Long Grafted Poems
Long Grafted Poems. Below are the most popular long Grafted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grafted poems by poem length and keyword.
"Time is the thief you cannot banish."
Phyllis Mc Ginley, Writer, 1905 - 1978
if you cannot beat them join the crowd of armed unkind robbers
otherwise you end up with identity fraud at the hands of the thugs
instead rule and divide the hourglass one step at every moment
synchronize what must be said and done and count the rewards
an imposed time machine is a wicked illusion and criminal offence
pick your own pockets calm rapid paces and speed up your apathy
turning tides do not steal pebbles from beaches
the sun never asks where her rays have gone to
moons follow their path without wondering when
a waterfall keeps its composure even when falling
cancel direct debit to people who don’t care for you
standing orders are not written in hard grafted stone
debts can be cleared and overdrafts countervailed
the only mortgage you have is to live to your tempo
a bit of rhythm helps when the pendulum swings backwards and forth
rhymes a chime for when the final bell takes its toll as the coffin lies vacant
if you have not filled it with meaning before permanence rests in the grave
a time sheet spread out over nothingness infringes upon the tick tock of joy
imposters can try as hard as they want to steel your dial
will try to bend all the hands of fortune magic and fate but
destiny comes from the springs rewound at every dawn
vacant echoes will be enriched with challenging meter
when the ultimate curtain unveils to your own applause
as the poachers admit defeat and fall on swift swords
feel free to mock burglars and mischievous muggers
a dead man’s pockets are full of victory’s memories
10th November 2020
I walked into Dobb's library
I didn't have what life took
so there wasn't much left for me
except to search for a new book.
I sat down in an enclosed place
for ten minutes hoped to forget
the savage past grafted on my case
entangled in a strangling net.
I opened a computer screen
Then a lady sat beside
I sensed something sight unseen
A tear in the force had opened wide.
A short librarian had seen all
She gave this lady a look of scorn:
so intense it could burn the wall
I felt aghast, how could I warn?
I came back there in July
The new book shelf was getting old
Saw the librarian, my fierce ally
She looked unwell, in a dazed pose.
A library is a safe place to be
No bad guys have reason to go
But I brought one in with me
Did it hit a friend who'll never know?
You don't antagonize the wolf-like pack
With a heartfelt look of intense scorn
They'll take revenge, they may attack
I steel my heart, can't afford to mourn.
Now, I don't know for sure
Can's collapse that quantum wave
But in my mind that scorn endures
when icebergs surface, who can save?
He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.
John 15:2 NIV
Thank you Christ
For you created a way
That we might be grafted
Into the living tree
Mold and prune me
Unto the being you died for
All my limbs that grow away
From the light in the wrong direction
Cut off to discard for nothing good
Would come from it
Just let me be a small branch in the living tree
Being feed from the living water
That will create a fruit that is good
To reflect the guidance of the caretakers
Hard work, tears and continuous support.
For Him to see the joy and happiness in His creation
The fruit that comes from His tree of life.
So I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh. For the flesh desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the flesh. They are in conflict with each other, so that you are not to do whatever you want. But if you are led by the Spirit, you are not under the law. The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like. I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God. But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit.
Galatians 5:16?-?25 NIV
Shadow 10/18/25
The golden leaves of her,
amber with fiery, spirited show.
Beautiful preserved resin,
adoring him.
Hidden passion,
The dance, poise, deft
under shadows dim.
Canopied beneath times lair
to rest for lengthy fallow.
Fractured, curled hope takes flight
Chanting whispers assistance
Spinning beside cold airs plight
Sunshade kisses eyes first glance
Canopied beneath times lair
to rest under heavy harrow.
Her golden leaves for gray, umbra
mewling a spirited show.
Beautifully graced and grafted
facing him.
Falling passion
chances, serenity, sable
under shadows dim.
