Long Impassable Poems
Long Impassable Poems. Below are the most popular long Impassable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Impassable poems by poem length and keyword.
"Blushing is the color of virtue."
You're done.
You melt like a sigh
on the lips of angels.
You've drained
the paleness of injustice,
your own hands tangled up,
aw, the square stare of the truth,
impassable duel of the pupils.
Your hands are filled with the face of our tragedy,
witherering among the sidereal flowers,
a cursed sunset,
a lamp lit in the wee hours,
no truce is better than advancing to the edge of yourself,
throwing yourself into the fire of the stars,
crossing the hard core time;
with flimsy memories
descending into a blessed hell.
You want to die with the lamp lit,
not talk about anything that gives you away
when you smoke compulsively,
tramontane and bold,
you know how pliable is the scroll of fear.
You are bad, Diogenes,
with your airs of moldy poet,
twitching the neurons of those who feel
that Truth is even more pliable,
Come here, my ox, my friend.
The angels have fallen, their wings stained with ash,
The demons now rule, their laughter echoing in the void.
The sky, once a canvas of hope, now bleeds a somber gray.
A mask hides the truth, whispering "I'm okay," a hollow lie.
No one sees the darkness that engulfs me,
For my thoughts, like traitors, betray me.
Emptiness hollows me out, a gaping abyss,
Hunger gnaws at me, yet I cannot find the feast.
My days stretch on, a never-ending marathon,
Walls of despair rise high, impassable and cold.
Friends, like phantoms, fade into the mist,
Their hands, outstretched in a gesture of comfort, feel hollow.
Night bleeds into day, and the cycle begins anew,
Tomorrow brings a familiar chill, a heavy dread.
Shadows dance on the walls, whispering warnings in the dark.
My reflection stares back, a stranger in a mirror, lost and alone.
The weight of the world presses down, crushing me beneath its burden,
Each breath a struggle, a constant fight against the tide.
This is not weakness, not a flaw to be hidden,
This is the cruel grip of depression, a reality too often ignored.
Don't be afraid to reach out, to break through the silence,
To find a hand that will pull you back from the edge.
You are not alone. There is help, there is hope,
And you are stronger than you think.
The path to healing is long, winding and often dark,
But even the smallest flicker of light can pierce the darkness.
With each step, with each breath, with each act of courage,
You can reclaim your strength, your hope, your life.
Don't give in to the shadows, don't let them consume you.
Reach out, find your voice, and fight for your light.
Embrace the darkness, acknowledge its presence,
But don't let it define you, don't let it win.
You are not broken, you are not defeated.
You are resilient, you are powerful, you are worthy of love.
Let the light of hope shine through, let it guide you home.
You are not alone. There is a way out of the shadows.
Swaying branches spy as secret spooks in canopy’s dungeon
Creepers knitted around trunks like ornamented bead chains
Suspended pillar roots appear as the matted hair of Lord Shiva.
Hoarse noises as non-rhythmic beats of an amateur drummer
Serpents dragging their bodies on dried leaves with cracklings
Hoots, chirps, clicks, and whoops from the crowns of trees
Whispers of exhausted leaves and goggling eyes of silent owls
Spiders’ silky webs levitating as the canvas of boats
Trunks green with mass, standing as Lucifer's lieutenants
Scent of flora mixed with acrid smell and the floor with sticky clag
An impassable stretch never been eyed by the sun and moon as well.
PLACE: 3rd
Rather lost, they stare over the divide,
how best to circumnavigate this obstacle?
They can see a path gently sloping down
but it is far off to the north two days ride.
West is back from whence they had come,
east is an impassable cliff of sheer rocks.
They can not see far to the south but maybe,
they talk it over and head into the unknown.
Tumble weed rolling by pushed by the wind
as playfully it blows them into their path.
Miniscule trees dot the flat plateau
and small shrubs popping up here and there.
