Long Dried Poems
Long Dried Poems. Below are the most popular long Dried by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dried poems by poem length and keyword.
On A Nail
Dust pan on a nail.
Worn out burgundy sofa in the corner.
A scratched window pane
and empty liquor bottles.
Bruised black banana in a brown bowl.
A discarded nylon stocking.
Lipstick marks on a cracked mirror
and tear-stained tissue paper.
A ripped up photograph on a bureau.
A dusty blanket and a broken porcelain vase.
Torn lace panties.
Spilled contents from a cheap jewelry box.
Dust pan on a nail.
Dried up toothpaste in the wash basin.
Fourteen strands of blond in the bristles of a brush.
A gaping green purse.
Rosary beads scattered on a scarlet bed spread.
Red strangulation marks on a svelte neck.
Stiff yellow corpse in the shower.
Two eyes bulging from crusty sockets.
Blood stains on the tile floor.
A black dagger next to a white bathtub.
Stale yellow liquid in a toilet bowl.
Dust pan on a nail.
2.5 cups of chickpeas
2 egg yolks
3 t of lime juice
4 tablespoons of garlic
1/2 onion
1/2 flaked fish
1/2 t of dried thyme
4 T shredded coconut
1 teaspoon of smoked paprika
4 T toasted sesame seeds
2 Tablespoons of flour
2 T cornstarch
deep fat fry in
a mixture of
olive oil and avocado oil.
2 T cayenne
4 tablespoons of powdered cream cheese
drain pea
ground in f. processer
add spices vegies and fish
pulse. add yolk lime juice
make sheres, refrigerate,
deep fry in olive oil and avocado oil.
mayo
relish
T sour cream
chives
1 T. cognac
dilute spirt with lemon juice.
and honey.
we boiled the country ribs
seasoned them when they were done
and BBQ'd them under a broiler with
a tangy BBQ sauce
steamed asparagus with
garlic lemon butter
Hazelnut and pound cake
cupcakes with marzipone topping and vanilla icecream dessert.
They called it
Allusvain Sandite
The layer beneath
The sircrete, which
Had used both cement
And tar to create a
Permanent seal.
They used bankrun gravelsoil
To cover the aircrete
And when dried they soothed
The surface with
A high quality concrete.
Ten inches thick in a
Reinforced concrete layer
Filled with sand and stone
The rooftop for the hobbit
House. A masterpiece
Beautiful, at a fraction of
The cost
Lumberyard scrap walls
Encompasses the concrete
Mass. Lumber, scorned and
Oiled.
The hobbit house on a rises
Slab, affordable under what
Is recognition for best budget
Living standards.
Friends and family unite to
Make the cost more affordable.
Wandering aimlessly in a cold, dark mist,
I follow, but my feet do not lead me—
tethered to something I cannot see.
A world kissed with sadness,
where sunlight is forgotten,
and things are born only to nightmares.
Soulless demons laugh in a sea of madness,
but they speak through me.
I listen closely to the raven’s call,
its wings cutting through the dark,
a question too afraid to answer.
"Praying hard for our world not to end,"
I whisper into the void,
but it does not answer.
We ask,
Will it be for the penance of men?
We bury the answer beneath our sins—
but the road leads back to the same place,
again and again.
Follow north for the call of the wild,
but the wild does not need us.
It is the cry of the children we’ve abandoned,
the forgotten cries of innocence.
Lay in fear as the dark raven crows—
it carries a truth we dare not face.
He lived on this earth for a time and a half,
long enough to see the way it unfolds—
the firstborn of all men will die,
and this death was written before the ink dried.
He played a tune to the old man’s laugh,
but we no longer hear it.
Ask them the questions. Tell them no lies.
But the answers have been forgotten,
lost in the wind and the dust.
A cry for freedom
becomes just another whisper,
drowned by the noise we create.
The words mean nothing anymore.
Mind over matter,
cry over sins,
but neither will save us.
Their lives are over now,
ended before they began,
frozen in time,
no chance for redemption.
Into the valley of death, fear no evil—
the words burn as they are spoken,
because they are not a command,
but a surrender,
a recognition that we are already here,
already walking towards what cannot be undone.
We are the lost,
the forgotten,
the ones who have crossed the line
we can never return from.
Into the valley of death, we march.
Forward, no matter the cost—
though the cost has already been paid,
in blood, in cries, in silence.
But we move onward,
because that is all that’s left to do.
Bring me your souls,
and I’ll make it our last.
The raven’s shadow swallows the light,
and we are left in the dark.
Into the valley of death, follow me now.
No more lies, no more pleas—
the end is not an end, but the beginning
of what we have always been.
In Flight ***
Husband, on alert
To any change in my every breath —
My darling, my caretaker, so
Always concerned —
As you sit there across from
My perhaps sleeping —
during these long hours —
I wonder
Do you ever wonder
where I am?
Do you see how I have traveled
With my soul — far? Far.
Does the glinting line of my tears
Give any hint?
Does your heart call out for
Search parties
To trample, to poke through the dried leaves
Of my journals — recorded journeys —
and then go on to investigate
Evidence of my years of unstoried flights
That I hope your soul will come to join,
To a touch Divine.
Prayer sends Glory’s tears to run over
Onto my pillow.
