Long Half Poems
Long Half Poems. Below are the most popular long Half by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Half poems by poem length and keyword.
he watched …
as it fell to the slate floor
glinting its polished golden husk in the
late morning sun
it should’ve bounced, as any
ring would of normalcy
but this, it was NOT …
leagues and lifetimes from it, actually
its behavior betraying the
dark matter within
as it landed with a single loud thud -
‘too loud’, he thought, as he
watched his dear little friend turn and
trudge away down the shire path …
he stood static to the floor
head dipped and eyes peering suspiciously at
it over half-lens spectacles -
as if looking at the devil himself
(not far from the truth) …
and after an overlong consideration
he stooped slowly and reached,
pausing a moment
(more debate)
then pinched it between thumb and
forefinger to lift it from the floor
but … it stuck …
he pulled harder, then harder yet
and finally picked it off the stone tile -
with much too much effort afforded an
object of its diminutive size
and this, as he placed it on the mantle beside him
(leering at it all the more)
quite disturbed him …
so, as was his usual custom at such
concerning moments
he ‘humphed’ to himself,
sat down on a leather hassock behind him
and dug his pocket, deep …
another pinch, this one unseen, and out
came a wad of Old Toby
straight into his churchwarden pipe
and lit with care -
weed-scented brume rings circling
his straggly silver locks
and disappearing high into the
shadowed eaves
along with his now shadowy thoughts …
this simple gold ring had
no simple history
this was a dark object of malevolent intent
forged in the fiery bowels of Mt Doom
and melded with an evil power to
obliterate all such talismans that
had come before it
and all to be made hence
he knew its history well, as any
wizard of import would
and he knew with dreadful certainty
that his life AND his path had now
changed in a troubling and
sobering way,
and that nothing in his once bright and
enjoyable existence
would ever again …
be the same.
Unequally yoked didn't deny
common grace in an atheistic womb.
Half of the prayers were enough for him.
Blessed in health and time,
but reckless in his early years.
Under other tapestries laid all those fine linens of Egypt.
In each embrace, I placed a wager on just how slow your anger.
The hypocrite damns their own house.
Demons perched on the edge of puberty,
filled my son's eyes hopeless and left his rare word—flat.
Paper towels the papyrus of superficial coping
lines of scabs formed sleeves of braille
as the wages of sin reached for my son's throat mocking
two inpatient stays hanging in a precarious chemical salvation.
Another orphan from faith and repentance disobeyed,
juxtaposed with Job who lost ten.
Fear cultivated the prayers that grew
the humility that put your Son on the Cross,
and wouldn't gamble with mine.
Your general call turned effectual
A new volition has moved my son to gather
with those that feed the hunger
from the table of the Word.
When the hand of Grace shakes the elect
from their own slumber
in The Storm on the Sea of Galilee.
Taken back from Rembrandt's thieves,
no longer hidden away.
Beyond Jonah's anger that killed the vine,
and desecrated memories of seized temples
roam those ghosts of the giants of Lebanon.
Every idle word winnows the threshing floor
forever the wheat from the tare.
The solace that the chosen
are given in this life's labor
under The Cross that the world must hate,
divine regeneration gives the measures
of reverence and gratitude
for every thorn on this side,
and your Heaven full of treasures.
In 9th grade, Mr. Adams told our class
(with a buckshot in his eyes)
"That one day life will scare the $hit out of you".
Well, we all giggled like little barn owls -
Didn't really know or care about what he was talking about.
What was so scary about living in a half square mile of bliss -
Smoking cheap dope-sharing a root beer float with a trashy little girlfriend.
But nothing lasts forever, and neither would any of this.
On the last day of my senior year, I opened the blast furnace doors of responsibility.
There was a big smirking fireball of instantaneous fear.
Barreling toward the last breath of my whiffle ball youth.
Mr. Adams was right, after all.
EARLY POEMS XIX
Bound
by Michael R. Burch
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground,
I have lost what I once found
in your arms.
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes,
I have remade all my chains
and am bound.
