Long Escapee Poems
Long Escapee Poems. Below are the most popular long Escapee by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Escapee poems by poem length and keyword.
There are those who believe this Age is ending
They mark time by fractures, not by firelight sending.
While I... have watched another map unfold: a hidden one, a tree in hymns
Drawn in the quiet hands of those remembering… you, being one of its limbs.
You were never meant to flee the storm
Sadly, into it… being born.
So, you can rise not as an escapee
But as witness, as a re-weaver to be.
As the one who sees the bones beneath the sky, and fearless...
Did not and does not now… turn away tearless.
Seeing the age of fixed meaning is ending
To apply better stitching, changing, mending.
Knowing we are not who we were... a generation past
And tomorrow, we won’t be who we are today...
Being not meant to last.
Not because of failure... because the world has entered a turning
This is not collapse. Nor is it progress churning…
It is not prophecy fulfilled
It is just life... paying its bill.
It is the sound of old structures cracking
Beneath the weight of too many borrowed truths, tracking.
It is then the stillness after memory is uprooted
Before new roots find soils better suited.
It is the storm... not of weather, but of meaning
Of something grand, better seeming.
___*___
In this storm, we are asked no longer to believe...
But to perceive better, to receive
Through not holding fast to the known…
No, become able to see what has never been before shown.
To see with the Art of Seeing… not just with the eyes
But through resonances, patterns, presences
And the broken chords of once-beautiful songs...
Now longing to be sung again
With new notes, containing a deeper silence between them.
___*___
Oh yes, in this age, philosophy must be lived like a raft
Versus written for pillars rising in temples of marble.
This philosophy must float, it must bend
It must not just ask... “What is truth, as of old, where will it too end?”
No, instead: “What is true enough to carry us through this crossing?”
We seek not conclusions tossed… but continuity.
Not control... but resonance, welcomed in unity.
And so, bonding us further into the beyond understanding, we walk.
So it is, this now, with the new path seeing… we will talk.
And once again sing… a most beautiful song.
Potato Mountain
I will arrive
an habitual escapee
from the rabbit warrens
of central planners
By ferreting north
in search of
breaks in the maze
rifts in the grid
I will follow
a stream beside
the climbing track
and yet higher
To a saddle below
the great ridge
southward along
eastern slopes
To a fine summit
of long vistas
and white gravel-skirts
exposed to sun
Exposed to eyes
sweeping round
the slow wide circle
of arcs in passage
Years to degree
degree to century
century to millennia
beyond human sight
And my own frail
footsteps in iron soil
blown to oblivion
by winds now shadowing
My identical track
passed beehives
thickets and copse
up the potato
To a summit
of concrete pylon
red dirt
and folk art
Where unknown infidels
posed the creative
issue of their
anonymous fancy
In the form
of starch-fat tubers
affixed with parasols
to shade them
And toothpicks to
give them arms
and bay leaves
to make them hair
Hats to render
them style
atop bald and oblong
pates of brown
Wings of sumac leaf
sleek and waxy
to impart mottled skins
flights of fancy
But they cannot fly
like chaparral birds
fitted to wind
and wildness
Unmoving the potatoes
await their fate
on a flat stage
above the world
Three days pass
their number reduced
in gathering erosions
and mathematical decline
Four days
the mule deer
has found them
yet still proud potatoes
Pass from deer
to lion to
slow beetles
upon the soil
And there the
once magnificent
and well-arrayed
vegetable host
Submits bravely to
mechanical escorts
in the brief free fall
to worlds below
Days are long
Nights a lonely song
Blades are her escape
As she fits in, in no place
Darkened room is her safety place
Liquor is her way to forget the hurt space
She wishes on every star
Yet her dreams seem so far
No one is there
No one understands
They say get over it
They dont comprehend
Black and blue fades
The fear always remains
She cries every night
No one knows why music is her life
She heals as she writes
Looking out the window seal praying for light
Shes looking into a place where she never belonged
She always wished she would find where that place is
No family
No friends
Its just her and her kids
Trying to help them forget what they witnessed
As she tries to forget being the victim
She gives them everything shes got
Her love shows in so many ways
Yet so does the stress on her thats weighed
She writes what she hears and sees
She writes to be an escapee
Some true
Some thoughts
Thoughts in which keep her from sleep
Sleep which she is awakened every hour
By the nightmares of abuse
Which everyone knew how she was getting used
They say she did it to herself
She says she survived what most couldn't
She overcame something she shouldn't
Wishes on stars now coming true
A brand new beginning
A brand new life to pursue
The love in her kids eyes kept her alive
Everyday she fought to survive
A battle of many wars
No more pain
Now shes saine
No more darkened rooms
The light has filled all the rooms
No longer on the floor
No more crying out "please no more"
On top of the world
Shes as precious as an ocean pearl
She made it through many storms
As you can if you never give up
I sat in my room
Watching TV
When all of a sudden
Something tuned on the screen
A prison escapee not far from here
Was said to have been spotted somewhere near.
