Long Histories Poems
Long Histories Poems. Below are the most popular long Histories by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Histories poems by poem length and keyword.
The holocaust.
A historical event known worldwide
Taught in every history class
The point being is its known
Why is that important?
It overshadows
It takes the spotlight
It is also white history
Because even though it was mainly the persecution of Jews
At the end of the day they are still white
But what about another holocaust
Another genocide of people
Those who were discriminated against
And were targeted by Germany
In this case they were black
This was the Germans first attack
The wipe out of generations
Innocent children and the elderly
Innocent black people exterminated
All because of a rebellion
Of a people defending their nation
Herero and Nama
The retaliation from the Germans
Catastrophic
It changes the lives of many
The murders and separations of families
Around 100,000 hereros
And 25,000 Nama
Brutally murdered in a genocide
Silenced by the colour of the victims skin
It didn't end there
The Germans had won
And Hereros and Nama were defeated
Instead of the Germans leaving
They took souvenirs
Those who survived
Were imprisoned
Starved, dehydrated and beaten
If the genocide hadn't killed them
Then the concentration camps certainly did
The jews were given historical grace
And the Southern Western Africans were erased
And you wonder why we make 'everything about race'
Is because you wouldn't care if the history Of my people was slapped in your face
Do we live forever?
Will we shine in stars and be heard in seashells, selling our histories upon seashores?
Do we live forever?
Will I haunt a long-lost beau into loving me, sparkle with electric messages as a ghost in a machine?
Do we live forever?
Will you ever understand the chicken / egg dilemma, why we don’t count them before they hatch?
Do we live forever?
Will you remember kissing me? Or your memory eating disease? Will you remember forgetting me?
Do we live forever?
Maybe I’ll learn what’s above black and below white, what happens within silence and outside of air.
Do we live forever?
It’s a looping number 8 that's trying to find the end of a circle - or, maybe the start.
But when I find out, you’ll be the first person I tell.
We have a primal urge to survive,
That now goes well beyond this day.
As our resources fail to keep up with,
Our lasting, gluttonous display.
Have we taken to histories lessons,
Where we consume and avoid to sustain?
Or have we seen the wisdom to replenish,
Even the simplest of materials, and maintain?
Each and every one of us share in common,
The air and water that surrounds us all.
As the supportive, complex matrix built
Upon, the energetic life, from small and tall.
Our science has uncovered the blueprint,
Highlighting remedies needed to pursue.
Yet can our wisdom rely on this reality,
Where we conserve and seek to undo?
If humanity truly seeks a lengthy tomorrow,
It must be durable in its action and plan.
While we look past the pleasures of the moment,
To a distant future, for the family of man.
oh wrap me close dear jungle deep, with fronds and fruits entwined
and hold me to your ancient emerald breast -
I long to hear those thrums within, the pulse of thickets vined
and feel your misty essence fill my chest
oh let your warming whispers brush the tympans of my ears
with sultry songs of woodland mysteries -
face-to-sky I'm pattered with your maze's torrid tears
as heaven weeps your primal histories
your canopy, breeze-tickled, shakes its tresses high aloft
to daub upon my cheek your orchid breath -
whisp'ring o'er the blooms and dells to shrug their shoulders, soft
through tragic tangles worthy of Macbeth
your winding streams and waterfalls, your scents of sweet and spice
sing songs of wooded wonder, rare and rife -
I pray aloud a blessing for this perfect paradise
and all such spots divine, the blooms ... of life.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Strand Select 2 Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Picturesque" Poetry Contest, Eve Roper, Judge & Sponsor.
Bringing a son,
Building a home,
Releasing a book,
The three tokens testifying that,some one lived,
A book-
A remaining on death like a soul,
Book-
Small,only four letters,
Line to line,
Para to para,
Page to page,
Letters to letters, matter,to letters,
When a book is released,
The contents remain arrested in minds,
Small books brought long histories,
Small histories brought long books,
The holy religious books-
In the hands of all ages,
In every home,every moment engaged,
Worms attack books,
Book worms in attract of books,
Book keeping is accounting numbers,
Some counting books on shelves in big numbers,
Books came to get rid of burdens of life,
Now books a burden on the backs of school goings,
Books reward beyond bookers awards,
A book keeps the father in the march forward!
I slip through the dark, sleek, lank and lean
shadowed, haze gray, red, white, blue unseen
'neath the faint light of distant moonbeam.
I creep cross the meadows, sands and moors
traversing streets and empty stores
unrecognized at your once open door.
I scan the horizon black and bleak
rest and comfort for a moment I seek
but all is want and need I meet.
I fought for you in foreign and domestic wars
freedom came and passed yet was abhorred
profit was the desire you fought for.
