face; but later we realize our life has meaning. So we lift our heads with that same face, and smiling we say, “Thank you”.
“Thank you”, because often, only ‘doors in your face experiences’ can bring epiphany.
A job change left me away from my family, living on a borrowed 50 foot boat.
One stormy El Nino night, I rocked and rolled; by God’s grace I stayed afloat.
Life’s not always a treat, nor is it a retreat on a sunny beach; but life will always reach out its hands, offering to teach.
03222016 PS Contest, When A Door Closes, by Broken Wings
Written: June 23, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Bonds packed with zeros—harmony, grief, regrets,
In this endless cycle, memory no longer begets.
Your poetry is a symphony that stirs my soul.
But also a river of nausea in which I swim, whole.
Lonesome, dispossessed, my being in unrest,
A fetish for the departed, my electrons protest,
Darkened with heat and sound, aching for release,
Delicate slights, hunger, I cannot appease.
Bear me safe, classy, an echo of frustration
A decadent counter-revolution, my salvation.
Invention, force, and calculation may fade away.
But the lessons from failure forever stay.
The struggle mistake, the clarity we seek,
Caesar black vision is bold and unique.
Metaphors communicate wonders untold,
As a monkey and a cowrie shell, a story unfolds.
The absolute, shallow, and devoid of depth.
All surface, a worry that leaves us bereft.
To be zealous, and lewd as we bleed at sunrise,
That is the contract, the ultimate prize.
The journey of life, filled with harmony and strife,
Grief and regret are intertwined in this mortal life.
Memory fades as we seek a fresh start.
And your poetry is an art that ignites my heart.
Despite the beauty, a nauseating river flows.
A discomfort that lingers, a feeling that grows.
I swim in its depths, bare and exposed.
Deprived of control, my vulnerability imposed
Within me, a fetish for those who have passed.
Their presence lingers, casting shadows that last.
My electrons, once vibrant, are blackened by pain,
Absorbing the heat and sound of their refrain.
A vision through the haze of time and rhyme
a mirrored beauty, Helen sits and waits.
I see her through the window for it's late,
at dawn, I'll bring her death, for she's not mine.
As yet, the key's not turned in lock sublime,
and I will stand and wait as fear dictates.
The Master's carriage leaves at half past eight
then I approach the shrouded outer gate.
Through the door and to Helen's room, I run,
and grasp her tightly to my beating chest.
I tear the cloth from her and she's undone.
Helen prays for her Paris dispossessed,
as on the satin sheets my stanchion drums
out of fight and breath, she acquiesced.
It shouted to him from the rooftops and he was prepared to jump
‘Go out with a deafening bang’ for the bell had told crashing demise
Sadness and bitter oblivion pointed the way from screaming nowhere
Yet deadening cacophony arrested his mind in utter procrastination
A once melodious mind in waiting struck in a terminal station
The oncoming train roared ‘Mind the Gap’ crescendo and coda
Head splitting clatter on destiny’s track voiced harmony’s void
Morose and moribund Tim listened to his shattering epitaph
Yet he was ahead of his time as agonising apathy saved him
A once razor-sharp compassionate soul turned from incision
He was dispossessed by devilish applause and a three-pronged fork
Of garish Past mute Present and the poison of silenced Future’s voice
He did not own a gun but a scalpel would surely sound the final note
Yet ice water in his veins froze hell of clamorous festering heat
A once rapturous Self in retreat composed nothingness’ chimes
The oven blasted ‘I am your fervent friend and companion’
One strike from his lighter would ignite endmost explosion
His thumb on the spark wheel in limbo only messaged the rafter
Yet he writhed his creaking neck and switched of gas’ soothing
A once euphonious life snapped mistuned detonation and creaked
The rafters engulfed by inhibited silence noted the stand off
Wood wormed instruments wound misaligned imagination
One more loop while crescendo joined fortissimos’ claim
Yet the rope snapped and weeping guitar strings whimpered
Once upon a time Tim surged again and danced to his drums
Birds started chirping
Flowers erupted
A rainbow appeared
Violins bowed
Chanting bowls rang
Play mates gathered
The moon turned the tide
The solar eclipse had passed
The sound of earth span again
Tim would not change his depression for any sweet lullaby
It taught him everything he needs to know about life’s balance
Love Kindness Compassion set to temperate omniscient Peace
The drama nestles in rapped poems wrapped in experience
And the scythe of the hangman can croak his own blades
(Poem inspired by Dorothy Parker’s ‘Resume’)
Will you turn an ear to the haunted sound children
Will you feel the beat of the human condition thrumming in your veins
Taste the sadness and longing, begot by our own who suffer in the shadows of their own
demons, To create a universe with soul and zen with a bic pen on my skin an folded napkin
Chatting with the priestess of the lower east side, while she weeps for her father who died by
the way of the needle, and her left alone to fight the deathly cold in Rochester
Somewhere in darkness intertwined with castoffs of the bastard generations
Beneath the hot top laden rivers of rage and power, built with sweat of all
those seen and yet, unseen, Take flight upon the wings wrought of the voices of the
downtrodden, dispossessed, beaten but not broken my dear friends, not broken in soul or in
heart, to give their words anchor and strength, to fight the good fight within endless days
and suffering nights, chase away the fears and tears, give a hand and understand children
what is up to us, to you, in all we feel, speak and do, dont turn down the screams, the cries,
an dont forget for all which our loved ones died, across foreign seas to foreign sands, it don't
take much to lend your hand,
The darkness surrounds, but we'll wait on our dawn, to which all our fragle hopes belong
This country, this citadel, our home, our people, one and all, our hope, our oneness....
Our America.
©R.Chirino IIII
6/23/15
Form:
From river to the sea, an ocean of blood, filled with cries of children;
peace is broken, homes destroyed, lives shattered, a sea of refugees fleeing torrential bombs, under the ether of Western civilization resisting a ceasefire.
From river to the sea, Palestine is on the brink, like an express train to unspeakable tragedy befalling a whole nation, slated for extinction.
History's marching backward, to Rwanda and Auschwitz, a clever strategem for land without its original people, invaded by European settlers citing holy book to lay their claims, like Spanish conquistadors, proclaiming an "empty continent."
From river to the sea, a nation rises and put down like new Spartacus, mutinous against their slavery, and the new King Cnut desperately summoning the waves for Eretz Israel, with no more checkpoints and separation walls; they're only needed for an apartheid state.
From river to the sea, priceless treasures, highlighting architectural ensembles of centuries, buried under the chorus 'finish them,' finish them all, old, young, women, children, their animals too. The magic of land that spawned world religions suddenly has dwindled to a trickle of humanity, the catharsis of a crisis of spirit, shutting down conscience, and soon new settler homes shall be built on tower of skulls, with Gaza's unwelcome beaches available to western tourists again, offering kayakers great thrills at discounted prices, with its banks lined with daffodils and new palm trees, so the pleasure boats can anchor for a day to take advantage of the whirlpools of new resorts with a big sign, no Palestinian allowed.
From river to the sea, the light glows within the dispossessed, and with each martyr, their spirit of resistance blooms, and the saga lingers: Palestine will be free, and Jews and Muslims shall live together in peace.
Wundorlic' visions of beauty around
Glorious scenes shall unfold
Dazzling splendors surround
When walkin' the streets at night, behold
From time to time on an avenue
Ye' see faintly silhouette expressions
Of other lone·ly people who...
Are threat·ened by your lu·mi·nes·cence
No doubt, as you are by theirs
H'ever, artificial light erases
The difference night and day compares
Mysteriously in the somber light places
Fore' be the darkness,
It is easy to feel disoriented
In the city at the dead of nightness
Especially, if y'all are tired and demented
From roaming its burghal
It is not quite the same googling
In the image on empty street circle
No longer fighting against 'to-ing and fro-ing'
The solitary pedestrian's feet
Begin to recall the real earth show
In all the city's internal concrete
Night time for daylight's dispossessed flow
Who walks alone in the streets at night?
Da' 'sad.'
Da' 'mad.'
Da' 'bad.'
Da' 'lost.'
Da' 'tossed'
Da' 'sleepless.'
Da' 'homeless.'
All the city's internal oppressed
The night has always different
The time for daylight's dispossessed...
The time for daylight's dissident
Walking alone at night in the city
Has been interpreted as an in-vite
Of suspicion, moral and social gritty
Solitary people who walk the night