I boarded the windows
Locked all the doors
Closed all the curtains
And got to the floor
I told myself there was nothing to fear
For my parents would soon be here
I worried to much, I need to calm down
Until from outside, I heard a strange sound
The sound of nail screeching against the brick wall
It was nothing like I have ever heard, never at all
I thought my mind was playing games on me
Until I looked outside, not a single spot of light could be seen
Was I the only person left on the block
I started to worry, I stared at the clock
When would they get here, where could they be
Whatevers taking them so long, sure is a mystery.
I slowly walked down the dark flight of stairs
When I finally reached the bottom, I gasped for air
I had this strange feeling running through my gut
I knew something was happening, but what?
I heard another strange noise coming from outside
I ran to the living room, and slowly peeked outside
It was my parents car sitting in the driveway,
But wait, wait a second, where were they?
I did not hear the opening of the door
I did not hear their feet walk across the floor
Something was wrong, something was not right
I ran to my bedroom, and shut the door tight
I hid under my bed, shaking with fright
I knew I was going to die, when out went the lights.
Form:
Star Wars day came to an end, spent it wisely with my best friend,
We had different paths to ascend.
We still reminisce to this day of good times had.
And to the other friend I lost connection with I’m not mad.
We all take the good with the bad.
But we out grow ourselves and most performances are fads.
I spent many years more laying on the floor,
Drooling and insecure,
Looking for answers in bottles and doubting my troubles obscured.
It took a lot of work, real work not fun,
It’s the day to day and fighting the feeling to run for the rum.
I lost friends too, like the one I called hun now thinks I’m a bum.
That day taught me something real and raw,
I didn’t have to play that old role anymore.
It’s a choice and you deserve better,
It’s not always clean, in fact it’s messier than ever, but better than before.
But better feeling is great when you don’t have existential prangs accompanied by a physical shiver.
That day the force got stronger and the Death Star was destroyed,
Like my journey don’t ask me about how never ending Star Wars is, I’ll be annoyed.
I hope you see, you can just be, be me, feel free, identity is just expression of glee, Lordy trust me, breaking free of escapee devotee, addressee to anyone holding a key.
Don’t ask me don’t tell me, how a bumble bee sees. I’ll humbly disagree with any lesson not fought be anyone that won’t travel by stars and sea.
{“IF I were to flee from this world If I were to collapse into a deep slumber, and when I emerge from that demise, I would yearn for gravity to tug me by my arms and legs and grant me my wishes. I would blow out my birthday candles in disassociation to the happening encircling me. My breath hitched as my flesh scathed underneath the Sun of the West.
Skin scorched with flames from the withdrawal of people and society, reluctancy coming to be my Azrael. An escapee, I recite with both hands annulled into one another, from the pain of reality, I blew out the fire surrounding the battered cake and rather than myself.
The second version of death had spared me a dance, to be out of touch for a quick second, my soul emerged into another realm.
When I awake from death. I occasionally take a quick glance around the barriers that I come to call home.
I have nothing to lose, nobody to lose, nobody to miss if I were to vacate;
I clasped against the sheets and glanced at myself in the fun mirrors of the Amusement attractions that is said to hold the true form of ourselves in all accuracy; unrecognizable.
That is what I am to myself; unrecognizable from her cheerful childhood.