Do not fear,
I journey far
Beyond valleys and mountains
In music
— Leaving trails of breadcrumbs
As directed by the Holy Spirit...
So meant
To follow. Follow.
— I am not here.
Selah.
————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 7/2022
From the original 2020
Thanks be to God…
A Drop In The Ocean
Life had given me no parachute for what was and if it had then
silken sulk would have terminally fallen with ignition on impact
Grounded and rock bottom ‘zero zilch kaput’ for only lonely more
nothingness left but oncoming train lights in razor wire tunnels
No more tears to rip apart the residue in rock pools of dry tears
of desiccated love congealed darkness and broken drowning heart
Out of nowhere in one last ditch attempt one trench of last sorrow
oblivion squeezed one more drop from my torn twisted tear glands
It landed with your agonised droplet pressed from your deadening
pain and merged your void with my void as we could not avoid
the void any longer and we slipped on two tear drops merging our
journeys dried river bedding turned into moist dew of longing and passion
We landed and heavens above springs from below conjoined into one
and the heat of the moment melted our frozen Universe with the moon
pushing waters in pulling waters out crescendo climax fertile flooding
new land novel feelings delta of loving long lost mourned now reborn
Two magic teardrops slipped out of their way to slip into each other
just like us for eternity melted together at hip mind emotion and reason
Two drops fallen two soul mates one miracle landing
20th June
Contest: I slipped on a tear drop and landed
Sponsor Cindi Rockwell
As the orange sun dives
below the horizon
The bushman long back
from daily hunt
and rested
Now tells the clan the
legend of the ancient
noon:
'The earth', he says, 'was
not mostly flooded
The earth, indeed, was
once densely wooded
The earth was a beauty,
sublime and quiet
Till man became god and the
earth his diet.
Man built great caves from
rocks, sand and
water
He became a great bird and
flew the clouds
Became a fish and roamed
every ocean
His whispers could go
anywhere all times.
Man became a long snake
that spat out
soot
That ate vast forests and
plucked hills from root
Then air became strangled
with smoke and
died
And soil became poison and
flowers dried.
In anger man turned a ball
of fire
Consumed himself and
unlocked the oceans
This island was once the
highest mount top
The ancient ruins lie
beneath these waters.'
His tale, though old, still has
its cold venom
As all lament over man's
lost kingdom.
The old, relaxed; we pour ourselves a glass.
There is no need to stretch or change our way.
We know the flavors here; the only task:
ensuring it is just like yesterday.
Like sediment, this attitude does weigh;
we lie immobile, deign to be disturbed,
exchange bouquet for residual gray,
our appetite for joy, completely curbed,
our thoughts reserved to naught but that which is deserved.
Thus, when it comes along, we’re unprepared;
our skins are too inflexible to grow.
The thought of making room just leaves us scared,
so we eschew the new for what we know.
That which does not comport, we must forego,
and in this way, we struggle to survive;
our aging, brittle walls, like Jericho,
must be torn down to breathe, to come alive,
for we were meant to stretch, that we might truly thrive.
A leopard cannot shed its spots alone;
a dried out husk cannot make itself new.
The old man must be utter overthrown
before with new wine he can be imbued.
The old skin, by a Word, banished from view,
no longer to restrict and much annoy;
a transformation occurs through and through:
the old man dead, a child of God, a boy
who bubbles forth in endless, effervescent joy.
----------
Musings on Matthew 9:17
These are Spenserian Stanzas, 10A:10B:10A:10B:10B:10C:10B:10C:12C
My dad was always this mystery
A shadow from the past I never knew
My mom rarely talked about him
And I never begged for another clue
I met him as I turned eighteen
We went to a Rolling Stones concert
And it seemed somewhat surreal
To be as dried as the vacant desert
He gave the keys to my Mustang
A brown, little hatchback from 1980
It was wheels for a little bit
Even if it could barely go above 80
I was in Nebraska for one week
With him as he worked as a handyman
We talked and were catching up
But I know not what makes him a man
I met my half-brother in Omaha
When I went to visit many years ago
He clung to me like the memory
Of being a brother I may never know
(Both my dad and brother are named Daniel.)
Remember the times, remember the days when beauty was an untouched gift,
before combs straightened and broke, before curls were burned and hidden,
under artificial wigs, when we were beautiful, oh, so white and beautiful,
when white character was natural beauty, full forms, the Shaven White,
"beautiful as snow" naturally! White, without chemicals, without perm,
without Madame Anyone, without buying illusions of beauty from afar,
without being synthetic beings, how can I feel beautiful with someone else's hair?
No strand of beauty yet, yet or false braids hanging down the back,
as if you woke up, however you were born, you wore proudly,
but the natural beauty of white Europe, truly awakened,
just us, clean and sun-dried, our combed White shining brightly,
clean blonde hair, sharp as a razor, fists clenched in defiance,
against oppression and beautiful, with bold and courageous looks,
"a natural," they said, with admiration and respect in their voices,
"natural, pure beauty," remember, when we were beautiful,
when beauty was more than a concept, it was a declaration,
a manifesto of our soul, a story told through every strand of hair,
a poem of our identity, a symphony of pride and courage,
a dance of freedom written on the sky of memories, a song of ancestors,
that enveloped us in the light of eternity, when we were not just beautiful, but free.