Long Dread Poems
Long Dread Poems. Below are the most popular long Dread by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dread poems by poem length and keyword.
Most of my days sailed by quickly with routine and precision.
Only on rare occasions were there alterations or complications.
But once upon a special sunny afternoon, I knew not what awaited
me soon. I drove upon a parking lot with but few parkers, but there
were plenty of trees to welcome the many busy birds that gathered.
And to my dread, there was but one lone baby bird, abandoned I say
and forsaken, and not a single chirp was heard. Heaven was working,
but none other was neither looking nor lurking. Moreover, a sparrow I did see with very little hope of a tomorrow. Upon spotting him and realizing how he was so soon to be at one with the pavement, I rushed to the little one to give aid and to rescue him.
I tell you, my first moments with him were of the sweetest kind that I have ever been privileged to experience. His Maker and mine spared his life just in time. With questions and doubts, I knew not what my further mission would be; but very quickly I saw the open sky in my vision. I then released the baby birdy to the heavenly sky, and I sighed the brevity of our friendship
as he flapped his little wings and said goodbye.
030921PSCtest, Your Favorite Poem from 2021, Julia Ward
Race over now:
Blue makes way then,
Red gains somehow,
New mandate hence.
The vote is in:
Flair in odd choice,
A new glyph seen,
Triumph of mad poise.
Wary world sees:
Markets on edge,
Stakes falling free,
On dangling ledge.
Sense the divide:
Mind-boggling stars,
Watch scary slide,
Tattoo strokes far.
Cheer takes a trip:
So far away,
Reason fails grip,
Dead logic slays.
Pieces of eight:
Parrots old fear,
Dread in gold plaids,
This much paid clear.
The people's choice:
Loud murmurs steal,
Stance in grave voice,
Art of the deal.
Awe strides with shock:
Tinge of regret,
Hurl lock and stock,
Pluck tit-for-tat.
Alarm bells ring:
Dance of new trance,
Karma can swing,
Glimpse hawkish prance.
Leon Enriquez
09 November 2016
Singapore
I stumbled barefoot through fractured noon,
Where lamplight bloomed like a fossil's tune.
The sky was stitched with electric thread,
Held up by whispers from things long dead.
The clocks ran backward, then sideways, then wept,
And time was a sock no one had kept.
The trees grew bells instead of leaves,
And wolves wore monocles, eating beliefs.
Not just dire ones—oh no, much worse:
There were squid that sang in Morse code verse,
And pigeons quoted Baudelaire,
Sipping gin in perfumed air.
The mammoths glowed in silent prayer,
And lizards preached from folding chairs.
The moon had teeth, the rivers laughed,
And gravity forgot the craft.
"Welcome," hissed a beetle in tweed,
"To the Archive of Unnatural Need.
Here we keep what should’ve stayed gone,
What science stitched and ego spun."
They hadn’t just brought back one lone beast—
They rewrote nature's birthday feast.
A party of errors, a cake of regret,
I asked them, “Why?” They answered, “Yet.”
And in this world of brilliant wrongs,
Where dinosaurs sang breakup songs,
I felt a tug—not fear, but awe—
As if I’d slipped outside the law.
A camel danced with a one-eyed crow,
A snail grew wings and wouldn’t slow.
And through it all, a hum remained—
A grief we’d never yet explained.
For every creature bore a cost,
A barcode scar for what we lost.
They weren’t just beasts; they were our proof
That hubris hides in labcoat truth.
And yet, amid the chaos bright,
I saw strange moments born from light:
A child who tamed a clockwork bear,
A blind man learning how to stare.
We made a world with curious seams,
Where ancient blood now fuels new dreams.
And though it shivered, cracked, and bled,
It lived more loudly than our dread.
I left the gate with pockets full—
Of squawking seeds and lullaby skulls.
And now and then, at night I hear
A humming in my soup or ear.
I smile, remembering all that sings
In that wild land of almost-things.
And wonder still, with cautious glee,
If it was real… or just in me.
He’s a man of few words when he wants to be
And his silence can rival the Sphinx,
But be spins a good yarn during therapy
With his analyst pouring the drinks.
His obsession with fishing’s a mania,
Always dying to dangle the bait.
His aversion to marriage, a phobia,
His fiancée will just have to wait.
It’s all cowboy psychiatry, mirrors and smoke
In some Freudian home on the range.
Though this good ol’ boy’s often laid out on the couch,
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
He’s obsessive compulsive habitually
In matters to which he is drawn,
And he’s down at the topless bar ritually,
Unless there’s a football game on.
He’s conflicted about schizophrenia,
Thinks anxiety’s nothing to dread.
He exhibits selective amnesia,
And he’s passive aggressive in bed.
It’s all cowboy psychiatry, cognitive bull,
And those inkblots are all kind of strange.
He’ll always deny its denial, no doubt.
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
Regardless his problems,
He’d rather be thera-pissed off, than thera-pissed on.
Headline News:
Cross the Seas Arrival
Killer Hornets Near
Relentless force of steroid nature
Buffed hornets in out-sized wing chanting
Swarm-buzz of aggression
Predators to hapless honey bees
Poison stings like silver arrows.
Venom shrapnel from combat incursion.
New fodder for Hollywood flick diversion.
Part of a new fear landscape
in pandemic turmoil.
