Long Down to earth Poems
Long Down to earth Poems. Below are the most popular long Down to earth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Down to earth poems by poem length and keyword.
Life carried on brushing up pain
Each day I could hardly remain
Darkness seemed to be my only course
As I falter and enter ultimate remorse
I could not see what's going on before me
As life seemed dim I could hardly see
There only seemed to be one way out
Only one that I have known about
Sleeping pills were taken extremely
All at once, I was feeling sleepy
In a last minute impulse I called emergency
They swiftly came as I was quickly
Fading fast from this course of reality
I was nodding off to sleep completely
They kept me barely awake to the hospital
Where I was contorted to spill all
I was gagged forcefully as darkness came
Awakened again to find more pills taken
My throat agonized with pain within
From the horrible gagging motion
Pill after pill flowed out of my mouth
As I neared closer to oblivion, further south
Finally I was allowed to sleep
My dreams now were mine to keep
When I awoke people surrounded me
Looking very worried, disappointed really
I had survived the attempt on my life
A fear I will always remember, the strife
Now the world is back into my life again
The pain is seemingly always pounding within
Worry is written all over my family
Fear escapes my mother’s eyes completely
They do many tests to see if I’m stable
Then the diagnosis is depression, certifiable
Therapists become a part of my new life
All present and accounted for, no new strife
Things weren’t anywhere near like they were
When everything was dark, fearful for sure
I hated life, it was lifeless, demure
Then it seemed I had the perfect cure
But life chose me, and I survived
Now things work simply and I thrived
I had the presence to make the best
Of what life brings, to take in the rest
I hold dear now all things that this life brings
A warm feeling comes when fear is fleeting
A perfect happiness comes from simplicity
Bringing complexity down to earth sincerely
Love came swiftly with joy in the heart
Never felt more pure, never to be torn apart
Now that I had survived the brush of death
I now take pleasure in each and every breath
This is what happens sometimes when death knocks
And life gets switched around, time tick-tocks
Now since the terror has come and gone
Joy and pleasure have arrived as one
The future now looks a lot greater
Now that death will be a lot later
Russell Sivey
Entrant into Richard Tarr's "suicide survivor" contest
11/12/2012
Born Doris, named for our grandmother Doris Owens,
she is nothing much like grandma.
If anything, I am more like grandma
for my thrifty ways and down-to-earth practicality.
Doris, nicnamed Dorie, how we tease her when we hear
her name like the name of the spaced-out fish on “Finding Nemo.”
Dorie, who we teased as a child because she always dawdled,
always losing track of time; we never could guess why!
In that way, she never was like me, but was more like Dory
from “Finding Nemo.”
Dorie, who like me, is long-nosed and full-bosomed
and of all my sisters, has the most in common with myself.
Dorie, who got confused for me, particularly by our grandma,
the woman after whom Dorie had been named!
Dorie, who got to be the cheerleader I failed to be
but who majored in my field and never got to work as a teacher.
Instead she works today in a place for special needs adults,
working many hours now that she is divorced.
Dedicated, hard-working, studious and conscientious -
in those ways Dorie is the most like me
of all my other sisters.
Who else but Dorie would write me back 40 to 50-page letters
back in the day when all we had was snail mail!
My letters to Dorie I copied off each month as a record
of my hectic life when I was young in college and
also when I was dealing with my new role as a mother.
Dorie, my writing soul mate sister, who probably
does not write much any more and I doubt that she writes poetry!
She is busy working up to 60 hours a week!
But when she writes, her emails are long and detailed
just like mine.
Dorie, in whom I gradually saw differences from me.
More emotional, more hormonal, more maternal -
this is Dorie. More religious and in politics,
the opposite of me.
Despite all that, we love to chat.
We laugh and laugh, as I do with all my other sisters.
Dorie, who like our youngest sister Theadora,
shares with me a fascination for things such as nutrition,
all three of us sharing with each other our recipes
fitness hints, and special ways to boost metabolism!
