Long Fray Poems
Long Fray Poems. Below are the most popular long Fray by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fray poems by poem length and keyword.
Raging. I scream
Such anger emits throughout me.
Free is all I want to be.
God oh god why won you let me.
You’re bound by anger
Jealousy and fear.
And surround me
With your feelings
That gleam with the un pure.
My freedom is all I want.
Is all I need to be?
My words my love
Please do not steal from me.
So tirelessly you work
Drifting so far away from me.
But not a word shall you hear
In complaint about thee.
I have fought tiring years.
With pain endlessly.
Sweet death as you know
Dying to take me.
But I escaped
With just faith, the crab
In such a bloody fray.
Beaten and burnt, I escaped
But only to be bound, not free
Each day, I would wake wondering
If it was merely a dream.
If I had died and then risen.
And was now in between.
So I plead sweet dear.
Do not steal my words away from me
I once was touched by death.
Please don’t make it all that i dream.
BY
Amanda.M.Miller
Form:
On a pirate ship in a stormy sea;
goblinskin sails fly o'er me.
To a far off lands wid bloody hands;
upon Savage’s shore did 'e land.
“Sing Hey, Ho, ’m wild and free;
at least its nae a part of me!”
Threw a mad mans skull, 'e spot me prey;
and call me black 'earts into the fray.
Knee deep in mud and covered wid gore
I gouge out der gold teeth ta add to me store.
Sing Hey, Ho, ’m wild and free;
At least its nae a part of me!
We loads de treasure, raise anchors of bone;
hoist high de midsail and fly fast home.
Wid a new gold tooth and diamonds rare;
an' Booberie feathers dance’n me hair.
Sing Hey, Ho, ’m wild and free;
at least its nae a part of me!
From de Slaugh bones jaw 'pon m' knee;
I carve a comb wid a tee hee hee.
Wid a skillful 'and an a bone white knife;
I finish a fob ta bring ta me wife.
Sing Hey, Ho, ’m wild and free;
at least its nae a part of me!
To Cursing's foul harbor threw sewage galore;
bundles of pelts stacked ta da fore,
down da plank, 'e walk wid swaggering stride;
viper oil coats the sword at me side.
Sing Hey, Ho, ’m wild and free;
at least its nae a part of me!
Threw thieves’ foul dens 'e carry me horde
unload at de tanner, strut ‘board.
“Cook ‘ere!” I holler “Bring me dat stew!”
Snowbeast meat pie and hearty brew.
Sing Hey, Ho, ’m wild and free;
at least its nae a part of me!
Ghoulskin sails unfurled, storm crestin' high
'e sail out ta plunder and land 'e spy.
“Ahoy! Me buckos! What’s ’pon dat shore?”
monsters dressed in bones, naught more.
“Sing Hey, Ho, I be wild and free…..
“By gum,” der dressed in de likes a me.”
If (I / you) were to observe (myself / yourself),
Would (I / You) really know (myself / yourself)?
-----------------------------------------------
We prosper but we also strain -
This "Game of Life" is that refrain.
It carries on from day-to-day
And we stay steadfast in the fray
Playing our roles up to the hilt,
Life's psycho-social endless tilt -
Casting our lots on roulette's wheel,
Love's psycho-analytic deal.
Gazing into the mirror's face
It's who we are in that embrace.
It's what and why we can't explain -
Our Egos whitewash loss and gain.
We strive to find identity
And picture what we'd hope to be.
At times we feel it's all for naught
When falling short from what we've sought.
Stagnating in complacency
We hold on most tenaciously
To limits of expectancy
For what we'll suffer change to be.
Our portraits in the attic wait
To frame the essence of our fate.
The chronicle of life is great
And Truth, through time, applies the paint.
Most will be shown with minor flaws -
Some, as affronts to norms and laws
But all, one day, will be displayed;
How will your likeness be portrayed?
To the downtrodden, the marginalized, and worn,
Is this the fate that's yours to mourn?
The bourgeoisie, a cabal of power and might,
Gather to crush the poor, and snuff out their light.
The poor, in turn, unwittingly join the fray,
Oppressing themselves, in a vicious cycle of disarray.
Since time immemorial, I've witnessed this sad refrain,
Rarely seeing the rich and poor unite in love's sweet refrain.
For the wealthy fear that if the poor rise to power,
Their loyalty will wane, and their grip on them will cower.
So they indoctrinate, with subtle, deceitful guile,
Enslaving minds, and keeping the poor in servile trial.
