Long Gnaw at Poems
Long Gnaw at Poems. Below are the most popular long Gnaw at by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gnaw at poems by poem length and keyword.
BOTTLE DANCE
Across my land, abysses gnaw at automobiles,
From the foot of the mountain,
To the shores of the oil fountain.
Certificated youths drinking piss to mellow their brains,
Clutching at wheels, dodging bumps into fog lights.
“Stupid, ing dog” curse survivors of amputation “you bastard”
“Who cares, you swine” retorts I the offender
just before crashing into the next one.
In my shack, counting my yields and sighing,
evading the burning eyes of hungry breeds.
How did I ever get here?
In the ring stood I, surrounded by Foncha, Endeley, Jua and Ntumazah
Um Nyobe sang the UPC song and they danced.
They danced the bottle dance.
Sandwiching in the center, on the slaughter slab, my motherland.
Nigeria to the left, La Republique to the right,
Trampling upon outright independence.
Foncha danced and Endeley danced and Nyobe sang and Britain watched.
The tune was clear, the rhythm was jazzed but the lyrics were blur;
Whence had a nation’s independence,
Been conditioned upon attachment to already independent states?
So how did we ever get here?
A loaf of bread baked in the flames of WWI
And served into the plates of Imperial barons of foreign insanity
Too blind to the tongues of oneness.
Drawing a line far far away in the halls of mirror
That tore grandmother’s breasts apart.
The story of the Ewes of Togoland
Was being whispered in her land while she slept.
A line dragged across the highlands of the Adamawa and drained into the Atlantic,
Sullied the virginity and orthography of kamerun.
Grooming a set of dysfunctional twins through years of alien doctrines,
Only to be reunited in an unholy matrimony called Cameroon or Cameroun.
Testaments of tongues foreign like those on a devil’s Pentecost,
That sowed seeds of immortal division.
So this is how really I got here!
A son deprived of the warmth of a Mother
Drained of her milk,
Tapped and shipped offshore.
Scorned and oppressed by a brother,
His name slowing fading away from the sands of time.
And now, the land of bottle dancers clamour for a new dance:
For I know how we got here and I too want to dance;
Federation to the left, secession to the right,
Trampling upon the pseudo 1972 re-unification.
The blood of the brave pipe the tunes
And rhythms of gunshots meet hallelujah,
Sang in a coffin.
Underneath the overpass as I was passing by,?
Something in the shadows, a shape had caught my eye.?
I couldn’t tell just what it was—intrusive thoughts owned me,?
For once I didn’t understand the shape my mind did see.
I drove on down the interstate, the rain began to pour,?
Wipers rapping,
?Thunder clapping, ?
Storming at my door.?
Lightning struck around me—waking sights I can’t ignore.
Each flash of light revealed the truth I'd buried long ago,?
A cardboard wall, a tattered coat, a figure slumped below.?
The past came flooding in, a child behind the glass,?
Watching faces in the dark as nameless cars would pass.
I’d asked my mother then, “Why do they sleep outside?”
?She didn’t answer fully, just wiped a tear and sighed.?
“Some people lose more than they should. Some never had a chance.”?
And quietly, I mourned them, through my innocence-glance.
Now grown, I grip the wheel, my coat pulled to my chin,?
Warm coffee in the holder, dry and safe within.?
I carry bags of burdens, yes, but also food and flame—
?A roof, a bed, a blanket, a mailbox with my name.
And still it humbles me, this ache that never mends,?
To know some call the silence home, and cardboard walls their friends.?
That rainy night reminded me how fragile ‘having’ is—
?And how a heart can still break twice for someone else’s kids.
I wonder what became of them—that shape lost in the gray,?
The soul beneath the overpass I passed again today.?
Did someone see their shadow too, and offer them a hand??
Or did they fade into the storm, like footprints in the sand?
Did they find a place to rest where rain no longer seeps,
?Where hunger doesn’t gnaw at ribs and silence gently sleeps??
Or did the cold outlast them, as it does so many nights,
?Where sorrow tucks the nameless in and turns off all the lights?
I’ll never know the answer, though it lingers in my chest,?
