Long Family Poems
Long Family Poems. Below are the most popular long Family by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Family poems by poem length and keyword.
In fields where wheat shines bright as gold,
A family's tale of love unfolds.
Mother, father, fires aglow,
Brother's shelter through wars that blow.
The night is long, the wait profound,
Soothing souls, a last comfort found.
Yet, in my heart, a lonely refrain,
As the dawn approaches, ending the pain.
Believing in love, a heartfelt grace,
Embrace my heart in your warm embrace.
Leaving well, through trials I've trod,
One last song for my resting sod.
On a family farm, memories unfold,
Playing his music, sins foretold.
Dear Boli, embrace your life,
By your side, through joy and strife.
Fortunes worse than war, out of reach,
A father's wisdom, his final speech.
In death, no tears, he gently said,
Give it to God, then to thee, he pled.
Now, as the end draws near,
Long night's wait, the dawn is here.
Soothing souls, a final comfort shared,
Yet, my heart, in silence, bared.
Believing in love, a timeless pledge,
In your embrace, on life's edge.
Leaving well, though through hell I've been,
One last song, a farewell scene.
On his deathbed, father spoke,
No tears for him, his legacy invoked.
Misses Robinson, my love divine,
To God, then to thee, the final line.
Little darling, thy fada wears a garland of frowns,
The breda must explain their jokes to him across the night,
Worry devours his heart,his wallet emptied of light,
Fallen sistrins and soaring debts weigh him down.
Parasitic friends,the firewater that hauls him down,
Your mada' open relationship haunts him without end
You poor black girl,his paternal duty no hand can mend,
So little darling,mockingbird sings sagacity' gentle crown.
'' Motivate him'',cries nightingale,'' seek angels that heel,
Set calm and clear,boundaries firm and the rule of right,
Recall the days when Rastafari made his soul bright ,
Technicalized guidance cuts through despair and anger's steel.
Sistren and fada ,simmer down a little bit,sooth the strife,
And read The Holy Piby for blessings in holy Jah life''
Glossary of Useful non pompous English terms:
Fada-father
breda-brother
sistrins -sisters
mada--mother
Rastafari--the best religion
technicalized-professional
Holy Piby-Bible of Rastafari
He knew what he had to do and his whole family was on board
He had to gather an entire zoo in so abiding with God's accord
Such a large boat would it be in having many sons as his hands
And then those who don't agree standing on such feeble sands
It took over one hundred years as Noah lived to a ripe old age
Our life expectancy nowhere nears but it is there on the page
So many also felt as you do and they too didn't want to believe
I say to you that it is true, the Lord God did not come to deceive
And once the job was finally complete that door still was not shut
And as they walked by his great feat they all said, "Boy what a nut!"
For rain never fell from the sky but a misting and many a spring
As I said, I do not lie, you just need to read more about this thing
Then finally the Lord said, "Shut the gate", but it still didn't rain
But God had sealed everyone's' fate as now time began to wane
And then the first drop or two as they taunted Noah even more
Now no longer just a light dew as it opened up and began to pour
They soon scattered like fleas as some tried to get on the boat
Noah could not answer their pleas for that is not what God wrote
Don't let that gate shut upon you as to when His Judgment is made
But this whole scenario will be true, it's up to you in what you wade
Genesis 7:1
In the six hundredth year of Noah's life, in the second month, the seventeenth day of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened.
Two hundred forty two
(12.1 score) years ago
countless stripling soldiers
strapping farming homeboys
healthy agrarian lads
raised among generations
in summer re:
offspring original settlers heirs
family acreage encompassed
wide uninterrupted forested swaths
across sprawling vistas
sparsely populated enclaves,
now heavily industrialized
lovely bones occupying
unmarked never known graves
buried amidst avast
cleft rapacious urbanization
long forgotten innocent youths
hailing within then bucolic
Montgomery, Delaware and Chester county
forsook their young precious lives
voluntarily promising sons
risking life and limb
more often former versus latter
sacrificing stripling flesh
encompassing urbanized tracts
quite familiar to yours truly
suddenly made aware
unbeknownst till yesterday
informative literary handiwork
titled "A Glimpse of Freedom"
engagingly written by Douglas Shupinski
details innocently naive country bumpkins
sacrificing potential sweat of brow,
albeit grueling labor
fostering holistic existence
transforming boyz to men
hardened green soldiers
into battle weary fighters
regarding, kickstarting, envisioning
inchoate cause named freedom
emancipating fledgling America
against British throne
awareness percolates,
perturbs, permeates psyche
synchronizing, manifesting, galvanizing
how past historical events
within close proximity,
where I mostly resided
since birth, now experience
absorption, communion, edification...
with dead souls
nearly deathly quiet
only most perceptive can detect!
I suppose,
as a pretentiously self-uberespecting Wise Elder,
I should be alpha-embarrassed to admit
my youngest son,
unable to speak or even sign,
unable to even successfully chew and swallow food,
unable to walk without warm-embraced assistance,
is also my guardian angel.
Without him
I would undoubtedly forget
each day and night
is a re-newing challenge
to laugh with others' screeching terrors
and shared miseries of sobbing tragedy,
to listen patiently,
maintaining eye contact as best you can,
as long as necessary,
appearing to actually be interested and following,
or, even better,
actually become totally immersed in hearing
resonance and dissonance and timbre,
resolution and irresolution,
rhythm and patterns of song and dancing relationship
and absence of healthy co-relationship,
all before we speak,
or squawk,
as in the case of my guardian angel,
Who also occasionally graces us with shared laughter
about how silly we all are together,
or how great the front porch breeze feels
up against the birdsong.
My nearly egoless zero-sum WinWin mentor,
my youngest sacred graced perfection son.
How would I ever have survived his sister,
who is my Egyptian Princess AlphaPharoah BiPolar *****,
in a kind of a Nubian DiPolar Witchy Wu-Wei,
if you know what I mean.
Kind of like living with a five-year-old Donald Trump
if he were also a fifteen-year-old transexual
with bipolar oppositional ***** disorder.
I just read that to my guardian angel.
He didn't think that was funny,
so I thought I would share it with you,
while he's still listening,
in his guardian angel graced way.
We each take only what we yang and yin need
and do our best to cooperatively re-invest
all of it,
including the ecopolitical ****.
In a world of journeys,
A path we found,
A path woven with waves of emotions,
A path of laughter and tears.
RCF, a home of care we found.
RCF
A journey of change,
A journey of power,
A journey of unity,
A journey of voices,
A journey of love.
RCF, a journey that stretched us.
RCF
A journey where shyness turned to bravery,
A journey of learning,
A babe once, now grown in grace,
A journey of one becoming a multitude,
A journey of instability now firm and grounded.
RCF, where my heart belongs.
How do I say goodbye?
A journey engraved in my heart,
A journey that forged us into warriors,
A journey that taught us resilience.
RCF, a journey completed, strong and true.
In RCF, a family I found.
Holidays haven't been the same since momma passed away.
The joy and love our family had was stolen all away.
Her favorite time was Christmas time, It always seemed to me.
She loved to wrap the presents and decorate the tree.
My daddy went to be with her just the other day.
They will spend Christmas together this year, At least that's what I pray.
It's never gonna be the way it used to be.
We won't have momma's cooking, And I can't decorate a tree.
They at least won't have any pain this year and there won't be any sorrow.
All that was yesterday and we are praying for tomorrow.
Form:
The places we chose to put ourselves
willingly, unwillingly.
Past lives linger and we emerge with a scream
spitting the remnant wombs from pursed lips
producing the perennial pucker
the seeking sucking sounds as we search
for this incarnation's tit.
Why does one leave the shelter of wing
the warmth of nest
and with bowed head search the syllabi
of society for meaning from the first scream
while others linger in reminiscence of a lost dream?
Thrown from the warmth of family
the naive can chose to fade, to wilt, to die
or to rise wide eyed center stage
spitting angry ugliness back at the defilers
or smiling sweet dishonesties like overcoats
woolly and warm on a bitter winters day.
Karma its existence a righteous warning
to the wary womb walkers
many paths to take, many horizons
to bridge and neither smile nor scream
may be the proper response
go figure....
Monday Morning Madness
Just because the morning starts
like the morning straight from hell,
and the little one is screaming
and you need a magic spell,
just because you burned the pancakes
and the bacon, well it’s crisp,
do not rant and rave and stutter
or you’ll acquire a nasty lisp!
If your husband’s little habits
drive you batty, do not fret,
but don’t fill his cup with poison;
well, perhaps at least not yet!
If the dog destroyed your curtains
and your mother-in-law is back,
and you hurt your precious pinky
when you tried to nail a tack,
do not turn suicidal
and do not give up, no way!
After all it’s just the morning!
You still have the whole damn day!
There you go,
back, far back into the woods once more.
I wish you knew the names of all these tree.
They are distant aunts, and old soldiers,
warriors of coincidental conflicts.
Blood soaked relations of relative ghosts
seen now only as points of departure
where tombs have been riven by lightning
or whole forests burnt to the ground
to a more fertile ash.
Names unknown but named in a book
rivers and reeds write
for later roots to unravel.
Fathers as old as the first horse.
Mothers who breast fed the slow dreams
of a humankind destined to plant her flag
upon a million fields of creation.
Yet more await, are nursed as new seeds
that glimmer in a shinning nebular.
Now I watch one lone child
pass through gorse, thickets, and briar,
travelling through its own forest
to be born into a family
that has yet to be named or branched.
Life lives and returns to find out why
again and again.
Reincarnated crucifixions
dot a new landscape each era,
vacations in Ohio last until
death stamps a later passport.
Sweat and blood in Thailand,
transforms into poetry.
A blind man digging his way through a city
mining for a treasure he was born with.
Back we will come
arriving from anywhere
and anyone.
Each deliverance a blessing
we had to uncover and acknowledge
as our own woodland mystery.
A place between sacred mountains and molehills
where the trees have yet to be labeled
or cutdown, and green growing offspring
with their little axes
getting duller and heavier each year
until the woods and all disappear
to follow the night-train
to where they will arrive at,
whatever platform we have
cobbled together or erected with prescient hands.
Then we claim our Kingdoms,
our many mansions, the many branches of us all.
As the cycle turn and spiral
again to return carrying a new child
as a gift of the light.