Published as “Why Did I Go?” in my high school journal, The Lantern
130 Refuted
by Michael R. Burch
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red ...
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 130
Seas that sparkle in the sun
without its light would have no beauty;
but the light within your eyes
is theirs alone; it owes no duty.
And that flame, not half as bright,
is meant for me, and brings delight.
Coral formed beneath the sea,
though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me;
while your lips, not half so red,
just touching mine, at once inflame me.
And the searing flames your lips arouse
fathomless oceans fail to douse.
Bright roses’ brief affairs, declared
when winter comes, will wither quickly.
Your cheeks, though paler when compared
with them?—more lasting, never prickly.
And your cheeks, so dear and warm,
far vaster treasures, need no thorns.
I believe I wrote this poem as a college freshman, age 18.
With my daughter, by a waterfall
by Michael R. Burch
By a fountain that slowly shed
its rainbows of water, I led
my youngest daughter.
And the rhythm of the waves
that casually lazed
made her sleepy as I rocked her.
By that fountain I finally felt
fulfillment of which I had dreamt
feeling May’s warm breezes pelt
petals upon me.
And I held her close in the crook of my arm
as she slept, breathing harmony.
By a river that brazenly rolled,
my daughter and I strolled
toward the setting sun,
and the cadence of the cold,
chattering waters that flowed
reminded us both of an ancient song,
so we sang it together as we walked along
?unsure of the words, but sure of our love?
as a waterfall sighed and the sun died above.
This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. I believe I wrote around age 18.
Keywords/Tags: early, early poems, juvenilia, sun, red, lips, seas, light, flame, fire, oceans, roses, thorns, winter, cheeks, waterfall, daughter, rose, roses are red
Are we just dreamers?
Drowning in anothers soul
Somebody else's plus one
Only half never whole
Poetry is the voice piece
Kneading words like soft dough
Tasting all its goodness
Letting your creative flow
Release your imagination
Let your phoenix fly
Give birth to your intention
Don't be scared to cry
For poetry is the wisdom
Peddling emotion at your door
Giving others that opportunity
To appreciate you more
How far can the heart serve?
Bring light to a barren land
Talking another's language
In hope, they'll understand
A kiss upon a faint lip
Soft touch upon a face
The words within a poem
Can unite the human race
Resurrect love for each other
Whisper secrets of the heart
Are we just dreamers?
Needing a place to start.
SCARY STORY
I heard a loud knock on the door last night
A cloudless sky with a moon shining bright
It was quite late, and about the time for bed
Through the door’s glass panel I saw a head
A dark and blurry silhouette, as if peering in
And I felt a wave of coldness across my skin
Despite the warm fleece that I had donned
I was uncertain whether to actually respond
This was not any encounter I relished at all
I even hesitated, wondering if I should stall
But finally, I decided to slide back the bolts
My place is secured just like a bank’s vaults
When the door was half open I saw it there
A disembodied head just hanging in mid-air
It turned and faced me then began to speak
I will admit that my knees went quite weak
This wasn’t what anyone might ever expect
An apparition with a very frightening effect
It was hovering, then started to float closer
With a face almost shiny with nasal mucosa
The lips then parted to show uneven teeth
With a greenish tongue lurking underneath
Almost a smile, but a phrase dribbled out
It sounded a bit weird, there was no doubt
You may be wondering why I called on you
The reason I am sure, you never had a clue
I’m in a fierce competition to trick or treat
But I’m not asking for any candy or a sweet
It looked deep into my eyes and then it said
In a scary race I always wanted to be ahead
You knew me before I knew you…
It’s just us two against the world… My night, my day,
My savior every time I prayed. You never ever let me down…
You’re always on Queue… My sight
My light,
A pure reflection of my strength, my humor, my life and
Lastly, my dream comes true.
For miracles happen every day but you’ve been my support,
My lifeline, my escort and my historical resort… For God blessed me with two right hands….my hero and my spirit known by your kings’ crown of Daryl.