K
while you grew
you knew certain
things even behind
Oz' wizard's
curtain and
certainly certain
things they now
call anomalies
which would
bring
an odd assemblage
of the continuous
my friend he is
real so truly
believe it
a donkey named
and i don't know
why Manny or
perhaps it's
Mannie
kids can't spell
properly so i
just know the
name i gave
him still the
same but now passed
along to my oldest
niece's daughter
making her the
first of a great
lineage of greats
if i stick around
for so long
which is
longer
then the donkey has
for being a real
friend i not only
confided in him
but he was the
cold cloth across
my forehead and
the always there
even when parents
weren't but no
fault of their own
i was never alone
holding him tight
so that his neck
was the first to
go
but my Mum giving
me support supported
his neck adding extra
stuffing so good
enough but over time
he lost a button eye
and his tail was re
placed by colorful
string interesting
how Manny could take
different form and trans
form and yet be himself
to me but after all
was said and done
he was completely over
hauled skin grafted and
so well crafted that only
a few pieces were left of
self from gotten off of
the shelf but his look of
like with all the other
Manny donkeys was
his own personality
and as i said a real
friend
Form:
Lord, hear my humble cry.
Give me the words to express.
What the Spirit has placed within.
All to the glory of God.
In knowing in my own works.
I was but a branch that had fallen.
No good use but to start a fire.
While, one day Lord, you picked me up.
And grafted this branch into the Living Tree.
Placing the Spirit of fire within to consume.
In knowing,this was from your works.
Prune me daily, to remain just a small branch
Of the Living tree which gives back glory to God.
Give me the words , Lord to express this Love.
To be a cloud that brings the rain.
Pouring the Holy Spirit unto all seeking.
Let the trees clap with joy of the Love of God.
That, they would be in true color and beauty.
Each and every day that this joy within.
Would glow outwardly to a dying world.
To be a light in a world of darkness.
Let all come together in singing Psalms and hymns.
The birds would awaken in praising in One Song.
The bees and butterflies would help each other out.
In spreading this precious pollen that all receive.
The purpose of having this life transferred.
To bring nourishment, life and pure honey.
For, God the creator of all would smile,
Down on the Children worshiping in Spirit and Truth.
In One, Accord and Harmony.
Unity of the promised spirit drawing together.
Children of the Living God through Christ.
In my humble cry Lord, give me the words.
To express what God has placed within.
When they couldn't sedate me
And needed to cut strips of flesh
From my eyelid, I heard the sizzle
Smelled the scalpel burning as it sliced
And glimpsed the steam rising
Through a peephole under the
Sterile towel tent covering my face
Flesh harvested from my eyelid
grafted into the cavern under my eye
Pit left from digging the cancer filled
One hundred and twenty three tiny stitches later
an ice bag tapped to my head with a warning
it would hurt like hell when the Lidocaine died
I lied-I was going back to my hotel
And on that dark highway in the pouring rain
I could see well enough with one eye
Until sixty miles west on I-80
Burning hot all consuming hell, stabbing, sharp, wish I were dead
Pulled over into aq Wendover casino
To kill the pain
When I'm drinking and gambling, life doesn't hurt.
Faded away until it really wasn't there
Enough to sober up, get back in my truck
Poorer than I was--but money
Never made me happy.
You did
My emergency contact.
My ride home
Pathetic that this is your poem
You are not a bad person.
You gave yourself away.
You took yourself back.
And that's alright
I take me back, too
And like that, there's no emergency contact
No one to drive me home
And I wish you had a better poem
Than this...
I'm-hurt-you-should-feel-sorry-for-me
and my wounded heart
Attempt to what?
Get you back? Hell-no
Don't know what you were, or why
But you had to be removed
Just like the cancer in my eye--you had to go
It's not pretty and leaves a big hole
That some other part of me must fill
It's uncomfortable
And it hurts
Yeah...
and there's nobody to drive me home
But I've been through worse
I'm happy to turn the page
If there's something better for you
There's something better for me
Something better than this
Pain management poem.
That you will never read, but somehow
Makes me feel better
Adios, Felicia
This is hunger.
