Long Drop Poems
Long Drop Poems. Below are the most popular long Drop by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drop poems by poem length and keyword.
In the labyrinth of shadows, within the night of my soul,
I wander through shattered dreams and fragments of hope,
My heart, a battlefield, bearing invisible scars,
Like a sky full of falling stars, each wish a tear.
I recall the days when my smile was a sunrise,
The trust, my armor, now only fragments remain,
Their shadows haunt me, in a silent waltz,
Loneliness dances around me, like a phantom.
Every decision, every step taken, I doubt them,
Questions without answers, an echo lost in mountains,
Was it love or just an illusion, a dream in which I was lost?
Now, only thorns remain, the flowers have withered in silence.
Regrets are like rain, streaming over my empty soul,
Each drop, a memory that hurts, that breaks,
I try to free myself, but the weight of the past holds me,
Like an invisible chain, bound to my wounded heart.
Yet, somewhere in the depths of darkness, a light flickers,
A sliver of hope, fragile yet constant,
Every day, I struggle to lay down the burden, to forget,
But the burden catches me in a vicious circle.
The echoes of the past refuse to leave, haunting me like ghosts,
I'm too afraid to take a step forward, to follow my heart,
But I know I must move on, to find a new beginning,
Though it may take time, it's time to listen again to the voice of my soul.
In this stream of thoughts, I let myself be carried by melancholy,
Trying to find peace amidst the storm,
I know that somewhere, beyond the dark clouds, a sunrise awaits,
And my heart, though wounded, will find the strength to love again.
Her tears fall like rain on a borrowed shore,
A quiet deluge, seeping through seams,
Staining the fabric of a life not hers—
His shirt, his collar, his cuffs worn thin,
Drenched in the salt of a love forbidden.
She weeps for him, the man she holds
In the hollow of her chest, a stolen flame,
A fire that warms her, yet chars her soul.
Each drop a confession, a mute apology,
To a heart that beats for what it cannot claim.
She traces the threads with trembling hands,
His scent a tether, his warmth a ghost,
Her love a river with no mouth to run,
Pooling in silence, drowning her slow.
The wrong woman, they call her—
A thief of glances, a beggar of time,
Yet she gives all, her tears the proof,
A currency spent on a debt unpaid,
Soaking his clothes with her breaking truth.
And then the wife, the keeper of vows,
Lifts the sodden cloth from the basket’s weight,
Her fingers brush the damp of grief not hers,
A stain she cannot name, yet feels too well.
She washes the shirts in a rhythm old,
A ritual of care turned bitter with knowing—
The tears of other women weave through the warp,
Heartbreak stitched into the weft of his wear,
A tapestry of sorrow she scrubs in vain,
For the water runs clear, but the pain remains.
The wife’s hands pause, the suds grow still,
She senses the echo of a stranger’s ache,
A chorus of fractures pressed into his skin—
How many tears have kissed these sleeves?
How many hearts have wept their claim?
She wrings the cloth, and with it, her peace,
The laundry a shroud for a marriage worn thin,
Each tear a thread unraveling trust,
A silent war waged in soap and rust.
The wrong woman cries, the wife washes on,
Two souls bound by the man between,
His clothes a battlefield, soaked and cleansed,
A map of longing, a ledger of loss.
One loves in shadow, one in light,
Yet both bleed red beneath the strain—
Tears that fall, and hands that mend,
A cycle of hurt with no clean end.
For love, unshared, is a wound too deep,
And the shirts he wears bear all they weep.
On the morning after, from a stormy rainy night
I sit on my stoop watching the sun grow bright
Stillness and silence deaf my ear
Silenced sounds are everywhere
Chicks peek from a hole in the tree
On a cable, the chicks parents watch; quietly
Not even the leaf's on the tree sway
Silence deadens the noise away
The hare in the grass- not once, did he hop
The dewdrops on the roses- can't even drop
A puddle rests motionless atop' my table
Mirroring the shadows of the birds on the cable
Porch'd- a rocking chair sits still and unoccupied
I'm happy the old man- has not yet died
He stares from his window all comfy and warm
Smiling, the morning after the rainy nights storm
Each day I go to work to graze at my desk,
I pass many a sullen cow grazing in the field.
They have ropes around their necks that bind
them to a peg,
And I a tie around my neck to bind me to my desk.
Through my large office window, I see calves torn
from their mothers:
Farmer wants their milk, and their milk he will have.
Through the door across the floor, I see my kids
turned away:
Boss milks my time and energy, and not a pint will
he share.
That's why my kids cry each day I leave for work:
'Tis the pain of knowing that when that night
Boss drops me home, all he'll drop are drops of me.
O lord, that's all they can have, my poor little kids:
drops of my energy, drops of my time—drops of me!
I dropped out of high school in August of 1986.
In 1993, that was a mistake that I decided to fix.
I was only fifteen years old when I dropped out.
When I ask people not to make my mistake, there is no doubt.
I studied from April of 1993 to June of 1995 and it was very cool.
I studied for twenty-six months until I graduated from high school.
Some people mistook my diploma for a GED but it's not.