You’re my down to earth brotha; a spirit of joy and laughter,
The one who keeps me smiling till the morning after; for reasons of the unknown…
So I ask you the when’s, what’s, why’s and how’s… then you look at me with a half of a smile and shrug your shoulders and say… “I don’t know?” (With a mixed look of…) go with the flow because you don’t need me for you already know…for show!
Eventually signs and figures will pop from a distance to give you
An answer; of different mixtures and fixtures that comes together in one solid picture.
All awhile your prankster knew the answers to your every question…However, at times so did you…you just didn’t want to face another rejection. So here is the two of you…your night and your day…
A spirit of ancient Egypt and your own private pharaoh…
Your other right hand; for you are blessed with a
“Lord of the two lands and high priest of every temple”… for God named this leader “DARYL”.
("Eye of God", 2018, original encaustic mixed media - wax, pigments and mirror)
Clearly God Grades On a Curve
After several hours of working hard
finishing up siding a small sheep shed,
before winter comes and the cold winds blow,
I lay in the warm bath, seduced
to the edge of sleep by two sips of beer.
I’m roused by a rousing motivational speech
delivered apparently to all the minions
within my body-mind.
And like Whitman, it seems the multitudes
I contain are vast.
Workers, common laborers and skilled,
designers, engineers, and inspectors,
critics, loafers, the assorted homeless bums
and burnt out hippies fried by one too many trips
to who knows where, seeking who knows what…
Anyway, the speech I remember,
the part that woke me,
was the simple affirmation
that they’d all earned,
“An A for effort!”
And laying there half submerged
nursing my sore joints and tired limbs,
I realized with the calm assurance
of the mystic, that clearly
God grades on a curve.
(9/9/23)
He was too old
to speak of active hope
for ancient creamy dreams
not yet boldly told
Inviting curious homeless nomads
to imagine what we could become
if we were not yet brazenly born
into this time of tragic burning,
flooding,
predicting hunger,
thirst
and coastal drowning nakedness.
Into this epic brown despair
AzaRiah was innocently born
within fading red shadows
of a crumbling
patriarchal
all white cathedral.
She never knew an old Golden Era
of endless capital expansion
and monopolistic worship
defying GoldenRules
applied to those like her,
the least and blackest last
of Earth's Golden SpaceTime Ratio.
AzaRiah's stormy education
had no LeftBrain Ego v NotEco luxury
to ponder why 2D full moons
are also 4D revolving half-lit norms,
Why spatial nomials
predict temporal bilateral binomials,
Why positive polypaths
predict not not negative
polyphonic ultra-nonviolence,
Why binary Zero
fulfilling One bipolar Zone
predicts double-binary 0/1
wave-linear dipolar
win/win DNA resplendent co-arising Tone,
Why fractal-structured regenerativity
nativity predicts octave spiraling scales
of resonant
resilient non-degenerative issue tissues.
She was much too busy
singing with hurricane winds,
listening for flaming conflagrations
of reactionary hate,
inviting still small ecofeminist circles
to dance again with GrandMother Moon
in compassion's silent storms,
self and other recreating
perpetual healthcare perception
reception
Belonging in grateful silence
where her grandfathers
spoke with terrified tears
of Earth's great loud longing.
Peace, peace and tranquility of mind
Peace and submission to life, whither my soul it wishes to bind
Or whither it wishes to have it freed
Whichever, the silent night does be made of its own creed
How engulfing, how overwhelming, how enveloping
Silent night, awaking in me emotions I had long kept sleeping
Passionate yearnings, fiery desires
The night does be dressed in sensual attires
Longings which never came through
Ambitions which never came true
Stories which never ended
A life lived at its best, but which shall still be regretted
A life lived on a gifted faith
A life lived in half
A life lived on wise choices
A life lived on dreaming solaces
Glorious moon, glittering stars
All meant to calm down my inner wars
All meant to remind me that useless are all of my woes
For someday, someday, I shall wake up to new tomorrows
Pray, the night silence does be made of its own essence
Romantic, elevating, seeking to glorify the human race
Yes, the night silence does be made of acceptance, of hope, of expectation
The night silence does be made of an introspective glance!