Long Fist Poems
Long Fist Poems. Below are the most popular long Fist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fist poems by poem length and keyword.
You!
by Michael R. Burch
For thirty years You have not spoken to me;
I heard the dull hollow echo of silence
as though strange communion between us.
For thirty years You would not open to me;
You remained closed, hard and tense,
like a clenched fist.
For thirty years You have not broken me
with Your alien ways,
prevarications and distance.
Like a child dismissed,
I have watched You prey upon the hope in me,
knowing "mercy" is chance
and "heaven"—a list.
Originally published by "The Bible of Hell" (anthology). NOTE: I call mercy “chance” and heaven a “list” because the bible says its “god” predestines some people to be “vessels of mercy” and others to be “vessels of destruction.” Thus mercy is reduced to the chance of birth and heaven is a precompiled list of the lucky few. Of course there is no reason to believe in such a diabolical “god” or such an unjust “heaven” ... but billions have, and do. Keywords/Tags: Christian, Christianity, God, Jesus, Bible, faith, hope, love, salvation, heaven, hell, mercy, grace, religion, belief, communion
The ground shakes in anticipation
A wave of newfound hope sparks the attention
Of surrounding people
A march dedicated to the right of freedom
Each step marks the ground of remembrance
A permanent mark that refuses erasure
The sound of revolution echoes in every building
Voices that demand to be heard
Voices that demand reperation
Each chant an indictment
Each sign a verdict
Each fist a representation of the unity
In the black community
The sky blank
Not wanting to distract
From a movement of great impact
Ones that rip apart a society meant to harm
Yet we stand together linked by our arms
A barrier of love
Unbreakable by hate
Joy the organiser
Our strength the leader
We come as one
A generational collective
Each soul, each heart sparks chills
An air of ice towards the oppressors
The wind creates goosebumps as to what will come
A spiritual atmosphere overwhelms
Their throats choked by our ancestors hands
A little taste of the abuse they catered
Their confused cries to be released ignored
Their panicked faces a fate they have earned
Of what it is like to be seen not heard
The words we speak pierce hearts
Accountability we shove down their throats
Their egos become an exhibition
It's need for attention cornered
Your need for superiority bare and exposed
The world will shake in fear
Secrets buried slowly exposed
The bodies they try to rid unearthed
Risen from the soil to fight for justice
Together the past, the present, the future generation stand together to watch their hate cower
In the face of reclaiming our black power
A Little Bird"
(Refer to= Matthew 10:29,31)
One of the first things that I hear
As dawn breaks in the eastern sky
Is a cheerful song, of a little bird
Another bleak night, it does defy
God instilled in it, the simple fact
That life and hope, still remain
A ray of sunshine, can be seen
Amid our sorrow, and our pain
The night before, the screen displayed
A clenched fist and angry eyes
As turmoil raged within the heart
Of those who voiced their battle cries
Although darkness may rule the heart
Of those who rebel against the light
In the end, victory will be sweet
We'll rejoice, that our choice was right
He who attends the funeral of a sparrow
Will not our needs forsake
When evil would engulf our land
A way of escape, He will make
I have faith that amid our trials
His love, He will always show
He'll guide us when the night is dark
"A little bird told me so"
Colan L Hiatt = 06-27-13
© All Rights Reserved
My worst enemy has four worn feet,
a wooden back, a vacant stare;
it waits across from where I eat;
my oldest foe, the empty chair.
It does not shout or bare a blade;
its weapon is a vacant space.
It lets the happiest plans be made,
then wears a missing, cherished face.
It ambushes each holiday
and waits where laughter should have grown;
one glance can steal the room away
and remind me I am all alone.
It keeps the missing gathered there;
the dead, departed, those who fled;
what enemy could better wear
the living faces of the dead?
I hate it for the way it knows
which tender memory to employ;
it turns the smallest griefs to ghosts
and slips them underneath my joy.
I hate the victories it claims;
how birthdays bend beneath its weight;
how it can resurrect old names
and make the present sit and wait.
I’ve pushed it hard against the wall,
then filled the room with noise and cheer;
yet it can silence one and all
by simply being empty here.
No other foe has fought so well
without a fist, a voice, or breath;
it makes one absence rise and swell
until it fills the room with death.
For years, I gave that chair command
and let it choose which joys could stay;
it ruled my heart with unseen hands
and drove the living hours away.
Until I saw, with sudden dread,
the cruelest victory it won:
while mourning all the gone and dead,
I had become another one.
My enemy was not who left,
not every promise stripped and bare;
it was the way I stood bereft
and surrendered living to that chair.
So now I pull it near my side
and take the place that grief once claimed;
the chair remains, but I decide
whose living presence will be named.
Some absences still linger there;
some losses never disappear.
But I have faced the empty chair,
and filled its greatest void: I’m here.
CAMP 4
‘If I die, I die.’
The realness of those words
sent a shiver down my spine
as I listened to the climbers.
It was late autumn, 1969.
There was a pause after his words
and each face made the slightest nod
peering deeply into the flames;
Tom Bauman had just soloed the Nose.
Slowly, I began to put pitons into
the face of life, jammed my fist
into fissures, and ascended slowly.
I delighted when my blood dripped
onto the dark diorite veins in the granite.
For this is life and I believe
in the challenge of the ascent and
the use of a life to outlive it.
It is now the winter of 2014, and
I wander through Camp 4.
I look at the young, intense faces
as they to peer into the flames.