This fragile, fleeting moment I cannot lay to rest.?
But every time I see that space, now etched beneath the sky,?
I whisper hope into the wind—that someone helped them try.
Siempre el rostro de lo bestial
Always the face of the bestial
a creature in fabric
of no more than instinctual
an instinct driven by predators
Knee-jerk reflexes for survival
and so we are this
the painted animal
All morality by some gangster curse
alpha above each other
educated in the doctrines
of humanities warmonger
to be the worst resort
the scrabbling rats
who chew and gnaw at the meaning of life
Ever depicted in this trait
towards destruction
to destroy ourselves
this self-hate
a brushstroke of our obscurity
to whitewash a desperate search
for loves actuality
But the painted animals do not love
they merely perpetuate the species
obsess themselves with close-knit families
And throughout histories translation
by politics and religion
so degraded the human
this painted animal of violent intention
the pretense of its rebellion
a damp squid
as time would tell
And although we struggle to recognize the lie
the truth of ourselves eludes
lost amidst the rhetoric
and murderous abnegation
deliberate confusion has no conception of what it means to be a human-being
only what it means to be less than human
"We were saying how very important it is to bring about, in the human mind, the radical revolution. The crisis is a crisis in consciousness, the crisis that cannot anymore accept the old norms, the old patterns, the ancient traditions and considering what the world is now, with all the misery, conflict, destructive brutality, aggression and so on. Man is still as he was, is still brutal, violent, aggressive, acquisitive, competitive and... he has built a society along these lines." Jiddu Krishnamurti 1966
The human never exalted
for the miracle it is
within Gods creation
Unloved, unwanted
yet still the tool of obsequious
yet the human demeaned
painted and derided
sinful
bestial
nothing more than just a painted animal
Siempre el rostro de lo bestial
Y con este fin arrasa con su amor
por solo los malos y los amargos
es su sabor a vida
I saw you last week by the river, right?
Oh, I couldn't say.
It was you alright. You were staring up at the sky. You were muttering about the clouds.
Yes, that was me. The clouds trouble me.
Oh, right. They say the end is near.
Sure, sure. Nothing but flat screens from here on out.
What on Earth are flat screens?
No, I said rat screams.
Oh, right. I hate rats. Gnaw at your feet. Pester the off-spring.
(mutters) These clouds will be the death of us...
Say what now?
I'm sorry. I tend to get a little melodramatic in the late afternoon.
I tend to get a little hungry. Especially these days, when everything seems to be dying
around me. I miss the live catch!
I suppose they'll learn from all the left-over bones...
Sorry, who will learn what?
They will learn what happened here.
And what do you think is happening, Cloud Gazer?
Not sure. But whatever it is, it's happening now. Look over there. IPad, by the way.
You...pad?
My name is Pat, I mean.
Oh. I'm Henry. Nice to meet you.
The feeling's mutual.
Where are you headed Pat?
Into history books most likely.
May I join you?
Don't think you have a choice.
We're all dying off, aren't we? Ever since that beam of light in the night's sky last
month, and now this thing with the clouds...we're done for, aren't we?
We had our run, Henry. Now it's time to lay down.
Okay, then. What a shame this all is. (sigh) I'm laying down. Alright, I'm down.
That's it, Henry.
Aren't you gonna lay down with me, Pat?
Naw, I just got up from a nap about an hour ago.
Well, what else is there to do if all we got left is to lay around and wait to die?
I was thinking about going rollerskating.
Really? Me too.
Probably too cloudy though.
Yeah, definitely.
Should probably rest some more.
Probably.
Goodnight, Henry.
Goodnight, Pat.
See ya in a drawing on Facebook.
What?
Nothing. Go to sleep.
Sleep I am going.
The feeling is mutual.
Addiction takes on many disguises
You feel left alone with your own vices
Yet, you don’t think there is a problem
Which is the problem you can’t see
Once your family was willing to help
Now you’re trapped in a grim reality.
On the outside, you’re lost and alone
But not always lonely and left on your own
Since the street rats only gnaw at you
When the mean green is flowing
Though sadly most days,
There’s barely even a showing.
