Long Exacts Poems
Long Exacts Poems. Below are the most popular long Exacts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Exacts poems by poem length and keyword.
Crackling, crunchy leaves confetti the ground
as skeleton trees rattle their bare bones.
And gusty winds howl like a soulful hound
while kids mope indoors, glued to their cellphones.
Indistinguishable, they look like clones
and seem as enthusiastic as stones.
Winter's approach gets labeled a bad thing,
covering everything in snow and ice.
And migrating songbirds no longer sing,
they've left before Winter exacts Her price.
But changing seasons is like adding spice,
just think of a snowflake as something nice.
All the mosquitos have frozen to death,
and life gets swathed in a snowy duvet.
Winter entices with a frosty breath,
enjoy Her; don't think of Her as a threat.
Indulge in all the Winter you can get,
there is more to life than the internet.
Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter are real
gifts of Nature, designed to make us feel.
(Urban Sonnet)
10/20/2018
As depression dominates your thoughts,
the weight of love's absence grows acute.
And while your stomach twists into knots:
love, morphs into the forbidden fruit.
Cringing inside, your life feels unfair,
drowning in your tears, you struggle to cope.
For suckling on the breasts of despair,
Reality has drained you of Hope.
When childhood memories include rape:
trust dissipates into nothingness.
And you find that you cannot escape
that feeling of utter emptiness.
Admonishing life, you curse your fate,
as the blade's keen edge scratches a path.
And self-abuse morphs into self-hate,
as cutting begins to calm your wrath.
Purging the hurt from your tortured soul,
starts with a tiny trickle of blood.
And then, as each cut exacts a toll,
crimson drops fuel a scarlet flood.
Purging the hurt from your tortured soul,
starts with a tiny trickle of blood.
And then, as these cuts exact their toll,
crimson drops fuel a scarlet flood.
Where will tomorrow take us
Only God alone can tell
A brighter future a cloudless day
Or an earthly living Hell
How much of its our doing
How much is down to me
Is the fate laid out before us
A future meant to be
I know I've tempted fate before
At least a time or two
Risked life and limb and maybe more
I'd risk it all anew
Cos life for me's a wonderland
A journey to behold
A beautiful utopia
For the young and for the old
Til man exacts his dominance
Over everything he can
And mortgages each single soul
Of every living man
A banking led dystopia
Indebtedness their aim
We're caught here in the crossfire
In a costly Rotschild game
The year is sixteen ninety four
And a deal is on the cards
The notes are shilling loudly
From the moneylenders bards
Twelve hundred thousand reasons
Mortgage woman, man and child
The deal's been done, the trap's been sprung
The laughing Joker's wild
The Devil dealt a crooked hand
The rules weren't Heaven sent
The loans they pays a kingly ransome
The bets at eight percent
Inflationary stirms prevail
Nations drowningbin the flood
The odds now stacked in favour
Of a deal they signed in blood
Now money's just a token
The game is truly up
Their sleight of hand's been deftly played
They fill their debtors cup
Human lives collateral
As the game stacks in their favour
No money's needed anymore
The game is theirs to savour
Where will tomorrow take us
Only God alone can tell
The Devil deals in dying folks
His deals a living Hell
The game's a crooked one we know
It's plain for all to see
And the fate laid out before us
Is down to you and me
The Protraction of the Epiphany
Complacency in a stilted light of regret
Vagrancy in a jilted sight of neglect
Emergency in a wilted light of insects
The urgency of a curative substance to inject
Wellsprings of artificial truth and humour
Hells things accumulate with the modern day consumer
A year in the jungle with the rare black Asian Pumas
A fear and a rumble of a growing brain tumour
Excerpts of illumination beaming out through a crowd
Concerts of contamination leaning forward and loud
An old hearse of consecration screaming lines of the Proud
A written verse of invitation about what is sworn and vowed
Desert storms inland from the sea
Crescent forms of moonlight that shine down upon me
Elegant storms of starlight that are too bright to even see
Decadent norms shed for what’s right as you embolden the free
Elevated insights into the passages of time
Nominated fights about the ravages of crime
Consecrated rights about the rhythm of a rhyme
Ill-created sights as we look to the night for a sign
Refine the moment before you descend from your throne
Define who owns it as humanity leaves you alone
Confine who clones it before it hijacks all of your homes
Incline to hone it before the Queen turns to stone
Perpetuate the intimate and sign up for the next sequel
Commiserate the consulate before human rights become the prequel
Eviscerate then integrate as you shout about it from the steeple
Amalgamate then consecrate the water for the people
Divide the notion of partial responsibility
Inside the ocean of martial comparability
Apply the lotion of spatial inter generational exclusivity
Collide the sojourns of musical improvisational proclivity
Allow your sorrow to rise up and purge from your system
Now you follow the size of your urge to demystify him
How tomorrow through the eyes of your words make you thin
Bow to the borrowed lies of the absurd man with a grin
What comprises the ultimate act of integrity?
Hot suprises to formulate the exacts of berevity
Not decided to promulgate the contraction of longevity
Of the insiders I consummate the protraction of the epiphany
The End Copywrite Elizabeth Moroz
Infidelity, what great pain it exacts on a partner.
Death becomes an inevitable contemplation that in your mind it becomes the governor.
The feeling just! Oh man know not this soul daunting horror,
Oh dear maiden mercy pay a warm kind visit to the bearer!
