Long Godforsaken Poems
Long Godforsaken Poems. Below are the most popular long Godforsaken by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Godforsaken poems by poem length and keyword.
On an old windowsill of a crooked windowpane in a beaten house
Lies a window-moth on a dirty window cloth.
drained, defeated, and done
Time and again,
It tattered its wings and shattered its face,
plunged at the glass, losing its grace.
She's drawn to a dim light
spilled through a cracked window
into the darkness of the room.
Like a waking terror of the night,
With one half there and the other out of sight.
Hallucinating a pathway through fantasy
Seeking clarity in rays of insanity
Contained by a glass and wooden frame.
painfully numb,
with an urge to move forward
A consuming obsession,
to make it to the Moon.
That lambent orb in the skies
A brilliant ball full of lies
Ignorant to the impenetrable mass,
or the number of miles between the moon and glass.
No matter how much it desires,
No matter how much it tires,
No matter how large the power of will,
The glass is unbreakable,
the goal unattainable,
The truth unbearable.
The Godforsaken feeling,
of seeing, and believing,
yet never achieving.
Gate or Gates 7-1-25 Based on Rodin’s Gates of Hell. It struck me that Rodin’s gates are closed which made me think of a pastor who said he would want to set up a mission at the gates of hell, that maybe, there might be one last chance of forgiveness. Agree or disagree, theologically correct or not, this poem is just my musings based on this perception by Rodin – the acceptance or rejection of grace - forgiveness.
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Gates of Hell
Mercy stands outside
The GHOSTLY gates of hell
Spreading amazing wings
Benevolence
In GOSSAMER compassion
GRIEF-STRICKEN
At the sight of unquenchable fires
For souls born from the pure fire of love
GROANING with tender clemency
Offering the finality of forgiveness,
Amnesty born from an empty GRAVE
In a garden,
An empty cross on a bloodstained hill,
Armors built in plates of arrogance
Scream,
Dissolve,
In the acid of this reality
Grace, never GODFORSAKEN,
Offers a chalice of ruth
For the ruthless,
A breath of pardon
At the execution of a soul –
Pilgrim thinker
Sits outside the gates of hell –
Building a mission on closed gates.
The ‘net’ is closing in, revealing a ‘web of lies’ Those who use AI and those who plagerise poems fool no one but themselves! Quote by poet!
A gossamer shroud drapes the old lych-gate
I’d hopes it would vanish, alas it’s too late
A ghostly poet rises from her earthly grave
I’m grief-stricken, why can’t people behave?
Posting copied works seeking notoriety
A playground for Dead Poets Society
Stealing poems leaves me groaning
Write your own words, it'll stop me moaning!
I loathe seeing work that has been taken
Why do folk do it, it’s just Godforsaken!
I'm fed up of reading lots of work by AI
Yet poets post it, then vehemently deny
Please pick up your pen, use your brain to write
Pretending that it's your work just isn’t right!
Sometimes, reflections from my mirror,
recall when I slumbered at nature's nadir,
as naysayers whispered in whiskey breaths.
Bewildered, I wandered in the wilderness,
until the mercy of verse reversed the curse.
Poetry you've always been the legacy of my heritage,
a shimmering nimbus, where my words reside by petals,
but if this was my last poem,
it would be the death of an alchemist's magic.
There would be no potion to persecute my pain,
bleeding ink of wounds would have no quill mistress.
Yet, I yearn to leave evidence of my existence,
but my narration is not as lucid as
black pigment upon white pages,
because poetic colours have their own stories.
I'm tired from hiding behind idioms,
where metaphors drip in liquid lies,
veiled within tracing lines of heartbreak.
Whilst sleeping under cherry blossom trees,
I look back upon my life wondering
what purpose summons us,
as I've lost all faith in strange dreams coming true.
I've grown up surrounded by the scent of sorrow,
forsaken in seasonal spheres of fragility,
masticating upon mourning morsels,
adorning garlands of grief soaked in rainfall,
plundering like the tears of Earth,
but even when confusion composed its cruelty,
I fought back to rise, each time I fell.