I didn't take the easy way out like those people thought.
I became a high school graduate thirty years ago today.
Don't drop out of school like I did because it's not okay.
(I graduated from high school thirty years ago today on June 21, 1995)
Lovelies, let’s gather ‘round.
Grab your citrusy orange.
Hold it in your palm —
it’s the whole world.
Each one contemplates
the world. We have a world
of thought inside of us.
Christ born! Christ died for us!
Lovelies, have you got
the whole world in your palm?
Find a birthday candle, push
into the center of your world. Light it up!
Watch the flicker. He’s the center
of our belief. The light — savior
of this dark world. An orangeburst
of life, the craving for eternity.
Now a red ribbon, fasten ‘round
the waist of the world.
Lovelies, this is the blood of Christ.
He didn’t waste a drop.
Christ’s side was pierced, no red.
Water ran out instead. Completely
drained, his human experience profuse,
Our transfusion of mercy and grace.
Skewers, four seasons of fruit.
Juicy or dried, but delicious, satisfied
sanctification of each one, the saints.
Look to the Bishop of our Souls, the flame.
Fruit of the Spirit — love, joy, peace,
patience, kindness, goodness
faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
Remind us! Let us see Christ inside us.
Christingle, look at it!
The loveliest of the lovelies
we celebrate. His birth, life,
death, resurrection and ascension.
Christingle reminds us
to remember his sacrifice, his love
for the whole world. What you hold
in your palm, infuse in your heart.
12/21/2020
All year long it's iced coffee season,
in that hot tub or during a blizzard.
Filled to the brim bare bones bitter,
invigorated I am FINALLY awake.
You don't want to see me without it.
The temperature matches my mood,
hard and cold and utterly relentless.
Caffeine won't ever be the side piece.
Hot air never did too much for me.
I'll let warmth dissipate into action,
snowflakes make a strong brew swirl.
Caught up in the art of the freezing,
during the heat of an atomic summer
that drop dead shiver fires you up.
Twenty below or during a heatwave,
Iced coffee season is all year long.
Today I sit silently still,
love ill...
I watch raindrops drip from hanging leaves,
weaved clouds change colours of pink and gray
while a stray drop tumbling finds my fingertips
as if nature’s lips have kissed my skin.
I breathe in to find you just perfectly there
amidst the rare beauty that steals a breath,
that feels a heartbeat against my chest.
A thought as a memory caught of love in my soul,
in an instant my whole world is still.
love ill…
I feel the drop run down my wrist
and twist beneath my humbled smile
like a child soaked in the sunlit sky,
mind dancing high upon your physical gaze
as the days grow aged my heart grows more
and I am raw behind the door I silently fall.
My affection is drenched by your sensual soul,
deep brown eyes that feel what hands fail to
I see in you the raindrop of a lover’s tear
and the fear found in the field of life’s call
I fall...
as I wish to tell you all…
That I love the way your being moves,
the way your energy moves me when I am near.
How I hear you laugh from inside your heart,
an exquisite art of timeless sound,
how we play around with words and visions,
created collisions that fascinate my mind.
I love the way I find your brilliant smile
while it floats around like the air we breathe,
like a bud flowering as Spring sheathes the ground
I am spellbound by your everything.
That I love how you think of light touching shade,
how you find the frayed edges of life intriguing,
intrigued by how I have seen you bleed.
Tears of two worlds you walk between,
obscene how I feel loved when you’re against me.
That I love the energy that is we…
That I love the way your mind pierces through,
that I am so very in love with you.
Just one drink and I'd be down
Acting like a foolish clown
Since I've never had a drop
I would stumble, I would plop
Against walls and onto floors
Whacking into hard wood doors
Slurring speech and saying words
That are coming out absurd
Eating and making a mess
BBQ sauce on my dress
Making my friends laugh with glee
At this different side of me
They are glad to be seeing
As I'm getting a warm feeling
Down my leg I can't control
Embarrassed to my very soul
As the group at my friends table
Tells me of their first drunk fable
As we joke and laugh a lot
Ordering another shot
Till we're in our nice warm beds
Safe at home with throbbing heads
1
Bella
He
opened
the window-
in streamed his first
love
with
flowers,
dressed
in white-
she haunted his
art.
An Ekphrasis in lanterne sequence on Marc Chagall
2.
FLAMING JUNE an ekphrasis
A
flimsy
negligee
betrays her round
shape-
an
honest
innocence
in becalmed deep
sleep.
After Frederick Leighton
3.
PERCEPTIONS
The
painter
creates the
appearance of
things-
we
thereby
see each of
them in a new
light.
An ekphrasis after Kirchner
4.
REVELATION
Drop
by
drop-
into the
unconscious
mind.
Ekphrasis inspired by Pollock's style
ACCIDENTS IN TIME and SPACE a Pollock Ekphrasis
A counterpoint to tease floating
paint in swirls and mounds full
of radiant energy and surprise,
an adventure for our eyes,the
texture comes alive.
Opulence ,intricate yet plain
apparent yet unreal accidents
in time and space,colour
flowing without restraint