Long Forgetting Poems
Long Forgetting Poems. Below are the most popular long Forgetting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forgetting poems by poem length and keyword.
We're all related to the stormy firmament
Trying to figure out if it's about to pour down.
Or if the sun's just taking a long break.
It's hard to tell what's real these days.
The clang turns up so deafening you can't
Detect your own breathing and every divided
Wall is screaming a different analysis of the
Truth.
It doesn't matter what lingo you pray in, the
Shade of your skin, or where you call home.
When the ground starts vibrating, we all reach
For the precise same thing.
Something rigid, Something factual. Trouble
Doesn't ask for proof of Identity, A heart
Fragile sounds the same everywhere-
That tranquil, heavy crack that makes you
Sit up at 3:00 am and wonder: Where do we
Go from here?
Up looks like down, right feels like left.
We look at each other directly
Clouded glass, forgetting that covered by it all,
It's just bone, blood, and a soul trying to find
Its way back home.
These are daunting times to discern; the fog is dense, but we don't need a lantern to see the
Whole Alpine just enough light to take the
Very next step in alignment.
I sit at the edge of the sea,
learning English again—word by word,
a language I once studied in my growing years,
a childhood of remembering and forgetting,
reading once more the questions of roads and names.
I practice the tongue of another land—
chair, table—simple things.
Do you hear my voice trembling like tears,
each word dissolving into Galang’s waves?
If only my hair and beard would stop growing,
so I could forever mistake U and S
for Vi?t and Nam.
This side is the sea,
the far shore is home.
Have you ever heard,
within the vast echo of storms and rain,
my call of longing for you—
sent with the rain from this distant island,
falling over Sài Gòn of our childhood years?
I still read your letters wrong—
ch? ai, ch? ti tangled with i and t?.
Beloved, though we only held hands once,
without even a kiss to remember,
beloved, I never dared to say
when I would return—
and so I forgot the time I ran away.
This side is the sea,
the far shore is home.
With the same longing, each day I wake
as if still holding schoolbooks, chanting vowels.
Still within me flows without end
the echoes of the Huong River, the Ðà River;
still within me rise the C?m Mountains, the Bà Mountains;
the forests forever green like childhood hair.
Still I remember—oh, how I remember—
the friends who told old tales of T? H?i,
dreaming one day to build a corner of sky.
With that same dream, each day I wake
feeling body and mind scatter into foreign waves,
seeing on the sand the ancient heavenly road appear,
seeing on the page a thousand forests bloom,
seeing ten directions become a rain of wordless letters.
---- Phan Tan Hai. Written in Indonesia, 1983
Because of this hurt,
I hide myself in a shadow;
the widest road looks so narrow...
whatever happened to my dedication and faith?
My ideals ended
into nothingness...
diminishing the hopes and expectancy
of the Eternal Father so fond
of my weakness...
despite my fervent loyalty!
Because of this hurt,
I admit to have been,
the loneliest person on earth;
there have been times,like these,
I must have wished to feel alive:
to change bitterness into harmony,
and welcome a look of sincerity
and of true admiration from friends!
Who can alleviate your fears,if not God?
Because of this hurt,
I am so idifferent...
if changes are to be made:
I shouldn't remember anything
that stripped me of joy and belief!
I should strive for happiness...
forgetting my strife;
losing hope is giving up on life!
I am going to the garden—
not for the tired ceremony of weeding,
not to deadhead the roses
or stake what refuses to stand.
The gate has been open all along.
I just never noticed how the hinges
don’t creak, how the path
is already worn by my own feet.
There’s a bench there I think,
or maybe just a patch of sun
that looks like rest.
The birds have been calling the hours
and I’ve finally learned their language.
I am going to the garden
because the house has become
a museum of almost,
because the kettle knows my name
too well, because the clock
keeps offering me minutes
I no longer want to spend.
The flowers there don’t need me.
They’ve been blooming without permission,
without my anxious counting of petals,
my insistence that beauty
justify itself.
I am going to the garden.
The door behind me
is already forgetting my shape.
Seventy seven times
this how much Jesus wants us to forgive...
but how can we forgive
if the hurt or pain they caused us is:
a six feet under the ground depth
a hammer-like cyclic stigma of shame
a freezing fire agonizing the heart and mind?
Tears spill from the eyes
to drench or lessen the pain
yet, to some who aren't relieved
they chose to taste death
rather than pursuing life. . .
Offering the olive branch
of friendship, kindness and forgiveness
though it seems, hard to do so
this to invite peace
amidst chaos and misery caused by ill deeds.
And if in a way,
it is not returned
is forgetting a better option?
or should one keep trying--
for persistence a way to win restoration...?
