Long Drowse Poems
Long Drowse Poems. Below are the most popular long Drowse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drowse poems by poem length and keyword.
Untold brutal tales of wives battered.
World all over, violated wedding vows,
in merciless kicks, her screams drowse.
Black-eyed Cindrella, dreams all shattered.
Injured love hurts... in horrific nightmare.
Red petals pumelled in dark blood clots.
"Where to go? ",.. endures silent thoughts.
Despair of booze reeks, why life so unfair?
The thrown plate of food.. hurled in his fist
She keeps saving son from the hard slap.
Will there ever be.. an escape from the trap?
Give him another chance,..how can she resist?
Gagged mouth break ribs, heart beats in fear
He will beat her again, knows the wounded wife.
Legs shake, as he threatens a kitchen knife.
Broken things gathered, silence dries her tear
Mildewed minds... in violent homely terror
Scars of bruise all hidden, so well inside a veil
A helpless slave in pain, insecure and frail.
A Taliban is in reign.., can we not rescue her?
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Domestic Violence on women by husbands has been recognized by WHO as a global problem leading to death and injury of millions of women.
Globally, as many as 38% of murders of women are committed by a male intimate partner.Global estimates published by WHO indicate that about 1 in 3 (35%) of women worldwide have experienced either physical and/or sexual intimate partner violence.
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stephen pennell sponsored Contest
Protest poem : A poem with a message
Dated 9th February 2019
[Verse 1]
No place to go
if the door to your heart is closed,
When your love stays my subject,
even when I doze,
Yet you keep ignoring
the true love I propose.
You're already driving me nuts, everyone knows,
Though many loves abound,
to yours, none comes near close.
[Pre–Chorus]
Day by day, to have your love I pray,
Less and less the words I've left to say,
More and more in frustration I lay,
Yet my feet aren't entirely of clay.
[Chorus]
I sincerely love you – all over me it shows,
Why not drive my heart to wherever your own goes,
And stay there to listen to this song I compose?
Maybe the truth concealed in my heart will expose.
[Verse 2]
The elegance of your beauty
makes my heart bow,
It's like wine –
it intoxicates and makes me drowse,
Many fish in the pool,
but your gold fish I chose.
I'll stay by your side
no matter the jabs life throws.
[Pre–Chorus]
Day by day, to have your love I pray,
Less and less the words I've left to say,
More and more in frustration I lay,
Yet my feet aren't entirely of clay.
[Chorus]
I sincerely love you – all over me it shows,
Why not drive my heart to wherever your own goes,
And stay there to listen to this song I compose?
Maybe the truth concealed in my heart will expose.
[Bridge]
Your neglect has turned your love
to a throne of throes,
Your indifference is why I'm mocked
by my foes,
It seems as though in your veins
only hatred flows,
Your love life sways
to wherever wild wind blows.
[Pre-Chorus]
Day by day, to have your love I pray,
Less and less the words I've left to say,
More and more in frustration I lay,
Yet my feet aren't entirely of clay.
[Outro – Prechorus Variation]
To have your love I pray, day by day,
The words I've left to say, less and less,
In frustration I lay more and more,
Yet my feet aren't entirely of clay.
The sun blowtorches its way into the water,
fragments, and the bottom is an aqua sky
webbed by white-hot lightning.
Here and there, legs hang like halved mannequins
disappearing into a squiggly-bright ceiling,
through which you can make out
the slurred shape of a poolside palm tree.
The deep, guttural grooon-grooon of
the water’s stomach growling is all you hear,
dredging up a similar sound from your subconscious,
last heard while you were immersed, long ago,
in another fluid world.
The water suddenly internal-combusts
in a tangle of arms and legs,
flailing in a fizz of a million tiny bubbles,
some kid having just somersaulted into the blue.
Soon, another’s face splashes down before you,
slightly albino in the shining water,
bug-eyed with silvered goggles
like a child alien from a waterless planet
discovering buoyancy.
Then you realize it’s your own kid,
wobbling from side to side,
toothy, hair waving like smoke
as he dog-paddles away.
You come up for air, breaching the surface like a
graceless dolphin,
and clarity hits your ears,
a momentarily soundless din.
You can already feel your skin heating up
in the blast furnace above water,
confusing because there are beads
running down your face and neck, cold.
You suck a lungful of air and push yourself under again,
but not before catching a glimpse of your wife
drowse-browsing a magazine on her sun lounger,
and the two umbrellas,
the big one shading the miniature one
stuck in the snowy slush of your pina colada.
To Jules Verne
A man feeling drowse at the top of the mountain, fell asleep.
He dreamed dreams
emanating from floods of seas.
In remote droughts,
he gave his fruit of smoke
on a simple altar.
Curd quartz opened
solidifying thousands of stamens,
they glowed
like the warm reflection of the stars on the sand,
the man kept close watch of the r.e.m. hour.
life is the strife of one baptized
in the depths of all his memories,
yet he forgets before awakening.
Founding himself face to face
with another man holding a frozen fish
and a bucket,
they begun the climb down,
What do you fish when you fish,
he asked,
for a bolt of fire, said the man
as he released the fish into the ground
and rubbed his hands,
cryogenics?
no, fisherman.
With omnivourous appetite,
across the Asian loam
she tiptoes in on felid feet
a coat of rust, fingered deep with sun and heat
not meek, yet gracefully, dripping tar
of black and white which neatly marks her form
With languid movement wild and free
in hunting mode, she prepares her task
with lynx-like eyes, that mirror death
she's one supreme illusionist
Taught by nature to melt in place,
slipping and stalking, lurking while
hiding, leaping, killing prey,
whose lapse, or drowse
will cost the most
It is her task, to pounce in great repose
with practice of her art, composed
She guides me over pathless plains,
where wisps of grass will reach for rain
If once to turn towards camera's eye
I'd capture life before it's gone
The lens will keep forever wild
It knows the cost of what we see
but only fleeting, born to be
so beautiful .... so wild and free
________________________________________________________
Submitted for the Contest sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
"Tigers Living Free" 8/18/13
Off and on, I feel lonesome, can't arise.