In a hurry they head on swiftly southwards
and soon start to descend to the valley below.
Billy is pale with anxiety as they push on
his wife Betty is due to give birth.
Sammy casts worried looks at his friend knowing
there is little he can say that will help.
At last they reach the valley and gallop on
Just another five miles will they make it in time?
Their horses now struggling, sweat pouring off them.
Billy's homestead comes into view cattle scattering
as they gallop through the herd and into the yard.
Sammy hangs back as Billy dashes in to Betty.
In full labour she screams "Where have you been?"
"The preacher is here to wed us. Did you get the ring?"
"I have it here" said Billy and without delay they were married.
And within minutes the twins arrived a boy and girl both bawling.
"Geezers you cut that close Billy" said Sammy
as they slumped on the front porch drinking beer.
"We made it in the nick of time" replied Billy
flushed with the joy and fulfilment of life.
written 17/09/2014
contest: Cowboys in the Badlands
sponsor Isaiah
The sky is full of ice.
Anguished shrapnel that
tears through the thickest
of winter coats.
Between us is a dock.
An impassable canyon
that rots at my feet
and falls away into waves.
Your eyes.
Glassy pearls nestled above
a crimson dragon
curled tightly around your neck.
The loose end flails in the wind.
I yearn to tie it into a knot
but am reminded by the flapping sails
that this was an inevitability.
A final glance.
Your face is a boiling tattoo
etched into my mind-
it warms the heart slightly.
I turn and walk towards the hills
because on the snow capped peaks
is where the mountain and the sea
will finally meet.
5 a.m. Souls ascend
from earth’s vale
of fears. Others wait
don’t give up yet.
Nothing I can do about that.
Not is my name known
but am I a good man.
That goes for John, too
a man of faith
who wants what God wants.
What about hate
in the streets. What do white
people want?
I see no need
to pull down statues of General Lee
instead put him side by side
and head to head
with Martin Luther King,
Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi.
Also kids who cops shot dead.
Meanwhile on the macro
economic and political scale
leviathans (peoples, nations)
drift toward perpetual
armageddon or peaceful solutions.
We don’t know which
and John will be gone
before it matters
except to his children
and, of course, ours.
What I have done
to change man’s trajectory,
for better or worse, remains
anonymous. Every action
meets an equal and impassable mountain.
Passion
is its own predicament.
Cast a cold eye and guess.
The clouds go, nevertheless,
in their direction.
Deep in the forest was an inaccessible cliff
that soared high above the tall tree canopy.
People had wondered for years what lay beyond
yet the landscape was so inhospitable none dared
to try to reach the impassable cliff and scale it.
A hunting party got led astray as they tracked
after a herd of mountain bearded goats.
The chase had been long and very hard
as their elusive prey kept far ahead, tempting
them ever onwards. Now with night approaching
they were caught far from home with no shelter.
They searched along the cliff base for a cave
finally one spotted a narrow track.
With trepidation they followed it into the cliff
it twisted and turned getting narrower,
darkness coated them almost smothering them.
With brush torches they plunged ever deeper
into its midst, the rocks covered in green slime.
Which gave off an odd luminous light that
distorted everything in the strangest way.
Giving rise to images of long lost creatures
that flicked and danced in the eerie light.
Along way ahead they could see sky
and odd trees on the distant horizon.
Finally reaching the end they looked
out on to a very different world.
Everywhere they looked were new plants.
Wondrous plants with enormous fruits
and strange multi coloured birds
that flocked to them without any fear,
settling on shoulders chattering away.
Deer came up and nudged them gently
seeking their pockets with wet tongues.
Flowers spanning six to nine feet
made for the perfect resting places.
Cosy and bouncy the weary hunters
were soon fast asleep and woke invigorated.
The stream bubbled by contentedly.
Its waters were crystal clear and sweet
and enormous fish lazily swam by.
They spent a few days there exploring
all the treasures that nature offered.
Reluctantly they made their way back
and excitedly told friends and family.
They scoffed at their tales with disbelief
until in frustration they led them back to the cliff.
For hours they searched in vain for the trail,
They looked at each other incredulously
Had they just dreamt it? We will never know!
Phantom Vessel -
Version One
Damaged mind down
down
phantom vessel
distance endless
leaping chasm
between two worlds
no
Slow roll
left-hand take
black marbles
shade side glance
check
Toward
Hoarse Jesus whisper
Listen
No need
No need
hand hold, right
Brother follow
heart hearing
Jesusss.
10 times
Roll away home
Phantom Vessel -
Version Two
His damaged mind
so far down
down
it’s a phantom vessel
an impassable chasm
between us.
Rolling slowly toward me
he takes my left hand
his black eyes
looking side-to-side
checking.
Turns toward me
says “Jesus”
in his hoarse whisper.
“Listen to me
there’s no need for more
no need.”
Holding my right hand now
“Brother
follow your heart
when it says Jesusss.”
He chants “Jesusss”
ten times before
he’s rolled away,
home.
Version One is a crude attempt to write in the "pinyin" form of translation of
Chinese poetry into English:
http://www.chinese-poems.com/bo.html
My poem is not based on translation of an actual Chinese poem. It's just an
experiment.
I very much appreciate the expansion of the categories list, but it neglects
to include such possibilities as human, madness, insanity, illness,
mental illness and others describing the human condition. "Pain" was
as close as I could get to the actual intention of this poem, although it is far
from correct.
Sometimes the light's all shining on me
Other times I can barely see
Lately it occurs to me
What a long strange trip it's been,
from Truckin by The Dead
Life is a Journey
Life is a long journey with
high hills and deep valleys.
Day after day one foot
in front of another.
Dark nights of deep depression,
offset by sunlit days of happiness.
Take one day at a time, and
accept what is my lot.
Failures, like impassable walls
block my way.
Success provides the path
around them.
People appear along the road
to accompany me.
Some for a short time and
others for the whole trip.
Sometimes people
act as my guide.
Other times they seek
to hinder me.
Many times, I walk alone
with only myself to rely on.
Sometimes I am surprised
and other times not.
In my golden years, I look back
at the road I have travelled.
Sometimes, I laugh, other
times I cry.
The Dead were right.
It has been a long strange trip!
In just a day,
I lost my father, my mum,
and my only two siblings,
I became the only member of my family:
my own father,
my own mother,
my own siblings.
I was left to s~w~i~m the ocean a l o n e...
I was like the only spared t^r^e^e of a once vast f^o^r^e^s^t ~
a remote island in the widest o~c~e~a~n.
My s~m~i~l~e~s are always mixed with tears
and isolated to only my cheeks ~
no one else's.
My joy never came once in a blue moon,
but in a blue-black moon—
one that never e x i s t e d,
never c o n j u r e d,
never r o s e,
never c o n ce i v e d.
Grief dumps me in a black hole,
where escape from despair is impossible,
confined in an abyss,
bound by a g o s s a m e r of barbed wire
tearing deep into my flesh
with each fresh attempt to e~s~c~a~p~e.
Festered wounds and repugnant scars
agonizingly pester my soul,
just like bollards implanted in my heart to halt love's flow.
Beneath each laughter of extended family,
hides the harsh smile of u n c a r e.
Even foster homes were inhabited by m o n s t e r s...
by wicked nannies,
and g o d f o r s a k e n home mates.
I couldn't crawl out of the black hole ~
filled with sh*ts of people life has similarly hit before.
The more I try, the more I cry,
each grip only rips out by s l i p p e r y mud—
that never sleeps,
whose r~o~o~t~s hold everything...
ensuring every e s c a p e r~o~u~t~e from agony remains impassable,
as if grief itself were gravity ~
c~r~u~s~h~i~n~g all light into its silent core.