Long Engrained Poems
Long Engrained Poems. Below are the most popular long Engrained by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Engrained poems by poem length and keyword.
Pouring out my heart, it’s devoid of all blood
Perhaps more knotted, resembling of redwood
Splinters and shavings, fall away with each thud
Can’t escape this logjam, only wish I could
Pouring out my heart, but it’s failing to bleed
I’m losing my grip, roots won’t let me proceed
Failing right now, to try express what I need
Asking friends to listen, then pay them no heed
Pouring out my heart, packs sawdust in a sack
Peep inside the hessian, can only see black
Empty now, that’s ok, voids always grow back
How come I’m still here, has Jesus cut me slack
Pouring out my heart, clots heavily engrained
Tied to dilemmas, escaping leaves me drained
Worse part of all, my collapse is unexplained
For better or worse, gravity’s not sustained
Pouring out my heart, there’s nothing’s left to pump
Felled to the ground, with the slightest little bump
Prostrate and broken, a fragmented tree stump
I’m resting come join me, make a chair we’ll slump
Pouring out my heart, through a duty of care
The fruits of my labor, look across and glare
I gaze beyond them, thinking life’s over there
Vines grow round my neck, help lift me off the chair
Ellen's Old Tree
It was crumbling brick and decaying wood
The front porch where we once stood
The years were hard and all too many
Now even gone was the hidden penny
Yet, in the back, the tree stood still
With time engrained sturdy will
It held a memory of another and me
Its where I carved J.H. n' E.D.
Fifty years ago when we left that mark
The sky did gray before it went dark
The clouds held back 'til we were done
Then hastily, hastily, we had to run
I walked the still worn path to peek
And see if the letters still did speak
I touched the bark and studied it so
The scars still there from long ago
The sky it grayed as I left our tree
When a boy ‘n girl floated past me
In one hand was his destined life
And in the other a rusty jack knife
So I fell into hell but I lived to tell the tale,
I've got cracks in my shell but cracks will gel,
I disappeared off the radar and richter scale,
and I battled Satan and left his head impaled.
I'm a fighter, a built-in survivor,
warrior wired with a deep inner fire,
burning so bright dark turned to light,
burning so hot that I ceased to fight.
I couldn't let myself give in,
'cus I knew that then I couldn't win,
through all that was happening,
I was never going to collapse in.
I took thed rough with the smooth,
though all the smooth was removed,
held my aim through the pain and the strain,
with never surrender engrained in my brain.
Tropical rain with its lightening frightened me,
but never give in enlightened me logically,
I got to know the enemy and its weakness,
and found a way to attack and beat this.
I went from falling to pieces,
to a world where peace lives,
I beat the beast
and left it deceased.
If you endure the fight you can beat the unbeatable,
tell the world that depression is defeatable!!
If We Try To Ask Why
It was another plain morning in the mundane business belt
until we felt the day stay still, and we knelt to pray at will.
In the decade since our engrained tranquility was strained,
our prayers have waned, and cooperation was not sustained.
As proof time is trained to be aloof to tears of our grieving,
the babies born to widows, our high schools are now receiving.
And in history books, I fear a new chapter must appear …
Alongside its heavy content, the sheen on serene sheets shall screen
the extent of torment The Event means to they who lament …
Until the day they die, for some, when the autumn sun is high
in the September sky, the past and present run as one:
The scene, never done, repeats; people run; the crowd retreats …
And, where the cloud of carnage meets startled city streets,
the ash painting the panorama underpins
our divine Manhattan skyline mourning her twins …
If we try to ask why, theologians will explain,
when God grants free will, evil may reign, despite its pain.
My theory, one of many but as good as any,
is that the gist of why a sadist’s bloodlust exists
isn’t to be endeared to God, but feared like God.
Some philosophers pry, “Why was the September sky
a nearly perfect hue of select, pastel blue?”
The poets sigh, “… because on this date the land stayed dry
when the cascade of nearby angels refused to cry;
they came to fixate upon the souls they had to elevate,
and through the demure azure, the dead felt peacefully lead …”
If we heed our ancestors’ lead, never letting faith recede,
the wealth of our prayers might impede the stealth of the slayers,
but if we try to ask why, our first task may be to find
ourselves resigned to God sometimes being disinclined
to thwart an evil mastermind within humankind.