Dorie, the sister who Mom says "leapt with joy"
inside our mother’s womb right before Mom went into labor
just for hearing the voice of me, her oldest sister.
I love all my sisters equally, but for many reasons,
Dorie is the sister most like me!
March 6, 2019 for the "What's In a Name" Contest of Kim Rodrigues
So the morning star stood against the heavens,
Then Jehovah sent mighty angels to battle against
Lucifer, the devil.
Lucifer fought with gangsters but lost;
Being haul down to earth losing a side wing:
Father of all lies, turn humanity against Jehovah,
The creator of all things that was;
That is and that someday may be.
Humanity knew sin and fell short to the glory of God:
His daily pace was directed by the footprint of the
wicked one.
God repented over humanity, but pitied the cause of
change:
Jehovah made his word as flesh among humanity,
But wickedness of men draged the lamb of the
world and nailed him to a cross.
Amazingly, Jehovah resurrected Jesus Christ from
the grave and
Quickened and empowered the left eleven to go out
there and preach the gospel.
Sorrowful persecution and tribulation followed the
disciples till their dying day:
Now the walk hasn’t change,
But the devil has implemented a strategy by music
To lure and own as many as he could:
Music has come to drive immorality through the
heart and mind of many,
Negatively, seducing the streets; changing money
for fornication and fame.
This shall slowly pervade lands upon lands until it
covered the entire world.
And the Bible been out of sight and mind, but, upon
the hearts of the elects;
Seen churches turned to shopping malls and club
houses.
These times the dragon has been held in the world;
Bringing oneness among the people, and every
culture:
A new form of currency in a form of a mark;
Those that should accept would receive every
necessity available,
But those that should rise against would be even
robbed of the little they own.
Wickedness would amass as God Almighty might
for a while part with humanity.
You could name it a world of mammon.
Kirk of Satan could be found everywhere:
Lovers of CHRIST JESUS,
Getting persecutions through the test of time;
Then at a day untold, CHRIST JESUS would break
from the firmament,
When the sky darkened;
Those with the beast mark (tattoo) would be
exposing by the great light;
The sea would vomit (spiritually) every life in it.
There would be no place for them to hide.
They may cut themselves with blades and stones,
wishing to escape the wrath of God.
Judgment for the righteous would be honor but for
the wicked shame.
I have been working in the wings since destiny begins; I have been living in the wings to have a glimpse of everything. I am in here and you are out there and still you don’t know what is happing over here, the crock pot is boiling, the stew is simmering and honey is dripping from my lips.
It has been like this for many years and the machine keeps rolling over here. The sound bellows all night and rattles until daylight and work never ceases even when you are having your midnight sleep.
It is the sound of the drills that erode your nerves and the sanding machine that ruins your dream. I am in the heart of it and sometimes it gives me a terrible fit.
I toil day and night to conquer the wormwood that keeps pulling the substance from the dead and hitting me in the back of my head.
I sleep on hard floor and cook with firewood and live like an outcast hiding in the dark.
I don’t wear a crown or walk around in long gown; I am down to earth and every day I whallah in the dirt.
I drink contaminated water from the pipe but my immune system has a strong defense mechanism to ward off the germs and filters anything that loiter around my heart's door.
I have no soap to wash my frock and no boat or place to dock, the sea has opened its guts to catch the gutter snipes before it impregnates the fish with the broken dish.
The temperature is cooling down as the masquerade sets foot into this promiscuous town, the villagers are walking around in shame and the lion’s jaws are locked in the den.
Mr. Interest is crawling on its knees and inflation is walking around with broken limbs oh what a terrible sin.
It’s not going to rise anytime soon; its hands and feet are in a cast so do your thing so that you can get the profit in.
You strike for wages, you strike for everything. Spread out the entire striking request on the floor, walk over it ten times and count to three before you walk through the door. Meet me at five at the restaurant and we will settle the matter over dinner.
