Long Heavy(a) Poems
Long Heavy(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Heavy(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heavy(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
The child set the wood against her raised chin
High up, to place the very last big piece
No less assured of her father's great praise
Than at anytime had ever she been
Wanting to fulfill his expectations
Of a child who was very brave and strong
But could not draw the water from deep well
For the rope was much to long__well deep
My father loved me so so much he did
He always came to my aide__ease my load
By telling me (my child) that's too heavy a load
As I drew that heavy water, each turn
Would get much harder_just in nick of time
There he would step by my side__reach for rope
Ease the strain, ease my load _my father_(my) guide
As the red sun rises, the birds chirp thank you Father for this day
When I was young, I took a tin can to the lip.
Courtesy of my best friend.
I ran away crying to my mother.
(This was my first set of(flesh) stitches).
My cat(blue) had a fetish for crapping in the bathtub.
Dad got sick of the cat shenanigans.
So, I never saw that color of that blue cat again.
My second set was (broken spirit stitches).
It was past bedtime I was busy finishing up a war.
With a jar of plastic army men.
Dad warned me a half dozen times to pack it in.
He was blue-collar tired and took a heavy hand to my hide.
His guilt was just as heavy (a set of forever stitches for him).
One early morning I snuck out of our humble house.
Made my way to the farmer's field and freed up all of his cows.
As punishment, the farmer wrapped a dead corn snake around my neck.
There were no stitches, but it put an end to my cow-rustling events.
Brother and I once had an infamous butter war.
Tossing and smearing it all over walls and kitchen floor.
The fun and hijinks were well worth the licking.
My third set of stitches were deep in the belly from laughing.
Rachel was both babysitter and childhood phantom.
Details are scumbled, mixed, and quite unclear.
I think I acquired a few stitches made purely out of fear,
One night, Mother was screaming, blood smears on the sheets.
Brother and a couple of crow men were present, I think.
The crow men were doing unthinkable things.
Then everything went completely blank, thankfully.
I never saw Mother's pretty face again.
(My fourth set of stitches was of the mental type).
Sitting deep in the black of the mind.
The kind that stays with you for your entire life.
Silence....too much eloquent a silence,
Lately, filled up these nights and days.
Late night pills talked with a full glass
Too cold water for lips to sip all at once
Midnight vibes lately failed mostly in pain
And sorrow. Mostly ended up in utter disdain
A heavy heart with too heavy a night left in try
Of searching for a final way to fold the night sky.
Unanswered prayers could be a decisive blow, honestly
For a heart so praying for a miraculous event, solemnly.
And, I was destined to meet some failed poems , there
Filling only the empty trashcan, without any further layer.
Never felt like claiming a fit though, never felt so sure,
Worthy of living up to these blissful angelic forces.Pure .
And I realized, something did get lost along the touched line,
Something once I held close to heart, something precious of mine.
(Snaps fingers) Let's talk sonic alchemy, a cauldron bubblin' deep/
Rare groove rising, a phoenix from jazz vinyl's pyre/
Acid Jazz is born, setting the soul on fire/ in London's smoky clubs, back when the eighties roared/
A rare groove movement pulsed, a sound from nowhere that knows no bounds/
More like a fusion, a sonic, soulful thing/ Funk's greasy fingerprints, soul's sweet perfume, Hip-hop's swagger, and fusion funky-fresh, street hood blend/
breaking down old skool jazz/
60s Jazz got an electric shock, a story with DJs spinnin' without end/
Acid Jazz they called it, club jazz, groove so deep/ Psychedelic acid , with a Jimi Hendrix riff/
Man, think trumpets with a swagger, bass lines thumpin' thick and low/ A drummer hittin' harder than anyone you know/ samplin' Clyde Stubblefield drum playin' into four beats throbbin', layered tight, a tapestry of sound/ under a heavy sweety groove so damn tight/ the house club DJ scrachin and spinin' Mike Clark's breakthrough funk beat from Herbie Hancock's cut 'Actual Proof" into an Acid Jazz song that is killin and soul funk chillin’/
Vocals droppin' knowledge/ ladies and hipsters the acid groove is here/
From Western Europe rising/
to Japan's electric gleam?
