Long Faint Poems
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Written: June 07, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
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The Phantom Choir
In the quiescence of last Sunday,
Prophecy heralded the hour past two,
I heard a whisper at hibiscus dawn—
a seamless voice I swore I always knew.
In blissful flutter—it said night was wide,
Chrysalis sorrow stirs a bed for fools,
that in the hush, when hearts collide,
The lost willows are left to wade in pools.
Facing the kernel until the street thinned,
And my shadow’s sepals bled away,
Rusted voice strings within me spoke again—
It's hymn frills poised for slow decay.
The Hollow Pact
Will I wake to descry my cracked mind,
emptied of all its sharpened teeth?
Will murky echoes break their binds,
Or gnaw beneath the sheath?
The alchemy battle sparks, but I am dust—
wispy strands, a soldier tied in flimsy chains.
Each idea erodes the periwinkle ones I trust,
while the weight of stress remains.
You graze me with a maze—why do I stand so still?
Resurrection of the soul—so why shake your hands?
But dread can have its way to fulfill—
The transcendence of love is lost in vicious demands.
The Third Mourning
Wise chakras buried beneath the walls I built,
the zen voice still scrawls its wordless plea.
It concedes my yantra’s vulnerability, my guilt,
peers where peacock pleadings wane into a spree.
It hums inside the tremors of sapphire light,
I close my eyes as it runs over lily-filled shorelines.
Bits of lunar-glazed silver dust grow in quiet nights,
and procrastinated pledges become lies.
In my dour dreams, it tells me not to resist—
“You know that silken shivers favor sound.”
Amid cyan azure peace, I learn misery persists,
for flickers of love fear the burial mound.
The Acoustic Waltz
In nocturnal dryness—sing soft verses in the dark,
claims the enamored inked words are not hers.
She plucks cerulean hymns without leaving a mark,
The tune of her carved kohl was lost in slurs.
She sways in the russet yarns of neon glow,
bows beneath the ricochet’s wild haze—
a phantom waltz in katabatic motion, moving slow.
a cosmic voice garden, too faint to truly be a maze.
Her pocket holds a ring of black gem glass,
won as a child’s dare, a piece of smitten ink.
She warms it, sighs, and watches it pass
through flaming flecks—hands that fight to sink.
It was the Halloween Ball
In the season of the fall
A mysterious bachelor called
To the attention of us all
The biggest mansion party
The cooks food is hearty
The host is definitely tardy
For most of his own party
The musicians play the last dance
The men try to romance
But don't stand a chance
For the host is here! They glance
To a man dressed in black wear
In Old Spanish attire bare
The women began to stare
For he was a young stallion, a Mare
From a top the stairs he walks
The ladies gather to stalk
The man who doesn't talk
Like birds they came in flocks
He wore black clothes and a red sash
White trim and a black mask
To find a dancer is his task
But who will he ask?
The only girl not drawn to attention
Is sitting alone no words to mention
He takes her hand There is no tention
Soft as a doves wings a cool sensation
The proceed to the middle of the floor
She doesn't know what's in store
A lot of musicians come in..there is more!
Some of them rich, some are poor
He takes his tunic off then starts
The music is written from the heart
The stand at attention far apart
Then the solo with the silver harp
The drum beat starts going
They come together emotions flowing
His risque' dance he is showing
To her mind he is boasting
They move and dance like magic
For five minutes the song's romantic
The crowd watching in motionless static
The songs end was very tragic
The last beats were hard to miss
They drew close and started to kiss
For her it was a mystical bliss
His every movement caressed her lips
The awkward silence he starts to leave
The young lady can hardly breathe
She starts to faint...she can't see
The wings appeare and she falls asleep
The girl awakes in her bed it seems
In her school clothes it was only a dream
The sound of water foils the scene
Her eyes still blurry it's hard to see
She wanted this for real
Her heart is sealed
Then fate will have to deal
Her new loves appeal
She notices something on the ground
It's the wings and mask she found
And a CD blank is bound
She puts it in and the sound...