You are locked in illusion out there, but we are working out our hearts out over here, the heavens will arrange a meeting with the skies before you fly to remove the danger that is baked into the clouds and send ripples of hope throughout the town.
I am living in the wings.
I cannot find words to speak, I am full up to my cheek; my chest is swelling with heat and I can hardly breathe, and as the morning drags on I can feel the tension moving in my feet and my muscles suddenly gets stiff and daylight speaks to my longing soul.
It is the other side of me that I cannot see that often makes me weep. In a split second I saw you standing over me with hands and chin resting on the cross board and when I pulled up to get closer you suddenly disappeared; I searched for you everywhere but I could not find you and the morning continues to punish me; the beating wave on the shore breaks through the door and my spirit weeps
It is like a dejavu waking around the town without shoe and the ghost of the north comes to haunt me with offensive words that insult my dignity and I said to my myself, I will spar with the living and condemn the dead.
Every muscles and sinews in my body hurts, and the heavens open when my hand touch the earth, my body cries out for help, but when I look around noone was there and I continue to bear the pressure from the seditious atmosphere. I cannot express how it feels when life is dragging me from street to street and garbage litters both sides of the street.
The principle inside me takes me for a ride and the values walking beside me keeps me alive and when I steps in the mud and takes up garbage from the front and my hands mingle in the dirt, and I am down to earth the people looked at me call me names.
I woke up this morning and couldn’t’ held back the tears that was forming in my eyes, I was cleaning the garbage from the street side and all of a sudden my body starts to cry. But somewhere in the garbage there were some words of comfort to share.
I pulled some garbage out of a box and a note on small card fell out just before I throw it in the fire. The title reads, “A hug for you”, and the rest says,“ here is a hug for you hold it in your hand a token of love, so you will understand that even though now we may be apart the very best hugs happen deep in our heart.”
These words are comforting but they weren’t for me.They were in someone else garbage and I hope that she is smiling. The message in the garbage was for you did you see? It was written in tiny scrip! The message in the garbage s revealing .
I clock in the time that I arrived but all my explanation was in vain, you did not listen to a word that I say and you kept giving me the blame, if I say A, you say B and if I say He, you say She, You kept putting me below the status quo until you got me off the show.
I still have the passion to live and a heart to forgive but life will never be the same, for you have left me cold, naked, empty and bare but I have got the courage within me to cross over the turbulent sea.
I have been working on this story for more than a year and I everytime I take it to you it end up in the garbage bin, it’s as if I have committed a terrible sin, we cannot see eye to eye and sometimes your insults make break down me cry, If you had stop to listen to what I had to say, the election would have gone another way, but you ignore the simple things that would make you win, the ingredients are mixed up poetry is in the soup and it makes a good diet for me and you. There is magic in the soup.
It is the down to earth things that you cannot see and the objects on the set that cause Israel to hold its breath. The Kremlin fed on them too and those in the back pull Ukraine off the track, they could not analyze them properly and it made the Kremlin happy.
The objects on the set send away the mercenaries in a sprinting in body bags, they were criminals without a destiny or a flag. They have committed atrocious so nature did not treat then kind; they had a short run and was quickly put down by the barrel of the gun .
Everyone worked from the same script while others make lots of profit from it. I did some serious work but you kept throwing me in the dirt and you are still not alert.
I have done some serious work but did not get a dime or recognition for it one administration has come and gone leaving me bare and empty on the law.
It the dawn of a new day and I am optimistic that good things will come my way, you have to settle those legal matters and you have to pull the troops out of the fire.
Think of your own sons and daughter, would you want them to perish in the fire, the nasal sprays are on the way and we have to meet without further delay, too many irons are in the fire and you have to get the universe back in order. We are close but there is distance between us.
