Long Exile Poems
Long Exile Poems. Below are the most popular long Exile by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Exile poems by poem length and keyword.
when you talk to everyone and it seem to be nothing to say
then you remember haven rejected you and hell condemned your soul to pay
then you look at your mother to cry out to
but she's screaming that same pain that bun deep within you
sister what a smile
but in the night which confined her to exile
what is their to be won when you have lost your heart
then you ignore the pain that hurt you at start
when you pray for death and all hope is gone
you sit and regret the day you was born
me oh me i cry miss love
i sat i watched you die miss love
in the grave i saw you white as a dove miss love
when you go into the world thinking everything is OK
you provide in a home were your heart thinks it needs to stay
i am nothing like a school play this is how i feel
in the world you'll find everything i say is real
Q: What about the Jewish Sabbatical year is important both to God and the nation of
Israel?
A: God rested on the seventh day after His six day week of creation.
Q: What is every seven years considered to be?
A: A Sabbatical year.
Q: What is every 49th year considered?
A: A year of Jubilee and a year of celebration. It began on March 16, 2025
and will end on March 16, 2026. It starts on the 49th year and ends on the
50th year.
Q: Must the rapture occur on a year of Jubilee?
A: Yes. The rapture is considered to be a time of celebration.
Q: God allotted 6,000 years for human history and it expires during
2032 AD. From 32 BC and 2032 AD is exactly 2,000 years.
2032 AD minus seven years equals 2025 AD.
Q: What generation must not pass until all of these things be fulfilled?
A: The generation that was born in 1948. The baby boom generation.
Q: Jesus said," the Son of Man must spend two days in the grave and
on the third day He must rise again from the grave. is this true?
A: Yes it is true. Jesus also let his listeners know that there were just
two thousand years left for human history. And on the third day of His
rising from the grave o was to be the day of rest. It was not until the
book of Revelation that the Apostle John was informed about the
Millennium kingdom's period of rest. It was a mystery until it was
divinely revealed. First to the seven churches of Asia Minor and
and now unto believers living in the 21st century.
Q: Did this writer frequently tell her family that "If the rapture of the church
doesn't happen during the 20th century--it will most definitely happen some
time during the 21st century? And that the 20th century was going to be
a time period of preparation for the rapture of the 21st century?
A: Yes, this writer did.
Q: When the prophecy clock continue it's last minute's warning's countdown?
A: May 14, 1948, when Israel became a nation after 2,000 years of exile.
A: The prophecy clock ticked faster during the six day war of 1967 when Israel
recaptured East Jerusalem.
Q: What is 2025 minus 49 years?
A: The year 1976. That makes 1976 the last Jubilee before 2025!
to be continued later.
She was born in New York,
a child of Greek immigrants,
and at her first cry
the heavens leaned down and whispered:
A songbird has been sent to the earth.
Maria—
not merely a woman,
but a flame sculpted into voice.
Her song was not sung with lips alone,
but with the sorrow of centuries,
with the fire of gods who speak through music.
When she stood as Norma,
singing Casta diva,
time itself held its breath.
When she became Tosca,
and love and death clashed upon the stage,
I felt eternity trembling in my bones.
She was no ordinary artist.
She was La Divina,
the woman who remade opera into destiny.
She labored, she suffered,
she carved her name in stone with discipline,
until the world bowed to her voice.
But genius is a crown made of thorns.
She mastered music—
but love eluded her grasp.
Her triumphs thundered in every theater,
yet her nights were filled with silence
where no applause could reach.
I knew her then,
when men called me Onassis.
She sought refuge in me,
but I was a tempest in human form.
She searched for love,
but found only exile within my arms.
And so she died not only of sorrow,
but of a wound deeper than flesh:
the wound of a heart that gave too much
and received too little.
On that day,
as her voice dissolved into the silence of eternity,
I whispered:
“Maria… La Divina…
you sang to the world,
but not to yourself.
When you return to earth again,
will you finally believe in love?”
You reinvented me
giving me a rebel's energy,
providing license for my love to sing
the touch of your soul meaning everything,
From us wild words arose
speaking of history and stars we chose,
expecting too much of Destiny
venturing on through wilderness and purity,
Inspiration innocent in it's infliction
made us bleed for need of salted affection,
exhibitionists with effrontery for the eyes of etiquette
expressionism unfolding humanism from stellar grit,
When wisdom had no mercy
she was a woman feminine in fury,
wanting to be stronger than truth
when I said I love you she demanded no proof,
All she wanted was a pretty poem
poetry that brings happiness home,
so we made substance of swagger
feeding life gold mined from passion's matter -
J.A.B.
Before my door I stand waiting
my Babe, my life, my love.
Grating, the key slips through the lock.
I turn the knob and shove.
Each tear filled moment we’re apart,
my heart for you yet yearns,
but lonely it stands unopened.
The bolt no longer turns.
This prison that you hide inside
was once a home we share
but now you’ve changed the lock on me
and left me in despair.
What once we had is now all gone,
just memories they are.
As I stand before my doorway,
I feel the burning scar.
I hear the lock opening and
you stand there with a smile,
inviting me into your house.
Reprieve from my exile?
09/16/2017
Exiled from my distant homeland,
Where the days seemed bright,
Nights seemed peaceful and nice,
Where I longed for freedom and dignified life.