Is the unforgettable song
It was to her so long
But there was something wrong
Where did this come from?
In the CD case is an Old Engligh letter
It said "Undoubtedly for the better
I am gone with the weather
Your kiss I will always remember forever and ever
Form:
Bank robber Jim was one unlucky bloke
Went to draw his gun but the holster broke
It dropped on the bank floor
And went off with a roar
The shock was too much and he had a stroke...
Though he was unconscious he hadn't died
Woke in a coffin for his final ride
In a desparate bid
Banged on the coffin lid
But all he could hear was laughing outside...
Written 17th June 2021
Then someone shouted can you hear banging
It was quite faint because folks were singing
The sheriff prised off the lid
And he was so glad he did
Because he thought we'll have us a hanging...
Jim didn't know whether to laugh or cry
Resigned himself to the fact that he'd die
Saw sheriff holding a rope
Realised there was no hope
And for unlucky Jim the end was nigh...
He was taken to the gallows in town
Handcuffed and wearing nothing but a frown
Jim was then starting to choke
But with the drop the rope broke
The crowd screamed as poor Jim came tumbling down..
Unlucky Jim jumped up quick as a flash
As he passed the bank ran in and grabbed cash
He stole the first horse he saw
Then let out a loud yee haw
And for sweet freedom he made a quick dash...
Written 19th June 2021
A bounty hunter called Nevada Slim
Went after bank robber Unlucky Jim
With tracker Spirit Bear
They discovered Jims lair
And Jim's future was now looking quite grim...
Slim called out "put your hands in the air"
Jim grabbed his gun, Slim said "don't you dare"
But Jim was too fast
And let off a blast
Slim fell dead then Jim shot Spirit Bear...
Jim quickly packed his things and rode away
Thankful that he'd survived another day
He decided to lie low
But what old Jim didn't know
Was that Pinkertons were heading his way...
Jim was sleeping in the afternoon sun
And didnt hear the cocking of a gun
He woke up with dread
Saw guns at his head
And a lawman said "Jim looks like your done"...
Jim was handcuffed and they rode back to town
There to meet them was Sheriff and Judge Brown
The charges were read
Jim nodded his head
Sheriff said " this time Jim you're going down" ...
For Jims last request he asked for a smoke
And noticed the hangman had a new rope
He put a hood on Jims head
Jim dangled then he was dead
An escape this time!, there wasn't a hope...
Written 1st July 2021
RIP UNLUCKY JIM
The Spirit of the Lord is not mentioned often in the Holy Scriptures
But if you read the book of Acts you will get the full gospel picture
Of the power of the Holy Spirit and what It can do
Of the power that God has and how it can delight in you
When you dance with the Spirit your priorities will be rearranged
When you dance with the Spirit your whole outlook on life will change
Understand that God desires to be in relationship with us totally
God wants to be a part of our triumphs and our tragedies
God wants us to dance with HIm in true harmony
Cheek to cheek hand in hand is how God wants it to be
Now when the Spirit comes its more than an emotional two step move
When the Spirit comes it comes in a full transformal groove
To touch our souls, to open our hearts and to strengthen our minds
The Spirit wants to dance with us in a manner most kind
The Spirit wants to move us out of our brokenness and our mess
The Spirit wants to call us out on those things we need to address
To not be so concerned about what society has to say
To not be overwhelmed by life's circumstances as we journey on our way
Now dancing with life, full of joy and spiritually purified
Cleansed of those things that God sees as being horrified
Baptized by water and forged by the fire of spiritual transformation
A new creation in Christ now housed on a new foundation
Dancing with the Spirit jitterbugging with the Lord Christ
Doing the spiritual salsa, the holy hustle and the tango for the rest of my life
No longer will I define myself by my worst experience thus far
I'm now dancing with the Spirit no longer bitter nor faint of heart
Stepping out of the boat with courage and holiness abound
A new adjective before my name as the spirit in me has been found
No longer crackhead Sue but now Life Coach Susan
No longer drunken Joe but now Detective Joseph the man
Now dancing with the Spirit delivered from the adversary
Full of godly power to fight against my enemies
I'm dancing the merengue, the cha cha and the samba with the Holy Spirit
I'm dancing the swing, the bolero and the mambo as I'm now with it
Dancing with the Spirit I'm doing the jive
Dancing with the Spirit and I'm feeling so alive
Doing the gospel waltz, the holy hip-hop and the heavenly electric slide
I'm dancing with the Holy Spirit cheek to cheek side by side
MESSAGES ( PT One )
A Poem by Debbie_Philly
THE MESSAGE
The room is black,
except for the faint glare of the TV in the background,
something to make me feel safe in some small way.
