Long Forlornly Poems
Long Forlornly Poems. Below are the most popular long Forlornly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forlornly poems by poem length and keyword.
Preface:
Earlier today May 28th, 2021,
the 12-member jury unanimously
found Cristhian Bahena Rivera guilty
of first-degree murder in brutal stabbing death
sentenced to life in prison
without the possibility of parole
of Mollie Tibbetts remembered as then friendly
20-year-old who was studying
to become a child psychologist.
IOWA CITY, Iowa
(killingly, jarringly inexplicable,
horribly, gruesomely, and forlornly),
the body found July 18, 2018,
an exhumed decayed corpse
belonging to young
vibrant coed twenty year old
college student Mollie Tibbetts.
Impossible mission to deduce
senseless killing of innocent babe
wild speculation perchance
spurned, snubbed,or scorned
love seriously gone wrong,
she who disappeared
from her small hometown
in central Iowa sad swan song
now plays, where every
last drop of sorrow rung,
now weeping family, friends,
relatives, et cetera subjected wrack
with lifelong emotional pain,
which searing inescapable
grief twill unrelentingly track
ferociously, fiercely, and figuratively,
doth disallow recourse
to duck away
from heart wrenching quack
king unbearably, terribly, and scathingly
will fully bill leave ably
beak homing a folly,
mockery, and travesty,
sans time heals
all wounds (truly "FAKE"),
nonetheless psyche riving tragic
(irrevocable loss) doth pack.
Grievous punch greater then any
all star olympic pugilist
straight to the ab
domain of opponent, where
rumor mongers mill and blab
how this, that, or
another potential suspect,...
whence tissues dab
corners of crying eyes,
an endless stream
of tears merge with gab
bullying utter disbelief.
Family/friends question
the supposed almighty
at devastating loss
to do nothing but bawl (at Baal)
into the fox sized rabbit hole
trying with futility
to block (even crawl
ling into every
rabbit hole) no bastion
against implacable
maddening crowded
house alive with murderous frenzy,
and a dialect (non
tickling) gentle Iowan drawl.
Third anniversary regarding
asper the impossibly steep toll
the purposelessness killing,
aforementioned deceased
affected sodden wet soul
cannot process any (defying) logic,
a foregone lovely gal (same age
as my youngest daughter),
whose missed presence,
(albeit said slain lass
Mollie Tibbetts – permanent absence),
now created an expansive
infinite black sink hole.
Serenade Me, Julius La Rosa
His striped tie has a green tint color
And his hands are dark and bulging with blood.
I can see them gripping the steering wheel like parrot talons.
I can see from all the way up here
That one of his fingers has a golden wedding ring,
And he just sits there in that Studebaker
Looking up at my apartment window,
Like I’m some freaking captive locked in a high tower,
And he’s my guard, my sentinel,
Making sure I do not escape.
“Hey you! Yeah you! I’m talking to you!
Oh? You have a problem with me seeing the blond bombshell?
The one with the face that launched a million ejaculations?
The face that burned the topless towers
Of a million American households?”
Now he has a cigarette going inside that sleek automobile.
It’s dangling from his lips
Like a big white toothpick from Scully’s.
The Los Angeles Mirror,
The front page,
Rests forlornly on the passenger seat.
I can even see the headlines from up here –
Something about an execution,
Julius and Ethel R.
Serenade me, Julius La Rosa!
Sing to me now! ‘Eh, Cumpari!’
It’s 1953 and all’s well in the world.
There shall be a tiki torch in every back yard!
“A cocktail? Here, have mine.
I’m well stocked here in my Kasbah.
Now, sweetheart, what were you going to say?”
“When I dance with you,
I feel like I’m in Paris by the Seine,
Dancing in technicolor with Gene Kelly.
You have wonderful moves and a very masculine touch,
And I can almost hear Gershwin music,
Way off in the distance.”
“By the way, my darling Norma Jeane, who taught you to dance?”
“To be honest, my mother.
It was an emergency situation, I had a hot date, so…”
And now we are sashaying on my torn and tattered carpet,
With Perry Como crooning ‘No Other Love’ on my Hi Fi,
Over there in the dark corner.
The lights of the Big Enchilada
Glisten outside my lone window
Like a million incandescent candles
That burn with lust for us.
“Hold me closer.
I need to feel your warm blood.
I need to breathe in your luscious sweet cologne.
Mmmmmm. Kiss me.”
“I will kiss you.
I will kiss you long and I will kiss you very hard.
But first, my darling, why not some Rachmaninoff,
The second piano concerto,
Instead of Perry Como?”
“No Piggy.
Locked in your arms I’ll stay.
Waiting for you to say,
No other love have I.”