I am the life easily sacrificed for greater good
you claimed freedom was all for which you stood
while you took and benefited all you could.
I was a soldier strong, patriotic, brave
fighting for family, country and those enslaved
but now you barely tend my grave.
You look the other way taking freedoms away
and as I closed my eyes at the end of my days
you slipped into politics as a game you must play.
What was the point of being victor
when the world sought only peace as you just got richer
past histories should have been more accurate predictors.
A nation, no, a world on the edge of time
should live by reason, honesty and hope, not policy undefined
tyrant, dictator, oligarchy, monarchy rarely are benign
They send soldiers, volunteers, believers into the fire
to satisfy their own hidden desires
and the people quietly sink into quagmire.
A tale unfolds with trembling stride.
Will Russia's might, like thunder's roar,
Unleash a storm on Ukraine's shore?
Through fractured lands, a fault line weaves,
Amidst the whispers of fallen leaves,
Tread carefully, my soul, for here,
The specter of chaos may soon appear.
A land entrenched in turbulent tide,
Where histories clash and dreams collide,
A question lingers in the hallowed air,
Will Russia's tactics be laid bare?
Tactical nuclear weapons, a fearsome phrase,
Echoes of power, a world ablaze,
But amidst the darkness, let's not forget,
That hope resides, even in the threat.
Ukraine's spirit, resilient and true,
Stands firm against the ominous hue,
United they stand, a beacon's light,
Against the shadows of a desperate fight.
Yet whispers persist, uncertainty's art,
For peace, it seems, hangs by a thread so taut.
Will Russia choose a path so grave,
To bring forth destruction, lives to deprave?
Let us ponder the human toll,
Of choices made, a burden to behold,
For in this tale, lives intertwine,
And consequences echo down the line.
Oh, may wisdom guide the hearts that steer,
To seek diplomacy, hold peace dear,
To bridge divides, to find a way,
And avert the darkness, day by day.
For in the realm of uncertainty's reign,
Where destinies dance on a tightrope's strain,
Let reason triumph, let compassion rise,
And witness peace's grace as it defies.
So, let this poem serve as a plea,
A call to reason, a harmony decree,
May nations stand tall, their weapons at bay,
And let diplomacy lead the way.
A rock salted field hard-by a thwacking sea,
a shore of time-crushed boulders
that form the twisted shadow-shapes
of long-forgotten histories,
margins where the scored etchings
of red raw faiths and wind carved countenances
are submerged signs only visible
through the long-eroded lens of doom.
Here were once groups and troops
that have died around their young bones
while laying exhausted in open camps.
At low-tide, among such eroded liniments,
a time-crushed human landscape is revealed.
We see the swift rise and fall of the long buried,
and recognize a towering significance: -
that it is we that will leave watermarks
for others to discover. A featureless ocean
will whittle new features upon our own
barbaric innocence.
On what metaphysical, natural yet spiritual, principle
might agree
an economic ecologist,
an evangelist,
and a political power analyst?
Earth's prehistoric Creation unfolded
more regeneratively compassioned
than degeneratively dispassioned,
or anthropocentric history tellers
and sacred scripture retellers
and, eventually, writers,
could not have become
recreatively intelligent
regenetically empowered
neurosystemic co-investors
Enlightening SunFather
created LeftHemisphere's
AnthroCentric Logos
derived from spiritually sung
and naturally danced
empowering EarthMother's
indigenously wise RightHemisphere Mythos
Remixing
reconnecting
re-ligioning pleasure mysteries
regenerating passion history histories.
And if we add the further premise
that on bi-hemispheric Earth,
as in neurosystemic bicameral logic
and creolizing inter-religious language
and cobinary polymathic listening,
positive 1-SunGod History
is equivalent to
double negative 0-EarthMother Mystery,
then Earth's regenerative, resonant, resolving,
re-ligiously liberating
spiritually enlightened mind economic passions
balance conserving
naturally empowered not not political body pleasures.
Or maybe this has nothing to do with indigenous endorphin wisdom;
its just the more agnostic Nyquil.
Let’s not even swap names,
just live in the now, with no strings, no stakes.
Hold me close, but loose enough to let go.
Come sunrise, I will be just a whisper in your memory.
Let’s hit the liquor store, tonight.
Two shots, to wash down the memories,
and keep tomorrow a stranger.
No need for histories or questions,
just a walk under reckless skies.
Let’s be trouble we won’t confess,
a secret we will forget come morning.
We are here for one night, only
two strangers hiding in the city lights,
craving the comfort of being unknown.
By dawn, we will be strangers again,
and I will walk away with just your warmth on my skin.
No promises, no pieces left behind,
just one night, only.