Hints of noise to drown out the silence--
such deafening silence, though not from within,
there's always noise within.
It's the kind of noise that keeps one awake
until early dawn.
No-- it's not the sound of the bathroom faucet running,
that would be a more pleasant sound--
(but what to do about that running.)
I slip into unconsciousness,
an unintentional state of suspended animation ,
very welcomed-- despite my objections.
Now the play begins.
The unfolding of the conscious mind.
What hides behind is much more revealing,
the actors are stacked and the story is unfolding.
Help in the telling comes from a unique source,
buried deep in the mind?
Maybe?
I believe it to be much more spiritual in nature,
supernatural in it's feel.
Lucid are the colors, real are the people.
They come from places unknown yet familiar.
Some I know by name,
some I love-- they are missed beyond words.
They come with cryptic messages,
with stories of treachery, lies and deceit ,
mapped out in vivid imagery of objects--
with meanings that I am not sure of.
I would dismiss these things if...
it were not for the repeated fashion
of how they were told.
An object here, a relic there,
I don't understand the meaning of it all, at first.
Are these apparitions conceptualized by own mind?
NO! I know these dear ones,
they love me, still-- even though
they no longer roam with the living.
There are too many signs to digest.
I wait for morning.
Sometimes I awake with a jolt,
(always remembering what I dreamed
in the haze of the pitch black night.)
I piece the puzzle together-- bit by bit,
I must decipher through the cobwebs
of the mind with some clarity; a daunting but amusing task.
I will heed these warnings,
warnings that come to me in dreams-- and beyond.
I Plan to embrace solidarity--
leave behind the flapping of malicious lips;
cling to the gifts bestowed upon me
through the handing off of the torch,
which once shined so brightly
in my loved ones soul.
I will stay awake--
be aware of my surroundings,
yet step over the boundaries
I have set for myself.
Meditate in solace
while letting my essence flow through my pen
onto white journal pages
that waits for me...
on my desk.
By: Deborah Mills-Kelly
Stella Williams was eight years old, living with her widowed mother-
Happily, though a bit lonely, like powder blue skies, sans sunset color.
The Williams lived in a rural area, with no child Stella's age, nearby.
A farmer in the valley, was the only neighbor, like waves of no reply.
Still, school hours were fun for Stella, like rollicking days of summer;
When plum sun, waltzed with stars of glitter, often going undercover.
Stella, at times, threw coins in their well, to wish for a special friend,
Besides the birds and blooms of beauty, and rolling hills of never end.
As faint rays forgive after furious storm, distant family came, finally;
In fancy days of dinnerplate dahlias, of gold, pink, or maroon vitality.
Stella lived in the house of empty rooms, that recollected sunny joys;
There the nostalgic past, argued with hopeful future, making no noise.
A purple path close to their front door, seemed painted with petunias;
In amethyst days of evening sparkle, and sunrises, the hue of peaches.