E. V. Wyler
Proper handshake
No string wrist
Your iconic mustache harboring
A giddy smile
That stretched from Oregon to Maine
Like your Harley once had
I should’ve stirred more conversations
My shyness stifling
The words I wished to speak
Tis why I write this
As words flow poorly
Unless my pen is to paper
Your angelic being left an essential impact on me
I long for you to see this from the afterlife
As a poem is the truest form of gratitude I can offer
Cancer’s viciousness peeled you away
With invisible speed
Like a spiraling tornado
Leaving in its void
A family searching for explanations
Only to be met with the evil head of grief
Your spirit carries on
Through vast memories I hold
Through countless lessons you engrained in me
Through a sensational life lived
When it is time to shake hands again
My wrist will be firm
Eye contact will be made
And a proper handshake given
Mom has always loved antiques
I have never asked her why
Perhaps it's the connection to the past
Maybe the craftsmanship
The smell of ancient wood
The curves
The fact that they were built to last
She turned a passion into a business
A few small pieces in her living room
A sign on a door
Interesting how businesses are born
Bob there by her side
Together building on her dream
There once was an old sawmill
Where men had worked with their hands
Hard work had its demands
Each one did what he could
Their strength remains
Locked within the wood
Those same hands had built mom's home
Over one hundred years ago
Time dripped on it didn't slow
Mom's home became the perfect place
To celebrate the past
Her home and business
Built from things that were made to last
The business grew
Taking over the home
Visits from patrons
Calls on the phone
Busy all the time
No space for them to be alone
It became time
For them to expand
They looked to the future
The life they planned
Built on their historic land
A new addition built from old wood
Soaring ceiling
Above them stood
I remember the beams
Spectacular
From an old barn hewn from fir
Lifted on Bob's wide strong back
Formerly they had been just a stack
A one of a kind home
Filled with love
With bedrooms and landing up above
The kitchen was the centre piece
A place to gather
Filled with love and peace
Love of the past
Hope for the future
Has alway been a part of her
Together melded and celebrated
As a result I appreciate
The solid
The values
The ingenuity
Forever engrained in my blood
My respect for the old
My admiration of antiques
Remnants of the business still remain
The building sold
Mom loves going to auctions
She still sells at local Antique Markets
Sadly Bob has passed on
Thankfully mom has moved on from her sad
She too is made of stronger stuff
Not unlike
Her beloved
Antiques
An old poem and this one is about old things.
For Broken Wings' contest. Written April 13 2013
An apt gift of presence empowers
as an unanticipated
unearned warning misfortune
enlightens apt rapt resilient fortune,
Delighted with discovering,
perhaps rediscovering?
healthy passions I would never have been wise enough
to look up for
nor hunt down.
Timing
is everything.
Time regenerates everywhere,
erupts every when
disrupts every what
corrupts every why
every how;
and merely every thing
somehow?
Nature trained
senses engrained
spirit deep and wide neuro-systemic brained
Transforming change in forbidding appearance
forms strange
grotesquely disempowering
transmogrified degenerative monocultures
Transubstantiating change of inside communion substance
elements
figments
as invisible as unpresented polyculturing presents
not light yet
not still
not quite actively accessible to sense-powered
cognize-able felt reception,
Unformed except for past internal images
body reimagined
rememories
not yet memed,
polyculturally represented
Polypathically etched,
but not yet iconically written
integral sacred secularizing social senses
nonsenses
unsenses
resenses
presensing
Apt presents empower
as yet unlearned warnings enlighten
coincidental apt light
empowering presence
enraptured bright.
Femininity - Anima
Sweet femininity was formed in Eve,
before thrown from the Garden for her sin;
engrained in souls by God, I do believe...
the essence of true womanhood within.
These female traits present themselves in me
through love, emotions, tenderness, and sense
of being led by creativity
in ways that show compassion deep, intense.
Imagination and perception stir
beyond the realm of mere creative art:
sense of aesthetics in all things occur;
a yin and yang of balance must take part.