Somedays, I wake up and my mind is a buzz with the low hum of drunk bees. Other days it's the homicidal scree of the Purge siren meets the absurdity of Happy Gilmore. Those days, the mood stabilizers taste like tic tacs dipped in acid and it spills out of my gaping mouth into my previously placid pen, turning it to poison. My notebook becomes a study in disease, pock marked and creased with roller coaster highs and lows and the frizzing mania inbetween unfolds like an old moth eaten static charged blanket covering the gouged pages with foul temper, brutal honesty, utter despair, and doomed flights of fancy.
It's a curse, like a lesbian lost to menstruation...shes paying rent in a house she doesn't live in, the lonely walls sing or scream it all depends on the dopamine. Sometimes, I want to draw these breath stealing fiends, but their shape eludes me, they slide over my fingers like the rainbow slick of an oil spill, tangible but unable to be captured, just enough residue sticks to my fingers, daring me to try and paint the face of it on the sidewalk.
Somedays, theres jet fuel in my veins and my hands are brushes and my skin in an untreated canvas; the cool pigment dries and hardens inti crackling waves of war paint. My yawp shakes the trees and the birds and the needs, yes THE bees startle skyward into patterns flung by the breeze, stippling the sky in polka dotted relief. These days burn like untreated leprosy. Because, as bits fall away, I know the meat underneath is really me. I come crashing down to earth face first, eating my teeth so that the gaps in my smile are the map of a picasso and so my veins spew blue and my face twists upon itself like it was trapped in one hell of a vacuum, but you can still taste the salt of my tears and hear the howling of the out of tune guitar weeping in my uneducated fingers.
The area between the twp poles is the buzzing radio wormhole radiating lazy circles impaled by tight frantic circles, intersected by crazy 8s and venn diagramed with healthy doses of rage, creating a vomit inducing masterpiece of optical illusion bubbles swelling and flowing in wiggling vertigo. Illness is art. Art transforms illness. It's not always beautiful. Sometimes beauty is in the intersection of fascination and revulsion.
He meandered lonely
just a senior citizen
trawling the pathways of his computer,
when suddenly one day in a flash
an enchanting name jumped from the screen
into his unadjusted head,
whilst still in a daze
he had cut copied and pasted,
the delete key not an option
when sent to his favourites.
Then like magic, poetry began to appear
every single day a new poem would emerge
all written in a familiar dialect,
to begin with down to earth
raw unadulterated poetry
the kind that attaches itself to one’s mind
bores in to the head, rattles around
then lays awhile
then keeps coming on back, over and over again.
Poetry that penetrates, like an arrow,
pierces the heart, tends to linger
deep in one’s consciousness
disarming the most vehement of thought,
poetry that creates calmness
making one at ease, especially one
old with age and recipient of an endowment of excruciating pain!
Soon the poetry began to blossom
as all creations do
in the springtime of their lives,
the purity of Wild flowers, colours of the rainbow
free to sway within the gentle breeze,
soon each daily dose of verse begins to transpire
into carpets of lavender
upon the woodland stage, cascading Bluebells of joy,
the epitome of beauty unfolding
before one’s very eyes.
Again the poetry continues to consolidate,
poems of form formularized those conceived of
the Peace Lillie so sensuous in shape
so assuring in grace, a hard life the Lillie endures
yet one, only of positivity etched into each stanza
of bold narration for all to peruse!
Then a transformation
to the Rose, the very sense of beauty,
when with words of wrought
thy language comforting long into the night
to ease each day a journey of plight,
yet for you sweet Rose
thy poetry, it is not at an end
when to the Orchid you graciously ascend!
Many are those that come and admire
the wonders of your beauty those words on fire,
yet some desire more
with cunning and subtlety
those to manipulate to control
for one’s own ends.
But the Orchid remains safe
suffers no fool,
nurtured in extreme climates
is strong and worldly wise,
the poetry just keeps on coming,
flowing like tears of joy,
from an eye of one who’s happiness
is assured every single day!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
I am twenty-one.