Numerous nightingales sang at hiigh noon, when new neighbors called;
In notable, precious moments, not ever forgotten-redolence enthralled!
'String of hearts plants,' trailed love petals, as 'oyster plant,' culled gems.
The rich pink, 'quill blooms,' shot daggers, like vexed queens, in diadems.
'Enchanting hostas' charmed summer moon, as 'elephant ears,' harked;
Then 'rising sun redbud' trees sang, with dawn on gloss petals, marked.
Stella still wandered to the well to wish, some afternoons and evenings,
As some yet gaze at mysterious stars, to uncover astrological meanings.
Stella was reading in her favorite spot, on a day of hot, persimmon sun;
And she looked up and saw a girl her age. A new friendship was begun!
Veronica was the daughter of the farmer in the dell, who was divorced;
And she was now living with him. Stella was invited to dinner, of course.
In time, Stella and her mom got to know, their nearest neighbors, well;
For Stella got her wish, when her mother married the farmer in the dell.
'The farmer in the dell.
The farmer in the dell.
Hi-ho, the derry-o!
The farmer in the dell.
The farmer takes a wife.
The farmer takes a wife.
Hi-ho, the derry-o!
The farmer takes a wife.
The wife takes a child.
The wife takes a child.
Hi-ho, the derry-o!
The wife takes a child.'
I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.
A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.
Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.
Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.
Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.
Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.
I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.
Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2
Bone-drained, there is no respite, no split second of peace. The “sundowner”, a hyper-active toddler in a man’s vehicle, never sleeps nor sits.
When I succumb to that one precious moment of rest; I am awakened to a furnace running full blast in a freezing cold house and on a nineteen degree night. A butter knife has removed a window; the culprit and dementia-mind panics; he’s terrified of being trapped in a fire. There’s no arguing with dementia-mind; it’s best to play along with the his ideas.
Another day of madness and I awake to a frantically screeching doorbell; it’s his nurse. I've revived in the floor. A migraine faint pulled me down; I’ve had no sleep for eight nights, you see. Sweet respite…she says she’ll, “sit with him”, so I can lie down a bit; a pleasant miracle; such happenstance is a rarity.
Dementia-mind has no solutions, only hallucinations, delusions; absence of mind and aggression for the “sundowners”. I watch at breakfast, as he pours his milk upon the floor; he has no clue of what he is doing or why;
he stares, mindless. When the eyes go blank it’s obvious; he’s not in there. A robot gone haywire, used to be my Father. The last thing to go, were his mathematical skills. Dementia-mind has forgotten so many people; how to swallow, but recalls numbers…
“Who is that man?” he demands, pointing at himself in the mirror. My exhausted mind briefly forgets and I mistakenly reply, “You dad.” The firestorm is initiated; he calls me a, “liar”. Self recognition has failed him now; the flame of his mind is burning low; soon to extinguish.
He’s fed and dressed, but I’ve no time to eat; if he should sleep an hour today; I must cook for the week. It’s the only opportunity I have…when and if he sleeps. I must not go to the bathroom; he’ll break something or fall. I must hold myself until my sister arrives.
The “passives” are painful to watch, as they deteriorate, but the “sundowners” are constant exhaustion. I was in the ER, almost as much as, he. You see, there’s no one to care for the caregiver, but themselves and when they can’t, exhaustion and malnutrition escalate. Dementia-mind is round-the-clock work and two doing the work of six people, takes its’ toll. The disease never discriminates; it destroys everyone.
(My Father died with dementia, a form of Alzheimer's in 2003, after a 15 year battle.)
ENOUGH!
I felt deaf from the ‘noise’ of information,
constantly butting, buzzing against my mantra of:
“The quieter you are… the more you… hear!”
At present, my lifestyle felt media manipulated:
tv, radio, newspaper, mobile, computer.. ad infinitum!
Besieged by endless emails, monopolizing mobiles,
beset by frenzied yaps from apps!
