Long In memory Poems
Long In memory Poems. Below are the most popular long In memory by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long In memory poems by poem length and keyword.
The weak, the rich
The poor, the strong
Are pulled into worlds
Where they never belonged
Mothers, brothers
Fathers, daughters
Minds succumbed
Brainwashed slaughter
The Peoples Temple
November, 1978
Over 900 slaughtered
In suicide bait
What drives a man
To wanton kill
To take so many
So he full-fills
To preach his words
And then to maim
It's not the claim
Of a decent mans fame
Leo Ryan
A Congress man true
In the line of duty died
The only one too
Cut down at the airport
On his mission to right
Three journalists also
With safety in site
In our modern world
Cults will rise
The more they bring horror
We will all despise
In Memory of Congressman Mr Leo Ryan
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/loss.php
In a cupboard, silent skeletons sleep
Where darkness holds its secrets, buried deep,
Their shape unseen, yet ever close at hand,
That any time may burst across the land.
A quiet hum, a stillness in the air,
A spectral chill, that the winds can lay bare,
But carried through wings of time, strong and true,
Mysteries that very few ever knew.
The sands of time may slowly slip away,
But the secrets stand still, through passing days,
A stark riddle, etched in darkness of night
Of journeys made, from dawn to fading light.
No whispered word, no sigh of pain or glee,
Just jumbled echoes, indistinct and free,
A testament of tall bills begotten,
Beneath the gaze of the unblinking sun.
The hollow gaze, where once bright eyes did gleam,
Now holds the fragments of a waking dream,
The cupboard`s key declared lost, with no sign,
A silent story, sincerely sublime.
The rhythm of the mind, a reflective sound,
No longer works, where wizard can be found.
Yet life's own pulse, in memory remains,
Through flowing currents, in the subtle grains.
A stoic stance before the coming storm,
A dead silence, to keep the spirit warm,
For though the surprises stink over time
Their essence rests hidden, without a chime.
At long last the cat gets out of the bag
With the dwelling changing under new flag,
Bursting open of the cupboard with force,
Revealing tons of debt burden at source.
One cannot but gaze at the skeletons
As the damage left after a cyclone
And thereafter think of ways to redress
The legated dwelling left in distress.
The simple truth is a lovely facade
May hide an interior that is flawed
And one need to think deep and wide to scan
The space before the future one can plan.
as I jog down Lakeshore drive
I drank hot chocolate as a swan took a dive
the water so cold, as old men played chess
the ferris wheel spins, blowing off hats
and up the rich lady's dress
Lakeshore dr you see all for me
the white horses, pulling the carriage
I'm not home I don't miss my marriage
the butlers two maids swing the wellington kid
another kid waits for he haven't even slid
the light house shines my eyes follows
the breeze deep into pine trees
the crows perch away from the city
and that's what we call hospitality...
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
May 14th 2004 Fort Myers Florida
My Sons Graduation day.
In memory of the homeless men playing chess on Lakeshore drive Chicago.
(In memory of the 19 children and two adults killed by gun violence in Uvalde, Texas on May 24, 2022…as well as the countless others who have and who will suffer similar fates.)
Firearm Requiem
By Mark Stucky
In the U.S., guns outnumber people
and sales outpace population growth.
Guns under beds.
Guns in closets.
Guns in cars.
Guns in trucks.
Guns in purses.
Guns in holsters.
Guns in forests.
Guns in offices.
Guns in classrooms.
Guns here.
Guns there.
Guns everywhere.
Guns pointing at them.
Guns pointing at me.
Guns pointing at you.
Why let so many fingers on so many triggers?
Why protect guns more than lives of children?
Why choose gun wrongs over gun laws?
Why is America the monarch of mass shootings?
Did gun rights come from Mt. Sinai,
written by God’s own fingers?
Did (not) guns (once again)
make America great(ly pained)?
When will we as a nation
collectively have courage
to save generational blood
and beat guns into plowshares?
(First published in Agape Review, 15 June 2022. See also my poems “Hate Vacuuming” and “Weapons of Wonder.”)
In Memory of the soldiers brought home
on 2 June 2016
They Came Home Today
by Robert (Bob) Moore
They are finally coming home today
those, who were left behind
to a different country,
and to a different time
the one they left was patriotic,
Aussie and True Blue
but now, you could be in strife
if the Aussie Flag you flew
They gave their lives, while fighting for,
a dream we’ve long forgot
and in a far and distant land
a lonely grave their lot
But now these warriors have returned
to their own pleasant land
just hope that we remember
the reason they took their stand
So you and I could live with freedom
and have peace in our lives each day
a country well worth dying for
in a land so far away
And if they could but look around
I wonder what they’d see
is this why they fought and died
and the future they thought would be
Lest We Forget
In a moment suspended between the silent beats of time and infinity,
The miracle of love settled like a mist, almost untouchable, yet so tangible,
It was better than any dream drawn on the sky of a starless night,
It was like a precious object you could lift, gaze at, and keep in memory,
We found ourselves on the moon, dancing on its cold and mysterious surface,
Embracing the unknown, we laughed with free and carefree souls,
It was the garden of Eden, yet also the endless abyss of hidden thoughts,
An immeasurable place, deep and luminous, high and near the edge of reason,
Where our laughter was a mad song in the face of eternity,
I remember when your eyes shouted love with a force that shook the sky,
Now, the walls of silence slowly retreat, murmuring lost memories,
We remain prisoners of the moment that dissolved in the passage of time,
But deep in my heart, your laughter still echoes like a sweet refrain.
You lash out, speaking ill of love,
reeling from wounded feelings.
And your pain fuels the anger
that battles forgiveness for control.
Someone has hurt you:
and you want to send that hurt back.
A rebuke of love lost to time;
and yet, kept alive in memory, nonetheless.
Betrayal shook your foundations,
as an implosion of trust
broke your heart into a thousand pieces.
And using anger to shield yourself
from the jagged edges of reality,
you refuse to acknowledge your part.
Your cry is added to the countless others
whose tears morphed into anger.
We are all subject to our baser needs,
whereas desires, hopes, and failures
form the clay from which anger takes its shape.
Anger allows you
to evade sharing any of the blame,
and yet, you can't see that;
blinded by your pain.
And corrosive feelings consume you;
spitting up the vile contempt
that self-pity wallows in when love dies.
A herb on 'Diabetes Day' in glee,
Addressed a man in talking spree
"Let's hear the story from me,
I have weathered the seasons you see
You can move and walk,
But Iam not free.
You can express & talk,
I can never be like thee.
Many medicines today you see,
Had their origins from me.
Be it wind or honey-bee,
We all work in harmony
Pay heed to lessons from me,
You can use parts of me.
In memory or wielding me,
Forget not drugs of thee
Helpful I can well be,
But at times tough enemy!
Whenever you think of me,
Consult the best of thee
Be mindful of quantity,
As well as quality.
What can the hazards be?
What drug interactions be?
At the service of humanity,
All the drugs,the herbs & me!
In future I hope to see,
Myself in the formulary.
We pray to the 'Healer of every malady',
From the world may 'Diabetes' flee".
In the realm of words, where knowledge thrives,
Teachers guide with wisdom, where the ink arrives.
Enhancing writing, a guiding light they bear,
To elevate students, their written tales to share.
They mould the process, each stage they steer,
Prewriting, revising, the path to steer.
Through drafting and editing, teachers impart,
Crafting brilliance, each writer's art.
Authentic tasks, connections profound,
Teachers weave worlds where ideas abound.
Persuasive essays, stories untold,
Students' passions and dreams unfold.
Scaffolded support, in steps, they lead,
From outlines to drafts, a writer to feed.
Graphic organisers, sentences to start,
Building confidence, nurturing the heart.
In workshops, they foster, a haven to shine,
Students explore, and their voices align.
Feedback, revisions, in a collaborative spree,
A nurturing space where all can be free.
Technology's embrace, a modern song,
Grammar checks and feedback are strong.
Digital platforms that students employ,
Enhancing skills, fostering writing joy.
Each learner has unique, a different needs,
Teachers cater, their pace to heed.
Customised guidance, pathways clear,
In growth and learning, they're always near.
In the circle of teaching, a quest they trace,
Crafting writers in each child's space.
With dedication, and evolving practice they glean,
For every student, a writer's dream.
In the pen's dance, in the writer's hand,
Teachers kindle flames in this wondrous land.
Inspiring, guiding, with hearts aglow,
They shape writers, making talents grow.
So teachers, brimming with inspiration's light,
Forge pathways for students, in their writing flight.
In the tapestry of learning, in wisdom's domain,
They foster brilliance, a writer's gain.
In memory of Ms. Devi Devavaram,
My headmistress with a writing charm.
Teaching the art with a graceful hand,
Guiding us through language's wondrous strand.
Love or hate
Each thought close eyes doom daam
Cracker blind do you miss when I say
good night when you sleep keeping your
Cellphone near your dreams
Our pure relationship with tie of fashion
Called to reach not till I failed in life the ten years I hate my hat off different perspective behavior and road to trip to
Find you just it's a taste of love
Hate
I'm sorry for the answer of any questions that because my identity is the fraction of bole nath I feel you in memory of past life can I say good bye NO it's my stubern that tell me what are you geting from this bulldy life your words Is my hate
my hate is my hat..
Thanks madam
With love all
Jagdish Bajantri