Forest peace destroyers in what
flies, lurches and stings.
Fear in re-jigged planet living cringe.
Media bursts of unending dread.
More psychic danger than real threat?
Time of apocalypse reckoning?
Nothing here to sooth your nerves undone
Even so, in a biblical plague,
shield your eyes,
and run!
I do not fear death
nor dread my last breath.
I'll leave this physical realm
to where I don't know.
But I'm set to go:
these thoughts tend to overwhelm.
Relinquishing life
for an afterlife,
curiosity numbs fear.
Though life's bonds sever,
Souls live forever:
faith tells me to persevere.
To find out that God
is not just a fraud,
would be all I could hope for.
For if heaven's true,
then God's love is too,
and therefore my soul shall soar.
If death's a long sleep,
there's no need to weep;
I'll blink out, forever free.
And never feel pain
or anguish again:
it seems a win-win to me.
“The Smell of your hair after the rain”.
I'm lost for words, I Shake my head,
I take your hand,
You stop to stare at me... staring at you.
What: Who do we see?
Dream? a nightmare? or the real?
I squeeze your hand....
Brush a hair from your smile.
Lost in silence.
Let’s walk for a while.
Lost for words,
Lost in our smiles,
Looked into our soul's,
We looked into our eyes,
I’ve searched for you....
for my whole life, but now.
Now that you are here:
Standing in front of me,
Is the person you see.... the real me?
Eyes cast down:
Afraid to look up,
These feelings of fear cannot be explained,
More to lose, more to gain?
Is there no pulse?
No refrain?
Only....
The Smell of your Hair after the Rain
Is our love is dead?
How can this be?
Feelings of loss!
These feelings of dread.
I've searched for you,
for my whole life.
only to find?
Termites in our hearts.
Termites in our heads.
Termites in our lives.
Termites in our bed.
Our love is dead!
Just: Our last refrain!
And the Smell of your Hair after the Rain!
(c) London F. Busss 2023
All this chaos you created, like a contagion you conveyed.
You cherish cunning and deceit, as you claimed.
Like a disease you spread your misfortunes and unsureness of the world that you lived in.
As a child I wished you were gone, as you beat me and belittled me until I bled.
This in your mind earned you your street cred, as you punished the people around you until you fled.
From the burdens and blunders that you dread, but dare declare an empty reply with that.'' Your sorry''.
All this worry and woe, tiptoeing around you- oh, how I must have misjudged you when you muttered,'' your sorry.''
Oh the worries cultivated a collection of complications, that piled up, needing a lorry to carry them around.
No, I won't shed a single tear from fear or pity, as I wish you were gone.
But it's okay for you to utter your hollow, 'Your sorry.''
While I was out walking one sunny day.
I turned into the forest, and I lost my way.
It was dark and cold. I soon felt a chill.
Next, I heard a sound that made me feel ill.
I went from full sunlight and having much fun.
To a canopy of trees that now blocked the sun.
What followed next was an awful sound.
It filled me with dread. They were the Fear Hounds!
I must keep running I thought, to remain free.
These hounds of the mind want to devourer me.
I rushed through the dark forest, thick with vines.
Their purpose only was to entangle my mind.
My hands were all sweaty and it sped up my heart.
Reality and fiction, I could not tell apart.
I ducked behind Rocks of Meditation, trying to ease my mind.
The hounds lost my scent for a very short time.
They soon sensed my panic. I knew they could tell.
Because once again, they were tight on my trail.
“Help me dear Father”, was all I could cry!
Lord, please come to my aid, I do not want to die.”
A surge of energy suddenly came over me.
The fear of the hounds stopped, and I suddenly felt free.
The forest gave way to the sun’s rays ahead.
I no longer had those feelings of dread.
As I stepped out into a beautiful, flowered field.
Joy and contentment welcomed me, and it was so real.
The Sun bent down and kissed my face.
There was peace in my heart. I felt so safe.
I no longer could hear those awful sounds.
The growl and snarling of the dark wooded hounds.
I now walk in God’s light, and it keeps me free.
And what lurks in the dark forest can now never harm me.
I deem it important to attend church for my spiritual maturation.
I really savor the fellowship of a loving and caring congregation.
I especially relish the potluck suppers and other social interactions,
But even in this worshipful scenario, there are bound to be distractions!
Now, I don't mind the preacher pounding his pulpit to gain attention,
Or the occasional "amen" from a dear sister for her comprehension,
But that feller across the aisle who always sings off-key and out of tune,
Sounds like a murder of cranky crows or an out of sync bassoon!
I thrill at a great rendition of "How Great Thou Art" by the choir,
And the crescendo of the organ as it grows higher and higher.
Even the woman belting out her mezzo-contralto doesn't bother me so,
But that feller across the aisle who murders "Amazing Grace" has got to go!
I can tolerate little children who holler and scream now and then,
Or the occasional raucous ringing of a cellphone now and again,
But I approach congregational singing with little or no anticipation,
When that feller across the aisle brays, "The Churches One Foundation!"
I don't mind the snoring of the guy who occupies the pew behind me,
And I can abide the pastor's profound homilies to a certain degree.
But how I dread to hear that feller's odious and tuneless strain!
(I suppose I could move to another pew to ease my Sabbath bane!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)