Out on the streets, it’s cold
Still down the broken pavement, you strolled
Always looking for the next fix
It’s the comfort of the fix that keeps you going.
But it’s your own life
In the trash, you are throwing
Mom and Dad were partly to blame
As a child, they treated you crippled and lame
It was nature vs. nurture
And nature had the upper hand
So tough love is what you needed
Not coddling and kisses as planned.
Mental help you should have received
But it was hard for our parents to believe
Their only son was less than perfect
And the reasons never ended
Bad eyes and complexion to name a few
And no girlfriend as originally intended.
And you certainly had your own excuses
Genetic inheritance, so everyone uses
Our paternal family likes their alcohol
And your favorite bands partied hard
Your heroes died at such a young age
Which really should have left you scarred
My misguided brother, I haven’t a clue
Now a simple question I must ask you
Why didn’t I fall into the same trap
For our families are one and the same
Is it because deep down inside
You also believe you are crippled and lame
*I wrote this poem on April 10, 2021, as part of a ’30 days of poetry’ challenge. This was day 10 and the prompt was: Write a poem about a sibling. Since I only have one brother, I wrote it about him. It’s a poem that was pretty hard for me to write. I wish my brother would seek the help that he desperately needs.
Author Dana Redricks
July 18, 2023
In the depths of my being, a struggle stirs, a battle against society's chains,
My sexuality, an enigma to unravel, ongoing to break free from the shadows it restrains.
Whispers of judgment, they gnaw at my core, masking my truth, obscuring my light, but my heart, it rebels against their weight, yearning to bask in the freedom of its own delight.
The war rages on, fierce and unyielding, between societal norms and desires unspoken, to deny my essence, my very existence, is to suffocate the spirit that longs to be awoken.
Yet, deep within me, a glimmer takes hold, a realization of love's boundless domain, my sexuality, a radiant prism of identity, an integral part of me, steadfast and unchained.
For it is not a choice, a twisted game to play, but a sacred thread woven into my soul's song, and in embracing my truth, I gather strength, to defy society's judgments and prove them wrong.
Though the chains of society strive to entwine, my innate essence refuses to be contained, a resilient spirit, unyielding and resilient, a symphony of authenticity, unabashed and unrestrained.
So, I pledge to seek understanding's embrace, to love myself wholly, unapologetically so,
In this journey, I shall find liberation's grace, guided by love's grand plan, I'll let it all flow.
In the depths of my struggle, I cultivate power, finding the courage to spread my wings and soar, walking the path that aligns with my truth, embracing desires that beckon from my core.
No longer shall I fight against the currents of myself, but surrender to the rhythm that beats deep within, for in authenticity, I discover serenity, a celebration of love's spectrum, free from society's sin.
So let judgment crumble beneath my strides, for my sexuality is not a flaw to be abhorred, it weaves a vibrant tapestry within my soul, a masterpiece of love, unbroken and untoward.
“You walked many miles,
Climbed this mountain
To confront me,
A dragon with the reputation
Of being fierce!
All to possess a so called
Chalice of Courge.
By doing all that you have done
You proved that you already possess
The courage you seek.”
The dragon smiled once more
As he saw understanding
Washed over Leonid’s face,
But soon followed sadness
And disappointment.
“Do not ever regret this journey.
This journey was not to acquire a chalice,
This journey was to unblock
The spring of courage
That resides in you,”
Said the dragon.
“This spring will never grow dry
Unlike this chalice.
This spring is natural
And there will never be any side effects,
And one day, this spring
Will become a strong river.”
These words made Leonid stand a bit taller.
As it had turned dark,
The dragon allowed Leonid
To stay the night
As the journey down
Would be dangerous in the dark.
The dragon and the young man
Talked most of the night
And it was quite late
When they both fell asleep.
The next day,
After they said their good byes,
And as Leonid was about to leave the cave,
He turned back to the dragon.
“Dragon, even though
I could not drink from the chalice,
May I, at least, see in it?”
Asked Leonid, timidly.