By night, the rich and powerful conspire and plot,
While by day, they wear masks of deceit, and hearts that are not.
How many meetings do the poor convene to break their chains?
Will they forever remain silent, and endure the pains?
The upper class imposes taxes, a burden to bear,
While they themselves pay less, and live without a care.
But I ask you, dear oppressed, how long will you remain mute?
Will you not rise up, and demand your rights, and your freedom to compute?
No one is indispensable, your voice matters, don't you see?
Break free from the shackles of oppression, and be the change you seek to be.
Speak out, rise up, and shatter the chains that bind,
For your freedom, your future, and your dignity, are worth the fight to find.
The thwart and the lie, the rumor and the lane, the love so drastic like fruits in the seam of the glass. Borders of fragmented revenge. The dreams were not fantastic, the light full, fire blazing. Rejection and denial end hand in hand with reveling. To fall on one small structure. The minor equivalent of the shimmering pole of gore. They fray and side and the sedge way hexes the bountiful distances of bridges and yellow moons. The tears inhaled, the smiles crashing, no mother, no mother, no. In the hills I will be alone, but the day surrounds every shadow. Mocking chariot where I reach the eyes of menacing jokes. He is the coat of walls and the sort of hit you peel down so carelessly rising war in a thinking tomb. No more, and there are forms filled. He is large, looming like a lion. I am the dry petals of a ceiling rose. Wait. Weary figure, to ward the inches of ministration. No one is in this yield then they sail like ships of planet Ukase. Sheilds to armor to the fine raging town of a timbering forest. To the house. I would hope when the stir everts, once the box becomes a visible fall. Like a storm buried with my bones in a birch tree. An apology veers yesterday, tomorrow and the second the walls open into the next hexagram. Because doom unties the passion in a faithful poison and the bars, freights employ the hatred of the massive expectations on the smallest form of tired fate. Toward the unknown parallels the hours that stretched the instigator.
In the calm spaces of thump ripples
three gossamer shadows gather,
each a whisper of what once was,
three stories spilled,
but which is true?
The first speaks of love,
its tender seed sown,
nurtured in a guffaw,
but fear grew wild,
a vine gripping heartstrings,
dimming the sunlight of shared days.
The second, a tide of maim,
pulls memories like driftwood,
twisting truth into knots,
the biting bitterness beckons
where sweetness silently soared,
peril paints a symphony of scorn.
And then, there lingers a lull
a third tale, temptingly untouched by time
teeming with the tension of absence
where shadows dance chaotically,
and the heart aches for gasping,
but the pages remain unwritten.
Oh, how views can splinter like shards!
in this kaleidoscope of shores,
some forget the bridges,
prefer to carve their own,
with axes of anger,
overlooking the opulent warmth
within the walls that welcomed them.
Beneath the fabric of any fray
cradles the gentle shell of dreams
every edge an enigmatic element
lingering in the loss,
but those who stow away the shards
miss the beauty of the mosaic.
We of the human chase—
strolling through a flawed frontier—
drift like delicate dew,
dancing and dissolving
never quite catching a glimpse,
of how one heart
pulses in utopian synergy with another.
In Gboko, where the dust motes dance and play,
A town, a city, a people, some would say.
What defines its spirit, a riddle, a quest,
With a gait too familiar, putting all to the test.
"Gboko!" he calls, by name, with a grin,
"Seems we're acquainted, where have you been?"
For here, familiar strangers, a curious clan,
Know each other better than any single man.
Party crashers abound, with a joyful shout,
Praise singers serenade, no shadow of doubt.
Fantastic storytelling, a vibrant, grand art,
Where habit and culture play a blurring part.
A bikeman, young, in a change-fueled fray,
Declares, "Woman dey here, food dey here, wetin I dey go find for your place?"
Such pride and contentment, a truth so stark,
In a town once welcoming, now bearing a wary mark.
In hay days of yore, a Tiv capital grand,
An industrial hub, with BCC at hand.
Ivo I msam – the tailed goat lap, a delight,
Ishu I bee nya ke tyo – fish, so perfectly white.
When women, with skill, seasoned chicken with grace,
Before the slaughter, a culinary embrace.
Families flocked in, from the hinterland's call,
For hope and new society, standing proud and tall.
Money flowed freely, like a river so wide,
Vanity and funfare, with nowhere to hide.
On paydays, men painted the whole town in red,
Trays of spiced chicken, till late, they were fed.
Imported lager flowed, in a frothy, grand spree,
And megalomaniacs, grandiloquently,
Would bluster and boast, with a haughty decree,
"Orvesen, m tse u ke kitchen ga!" – Sir, not in your kitchen, you see!
Courteous profanity, a delicate art,
Where titles and greetings played a respectable part.
Before venturing forth, with venom and ire,
To "dress down" their target, a verbal hot fire.
So Gboko gives chase, to the past and the present,
An intriguing weave, both funny and pleasant.
A place of contrasts, of laughter and grit,
Where the spirit of the people, forever is lit.
"I quest for a return to the unappeased joys of my sweet past"- By Poet
Quench my thirst to get back to my past
When tame pigeons of joy nested on my eaves
And I could hear their crooning
With the sweetness of love outpouring
When innocent instincts ruled my heart
And I ran after every call from the woods or bush
Mesmerized by the whistles of the oriole and the thrush
Quench my thirst to get back to my past
When every rainbow and every peacock feather
Ignited curiosity in me as a child
And coloured my imagination wild
When, with friends, I sat in the mango grove
Plucking and savouring the ripe juicy mangoes
Careful not to let the pulp drip down our mouths
Quench my thirst to get back to my past
When we strolled along the sandy strands
Watching the wild waves' fray
And cooled by the kiss of spray
When we had watched at night
A hundred fireflies dancing around the *neem
Wondering if they were stars fallen from heaven’s seam
Quench my thirst to get back to my past
When, like breeze, we ran over the meadows
Looking for the bleating lamb
Singing in chorus, ‘Mary had a little lamb'
As memories come clamouring down,
Like the lash of cascading rain,
I can't but make a quest to return to the days of my past.
It’s All About Me
Truer words were never spoken
When people say or do something bad to someone else….
Especially Catie!
They diminish themselves as human beings
Making Catie shine, through the mire, above the fray
Hard work and harder play, make us who we are
Our spark of humanity comes from that
Not from the gutter or mouths of others
Sweet Catie is on all our loving lists at Poetry Soup
She is our sister, that is no mystery
We share our minds and souls with her together
In this mortal battle we call life, we write against the tyranny
It is our pleasure to call Catie one of us
With thoughts of kindness, we share her feelings
Lift her through this darkness and pray that better weather comes
If Catie ever visits us, here at the Soup, we promise not to stick gum in her hair
We promise to play fair and only tease her on alternating funny Sundays, with loving care
Created on 11/09/14 for and in honor of Catie Lindsey It’s All About Me – Poetry Contest
It was approaching sunset
displayed boldly across red sky west
as I entered Dream Café,
Time for candle lit vespers and incense
which I feared would be more personal nightmare
than political dream.
I came to this Café,
for the first time,
because our Democratic Town Committee
was nominating candidates for Mayor
and City Council
and School Board
right after silent and sung vespers
here inside a DreamCafe
on BenFranklin's wisdom street.
I had been warned.
All those inside this Dream
each day at sunset
begin to smile with gratitude
and to pray
for multiculturing grace
to grow together.
This felt like a strangely inappropriate way
to fulfill Democratic trust commencements
so I was prepared to include my dismay
in my review
for next News delivery day.
Lights dimmed
along rose-hued
rough-cut walls
as candlelight began to come our way
through mists of frankincense in sway
and lavender,
orange and lemon oils
worked into handmade chairs
and cherry tables,
maple walls and oak-grained floor;
Incense burners on display
quieting louder sounds of fading AnthroPlay.
I had been warned
about this poly-creolizing array
to begin with a peace poem read
or sung
and, if a favorite of cooperatively gathered patrons,
then others might join in
sometimes swelling cadence
and harmonic rhythms
like I Have A Dream!
repeating what we've come to sacred share.
And so it was a well sung love song
for Earth,
of Earth,
and all Her EarthSoul Tribes
with and in harmonic sway.
Thanksgiving for sacred dawns
and dusks,
and all FirstForest creatures
and creations in-between,
And even nightmare absence of DreamCafes
for those still longing to belong
here,
where we are together planted,
here as now co-dreamers
of silent echoes
for just one solidarity moment
before reflecting voices
begin to stand
and sing fertile flowing anthems.
Voices speaking of love they heard
and felt this warm moist day
in Spring,
and who has come to mind
among WiseElders and Adolescents assembled
and nearby
here this dusky day
to rise above our sometimes polarizing fray.
And this
to my surprise
was how vespers invited nominations
for how best to continue ending our vespered day
for all who enter
this grace-filled DreamCafe,
and those nearby
eager to read all about it
come next NewDawn's greeting way.