Forgiving
is one of the famous battles
we humans face day by day
as it is between the head and heart
that sometimes these two even is in clash.
Anger, pain and pride
halt us from forgiving
yet, will we choose to sleep in these
be confined and contained in these
when there is a better choice
to let go and forgive?
_______________________________________
1:00 pm, February 19, 2015
amnesia sets in
selective memory
forgetting the gossip
written in a rhyme
poison inked words
splatter on the screen
to demean
to be mean
misjudge
tattle taler
repeat hater
carries on...
others pics forgotten
other words forgotten
hate fueled
hate sated
the true state
not debated
never stopping to think
could be wrong
has to push down
to be strong
and so it goes on
wrong after wrong
and like the publican
feels good to pray
and say
"Thank God...I'm not like others....a sinner
I'm a winner!"
Morality laden
A chaste maiden
Oh, but erased
is not defaced
there is another record
One with a trace
Seen by another Judge
ONE not common place
a remembered name
a remembered face
and I?
Well, I rest my case....
For I am nothing
but a sinner
in need of grace
Eileen Manassian
Umbrella of Hours
I walked backward on the ceiling, with an umbrella of hours,
I left my self on the coat rack like a wax hat,
and the coat rack coughed up an entire choir of little fish,
down sleep's escalator I descended toward a door,
but the door was a hard-boiled egg, round and without handles.
Dreams are pajamas of smoke sewn onto a streetcar of embers,
and desire, a rooster with a door latch instead of a comb,
crows at a quarter to three in the language of the milk moon,
I feed it with eyelashes and forgotten telegrams,
and at dawn it turns me inside out like a glove of ash.
I evaporate through the keyhole into a bottomless coffee,
where the echo, wearing glasses, can no longer find its voice,
I remain alone, when the world is still unleavened dough,
empty as a bunch of keys that forgot what they open,
and I float in the belly of a blue glass elephant.
Maybe the dream is a cupboard in which another cupboard sleeps,
and I, a moon button on the coat of a mute crane,
slide from dream to dream like a spoon across a lake of pitch,
among doors that open into the pockets of other doors,
and the self, a mustachioed firefly, glows by forgetting that it burns.
Beyond the last dream there is only a staircase without steps,
up which climbs an angel in boots of unborn snow,
the silence before the letter, when the name was sleeping,
and the one who sleeps, the one dreamed, the one awakened are one dew,
and everything returns to the hard-boiled egg with its bolted door.
When fretting midst pain, hopelessly anxious
Doubt-stricken, spiritually unconscious…
I admit my sin-caused infirmities
Forgetting God so awesomely gracious.
When incurring well-deserved chastisements
Because of futile, worldly entanglements…
I confess my prayerlessness’ status
Neglecting the Lord’s mighty involvements.
When wavering with weariness-attacks
Obviously triggered by arrogance-knacks
I yield my soul to the great Redeemer
Cleaving to Him Whose mercy* never lacks.
*Psalm 69:13 …O God, in the multitude of thy mercy hear me, in the truth of thy salvation.
March 20, 2019
Would I still be me, without an arm or a knee
Would I still be me, if I could no longer see?
Was my lover whole, after brain injury
A sudden brake, subtle changes, still loves me.
Am I still me, with such fading memory?
It gets worse with age, to my childhood, lost the key.
Was Mom still her, when the slow descent became a stroke
Is part of her fully asleep, from this nightmare never woke?
Would you still like me, when I don't know who I am?
Maybe I never did, self-concept just a sham.
Would you still like me when I don't know you
Is there a core worth saving, when my time comes due?
Would I still be me, if my temper came unchained
Surprised who I could be, or by circumstances framed
Would I still be me, if my morals twisted out of shape
Gradual descent, then snapback, but too late?
Would you stay with me, at the edges of my mind
When all the roads we traveled are no longer there to find?
We forget from whence we came; we forget what once we knew
An empty shell that looks like me, a caring that holds you.
Lay my head against this wall
Memories of you and things we saw the same
Why can't I stop returning
To that which brings me the greatest inspiration that I know?
Towards the sands is where I dream
Clouds and water bring me nothing
Bring me to the desert wind
Uncertainty on which I depend
Blow me away into your holy storm
Draw me back into my stony cell of love
It means so much more to me and less
I've lost everything but in return gained so much more
Dreaming is doing me less and less good
It's just making me wish for my old pain
Looking back, it was easier than I knew
But I'd never know it then
But just like then, what I need now is a friend
The ones I had are gone, drawn into the desert heat
Looking back, but forgetting all that hurt
Can I live it again? I was safer way back when