I'm in such pain surfeit, can't drowse.
Rolling aside sweeps hurl, toss on the side.
Drop to my knees, leak why I have cried.
Cipher on this planet appeals to me.
Constantly on the stand for the story.
A sapped shell is all that is left empty.
Deserve the sign that dwells is ready.
My heart weeps for your insight.
And your unwavering devotion.
I was ecstatic when left late at night.
And refrain from refuting to any notion.
Or a flower will bud in life's greenery.
Keep your head apart from scenery.
Written: February 18, 2022
A Brian Strand Rime Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
The pungence of heartbreak swelters
in the tangled dreadlocks of love-lies-bleeding
Take me somewhere exotic
to breathe not the foul aroma
of disappointment and despair
Show me fields laced with frangipani and orchids
in colors sweet and light as daydreams
Find me seafoam fields poppied
with pomegranate and honey
opium of jasmine lilting on a leeward drowse
delicious sift of sand drifting
warm and soft between my toes
as coral breezes court flamingo scapes
with pina colada suns
and I drift in and out of hibiscus euphoria
Let a mist of cockatoos flutter
in lapis skies puffed with fat feather clouds
parrots and toucans preening
like a rainbow shimmer
Tingle my pineapple senses
through the afterglow of mango afternoons
Create visions of paradise
in the cerulean of hyacinth
and never bring me back
ALWAYS. ********
Understand. I MUST go
On these clearing acts of
Instinct and inspiration, these flashings
As they come. For a blizzard has
Been moving in and the snow is
Piling up by the foot...So the doors
Must be kept cleared. The temperatures are
Not rising. The storm pounds in
From the west, but I part the curtains awaiting
The sun to gleam up from the east. These
Enemies — oppression and fear — have come
Disguised as beautifully rising white drifts,
Satisfied that I will drowse by the window
As snow turns the entire landscape into silence.
Understand! Encroaching dark shadows are easier
To overcome, for they reach forward bringing
A dis-ease that I must fight and know
They will tremble upon my call to Jesus.
But, this massive blizzard is a masked, deceitful
Effort of death to try my will to live
And act upon what remains to me:
Instinct and inspiration, as born within me.
In the ‘70’s, in Chicago I survived a massive dropping
Of snow over days of falling. Snow was
Shoveled and packed into chest-high,
Undulating routes to trudge as a necessary
Innovation for sidewalks. Once, I stood at
A stoplight on a mound higher than my height.
That was practice in preface for now. See!
All things have their meanings. All things.
I am confirmed. I will shovel
Out from this blizzard with prayer and poetry
And love...I must. I must.
Thanks be to God!
***************************************
(C) sally young Eslinger8/24/2020
Sunday Morning
I try not to wake him, though he stirs slightly
As I crawl out from the warmth of the covers.
I'm tempted to change my mind, and stay awhile longer,
But a glint of sunlight peeks through the blind and calls to me.
If I burrow down again, and drowse too long,
This glorious time of day will be gone...until it comes again tomorrow.
I tiptoe quietly and begin the morning ritual.
The splashing of water on my face, of letting the dog out,
Of brewing the dark, hot liquid that will help to
Open my eyes and recharge my reluctant brain.
The inviting aroma finally wakes my senses, and after
The first sip, I begin to feel the desire to join the world again.
I go outside, step onto the weathered porch, down the steps,
Onto the wet grass to retrieve today's bundled news.
Within it comes a page-by-page account of disasters, obituaries and comics...
I decide to forego all that gloom, and lay the paper beside the front door.
Instead, I drink in the morning air.
The new day is slowly coming alive. There's a slight chill.
This coolness will be baked away later, when the sun is high.
I pull my robe around me tightly, and sit down on the stoop.
Birds are chirping, and soon, I see that neighbors are beginning to embrace the
day.
House by house, there is evidence that awakening has occurred.
A car is cruising by our house. The occupants, wearing their
Sunday best, and on their way to an early service to praise the Lord.
While some are sitting in pews, singing Alleluia,
A man down the street is starting his lawnmower.
Not mindful that the Sabbath is a day of rest,
Or that he may wake a late sleeper.
Inside my house, I hear the sounds of water running and dishes rattling.
Then someone calling my name. In a moment he appears
Carrying two steaming mugs of black coffee, one for him, and another for me.
He's come to see what this new day has offered, and sits down beside me.
We sit together quietly, and soak up the morning sun.
It wraps its warmth around us, like the bedcovers we had abandoned.
No words are needed to enjoy this moment.
However, toast and jam, and bacon await us. So we turn and go inside.
O' Christmas Tree, dear Christmas Tree, you've given us so much pleasure!
Again you've graced our home this Yule Season with beauty we'll ever treasure.
How we look forward every Season to awaken you again from your drowse,
And release you from that confining box to spread your welcoming boughs.
You stand so regal with the angel at your top trimmed with garlands of gold.
With limbs embellished with dainty ornaments, you're a beauty to behold!
Tiny lights gleam from every branch to guide Rudolph and the sleigh,
To leave goodies for the kinder - ah, 'tis such a joy to watch them play!
Alas, we must fold your boughs and muse upon memories ever to remember,
But Lord willing, you'll stand tall again about the first of next December!
How we dread to place you in that confounded box but we know that you'll,
Spring to life in splendor next Noel to warm our hearts with another Yule!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved