Long Fortnight Poems
Long Fortnight Poems. Below are the most popular long Fortnight by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fortnight poems by poem length and keyword.
The female calendar
The night cosmos opens the earth to moisture,
germination of the moonlight rejoice.
Tenderizing the ground to reach the underwater sight,
mist of luminous Moon light from the pull of monthly tide.
Moon phases of the great cosmic dance,
fertilization in the ovum of darkness to advance.
Circulation of blood and sap in plants,
the mother calendar naturally grants.
More difficult to observe the orbit of the Moon,
then that of the earth around the Sun.
The earth spirit as transformer by protoplasmic intention,
capable of reciprocal relation with all its creation.
It is cosmos to those who know the way,
and chaos to those who lose it by rational stray.
The female live in the lunar circle of body,
becoming and changing the order of everybody.
The secret time keeper and its flowing,
the witnessing of the body growing.
Moon, mind, calendar, menstruation, month,
Honeymoon, fortnight, fertility crunch.
When the paradox splits into dualism,
the act of natures consciousness as prism.
It feels like they've been here forever,
How long isn't easy to tell.
They claim they arrived from Australia
but I think they came here from hell.
The cats all left home for a fortnight
the fleas on the dog did the same
The washing machine thinks it's having a fit
but maybe it's me that's to blame.
I should have known just what would happen
my house would not be my own,
but instead, I said "Treat the place just like it's yours"
"Please make yourself feel at home".
I wonder if their house has multiple showers
and loo rolls that never run out
I wonder if their house resembles a bomb site
I'll hopefully never find out.
They changed my routines as a matter of course
and I didn't have any say
They made me feel awkward and sometimes as if
it was me that got in the way.
Some gratitude might have helped matters
a 'Thank you' or two would have done
But never a hint from either
they were even having fun.
So now they are gone and the place is my own,
doors are not locked anymore
and if in the future they wish to return
I won't even open the door!
A blood-dipped letter lies before me,
Wrapped in moth-ridden silk,
Written by your ghastly fingers.
The cold of another bleak fortnight settles in,
While crimson-eyed ravens rest upon creaking window sills.
Stoking the fire, umbers rise and dissipate before me,
Painting prophetic warnings in the air,
As the distorted ticking of clocks chimes tensely,
Repeating the same hour—two a.m.
A crisp chill shoots up my spine,
I wrap myself tighter in your charcoal shawl,
Reaching for the last of the firewood you chopped.
Placing it in the hearth, I now know it's time.
Removing the silk, I cast it into the flames,
Peeling back three wax skull seals.
I open the fateful envelope,
The curse you unknowingly wrote into existence.
Placed upon me, it rests in my weeping hands—
One cataclysmic night was all it took,
For our destruction,
Your soul claimed by the nether,
And mine bound within a perpetual loop of despair forevermore.
I was in the middle of creating when I realized how gloomy everything was turning. I was placing mean words on the paper. I had started with the word inspiration…..so how had this happened? I stared in horror at my words, which had turned dark and angry.
Apparently I had spent too much time in my tomb this weekend – blinds shut, dog on lap, two fourteen hour days of sheer darkness, lit only by unhappy fast moving TV people – detectives, solving murder after murder. A steady diet of UGH.
Have you taken a peek at your children and grandchildren’s video games? I have. They are not much better than what I had done to myself this weekend. But they are younger, and I should have known better. All this yellow tape and meanness to humanity is not good for this garden-loving grandma.
I can only imagine children’s bleak hopelessness on Monday after a steady diet of swear words and killing on the weekends. Has anyone who is an adult played Fortnight? The most popular killing video game and free to your children? I can barely function today after my weekend, and I am supposedly a grownup.
Take a peek at what your children are doing. And help them, and then come to my house, tear down my blinds and break my TV okay?
I was young and tender.
Innocent and naive.
More than a decade ago.
But no one can erase.
In my mind well imprinted.
We lost souls
We buried them in the soils.
Some left lying on the ground.
Looking for justice we said.
Can injustice bring about justice?
Houses burnt down.
The earth scorched.
Breasts cut down.
Women raped.
Men left lifeless.
I shed tears as I write this.
I remember very well.
The friends I lost.
Sinnless brothers
Gone never to be seen.
Blood shedding.
God's wrath could be waiting.
Armed to teeth we were.
Ferocious weapons unearth.
Where did the rain start beating us.
I say no to election violence.
Let's say no to election violence.
Dear Kenyans,
In a fortnight or so.
At the ballot we'll be.
Say no to election violence.
Let's say no to election violence.
@Tha Formidable Cheru.
The women sing songs to the moon,
Praising its beauty.
They dance and sing when it’s in its full glow,
Their souls ascending and descending,
Transformed into priestesses.
The men venture into the forest at twilight every fortnight.
There, an unveiling and a revealing take place.
The spirits commune with them in the tranquil ambience,
Warning them about any impending danger,
Sharing mysteries that are soon to enter their territory.
The men become gifted watchmen.
Something astonishing happens with the sun.
At midday, it beams its rays on a vast meadow,
Where the plants are exuberantly green.
These are called the Blessed Bloom,
An elixir of vitality and rejuvenation.
The atmosphere is clean and fresh.
There is no conflict between humans and machines,
No exploitation of nature,
No encroaching on her space.
The leash has not taken the lead.
I asked to know where I am,
And I met a stranger who looked familiar.