Flashing red, yellow, green the neon lights illuminated the silky soft skin of her face
Dressed in high top black boots, a maroon coat with a collar of white lace
At dusk every Wednesday she stood in the shadow of the building made of stone
Looking forlornly at the entrance to the train station seeming so sad and alone
Every Wednesday at dusk, I looked out my window hoping her beautiful face I would see
Even took a walk past her by the building made of stone to satisfy my curiosity
She looked straight through me as if I was not there
Even after I smiled and said hello, all I got was a blank stare
I was intrigued if she was mourning the loss of someone who died on the train
Or for the return of a lover, she was hoping wishing for in vain
Wait! Tonight in her demeanor there is a change
More energy in her movements, a slight smile on her lips so strange
Suddenly, she bolted across the street when into her body a car plowed
Time stopped! Her body lay lifeless, silence hung in the air like a cloud
She seemed to have been running towards the incoming train
When she was hit by a fast moving car leaving on the road her blood stain
She haunted my every thought. Who was she? She had no ID in her possession
Who was she, why, I could have been her friend? Why, why was my unrelenting question
At dusk every Wednesday I had to retrace her steps in the shadow of the building made of stone
I wanted to sense her spirit, see what she saw, feel her sadness in my soul all alone
Who was she, why? I had no answers. I could get no peace
Maybe, I could have helped her, loved her, will this madness ever cease
My every thought is of her I want to escape this deep dark well
Here is my chance! I see the light. I will run to the light to escape my hell
The car with the bright lights seemed to come from nowhere
Life gradually seeping out of my body in the cold silence of this nightmare
My answer came, but came too late
I could see the silky skin of her face as she whispered you have met your fate
It was all an illusion you now know
Obsession imprisoned us to a place we did not mean to go
10/7/2018
Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings | contest
For Bob Dylan
sheltered from the howling winds of vows and scattered souls and sweltering hate
she is a refuge from the blistering sands of dread and loss and torn and twisted fate
when the emptiness inside becomes an abyss so dark and wild and cold
my words get lost in the jangling alleys where dreams are bought and sold
I met her in those alleys among the withering roses on a bed of thorns
and she filled me up with poems banishing the scowling moments and their baleful scorns
now I lie awake and wish that I could sleep and drift away into the maze of her dream
but slumber has fled and slipped the noose around my words as they thrash around and scream
words that swirl around and around like that scarlet scarf wrapped around her face
she's a mystery still as she will always be while I sift through this empty desolate space
the storm it broke and ceased and shuffled my words as they drifted forlornly into the chasm of the dead
leaving me here still and mute and frantic as I try to pick up the pieces of all the words that have been said
far too many far too often far too conceited and far too proud
for I failed to hear the stillness of beauty as I rambled along barking my words out aloud
she hushes me now as she hushed me then in the cobwebbed tunnels of the past
while I weep more words in blood and ink onto dried parchment meant never to last
so tell her that her whiskey has been greedily gulped down and now that I am soberly drunk
I see her songs and hear her breath reaching down into my mouldy abode of hapless funk
fare-thee-well for now as I slide into the scribbled hubris of another battered rhyme
dazed by the glaring embers as they scorch the moments of quickly fading time
and if tomorrow finds me here still shell-shocked and drained in body and in mind
tell her that her wine has slipped through the loose knots that bind
tying me to this place of sanity and insanity all rolled into one
while all is numb and scarred from the deed that has been done
and as I flee recklessly chasing away myself from me once more
she'll know the words for its a song that's been sung far too many times before
(for bob dylan)
Form:
Another Senseless Killing...
IOWA CITY, Iowa
(killingly, jarringly inexplicable,
horribly, gruesomely, and forlornly),
the found exhumed decayed corpse
belonging to young
vibrant coed twenty year old
college student Mollie Tibbetts
perhaps a spurned, snubbed,
or scorned love seriously gone wrong,
she who disappeared
from her small hometown
in central Iowa sad swan song
now plays, where every
last drop of sorrow rung,
now weeping family, friends,
relatives, et cetera subjected wrack
with lifelong emotional pain,
which searing inescapable
grief twill unrelentingly track
ferociously, fiercely, and figuratively,
doth disallow recourse
to duck away
from heart wrenching quack
king unbearably, terribly, and scathingly
will fully bill leave ably
beak homing a folly,
mockery, and travesty,
sans time heals
all wounds (truly "FAKE"),
nonetheless psyche riving tragic
(irrevocable loss) doth pack,
a punch greater then any
all star olympic pugilist
straight to the ab
domain of opponent, where
rumor mongers mill and blab
how this, that, or
another potential suspect,...
whence tissues dab
corners of crying eyes,
an endless stream
of tears merge with gab
bulling utter dis belief
questioning the supposed all
mighty, or at a loss
to do nothing but bawl (at Baal)
into the fox sized rabbit hole
trying with futility
to block (even crawl
ling into every
rabbit hole) no bastion
against implacable
maddening crowded
house alive with murderous frenzy,
and a dialect (non
tickling) gentle Iowan drawl,
while once again this
affected soddenly wet soul
cannot process any (defying) logic,
asper the impossibly steep toll
the purposelessness killing,
a lovely gal (same age
as my youngest daughter),
whose missed presence,
(albeit her - slain
Mollie Tibbetts – permanent absence)
now created an expansive
infinite black sink hole.
At first light trudging through the Arctic Snow,
Is it for thrill or just a Facebook photo show?
As the Arctic wind buffets our flushed face,
The long-awaited walk soon becomes a shambles of a race.
Hands morph to splintered wood, eyebrows deftly freeze,
And yet the brochure promised we’d do this trek with ease.
Soldier on, embrace the frigid grind,
Pray aloud that inner fortitude to find,
Not a sound outside our laden breath,
Every move made with fractured hapless stealth.
But coupled to the cold a streaming sweat,
A larger wager would I not have surely bet,
That a saunter on the glistening Arctic Tundra
Would at most develop the art of soothing Mantra.
Then a booming voice disturbs this quiet introspection,
As the guide engages in frantic group inspection,
His walkie talkie comes suddenly to life,
Stern commands soon wailing shrill with strife.
Bears ahead with teenage cubs in tow,
Keep down, stay low,
Curb the chatter, pretend you’re but a stone,
Form a line, don’t venture out alone;
Rifle’s cocked, don't turn around,
Polar bears don't run - they bound.
Now move backwards, avoid their steely gaze,
Take full advantage of this soaring Polar haze.
Maybe minutes, but seemingly an age,
As we shuffle blindly stage by stumbling stage;
Our Dunkirk - the waiting rubber boats,
Ecstatic for anything that somehow runs and floats.
Back to the ship, sodden and quite sore,
Not to mention frozen to the epicenter of our core,
We huddle around cups of steaming tea,
Sharing stories of all we had to fear and see.
You may well ask, was this the fateful end,
Did we to natures will forlornly yield and bend?
It's true the thought did rather cross our minds,
Fearful of more unscripted scrapes and woeful binds,
However, a good sleep and liquid strength galore,
Did somewhat mollify that sorry shameful score.
For as dawn broke early the next day,
To a person did we in seeming chorus say:
Off we trudge as more adventure waits,
To experience all that Nature's majesty creates,
Our only thought one of craving more,
And so we went, still frozen to our core.
By twilight, the west breeze sings a catchy tune,
Pearl's fingers raved by stars and the roved moon.
When you're down, I'll be there to hearten your day,
If you're antsy, I'll yearn to allay your dismay and pray.
I'll shed a tear and ease your pain while we are here,
Vibes are forlornly sad, won't let you wiggle to the rear.
But here we are, wishing to drop into another place,
Let us look at the brain trap's root in clear space.
I was all I'm not in one shot—creative and attractive,
When drawing blusterous is the unique alternative.
I remember having pals, pens, paper, and a dream,
Belonging to what's not lifeless or hollow, as a team.
Live in the present and simply absorb everything in,
Yield all your focus forthwith, or sire another skin.
Don't let your mind stray to what will unfold next,
Don't misuse this chance; rather, yield your best.
We are not always urged to strain any color we see,
But to design hues and become who you aim to be.
Don't allow kismet to lead your rush through today,
Albeit, too many superb times will be thrown away.
For the one, you're with now, at this special time,
Allot them your utter care; be there and sublime.
When ready, put on a vibe and start the journey.
In concrete cracks, roses may bloom; unseat worry,
Our life's doom can be twisted in a jiff second,
Once it is waged, views and deeds are reckoned.
In just a few minutes, you may meet a friend.
Discover love, or watch a story trigger or end.
Eons are all we have, yet are costly and few,
Optional of owning it or squandering it, up to you.
Listen to my heart, look into my eyes, heal my pain,
Kiss me, let's a gambit, and abscond from here again.
Learn to rise and fall. This life is not looking at you,
Be vehement, zealous, and apt to be over your shoe.
I'm caring for you; you are the rhythm of my heart,
Your love plugs into my life, as we've never been apart.
Written: March 15, 2023
Now That We Are Here Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Emptiness – I have known you perhaps since infancy
when I cried so incessantly when my parents put me down to sleep.
Was it maybe because I was fearful that some void would swallow me up
were I to close my eyes? My parents followed the doctor’s advice and let me
scream it out for a few nights. Eventually I succumbed to early bedtime.