This is the way my stomach
turns itself inside out
when I hear a phrase
that makes my spine
straighten like a lightning rod.
I devour adversity
consume the cadence of chaos,
swallow their imagery whole
As my hunger for poetic
expression begins to grow
but it's never enough.
Never enough..
Because somewhere in the space
between what I want to say
and what spills onto the page,
there's a chasm
I'm always trying to bridge
with nothing but breath
and the desperate hope
that this time,
this time,
the words will be enough.
I've bled into notebooks,
left fingerprints on keyboards,
worn down pencils
to their metal hearts,
all for the chance
to catch lightning
in the mason jar
of a single stanza.
And when it comes—
that moment when the poem
writes itself,
when my hand becomes
a conduit for something
larger than myself,
when the words flow
like water finding
its inevitable path
to the sea
I am full.
I am the hunger
feeding itself.
But it never lasts.
The poem ends,
the spell breaks,
and I'm left
with ink-stained fingers
and an empty page
that demands
to be filled again.
So I write.
I write because writing
Grafted to my skin.
To express what lies within
So you can say writing poetry
Is in my DNA.
I write because silence
is a kind of death
and words are the only
resurrection I know.
I write because somewhere
in the marriage
of sound and meaning,
in the space between
between the question
and its answer,
there lives a truth
so beautiful,
so necessary,
that I would starve
for the chance
to speak it.
This is passion.
This is the fever
that breaks
only when the poem
is born,
crying and perfect
and finally,
finally
alive.
A humanity Slain by a black ghost flame
Because their God was an unspeakable name
A Mournful, Insane, multitude with emnity and self induced labor pains
An Eon that has never awoken - A Copt of Souls- skin of the seas soaken-
in the foamy afterbirth of aftermaths toil, in spoil
by the Unspoken strains
Alone without a soul, or meaningful, rich soils of cultivation, to be grafted in,
birthing anew, and not staying long enough to become unattended, mud from the rain and eroded by sins,
splitting image is a sea splashing your brain
i see all that you do, your stratas of civilizations
Unveiling me of the Mystery of the Unseen, in indignant stagnation
but mildew of what once was a nation
fingertips form fitting on the sill of the stranded looking after loves
dead bug
Dust dried, shriveled and Unspoken for encapsulated in your dung
The Unfitting glove, trying us on for size, tongue in cheek,
begrudging the nudge off the cliff closer
Eons are all too slow for you to fully comprehend its reign
As you grow further in age,
The light of the star
Beside you, fades, phase shifts as darkmatter
and becomes blacker still like soot on the page
Turn you cron-icon along its path
As the dark of the age "Comicon of the lost"
Engaging, you, along its malevolence you are its Priestess, caught
giving burnt offerings of garbage you made special issuance not
all your glimpses, a mirrors tear, somewhere in Time's, Lots
snapped on the dancing diadem dragons lair plot, Dune sand trap, left
"sleeping "in the rough" at the Gates Of Aurizen, a Phoenix Unrisen,
to the Denizens, of the left
Layers of nothingness-spinning placebo, cursing the dark side of our moons
And only silence in raft upon the voided rift
The Unspoken, unspoken,Apathy, ingratitude TheM Ulktra Violence
Them, Humans once lived
The world inside of me
Is huge.
There are trees with twisted, open branches,
Like a thousand mom's,
Reaching for a hug.
There is music, and art, and
A tsunami of words,
Sent down stream,
To be plucked and absorbed
Like the most fulfilling
Breath of air.
The world inside of me
Is huge.
There is a tender heart,
And a healing soul
That wishes he could
Raise the dead.
There is also a secret place
Where a million dreams come to rest.
(A dream never fully dies...)
These dreams spin around
Our conscience
Like the earth,
Spinning on its axis,
Rotating around the sun.
We rotate and
Gravitate towards
Each other too.
Like the thousand prayers
That are grafted from
Person to person.
All of them have a purpose.
But somehow it means more
When I can pray
For my sis.