It’s a hot, summer day in 1963.
I’m in Lubbock, Texas, at Reese Air Force Base
And I’m climbing the ladder into a supersonic T-38 jet.
The parachute strapped to my back is cumbersome.
I can feel the sweat running down my legs.
Settling into the ejection seat, I strap myself in,
Attach my G-suit to its umbilical cord,
Connect my oxygen mask, microphone and headphones
To their nearby connections.
I am exhilarated as the plane and I are becoming one.
Yet, I am the master and it will faithfully follow my commands.
I start through my lengthy checklist,
And as I power up each engine,
I feel my supersonic rocket ship coming to life.
The engines’ whine reverberates through my headphones
As the instrument panel comes alive
And the myriad of needles jump and stabilize in unison.
I signal the plane captain to remove the chocks.
He salutes me and I smartly respond.
A gentle nudge of the two throttles starts us on our way.
I close the canopy and turn on the air conditioning.
A cold mist blows out of the vents.
I take my mask off and smell it to make sure it’s not smoke.
It never is.
I pull down my helmet’s visor
And tune the radio to the ground control channel.
My headphones come alive with air traffic chatter.
I can see other T-38’s in the distance taking off and landing,
Gracefully, like giant storks swooping down to earth
And then back up again.
I eagerly await my chance to join the flock
As I feel in complete synergy with my exquisite flying machine.
Now it’s my turn as I pull onto the runway.
I press down hard on the brakes
As I push the throttles forward
And check my engines’ instruments
For the thousandth time.
I focus on the centerline ahead of me
As I release the brakes
And push the throttles into full afterburner.
I feel them rather than hear them
As they explode behind me
Leaving a trail of angry, red hot flames.
Their force pushes me back into my seat
As I accelerate down the runway like a dragster.
I pull back on the stick and feel the wheels leave the ground.
We’re airborne!
Gear up, flaps up, as the ground quickly recedes beneath us.
I point the nose upwards and we head to thirty-thousand feet.
My rocket ship and I are happy.
I am smiling.
Life is good.
Andrea,
a woman considerate and kind, mellow, down to earth, and fun-loving,
she loves to use her mind.
Thefore, scrubbing on her knees, this gal you’ll never find!
Sisters she has four of, but there are many others.
Gal pals she has, who are her sisters from other mothers.
One husband all her life - at times he drives her insane.
Old boyfriends sometimes are subjects of her poems.
They reside in the treasure chest compartment of her brain.
Mother to two is she– one girl and one boy.
Grandma to four – two of whom don’t always bring their parents such great joy!
She loves to eat, so it follows that she loved to learn to cook.
She makes things up and has no need of recipes coming from a book.
She loves to hunt for bargains and save her honey money.
She loves all kinds of movies, both dramatic ones or funny.
She feels great passion for the things she believes are true
and feels she’s learned a lot in life from all that she’s gone through.
Her fears are rather silly. She avoids driving in a strange big city.
It brings her stress, which she detests. She might freak out, which is not pretty.
Changing weird attachments on a vacuum cleaner would
be a thing to stress her out. At puzzles she’s no good.
New technology keeps coming at her job. This also makes her stressed,
but she can sure accessorize. She’s great at getting dressed!
Her greatest fear – seriously – is facing suffering,
so fear of pain and torture (more than fear of death) is her scariest thing.
She saw a lot of Europe when she studied in Madrid.
She got to take one nice cruise, and other things she did
were seeing more than half the states and going to Brazil.
Her husband hates to travel, so it’s good when she was young she got her fill.
She only really wants to see her lovely family.
Because she lives so far away, with them she’d love to be.
And when she dies, her brother Dale she hopes she will see first.
Young he died, and finally . . . with thankfulness for poetry
and for all her other passions she feels her heart might burst!
Dietrich
(edited now with my name showing since announcement of winners!!)
Aug. 1, 2021
For the "This Is Who I Am" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins