Long Fights Poems
Long Fights Poems. Below are the most popular long Fights by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fights poems by poem length and keyword.
Now that December has descended
with it's roots of ice and skies of snow
our timber fortress is a sanctuary of ethnographic enlightenment
and embassy that entreats the exchange of craftsmanship,
lately I have been preoccupied with my etymological research,
it is important to President Jefferson, an anthropologist
that we discover the origin of the natives through their languages,
he is obsessed with understanding the diversity of the human race
a bone collector of civilizations and shaman of scholarship,
Private Sheilds, through his blacksmithing expertise
has allowed us to barter iron for corn without which
the Corps of Discovery would either lose vital quantity of provisions,
be reduced to malnourished paupers, or even engage in unscrupulous raiding,
there are still a thousand arduous miles to go
from all estimations, before reaching the Pacific,
as is, the Elders, especially from the Hidatsas
are suspicious of our motives
because of the 18 foot high pallisaded fort we have built adjacent to the Mandans,
so mistrust is suppressed well with an open door policy
and liberal trade of battle axes,
knives, weapon and tool sharpening, kettles, needles and so on,
January 1805,
the new year has introduced 40 below zero weather, syphilis and fists fights,
to stave the ills of boredom we routinely go on hunting expeditions
through the gruelling grip of winter's madness,
another activity that warms the soul are the spectacular jamborees
that conjure the whiles of instincts
and reminds us all how the heart seeks it's deepest expressions,
Cruzzatte plays the fiddle like a tempter of lunatic love
while Silas Goodrich thumbs a mandolin into the dreams of romantic heroism,
the squaws often coo with eyes of diamonds
arms outstretched with fingers swaying like wind blown wheat,
York is a sensation with the Indians
they have never seen a Black Man before
describing him as the black clay of chaos,
they believe there is magic in his skin
touching and rubbing him constantly like a healing stone,
J.A.B.
How does it feel to be in love?
I imagine the perfect romance filled with laughter and desire
To walk into a room and see your lover’s soul’s instantly catch fire
Of course, there will be fights
I’ll get angry over something silly and swear that it’s justified
You’ll promise that I’m just over dramatic, as both our egos collide
And then there will be days that I’m sad
I’ll try my hardest to keep it hidden but you always see through my guise
You’ll cuddle me tightly all through the night then wake me just before dawn to remind me there’s always a sunrise
My favorite moments will be spent with you
We’ll excitedly watch our favorite series and make bets on which character is about to go
We’ll playfully fight and start stealing kisses, naturally losing all focus on the show
You’ll be my first and last thought each day
Every night I’ll snuggle up close and embrace your warmth while praying whole heartedly that we’ll never be apart
Every morning I’ll wake up and turn to kiss you but you’ll grab me first and, with a smile say “Good morning sweetheart”
Learning, sleeping
Playing, wheeping
Integrating in the whole
Like a brick into the wall
Hearing whispers all the time
His unconscious needs sublime
Singing songs or writing poems
Escape he seeks, uncommon knowledge
Seeking perfection (not to mention) he fights the infection
That tries to stop his ascension (to the far dimension)
In silence he screams
He, who has the big, bad sins
An angel seeks his long lost soul,
For him in order not to fall
With the power of the gods
He survives against the odds
A She is created
To fit the unrated
The wish to fulfill
The dream to come still
Beyond, there's nothing more
Purity has lost his soul
Seeking desire
He has fallen into fire
Intense the burning hits his soul
In his hell he's gonna fall
From the dream he shakes and wakes
To take a bath and learn for math
Chill the north-east air
On the bravest cheek
Though the March sun sifts
Through the clouding sheet
As if winter fights
The advancing spring,
While the daffodils dance
In the darting breeze!
So sure the measured steps of time
Steal slow the strength of men,
And years at last
Must yield their power
To younger blood,
To generations yet to be,
Till they in turn grow old
On time's resistless wheel
Of life and death
And all would seem
A sequence meaningless
Of gain and loss,
Of hope, despair,
Of life, of death.
Yet by that dancing daffodil
God speaks a lesson pure,
Apparent death can spring again
And even winter's chill
Prepare the heart to find new life
In Christ.
Time’s up
mind’s plucked
watch me cave in
rhymes suck
my luck
hair’s wearing thin
corrupt
destruct
stops me thinking
clocks stuck
bell struck
sound silencing
Now I told you the minds plucked
first line look
write the hook
tip top tin pot I’m all shook up
lips lock can’t talk words in a book
flip flop fell off feet feel the muck
this rhyme of mine now starts to cook
Grapes with stems and apples with pips in
baking tin's hot for mashing cakes in
microwaves hum the smells you’re craving
visual treat the way this laying
succulent senses smells utensils
music playing instrumentals
banana berries you see genitals
banana cock with very berry balls
admittedly imagery imaginary calamity
the title says forced not fabulously
perspective talent I have or haven't
clear to see or transparent
a fight night fight knight fights fight knights
fighting fighters fighting fights
right through the night 'til early light
it's quite a sight when fight knights fighting
fight knights fighting fighters fighting fights fight all night
forced but great
cook or bake
walnuts cakes
waste of space
pick out of place
left on plates
cake fills waist
rhyme overrates
I say it straight
this page you save
bookmark cook shart
favourites hook hearts
great hits honk large
grey bits bonk hard
you think I'm
bonkers
more like plonkers pond cars boats
random words I just float
flash dance
gash glance
entrance
splash pants
drains fast
seepage
expands
stains grand
up set
get set
marks
won’t go
on show
all know
ball bag blow
fool go home
rhyme it like you're mental
do it with pen not pencil
don't rub it out write it again
I know a penguin poet called Gwen
no go again mean this poem's a gem
Time’s up mind’s plucked watch me cave in
rhymes suck my luck hair’s wearing thin
corrupt destruct stops my thinking
and no I haven't been foster drinking
I'm surpassing my limits imagine the vision,
Of grasping intentions to master existence,
A savage I've witnessed bedazzled by gimmicks,
I laugh but I meant this I ask for forgiveness,
My past interventions were passion resentments,
Relapsing and quitting soul nagging from interest,
So sad had to end this what I had is not a friendship,
My mask being lifted surpassing my limits,
Within found a Light there my Savior waiting right there,
As I prayed to It found a way to It cause ego never fights fair,
It's my only weapon in Spirit small voice at times I can't hear it,
But It told me to not fear It just persevere and come near It,
With one step I start coming to a slow jog now I'm running,
Can't procrastinate cause I want It with fascination I'm hunting,
My imagination undaunted to face the demons that haunt it,
With a small knot in my stomach surpass my limits I'm coming!
_______________________
Let from anywhere a poem begin,
If only voice comes only from within.
___________________________
She makes more than half of what’s home,
Her personae confined to dome,
Still, she has from here-to-there roam!
The man in her life, called her groom
To let bud unto flower bloom,
Can’t spare her even a small room.
Even today she needs support,
Identity, anchoring port,
Yet, where's enough space for her fort?
Should she bury her lifelong dream,
Walk the way shown with a face grim,
Or paint her own life, rise like cream?
She can make common look like rare,
Make haven of a home so bare
What only she can as ever.
In her love there’s intensity,
In her friendship, intimacy,
In all she does rare ecstasy.
For one, a rare creator’s she,
Creation, creativity,
Rolled into one place all the three.
She fights battles, not for winning,
To keep her home alive, humming,
Without her the home is nothing.
She’s not all of body and blood,
A throbbing heart ever in flood,
A flower that still remains bud.
What’s she? A thought or just a thing?
An epic, one never ending,
One that gets writ whilst unfolding.
______________________________
Tercet | 04.03.2026 | dream, epic, home, women
Note: For Women’s Day (8th March)
"Not The Life"
"Not the life i wanted .."
He thought everyday he woke up..;
As he prepared for the battles ahead..!!
He opened his eyes with the wounds still fresh...;
Pain still there as he tried to put on the battle dress..!!
Lost count of the blood and tears he had already shed..
Just thinking "Not the life i wanted .."
As he prepared for the battles ahead..!!
No one to cry for him when he is gone..
No one to nurse the bleeding wounds when he returns..!!
His life was nothing more than of a walking dead..!!
Living through the struggles all alone..
Lost count of the broken dreams..!!
Just thinking "Not the life i wanted .."
As he prepared for the battles ahead..!!
Not sure who he fights for..
Not sure why he still lives...!!
Fighting through the day one thought comes in mind..
Would it be the death where he find his peace..!!
As his bones break, so does his soul...
He just kept thinking... "Not the life i wanted .."
As he prepared for the next battle ahead..!!
With the day end, the war was over..!!
Celebrations all around..
People feasting, girls dancing..
Lights and colors all around..!!
And a feast was on the battlefield too..
Where the wolves ate the poor soul..!!
With all bones broken he can't run or fight..
Blood flowing attracting more to the feast..!!
He felt the hungry jaws crunching ..
On the already broken limbs..!!
He lived and dies too in pain ...
He just kept thinking... "Not the life i wanted .."
As he prepared for the unknown journey ahead..!!
Form:
Psst. Hey Joan, listen closely now.
As I whisper and tell you how.
There's something I need you to do.
Bring the spirit of spirit into view.
Cast your cares upon the sea.
I promise not to forsake thee.
In a world of unspoken truth.
You have the wisdom of my eye tooth.
The lands are fraught with dark disdain.
As one side wins nothing to gain.
While one fights for the right to stay.
Knowing blue sky's too long been grey.
The cloak of righteous fervor waits.
As you lay there outside the gates.
Unholy justice now's been cast.
Your future lie's upon our past.
For the Joan of Arc Contest
Addiction is a disease,
there is no cure.
It's not a road we chose to travel,
or a detour.
You can't beat it up,
the addict will struggle,
On a daily basis,
he must go out and hustle.
I hear people say
that addicts are weak,
They are not,
just up a different kind of creek.
Every day,
the addict faces life or death,
The people are un-stable,
when you're trying to buy Meth.
You can live with your disease;
you manage,
It is painful and messy,
and there's a lot of damage.
Every day,
you fight to achieve sobriety,
You struggle,
to be a pillar of society.
The addict,
fights in his own inner war,
The head screams feed me;
heart says no more.
Your monkey,
is bigger than a gorilla,
You feed the lizard;
you get Godzilla.
Messing with the dope,
is a vicious cycle,
Your head tell you it's cool,
you live in denial.
It is a lifetime,
before you figure it out,
Your sixty when you,
have second thoughts about.
Where the hell,
can you go from here?
The directions and,
words were never clear.
You find yourself
at sixty and all alone,
Still searching for that
comfort zone….
Turbo1904