I would share with them what
has been my own first ascent,
but Tom lives on, so I scream
to a startled camp my tribute to life:
‘If I die, I die.’
recurrent suicidal thoughts vain
gloriously wend
(o'er a death cab for cutie weeknd)
yanking zeal
becalming this crash test dummy rolling
stone temple pilot inxs
of maroon 5 plus decades long
perdition hellaciously slogging
slow as adam and the ants,
thru fifty shades of gray's
anatomy common weal
masterly baiting this motley crue (cutting),
beatle browed, beastie boy,
outre gee (bee) us, grateful dead,
mailer daemons inhabit
cavernous fist size vastness steel
via Herbie Hancock (Hermans Hermits)
cheesy Munster trap doors that steal,
deep purple swiftly tailored
culture club members squeal
hosted by mega death pack rat boston for real
venue at Tokyo hotel, via en grave invitation
signed by Alice in Chains poison huss kiss
sing, which will spellbind
once contents unveiled, an instant app peal
immediately choking off air supply
then Alice Cooper egging bad company
to hypnotize the guess who sacrificial meal
supplanting raw primal scream from spinal tap
acquiescing self to abandon all hope,
especially if black sabbath joins
creed dance clearwater revival
dark shadows would demand one
(to take a knee) and kneel
before sacrificing oneself at the beck and call
of evanescent nirvana
experiencing permanent relief,
sans soul (twisted) sister riding a hansom
off phish hull heart shaped coffin
ample room enough for blind
melon collie 10,000 maniacs, their heal
ling powers profusely emanating
via m&m shaped talking heads
methinks averring obeisance
to judas priest and hooters with coldplay feel
ling of eternal sleep, where quiet pussy riot
joins carpenters, whose underground
sepulchral crowded house indicative
cynthesis iz a done dizzy Gillespie afterlife deal
and you bet your sweet bippy meme
an extra bonus for orthodox believers
(absent myself - a skeptic),
whose karma with long deceased will anele!
Form:
So what
to say today
What words will drift
my way
Try to get death
to see that its senseless
or orate the tale
of a grain of dust
discuss what would Freddy
do to mason
the charming snake
amongst the cat of Cheshire
Touch a page in space
And erase
every trace
of every thought
that came before
Opportunity beheaded by an exit door
Turn back he bellows
from below
But its no use
This head willl not turn
and threw my fist into the sun
Well that was different
just give me a sec
Im talking to my self
Where did that come from i ask
Wasnt me i say
Sorry for the interruption
Let me leave you with this thought
I dont think outside the box
i think the box was never there
Love is a stranger,
I often knock on her door.
I leave bits of roses that linger
And wilt with the ones before.
Today I’ve placed a new rose
It looked back at me weeping
I pull away and feel the dread again start creeping.
A feeling you can’t put into prose.
I want to be enough for her
My fist pounds against glass,
My mind caves under all the pressure
I just need this to pass.
I sit, I pace, I beg her to let me in
Love draws the blinds
And leaves me with the sin.
Because the sin binds
And tethers me to another,
Thoughts of pulling away leads me to shutter.
Yet I pull the string of fate taut,
It starts to fray
Obsession plagues my thought
And forgets to obey
When I hear her laughter,
Deep from within
I know that what comes after
Leaves my heart singed.
blue war red hot political issues dont amount
to a hill of beans
when Sword of Damocles count
approaches zero hour
as global tensions mount
signaling increased chance
trigger finger will free
avast nuclear winter
(across world wide web) re:
leasing plethora pyrocumulus
mushroom clouds tree
mend us planetary explosions
annihilating webbed wide
world, an irrevocable earthlinked debacle
spelling widespread species
multitudinous extinction
ex post de facto after super
bowling powers (wannabe) vied
to wrest empowerment spanning
entire realm sans third rock
from the father, sun and holy ghost,
who turned substantial pock
kits of flora and fauna
once populating oblate spheroid ad hoc
significant swaths of life forms
pulverized and/or turned to ash
transformed into radioactive wasteland
after war mongers brash
lee usurped hegemony
(ruling inhabitants
of Gaia with an iron fist
with a smidgen of flavoring
courtesy of Missus Dash
superfluous taste enhancer,
when sibling burnt offering views
between Venus and Mars incendiary
tolled mourning news
smithereens sole remnant
poisoned every square inch
from weapon of mass destruction
that did cruise
engendering thick noxious fog
(disabling fox and roach)
while smoldering seas and continents
skull and crossbones didst poach
amidst the gasified, liquified, pureed
where holographic ghoulish super bowl coach
rendering lifelessness home for menagerie
where virtue trounced vice as organisms
(particularly one primate) didst try
(predominant 21st century simians)
tool heave with amity, comity, and empathy
animals and plants an experiment
that went a wry
presaging a nuclear winter with nary a winner
implicating mankind as the absolute sinner
instantaneously after Doomsday Clock
signaled point of no return
where grim reaper the sole grinner.
Form:
Richard Wilson hates it when people tell him his catch phrase.
I told it to him and you'd better believe that I've seen better days.
His catch phrase was "I don't believe it!" from One foot in the grave.
If you plan to say it to him, you'd damn well better be brave.
After I told him his catch phrase, I was being hit.
All because I said "I don't believe it!"
He blacked my eyes and broke my nose with his elderly fist.
This was without doubt a man who was certainly pissed.
I said his catch phrase to him but I sure won't say it again.
It was embarrassing to be beaten up by a senior citizen.
(THIS IS A FICTIONAL POEM.)