Emptiness – I recall you as I sat forlornly in the bus which picked me up
from my grandparents’ yellow farm house out in the country, the place
my mother returned to with me and my three sisters when she left my father.
I remember that emptiness as I sat alone on that bus, and also as I did
whatever it was I did in my strange little kindergarten class until my mother
moved us to a nearby city where we walked everywhere we went,
and where we lived on welfare cheese, macaroni, milk and peanut butter.
Always I’d had my sisters to play with me, so why did emptiness envelop me
on those days I swung so high in the air at the Riverside Park, swinging away
feeling eluded by the purpose of life, and feeling like something was missing?
I’d go to church, hear the sermons and the hymns. They did not phase me.
Oh, here come the Miller Girls, the folks there probably whispered,
eyeing our shabby dresses. Because we had no car, church members
would come to get us. I felt a little like a burden at those times, and I recall
looking forward to those few times my father came from his state so far away
to visit me and my sisters. But emptiness would visit me in those times.
He was mentally ill after all, but a girl could always dream . . .
Very soon my mother remarried. Our family’s size greatly increased
along with chaos, but also along with very great times! I learned so much.
I searched for and found friends. The emptiness I’d grown so familiar with
grew smaller and smaller, yet sometimes, even now - decades later -
emptiness drops by, plops itself down and simply stares me in the face.
Feb. 12, 2023
Rain ©
I walk on slick shine streets
in the night with my lover.
Freshly out of bed and ravenous
for other food, he pauses and
licks the tears and rain drops
from my face.
Rain in its many moods
quickens to sweep the earth and
skies clean.
Settles on the skin like a damp
kiss. Cold, warm, sweet, clean,
sharp, rain.
Is designer bottled water
merely rain drops from afar?
The dog romps through the rain,
in his perfect raincoat, oblivious
to the wet.
Blinking owlishly when a drop
should fall into his eye.
Mysterious primates of the forest
sit forlornly, beneath the
umbrella leaf.
Forever patient as the skies
rupture with a torrential deluge.
Human-tender eyes reflect their
disgust and sadness at the wet,
messy coats they must wear.
The equine turn their haunches
to the storm to show their scorn
for nature’s tantrum.
Cats run for cover, sit
majestically removing the
wet rain from their person with a
wet tongue.
Wild fowl dance across the circle
patterns of the pond’s face,
beating their wings and singing.
They frolic and dive celebrating
the sublime circumstance of
being wet.
Man spends energy and money
to keep himself dry and safe
from the rain, darting from
doorway to doorway.
What does he fear? He won’t
melt if he gets soaked, he won’t
become ill or grow fins, and he
just might get clean.
Snow is rain in its wedding attire;
no two brides alike.
The rain drop falls into a rivulet
of other rain drops atop the
mountain.
The rivulet runs into the creek,
the creek into a stream.
The stream rushes to the river
and the river falls into the sea.
The rain drops turn to salty tears
as the journey ends.
It is said that chickens, if left out
in the rain, will lift their heads up
to the sky and watch the rain
until they drown.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
Not a flag was unfurled,
and no cornet trilled,
as the rain-swollen clouds,
the bleak valley filled.
The wind blowing cold
with a chill that pervades
as the caisson's old wheels
creaked through the glades
where leafless Live Oaks
their limbs upward bent
as if to acknowledge
the young soldier’s lament.
A tousled lone drummer
in tattered old grays
led a dog and three mourners
to the dead soldier’s grave.
The muffled rataplan
of his red and tan drum
was beating forlornly
rum-dum d’ dum-dum
And along the bare hillock’s
long, rough-rutted track
both mule and cart
were carrying him back
to the land that he left
to fight a grim war
tho’ he ne’er understood
what the fighting was for.
When one fateful day
in a field of smoke
a fusillade violently
tore through his cloak.
His battle had ended
as he fell to the ground
his lips mouthing something
but ne’er uttered a sound.
Now his casket was lowered
in an uncaring grave
as the sad words were read
his poor soul to save
whilst a single red flower
was forlornly tossed
upon the young warrior’s
funereal box.
Unseen by the mourners
yet a color guard stood
a bugler and flagger
peering down through the woods.
Then high from that ridge
at the hillside’s top
the bugler rang taps
and all motion had stopped.
Each eye in confusion
turned looking around
in search of the source
of that sad, mournful sound.
Though ne’er to be seen
the bugler still played
the keening that echoed
down through the glade.
Then just for a moment
the sun had now shone
as if angels descended
to take him back home.
The mourners and drummer
filed out of the glade
except for the old dog
that steadfastly remained.
The elegy was over and
all farewells had been bade
that gave honor and glory
to his last parade.
John Henry Gardner
© 2015 – All Rights Reserved