Understanding how curiosity
Can gnaw at a person’s soul,
The dragon tipped the chalice
Low enough for Leonid to see in it.
The Chalice of Courage
Was empty.
“Sometimes, we need something
To aim for,
For us to take the journey
We need to take,
Even if that something
Is nothing at all,”
The dragon said.
Leonid nodded and left the cave.
He made his way down
The mountain safely
And when asked,
He said he had drunk
From the Chalice of Courage.
Leonid had gone on
To becoming a great warrior,
And only to those closest to him,
He would tell the true story
Of The Chalice of Courage.
Form:
the good
The doors to my mind and heart
circle as revolving doors.
A peek inside and you see
happy memories and joyous events,
the loves, and lifelong friendships
A cul-de-sac, though a dead end,
has a circular finish, a merry-go-round
that accumulates happiness as it spins
into a cloud of beauty and nature,
compassion, gods, and faith.
The breathless moments in life,
birth, newness, novelty, exuberance
in being, living, experiencing
laughter, butterflies, and springtime
within my soul, my gratitude.
the bad
The doors to my mind and heart
circle as revolving doors.
A peek inside and you see
the pocks of the years that came
to leave their soured, sadistic truths.
So, like a cul-de-sac you may enter
but the exit is the same as you came.
A Ferris wheel, past the highs and lows
of lost hopes, of murky dreams that end
with more questions than I will answer…
A dead end with death as the prize
for endless dreary days and noxious nights
of sorrow, sadness, misery, and grief
with no hope, no desire, no ambition
faith gone and forgone, abortive.
the ugly
The doors to my mind and heart
circle as revolving doors.
A peek inside and you see
the sear of anger and revenge
spiraling apocalyptically.
The cul-de-sac where giant wind turbines
turn and churn and gnaw at my insides
generating incompressible turbulence
that amasses until it ruptures, spewing
rage and outrage that I will honor…
In and out, inescapable, dead
like my heart, my soul black as coal,
seeking retribution for perceived
wrongs against me, ill-timed and
sanguinary persecution.
Nowhere for you to sleep, but on the street.
Go old man, go sleep on that cold steel grate.
Beware! Beware! rats may gnaw at your feet.
Don't give up the fight, don't die in defeat,
don't let your soul be consumed by your hate.
Nowhere for you to sleep, but on the street.
Sleep lightly old veteran of the street.
The vermin of the night could seal your fate.
Beware! Beware! rats may gnaw at your feet
Fight back, the street is no place for the meek.
Regain your pride and your place in the state.
Nowhere for you to sleep, but on the street.
Don't walk in circles with sores on your feet.
Go back through life's gate before it's too late.
Beware! Beware! rats may gnaw at your feet.
This abyss will leave you hollow and beat.
You must abdicate your place by the grate.
Nowhere for you to sleep, but on the street.
Beware! Beware! rats may gnaw at your feet.
Dear Mother,
I didn’t understand before,
As much as I understand now.
No matter how cruel a mother you may be,
You are still my mother.
You wore me down to my brittle bones,
And continued to gnaw at the little marrow that was left.
Go on, finish me off, and eat the rest.
Birth me again, and maybe this time it will be different.
Remember when I was a little girl, and I would catch
You critiquing your reflection in the mirror?
You told me you hated how you looked. Did you know
That people tell me I look so much like you?
You didn’t know, it wasn’t your fault.
It wasn’t your fault you were born screaming,
In perfect unison with your mother,
And that you never learned to stop,
Not until I was born, screaming just the same. I forget
You were a girl once, too. Also
Making lemonade for quarters,
Splitting clementines with your friends,
And begging for your mother’s attention.
We were so angry
At each other. I was afraid
Of becoming you, and you were
Afraid of me becoming better.
I didn’t understand before,
As much as I understand now
That I want so desperately
To crawl into your lap and never leave again.
I’ll rot there and be silent,
If it means that you will smile down at me,
The same way you did the day I was born. With
Your eyes wild and full of compassion, unknown of who
I’d become, if not a mirror of yourself,
Holding the same knife of rage you held at me.
Rock me, Mama,
I promise I understand now.