There has always been pressure
from the heavyweight of darkness,
where I screamed songs of desperation,
as lamenting lyrics resembled emotions of a falling star.
When the breeze blew away the confetti of my stardust,
my heart remained like unblossomed florets -
so I became my own poetic gardener
and planted my own blooms.
Sins of humanity plague me into a withering leaf,
turning invisible, softly settling in sinister silence.
I search for a Godforsaken garden,
where my hands can heal fruitless soil.
Poetry, nobody feels like you,
yet, it's you I sacrifice, before my heart clasps,
as the soul sinks in ideologies of faith and fate.
I can't justify shadows with excuses from expression,
I'm letting go of bitter reflections from photographs.
as it's time to heal the scars from my bloody hands.
Wishing to remain quenched, but drenched in love,
so fate can prepare a grave for my sorrows.
I can't waste time wondering if I'll be remembered,
so, I wave goodbye, floating away like a feather,
executing the articulation of my senses.
Here I stand in this godforsaken corner
under a forgotten, sun scorched land
beneath an expansive, desert sky.
I squint in the melting sun at high noon
my proud, deeply tanned face is lined
like a road map, carved and etched
from years of exposure to the elements.
A hot wind swiftly lifts and carries
large tumbleweeds across the dusty
roads of the reservation.
I can see old paint peeling around the
edges of a trading post sign,
rusted out cars with their hoods open
gathered like a weary convention
along the arroyo canyon,
and a lone roadrunner scurrying
among the saguaro cactus.
My ancestors were a proud people
once roaming freely over this vast
country. They loved the land and
respected it.
When the white man came, we
welcomed them, until we saw they
wanted to take our land from us.
Then we fought like warriors, but
were soon outnumbered.
Now we have been relegated to
these largely barren swaths of land
on the outskirts of society.
Here we languish, yet we will
rise again once more.
I am a Native American and
I have been put in the corner.
Written on 3/25/2017
Frightening silence pervaded
Swelling of ground here and there
A tree adjacent the gate with a GHOSTLY stature
Unfurling a dark blanket by its broad canopy
Even birds don’t like to perch in the GODFORSAKEN place.
Except the bulging- eyed owl
A silent witness for GRIEF-STRICKEN hearts
The fibre art of GOSSAMER aglow in the sunlight
Floating gently like sailcloth
On the gates, they’re like murals of pinwheel flowers.
No gusts or downpours can annihilate it.
The gates are half-shut.
When they are fully opened,
Macabre music of GROANING erupts from the coarsened hinges.
Scent of geosmin from a freshly dug GRAVE
The tired soul along with the retired corpse
Comes again through the terminal gate.
the night i realized i could never fall in love again
i saw a white bird at 3:13 AM
contoured,
unobscured by the darkness,
gliding above the black SUV
where i smuggled my rotting flesh,
harbored beyond the shore of throbbing bodies,
bathed in blue light
in a country where i could never be understood
the night i realized i could never fall in love again
i saw a white bird at 10:15 PM,
unconfined, its primary covert
donning the grey spell of clouds
where it found its refuge,
drifting through my weary eyes
are you tired of me yet?
your porcelain hands fractured beneath my stubborn grip,
your fragments surrendered to the current,
destined to wash upon someone else's coast
i gave myself to you
until nothing remained
your life became unwillingly tangled in mine,
and though my miserly delusions
spoiled long ago,
their memories still root themselves like thorns,
piercing my skull
i cannot stop the bleeding
i wish i could apologize,
for you do not deserve to remain imprisoned
inside the amber haze
i selfishly refuse to bury
although i released you several years ago,
i still slit my wrists daily,
just to let the blood leech
my bitter, dried-up heart
i wish you knew
i do not know another way to exist
no poem,
no human,
no touch
can return spilled blood to my veins
on one of the many nights
my heart was drained of its warmth,
i dreamt i gave birth to a baby girl
painfully, miserably,
i folded inward,
with no one
inside my blurred horizon
i only cry openly in my sleep,
because it is the only place
where i see things as they are
without the diluted disguise of hope,
without the beguiled assurances
of my narrowing reality
i remember i can never fall in love again
every moment i fail to love myself enough
to entrust this emaciated body
to another soul
the day i knew it was time to carve this godforsaken life into stone,
i saw no white bird at no particular time
i sat motionless
on a train that would not stop
for my strangled sobs,
for a stalled existence as pathetic as mine
so, with tears i could not suppress
retracing the map of my bloodshot face,
i engraved
what i had known
since the day you left:
my own death sentence.