With dictators and militia in charge,
Where corruption and killings were at large,
Any opposition voice was crushed,
Freedom, Oh freedom, was only a dream.
With imminent arrest and execution,
Fleeing the beloved country was only option,
Somehow escaped incognito thru night wilderness,
Hitched many rides, got transported in boxes and tank containers,
Took wretched overloaded ferries, till I reached a free land.
Now I was a refugee seeking asylum,
Spent time in camps with miserable living conditions,
Finally, after three years, I was granted asylum,
I was free in an unknown world.
Still, I am actively seeking freedom for my homeland folks,
Freedom of speech, and democracy is a precious thing,
We will arouse sentiments of local folks to get their rights,
Do not cry my homeland, one day you will be free.
Radio Poem
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You, little box, held tightly
to me
during my escape,
so that your delicate tubes do not break;
carried from house to house, from ship to train,
so that my enemies may continue communicating with me
by land and by sea
and even in my bed, to my pain;
the last thing I hear at night, the first when I arise,
recounting their many conquests and my cares,
promise me not to go silent in a sudden
surprise.
Translator's Note: I take Brecht's poem literally. I can imagine him fleeing the Nazis with a radio in his possession, using it to receive the news of their conquests as his litany of cares mounted. Bertolt Brecht 1898-1956 was a major German playwright, poet, novelist, humorist, essayist, theater director and songwriter. Brecht fled Germany in 1933, when Hitler assumed power. A number of Brecht's poems were written from the perspective of a man who sees his country becoming increasingly fascist, xenophobic and militaristic. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, poems, Bertolt Brecht, German, translation, Germany, radio, tubes, valves, transmission, communication, travel, escape, flight, flying, exile, land, sea, pain, despair, Nazi, conquests, victory, victories, losses, cares, silence, war, World War II
I have built a brick wall courtyard to protect me,
from the outside it is a barrier- a fortification;
but inside there are crevices and fissure openings,
and it is a beautiful and safe walled enclosure;
for in life there are people like flowers or weeds.
People come into my life and I accept them,
but in time each show there true story colors;
and sometimes those colors are not very pretty,
those people become the weeds in my garden;
I exile them so they can fade outside my wall
But, the people who become my soul-mates,
well, these are the flowers in my garden of life;
people who enhance, restore me- my bouquets,
oh, our bond is strong- I hold them to my heart;
in a niche, crack, crevice they will always dwell.
I have built a brick wall for my flowers and me,
for I only keep the good and not the bad ;
oh yes, in time each show their strength- weakness,
the strong are treasured, weeds just wither away,
I keep the kindred in the crannied cracks of my wall.
____________________________
March 2, 2020
Poetry/Verse/Within My Crannied Wall
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1232-663-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Submitted to Strand Choice B
sponsor, Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
If I were to find my lost gem
cast among the filth of the swines
I would not hesitate
I would gather it into my trembling hands
with a gratitude too deep for words.
I would wash away the dust of exile,
polish it with tears and reverence,
and if fire were required,
I would not withhold it:
for even flame, in its mercy,
only restores what was alway precious.
But tell me,
how does one gather what death has claimed?
How do you cleanse what has been carried
beyond the reach of hands,
beyond the language of return?
For death . . .
has not merely taken,
It has silence a brilliance,
silenced a light,
hidden a treasure where love cannot follow in flesh.
And so we stand, empty-handed,
not because we would not restore;
but because this gem
has been lifted from our keeping
Into eternity's vault.
Indeed . . .
death has robbed us,
not of something ordinary,
but of a jewel heaven itself desired.
Till the resurrection morning,
when our loving Father will wipe every tear
and call forth His own
What a delightful moment, will that be?
Romania's Last Ball
We have become tenants in our own country like shadows without border or name,
Our flour yields nothing and the bread no longer rises from the flame,
Foreign interests grind us down like a worm inside the core of a ripe apple bright,
And the destiny of our people has been broken... and no one took up its fight.
The Phanariots lead us with hands of wax and with oaths that are easily swapped,
They change their faith like neckties and their forgotten promises are dropped,
Humbly we apologize that they have not tormented us enough in this short life,
And they teach betrayal to the young... with a sweet voice... and with a deaf and hollow knife.
We no longer have factories and we no longer have land and we no longer have a voice,
We speak our own language in another tongue and words are no longer our choice,
Only the beautiful shame of a people preparing itself for exile and for wandering,
And even the graves are packing up for the road... in this agony and squandering.
Mad poet what words do you still mutter about a people that will not yield,
When we have become beggars and servants on our own native field,
The living and the dead mixed together ready to emigrate at the break of day,
A de-Romanianized Romania... counting its children... who no longer want to stay.
The fatal bell is heard on the evening of the last ball and the final night,
Times of fury and of hailstorms are coming down on all our children's sight,
The high and mighty dance upon our ruins in their cold and festive wear,
And we watch as our country... is sold... and lost... and disappears into the air.
Safe travels people lost on a bet we never knew that we were making and giving,
Farewell mother country... farewell... a word we speak but cannot believe we are living,
Perhaps tomorrow there will be emptiness and all of us will leave with broken hearts to roam,
Romania... the last ball... and the orchestra... keeps playing... keeps playing... far from home.