Enough is enough is….. ENOUGH,
I have to escape from the unrelenting hullabaloo.
Can the human brain endure so much information
and who am I, an individual thinker or group dancer?
However, relief sat just around the corner
as next morning I boarded the flight to Reykjavik.
A three-hour taxi journey with a taciturn islander,
people and communication diminishing by the mile
until finally a twig of a boat out to Ellidaey Island.
Boating and bobbing towards the uninhabited …hideaway,
an isolated jigsaw piece of land
off the southern coast of Iceland,
I appraise a small-boned building clinging to its side
with ‘RIDICULOUS’ scribbled all over it.
Someone had said Iceland was a niceland
where you could float free, peace and tranquillity!
But someone hadn’t warned me about…Mr Loneliness
Who was soon tapping me sharply on the shoulder.
So here I sit, three days into my week’s stay
in the island’s lodge, dubbed the world’s loneliest house,
where the only neighbours are passing ships and puffing puffins.
No internet, no tv, no electricity, no running nor strolling.. water
just remote, alone and contemplating my countenance
while wondering if God is lonely too!
Suddenly, clouds bump and bruise against each other
as they race away before the darkness snarls in.
Soon, night has sent in its stormtroopers
who land and splinter into shadow groups
while wind angrily sprints up to the house
bombing it with blockbuster punches.
Then rain happily joins in, machine-gunning the house
until the building begins to stagger and stumble.
I check my face and it is still in the same place
but I sit timorously trembling, tyrannised and terrified
while my eyes follow the house’s dimly lit path
as it wags its tail to the cliff’s edge
and jumps into the void of darkness.
But this poem is a broken wrist, with a twist,
as suddenly, my bones brittle and inside myself…..I faint!
What possibly could happen now?
But there it is..
the knock at the front door!
Ian Souter
The idea of a living constitution
has the same forensic indeterminacy
as a committed dream.
I am content to trust this dream to the end
to have it fill my cup of hope all day and night.
I am content to receive its order
to hasten to obey without a pause.
But, the old voice sounds
unrelentingly in the chamber: Do not
compromise. Punish.
Crucify him.
The infirm musing of a perpetual dreamer
rising up with eyes wild for relief.
I am content with the terror and anticipation that
keeps turns by watching me:
Justice, once imagined, cannot be undone.
I have been left to think along these lines
to look for the abandonment of arcane unfairness
months after months.
The months
burn up as a fading lantern
homage to the majesty of the absurd:
A muse easy to bear, Camusian laughter to
suffering’s exalted well —
what single rule might break the dry spell?
Sometimes the unforeseen, the unpredictable
springs in the heart of justice
bending its way upward
again and yet again
towards a distant point
all unaccountably, into the strengthening clasp
of fresh now-born idea,
nearer to binding faith
than wild dismembering injustice.
When the far-distant element
of suffering humanity
looms out more clear;
the faint, far, complex notes of hope
its head moves near
and new flicks of justice’s well
unfolds beyond the known.
Is there any new depth to this well?
Say, what is its true nature?
Quietly nature covers over
the dying bird and the dead rover.
If justice’s dead, it is as though
a robin died beneath the snow
tucked away neatly, whose bright eyes
once stared with impudent surprise
at every tit-bit flung to her.
Now every season we must bear
to live without its whistled air,
for law lives beneath the Spring,
like a sequestered paradise
exiled from the steady hammer of faith,
a trackless rice field
ever trudging through groves of
crouching, unconquered territories.
Oh enchanted universe
conqueror of earth’s stadium
in your wild, singing glory
the faults you committed live.
Come hear my sharpened cries
surely, you can hear my note of crisis.
Ceaselessly I raise my cry.
My cry ascends and floats away
scattered by whirling winds afar.
* “Endure what you suffer as being a father’s punishment.” (Heb. 12:5b-7)
Author's note: written on the anniversary of Harvard's abuse of my human rights