That child who cherished every single individual around her was long gone. I was gone, Thou I was not a ghoul.
When I fell, I fell completely like the devil in its truest form.”}
This world is a home to many creatures,
big and small, and it is a pitiful place
known all to well for its unsightly brawl.
Corrupt I have seen it become,
even so, I wish I had seen it begun.
A question I ask myself, was it really an amazing place,
and if so, maybe I would like to know what brought about its disgrace.
Multitudes of problems are faced by you and I.
Nevertheless, a question remains,
what’s the point if I’m fated to die.
There is so much more to be and to see,
yet a feeling lingers, telling me it’s not what’s meant to be.
We have the whole cosmos to explore,
regrettably an ill fate is waiting to be bore.
How we have waited and now we see,
with the time, there can never be an escapee.
The hands of the clock are coming to a halt my friend,
and you still haven’t asked yourself,
IS IT TRULY THE END?
Oh, you swamp me with charm - get out of my head.
There’s something about you - a warmth - like the comfort of home - that pulls at me.
I study your landscape of attractive surfaces like a star chart - logging my weaknesses - to strengthen my emotional firewall. I WANT you but my “wants” just seem untrustworthy after recent deprivations.
To be honest - I can’t afford you - not now. You’re a delicious pastry - with strings - and I need to cut all my strings.
You’re something younger me would have wanted - before the pandemic, when scandalous thinking was uncomplicated and freedoms taken for granted.
Last year simplified my reality.
Over time, boredom melted me like wax but a new me crossed some threshold of certainty - that to flourish - no, just to survive - I must become more than I am, or find I’m less than I hoped.
In 2019 goals seemed way, way someday things - far off reference points to seek out - like an inchworm. Social details occupied me like an unfocused dementia - there was an unacceptable level of childish thinking.
But now I’m an escapee on the run who won’t be taken back alive. Old attachments must be stripped down and the old world made disposable - if I’m to achieve escape velocity.
p.s. I write short stories too =]
They call me Moro,
not the Moors of Africa,
they insult me more,
and I assumed adore,
but in a good way ...
Colonial mind say;
"A good Moro is a dead Moro",
in a slur way,
and the Compatriot slaves;
says, a Moro-Moro ...
And anyway,
I call myself Moro,
I was a Moro,
I am now a Moro,
a Mawarao for Moro...
The Slang spoke on my name,
they heard me wrong,
they write me wrong,
they make me slur,
and they called me Moron ...
Still I stand for Moro,
a Mawarao for Moro,
an adjective word Brave,
a noun word Warrior,
in a local Lingua origin...
It is a right choice,
to commensurate Moro,
In a bravery Memoir,
a Maranao for Warrior,
a Maranao for Brave...
Moro as they may call,
Is someone who installed,
when someone wished,
in a level upwarded,
or in the top and high...
Moro as they may call,
Is someone who cornered,
to hunt of an animal escapee,
in the no exit zone,
That means a good hunter...
Bangsa is a Nation,
a Malayan word people,
with a royalty tone,
and historic nobility,
a collective unity...
Now my name is Moro,
and I belong to a Royal,
a fierce Warrior of the Orient,
in a society of Moro,
that built me BangsaMoro ...
By: ditadawayen sa ranao - Khadaffy D. Mangondato
It's all there remains
of their faces and names
in the sanguinous pull of the Ocean.
And ever abides the slow, ugly tides
to the ruin of the ordinary people.
But do they next notice
the burns of their focus
as the days stretch back over
those toxic, dirt fumes they accepted?
And never mind life as it skims like a kite
in the form of a deep Ocean tuna.
Laugh all you want, but still time has past.
And who then is worthy of notice?
A pest and a critic
or serene ancient Fish who awaits next
its ultimate destruction.
Nor acting 'til then, but happier still,
than the fools who know not why they're laughing.
No pity, no time for a two legged beast
rising less than the Ocean turtle.
The swells and the ebbs answered less every day
by Great Dinosaur's failed escapee.
And the waters stretch on,
as long as there's time
with the deep Ocean having its answer.
But these monkeys don't question. Nor make any
difference. And can subside
with the tides pulling out.
(Title ends in an exclamation point.)