Maternal instinct lodged within my soul,
the need to comfort with devoted care
my family, as well as to extol
with love, God's earthly creatures everywhere.
Romantic love of sweet and gentle kind
that speaks commitment and fidelity,
with friendship and relatedness combined;
these are the gifts of female traits in me.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Any Poem Written In April 2016
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 07/15/2016
Sandra M. Haight
~8th Place~
Premiere Contest: Animus/Anima--Part 1: Anima
Sponsor: Tom Quigley
Judged: 05/17/2016
Resisting The Repression
Competition between a brother and sister
Rendition of an eighties song all about how much he miss her
War of attrition between two countries facing off without a resister
Ambition of an Olympian to only on race day end up with a blister
Loneliness creeping in before twightlight starts to break and linger
Ghostliness of a past love coming back like a harbinger
Cosiness of a warmth so engrained it lasts throughout the winter
Holiness of a man ordained with the essence of God in his little finger
Warning all who sit in comfort to stretch out beyond their horizons
Forming all the combinations but still required to sleep with the lights on
Storming through the degradation of more arguments to be right on
Mourning the loss of innocence as I’m forced to find a corner with which to fight from
Objectification of a woman by a powerful CEO
Rectification of a statement that would never have passed “go”
Unification of a people who they never wanted to know
Stupefaction of a system that is only there for show
Culmination of a problem as we sit behind screens in isolation
Rumination of a mind inclined to introspective observations
Declaration of a manifesto by a twisted mass shooter caught before the devastation
Aberration of the justice system as the innocent go without advocation
Sociopolitical violence everywhere you hate to look
Hypercritical eyes inside my silence as they analyse a new controversial book
Parasitical environmental activists looking for the next media stunt to hook
Neurotypical minds that are inclined to complain and then to sook
Elimination of the pain that resides in each passing new moment
Annotation of the grammar as I consider the next component
Liberation of a race that has lived under the rule of a tyrant
Consideration of all the elements predicting the next inquirement
Lamentation of the time that’s passed while reluctantly convalescing
Fragmentation of a life that’s lost while psychologically regressing
Cancellation of a genius comedian speaking the truth just like confessing
Aberration at this cultural shift as I I’ll be resisting all this repressing
The End Elizabeth Moroz copyright
I awaken to the woodland scent
of a favored fragrant herb.
Its aroma transcends nocturnal bliss
and then softly seeks so gently to kiss
the distant lingerings in my mind.
Of a cherished place where I had laid
embraced warm in a lavender field
and was but long loved
by its strong perfumes
so fragrantly released.
Overfilling my heart
and infusing my mind
with all earthly bodily pleasures due
Its overwhelming possession of my sensibilities
its passions hence do hold my senses close
as an all encompassing lover
that it doth still now consume.
Its intoxicating signature fragrance,
like no other that hereby exists
The most vivid contemplation of Indigo,
that one could have ever seen
Infusing its heady oils upon my much younger memory
and an older and much sweeter tryst.
The palest shades of those lavender flowers remembered
each blossom a sweet sachet
Eternally to be engrained upon my mind
the heady confections of that day
to be forever missed.
The most complementary plumes of color,
that before I'd ever had met
Stretching toward the horizon's backdrop
a blanketed sea
a gently moving ream
A natural artistic composition of heady lavender
composed of surreal artistic color.
A palette holding court over the opposing values
and yet very complementary hues
of lovely, lovely lavendar
and wonderful planetary greens.
And if I ever were a bride to be,
I would desire to marry among the flowers
My sun kissed hair would be loosely worn,
its wildness framing my upturned face
In a field of the world's most ethereal scents,
a regal vison in colored lace showers,
Surrounded by a heaven
of millions of happily scented blooms.
In an outdoor cathedral of fragrant herbal spears
the lovliest of earthly rooms.
I would share my love,
of my beloved and with my beloved
for all whom by their presence cared.
I would unite with my love to be right there
I would unite with my love to be
for all to witness as I promise you forever
for all to witness our solemn vows
above a cloud of perpetual lavender
amongst the waves of those purple seas.
In Lavender and Lace
I would marry my love
I would marry my love to be.
(December 3rd, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,