He said I’m in an unsoiled place,
An unaltered place,
An alternate universe.
April 8, 2025.
Hope, a soft inner sparkling light,
Guides us throughout the day and night
To the path that is shining bright,
The path that is truthfully right.
It isn`t earned as acquired birth right,
But tendered with care and delight,
With faith in the divine spotlight
And peering down one`s self alright.
It`s not a passive spark of light,
It doesn`t sprout up in a fortnight,
But with love woven with foresight,
Spanning over time with slow bites.
The offspring from a divine site,
It dispels the darkness of fright,
Renders our day`s burden more light
And in winter relieves our plight.
Awful storms may rage harsh and tight,
Yet with hope, our spirit ignites,
The wild woeful winds we can fight
And reach the shine of clear daylight.
When a hill seems too tall in height
At its very top to alight,
Hope props one`s goal to reach upright
And one`s soul with joy to ignite.
When our life appears like phosphite
And our journey is long and trite
Let`s call hope to flash its fog light
And illumine our path forthright.
With the mind clear and on hindsight
Let`s sow the seeds of hope outright
That it may serve us as torchlight
To dispel the murk of midnight.
On wings of hope, let us take flight,
Goaded by the moon and starlight
To reach our peak goals with delight,
That may draw on us world`s spotlight.
Let`s in bold letters, word HOPE write
That it may sparkle like sunlight,
Procure to us gleams of insight,
Fill our life with bliss infinite.
(a story in trochaic tetrameter)
Even a Prince must bend his knee
to the lass who has won his heart.
“Please be my bride, stay by my side
forever - tell me we shall wed.”
“My love and affections are yours,
they have never been better fed
- you are surely pleasures master,
with your rough hands and softer lips.”
“Then let us petition the clerk,
we can be wed in a fortnight!”
Sometimes love takes dismaying turns.
There are standards, some are double.
The future princess must be chaste.
The clerk asked, “Are you a virgin?”
“Do you seek to entrap us, sir?”
The prince asked, his hand to dagger.
“We cannot hoodwink the law, sir.
It must be asked and answered.”
And so the clerk asked it again,
“Would you swear on your honor miss?”
“If I had a virgins honor,”
the possible, future princess said.
The high clerk sighed and sheathed his pen.
“Most honest and least virtuous
lady, the marriage cannot be.”
“So, then the law is strictly tied
to something lost in love’s first blush?”
She asked, with no show of dismay.
“My actions follow the law, miss.”
If the clerk sounded bored, he was.
The prince, however, was outraged.
and on the verge of a salvo.
The clerk feared a soliloquy.
To stall the coming storm, the clerk
said, “I believe you KNOW the King?”
“He’s my father!” The prince revealed,
to no one’s shock or great surprise.
“The King, the law - the law, the King?”
The clerk's finger turned like a wheel.
Somewhere deep in princes mind
a dim bulb lit. “To the Castle!”
The clerk smiled wryly at the lass,
who shrugged back. Love would find a way.
I never want to be released from my love for you.
It is solid, and serious, and I need it like air, and water and survival.
The others were faux relationships; this one is real.
I knew the instant I saw you; I know I am older, but I am not dead.
Everything in my heart lit up when you gave me that first smile.
We are as compatible as the wind in the trees.
We are cemented the way rocks gravitate toward sand.
I have known since forever that you are my one and only.
Please do not let me go, and I mean ever.
Not for an overnight. Not for a fortnight. Not for a second.
For I cannot ever let you go.
You are my heart, my breath, my song, my salvation.
You uplift me, and cherish me, and keep me safe from harm.
All of my dreams are about you. My waking moments are yours.
I inhale you as I breathe; you are my essence.
We need to be together until we are old and gray and wrinkled.
And then we need to walk out of this world together, as ghosts.
I found Richard today -
November the Third.
Isn’t that just like Richard?
I don’t know.
I can’t say.
He died a fortnight-plus ago.
I never knew him.
I never gave him time.
To know me.
To show me.
How to know me.
And by him, through me,
perhaps to know him.
And you.
He is no longer a Thing of This World.
Our second laureate,
my latest regret.
And I’m late to even this: coming to regret
my being late to come to him.
To come to his.
And now it's come to this.
It’s come to he’s gone.
I’m settled into the far-back;
into a window seat,
of my own making
on a love airline,
not of my own making -
or buying.
Though, its true, we don’t buy our seats.
We lease our place.
And when another pays
the costs are borne by all,
all the same.
Everyone pays for their place,
And their time in their place.
I finally sorted my self into a sort of place -
this seat; but also this head-space to write
to Richard.
I’ve no connection to the far below world,
despite the gregarious partygoers strewn all around
the nearby seats.
I’m thirty-three thousand feet up and I’m up above the Sandia
which is another mile up.
So, call it 40 K.
No signal and its days after I began this poem,
which was begun a remorseful dozen few years
after I might’ve opened myself to whatever this
obit. writer wrote. What he lent the world.
No, what he gave. He lent the world his place in it.
He left his poetry. A sole Lasting in the Everlasting
Never Lasts. Nothing Lasts, they say.
So, now that I am ready (Itself an insult to the man.)
I fly, in joy, through skies and find I am yet again
Unready. Remorse is the microscopic stress fracture in
the airplane wing.
Enough distance, enough disconnect, enough stress.
and the Whole Thing comes apart.
I already regret what I never once met.