“Hey, look there Jim” the young girl said
“What is this old gate up ahead?
Now do you think we should go through.
I’m really game if you will too.”
We’ll have to clear these sticks away
and find the latch - what’s that you say?
You don’t think we should touch the gate?
What lies beyond might not be great?
Oh, come on Jim, don’t be a wuss
Rid this Gossamer with one push.
Then once we’re through, we’ll walk the road
it’s just your mind in overload.’
And as they heaved the gate it fell
releasing then the Ghostly spell.
A spell held bound until the day
this gate was opened by its prey.
But these two children did not see
Grave danger, when innocently,
stepped through that Godforsaken gate
and with this action sealed their fate.
At first, they heard a Groaning sound
and swirling winds whipped all around,
Then both were lifted oh so high
and drawn so quickly through the sky.
And with a thud they were set down
Inside a castle, dark and brown.
Grief-stricken, cold, and full of fear,
“Jim, what has happened? now we’re here”.
A voice they heard a cackle low
the witch appeared to let them know,
they’d live with her forever more
not going back to life before.
(1)
“Your days will now be one of toil
you’ll cook and scrub, the cauldron boil.
Oh, how I’ve waited for this day
For foolish kids to come my way.”
The girl said “Jim I should have heard
the warning in your spoken word:
don’t touch that gate, just let it be
I wish I’d listened to your plea.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, then fell
upon the witch, and broke her spell,
for witches cannot deal with tears
if splashed with one, their spell will clear.
And with a woosh away they went
back to the place were quickly sent,
behind that gate upon the ground
They both stood up, and looked around.
“Where have we been? I can’t recall
but know that gate must never fall,
So quickly we must go away
I’ll not go through it; on this day.”
So, if you see a gate ahead
Be careful now before you tread.
Take care with life, and gates you fell
don’t end up in the witch’s spell.
"With each wave of anguish that crashes over me,
I find myself drowning in my own tears." ~ by poet
I walked through the rusted gates and entered a godforsaken plot of land. A family cemetery on top of the hill near the River Strand. A chilled mist was beginning to blanket the grave of the only man I'd ever loved... the one whose arms around me, I still crave. Grief-stricken, I rest my head on his tombstone, mournful tears spill from my eyes as I agonize with heartbreak. Life for me has lost its spark. I live each day in a twilight haze that melds into the dark.
through the rusted gates
death's breath clings upon the mist~
woe begotten hill
Ancient oaks are draped with moss. Their branches resemble arms hanging low over the graveyard as if they are ghostly specters. I think of them as my love's protectors, silently watching over him. The sky is darkening, and I hear myself groaning in sorrow. It's time to walk back through the rusted gates, but first I'll wipe away the spider's gossamer silk across his name as my heart grieves.
beneath oaken limbs
bodies rest in hallowed ground~
silence is daunting
“Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality.” – Emily Dickinson
He can’t help feeling like he lives behind
the gates of hell – a godforsaken place
where ghostly thoughts inhabit his sad mind.
Groaning, he envisions her smiling face.
The specter of her will not go away.
Grief-stricken since her passing, still he grieves.
So difficult it’s been for him to pray,
and each depressing thought inside him weaves
a web of gossamer; he cannot flee.
No fires rage in the gates of his own hell,
for gloom and gray are all that he can see.
But there is one good thing that he knows well:
Until the day he dies, he must be brave
until he joins his love beyond the grave.