Latin rhythms joining, a collaborative deep beat dream/
United Future Organization, a trio cool and sharp, Brooklyn Funk Essentials, makin’ sure the groove is a hip, tight, wicked mix, of spoken word off the radar chillin’ bland of nu funk horn street soul/
(Beatbox rhythm under the following lines) Club jazz, the Chambers Brothers “Time Has Come” psychedelic acid rock jazz at Its best/
Dig, you gotta let it go Bro/Acid Jazz and the word mechanic band, precise, and into the jazz flo/
Yo, jump out your set, hit the dance floor, you be burnin'' the joint down/
Smooth and cool with rare vinyl uptown charm/
the funk is heavy/ a vibe that chills and thrills/ Acid Jazz ain't just a sound/ man, it's the high life, still. (Snaps fingers again)
Reoccurring episodes when my spirit and mind, are in fight or flight. I recognize and identify in moments where I feel completely blank inside. It’s my body’s way of reminding me to unplug, just take a break. Things are overloading, I need to mentally and spiritually escape. Detach and let go of everything, especially from those moldy framed memories. Clear my plate full of moments, where I’d rather not hold space. A mental memory cannibal is who I may need to feed. It would have been a bigger memory feast, if I didn’t start those sessions sponsored by an MFT. And before I learned to appreciate the undoing of the override, built by some old version of me. I am allowing the Indulgence and consumption of those poisonous memory plates. Right from off my table of shame. Feasts of anger, sadness and pain. From a past that serves no source of fulfillment for this version of me today. This process takes place quietly, beneath the skin, bone and tissue. It’s more of a spiritual and mental misuse issue . I am sure my consciousness is trying to take care of me, as it turns on the exterior autopilot & power save mode intermittently. Which works at protecting the positive good memories, from being sorted plated, and digested, pointlessly. Helping prevent episodes where fight or flight are the only options I see. Because when I have too much on my plate, it becomes daunting and too heavy a task to overtake. So my body’s override sorts every memory good or bad inside. It plates everything, and that’s where we get to decide, do we want to keep feeding our spirit sadness anger and lies, or memories that support hope growth and peace inside. Your choice. Dinner's at 5
Have you ever felt like crying, you didn’t know why,
you just felt the need, to sit there and cry.
With a heart so heavy, a feeling so blue,
you have no idea, what’s come over you.
As the tears swell up, in your heart you feel,
so many different emotions, how there all so real.
As we begin to experience, things we cannot speak,
as in our hearts, the answer we do seek.
Unspeakable things, all combined together as one, you see,
to put your finger on it, it just cannot be.
We go off to ourselves, and in the silence we hide,
there we find our safe place, where we can abide.
Now, all alone, in our silence you see,
the Spirit of God, comforts you and me.
When the tears are over, it’s back to life we go,
those thing’s that’s hard to understand, is what helps us grow.
When I feel the need to cry, it’s in the silence you see,
because I know, thats where the Spirit of God will be.
Some ply the pen lissomely and light
Words like putty in their hands unite
Awkwardly do I on paper indite
Some wet scrawls that fail to ignite
Will I ever fulfill that dream?
A pen of panache, pizzazz and flash
With spring’s verdure and winter’s lash
Dancing on paper with every dash
Colorful as autumn, clear as sash
Has my soul with its hope agleam
Words pregnant and sublime
Running smoothly in rhyme
Free from the confines of time
Will I ever enjoy such prime?
And of the crop be of the cream?
Or will it end up all mundane
And turn out a prayer in vain
For so heavy a fall of rain
That may at once flood my terrain?
With such dreams I can’t cease to teem
The world feels heavy, a mountain of lead,
With sharp, silver needles that pull at my head.
A hollow in the stomach, a weight in the chest,
While the heart tries to find just a moment of rest.
I reached for a hand that I thought was a light,
But they traded my trust for a shadow in flight.
Now the hallways are long and silence is loud,
Just a face in the distance, a ghost in the crowd.
The ink on the paper felt tangled and wrong,
As the rhythm of "self" lost the words to its song.
I'm weary of carrying the blame and the ache,
Of feeling so brittle, I'm destined to break.
But in the quiet, I'm turning my eyes,
To the one who can hear all the world less cries.
Though my body is weak and the road is uphill,
I'll walk through the valley and try to be still.
If the world has forgotten, I know He has not,
I am more than the pain and the battles I've fought.
I'll keep my solitude, sacred and deep,
Until there is peace in the promises I keep.
In the heart of twilight, shadows murmur ancient incantations,
a silent symphony echoes through the corridors of my soul,
how can I begin anew, with the weight of past days
clinging to my heart, roots entangled
in memories, ever-present, yet invisible.
Through the corridors of wind-swept times, I wander,
a pilgrim lost in the vastness of my own histories,
each moment a pearl on a golden thread,
its brilliance heavy, a chain of yesterdays
binding my wings, a song of lingering shadows.
Dawn is a promise, an untouched canvas,
but my fingers tremble, stained with the ink of the past,
how can I paint tomorrow’s rays, when the sunset still persists,
its colors bleeding into the dawn sky,
a silent protest against the birth of something new.
In the garden of my mind, old flowers wither,
their bittersweet perfume, the memory of another time,
each petal a turned page, a lived story,
how can new buds burst forth, when the soil is saturated
with echoes of past days, roots deeply imprinted
in the sacred earth.
The river of time flows, an eternal current,
yet in its depths, the shadows of yesterday swim,
how to navigate these waters, to find a new beginning,
when the undertow of the past pulls at my heart,
its whispers a siren song, drawing me back to shores
paved with fragments of who I once was.
But perhaps, in this dance of shadows and light,
there lies a hidden grace, a gentle acceptance,
that echoes of yesterday need not be chains,
but threads woven into the tapestry of my becoming,
each memory a brushstroke, not a burden,
a part of the whole, the story revealed.
For the moon rises as the sun sets, an eternal cycle,
and in this cosmic rhythm, I too can find my place,
how to begin anew, I wonder,
embracing the symphony of past days,
letting them sing, but not define the melody,
for in the depths of the heart, possibility blooms,
a phoenix reborn from the ashes of what once was.
OF LOVE
Much of me is expected, in me I carry a relic of great power,
It is heavy a burden to carry, a power of massive strength, its honor and glory I can not yield,
A few are chosen of its barring, for much a purpose await to be fulfilled,
Hearts of men tremble at the scent of its power, the speak of it, is disease to the bones,
It is heavy to the heart, a measure so great can not be weighed by kings or queens,
It compels even the young and the very old, of its strength men has misused to their desire,
Much have fallen to the folly of its desire, its power so great, a heavy burden no men can carry,
Of His quest he knows, its greatness do not yet understand,
What of men's folly and wickedness can be uttered?
The world grows in darkness, even the good of the few shutters in fear,
The race of men rushes to its end, hope is lost on the arms life,
Dearth smiles with dimples at the race of men.
'Save us, save us' it shouts,
Its splendor melts on the hands of happiness, a shadow of darkness grows in its midst,
It propels violent scream in the wild,
The glory of men shall die screaming,
Its legacy will crawl in the shadows, the folly of men will be no more
Kings shall perish, legends will rise no more,
The one sitting on the throne shall reign to no end, the one yielding the power given to the chosen ones,
The greatness and glory given to them will be revealed at the time to come, the time when their quest would be fulfilled in joyful cries and hailing of their king,
At that none will stagger, none will tremble in fear, for all will know how to use it,
Its power and greatness will rule on the mountains, in the wilderness it shall rain with fruits, in the wild its dwelling will be, all those yielding its greatness will feel its scent, to the east will come walking with the western wind,
The east shall stand again, and the goodness of men will endure once again.
For it will listen to its masters will.