Beyond measure and measure unknown, it hurts.
How much ail it poses on the mind and torture on the heart,
Its strokes pats not the fragile heart.
Feels like part of your soul is ripped off.
Hurts massively beyond pain itself.
The bible holds marriage in high regard;
That divorce to it is a taboo begad.
Except! When infidelity is begat.
[email protected]
Each religion has its own ideology
Its own house of worship
It has its own dialect,
It is bounded by
its own rites and rituals
Its own drama and myth
It has its own justice system
Its distinct way of atonement
Its own unique style,
It is partial and onerous,
It promises heaven in afterlife
but creates living hell on earth.
It demands total obedience,
Total reverence
It defers explanation
It defies reasoning
It professes eternal life
and exacts strict wages;
Each religion has its own
interpretation of God
Each has a special pathway to heaven
Each designates dire caveat for hell.
Love, on the other hand, is free,
Free of all nuisances
Free of all boundaries
Free of all rites and rituals
Free of all race and creed,
It speaks with the eyes
Listens with the heart,
It only seeks soul mates,
It is universal
It encompasses all
and excludes none.
Love is but Love;
Love just happens,
There’s no beginning
And once began
there’s no ending.
True Love is omnipotent
It is omniscient
It is omnipresent.
~Religion and/or Philosophy contest by Kai Michael Newmann
Now I walk with you holding your hand
Helping you firmly on your feet to stand
Steer you upon the soft sands of the shore,
Unaware yet what life has for you in store.
Soon you’ll be walking tall with starry eyes
To spread your wings and soar to the skies,
May you dream the fanciest dreams you dare
By your side you will find I am always there.
My son, in this one thing you can be sure
My love for you most surely will endure,
You are born of my love, hope and prayer
You are, oh, the sweet fruit of my labor.
But when I find my day gets weary on its feet
The night stirs up past memories bittersweet,
And when time exacts from me its harsh wage
I wonder will you stand by me in my old age?
As you move ahead in life, this I must say
Be wary, there are also pitfalls on the way,
Always have humility as your guiding light
that you need to follow, keeping faith in sight.
~07/30/18
~'For your Poetry Journal' contest
by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
Sometimes, life seems so unfair
that your heart loses all hope.
And from a pit of despair,
you struggle merely to cope.
Life is a fantasy dream,
interlaced with nightmare thoughts.
And feelings are oft extreme,
tying your stomach in knots.
You try to rewind life's tape,
and yet, it seems stuck on pause.
And there's no way to escape
the suffering, or its cause.
Abuse morphs into self-hate,
guiding the blade on its path.
And admonishing your fate,
you let its edge purge your wrath.
Every cut exacts a toll,
unleashing a scarlet flood.
And yet, the pain in your soul
is numbed: by the flow of blood.
I live in rooms
housed in the interior,
some just small
cells cut into bone,
spaces barely big enough
to fit a soul.
Others offer more
with sweeping views
of oceans, mountains, waterfalls
spilling endlessly over
sun drenched escarpments
and long corridors leading
to nowhere and everywhere
with mirrors splitting the mind
into light.
There are rooms groaning
under the weight of books,
learnings spun like sticky webs
that hold me trussed up
like prey. Heavens caught
in words and given wings
to float across time,
monuments brushed
by immortality and symphonies
so moving as to be
a breath away from pain.
Then there are
dark places with no windows
or doors, musty chambers
for the fallen and racks
stretched across nights where
a Grand Inquisitor exacts
confessions and sentences
the condemned to hell.
A lifetime has been spent inside
these rooms of my own making,
looking out onto a world set
by seasons which have
slowly seeped through
and worn away the walls
of my home.
In the odyssey of days that mercilessly run like grains of sand,
An unseen battle is foretold that we shall wage in the shadow.
The war within our hearts, a citadel besieged by falling stars,
Where every collapse exacts from the spirit a tribute, a drop of molten gold.
Beneath the vault, the cosmic architect with thoughts of crystal,
Arranges untouched paradises, but our hands prefer to dawdle in the hourglass,
Battling with the hope that deep down longs to burst into hyacinths,
Teach us, O experience, to offer instead of an army, a choir of chosen voice.
The spell of fears is the garment we don, fling it through the wind!
Even titans carved in stone feel the shiver of lurking fears.
Each lemon seed become a tree, the hope that raises its branches to hanging gardens,
Where the seed of goodness rises to the heavens, to bind remnants of fairies in tender whispers.
Refuse yourself, O being, to lay treaties of war upon paper,
When in your palms you might hold the core of reconciliation, the sketch of a beginning.
Behold how illusions take root in your eyes, that gilded in the sun dance vividly,
Horizons drawn in skies, where stretches a greenhouse of blossoming souls, a chord of love.
It's the battlefield and the sacred hearth, a struggle of good against the very self,
Shields of silver carved in seafoam, inlaid with pearls of love.
Pawns of spirit in the cosmic game, where the queen is compassion,
And the king, a generous spirit, takes his throne in the vastness of the universe, bearer of untamed light.
Thus, with each turn of fate, in the weave of time, we embroider new destinies,
Where the spell of fear is undone, and in the chaos of the night grow fields of stars,
Thousands of lanterns, guiding man's steps to the fountains of ageless love.
In this magical tableau, we take the most sacred war, to be human, and melt it under rays of peace in guitar strings' song.