Long Inched Poems
Long Inched Poems. Below are the most popular long Inched by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inched poems by poem length and keyword.
Like a vine slowly stretching as it grows, my fingers inched across the sticky wet
soil. Every ounce of strength was required to bend my elbow so my hand could
come close enough to help me raise my head. I focused on the pain from which I
drew my strength. This was not difficult; for pain was pervasive, and yet reassuring
for it told me I lived. I turned my head and rubbed my face against my filthy sleeve. I
must open my matted eyes, and discover the fate of the millions of others. We must
help one another if survival was to be an option. A red fog was my greeting.
Blinking, and rubbing my eyes yet again, I strained to see past the glaring red
curtain.
Oh we had been glorious in our might, and right, striding into the fray. The vilified
horde we were to meet, and vanquish, could not hope to stand against us,
for “God” was with us. We were the ones on the side of all that was good. This was
for sure, because our leaders had told us so, and yet, somewhere in the back of my
mind, I had wondered where they were, these leaders, as we marched into battle.
Should not they have been here to witness our glory? Was that not what we paid
them for? I cringed at my questioning thoughts for surely they were cowardly and
treasonous.
The veiled red world defied my attempts at vision, and cold fear struck my heart.
Blindness, was that my fate? My screams reverberated, as I called for help. Empty
silence, silence, silence, was the response to my pleas. At my belt rested a canteen
and the seeming hours passed while I struggled to pull it from its case.
Small the success which defines our hope, and the canteen sliding into my hand was
such a moment.. Each cell of my being screamed for but one drop of the elixir within,
and I slowly worried the cap from its mouth. Focus you fool, I told myself, for to spill
this treasure was to die, and for this I was not ready. A sip and the sponge that
was my mouth sucked up the moisture. So dry not one drop reached my throat.
Again fool, again, and this produced a trickle down the cobblestone tunnel of my
throat. Was ever there a greater pleasure? Nay, such a thought was pure folly, for it
was not moisture which flowed, but the liquid silver stream of life itself.
Adventures With James My Grandson
by Joan Donnelly 1995
He doesn't walk but runs to his subject on interest,
and upon arrival, leaps into the air.
With bended knees and flattened feet he lands like an athlete,
and his welcoming, "Hi," cuddles my heart as I wipe away a tear
Then he wraps a wee hand around my finger leading me into his realm of
Adventure and joy.... with enthusiastic anticipation,
though he hasn't turned two yet, my youngest son's eldest boy.
He guides me to a rest area and seats me by patting his hand on an outdoor substitute for a chair.
At his, "Sit, Sit,"I oblige him as he runs through rain puddles...then..
gifts me with a bouquet of dandelions and a honey-filled , "Here."
Once I presented him with a learning toy, his repsonse delighted my soul,
"Awh, Awh,"he uttered appreciatively while tilting his head ia sideways to and fro.
One day he noticed a kitten curled up 'neath a sheltering tree
Swiftly he raced toward her with an over-the-shoulder, "Come," to me.
I couldn't help but chuckle when he repeated, "Come," once more.
He never caught the enlightened feline but brightened my day for sure.
Then he ran down the street where he sighted a wooden plank on the ground.
"Bat, Bat,"rang his happy chant at the treasure he'd found.
With effort he maneuvered the narrow plank over his shoulder gleefully
"Ball, Ball,"he urged and I followed his searching eyes co-operatively.
To my amazement, as if waiting to be found ,lay a beach ball on a grassy mound...
Though I've not known baseball to be played with such.
It was of balloon size and as I looked into James' sparkling eyes..
I wondered if he'd become the baseball player his Dad hoped for so much.
I could see James straining to keep the awkward bat raised so with a..
"Ready, Set,"I pitched ball and prayer as James let out a sigh.
The bat he forward inched as he licked his upper lip and by gosh got a hit,
Then said, "Cool,"as we watched the ball fly.
"Get it, Nanny,"James gave me the order and I retrieved the ball intending to extend our fun........when.....Was it my imagination or did I hear....a crowd in a filled stadium cheer at the announcer's , "Well I'll Be, Folks! Young MacMaster makes another home run !"
I remember one night last winter when we thought it was snow falling, but we were wrong. It was ice.
We went out that night and stayed out too late -- unusual for folks our age. We got caught in the ice storm and had to navigate home on streets made of glass.
Driving home those few short miles from St Paul to Minneapolis was so very scary. How could such a short distance become so incredibly long? How could staying out late go so terribly wrong?
We planned the most constant route home as we skated to our parking place. Multiple accidents dotted the street and dread filled my heart as I climbed behind the steering wheel, envisioning us sliding down some hill into a car or tree.
“I will not take the freeway!” I exclaimed as I eased the car from its moor, intent on what seemed a very distant shore. Wheels spinning, tires sliding, silently screaming, I eased ahead gingerly as vehicles all around us seemed to be loosing their way.
Cars slip sideways into ditches, up on curbs and into each other. One car slithered past us as we inched slowly down an inclined avenue. Please God, Please God, my silent chant . . . at stoplights and curves, with white-knuckled grasp upon the steering wheel, I steered through like filling a narrow edge with a stick of glue.
My spouse, the navigator, said “Turn here and take this other route.” I prayed we’d make it home. We saw a bus slide toward us sideways down the street as we approached the intersection. It seemed like a dinosaur run amok, landing sideways at our corner with a gentle buck. My light turned green and we eased forward, leaving the saurischian behind.
Hoping there would be no cars and that we’d be all alone on the city streets.
“Please God, help us make it home. Don’t let anyone or thing meet or greet us.”
At final last, the garage insight, I prayed that I could get into that tight spot without crunching the parked truck inside or the garage as I skated in. Stopped and safe finally, I realized I had held my breath since we began. My teeth hurt from clenching them so hard. And I prayed Thanks to God! I’m glad to have you navigate the treacherous roads of my life.
… scattered jazz,
haunted gnarls of
octupi-night staggering
between semen-splinters of stars
pain-fornicating in
my collective gutter, my disheveled
cells oozing your
black and
softer gold
burning silence
in a heathen writhe between my ears
dancing on the cusp: my dead-zone ecstasy
defiling
corrupting and
seduction-raping the
industry of numbness,
toilet-scream from
between legs: slave of avoidance
whore of denial
death in a vacuum
naught ever happening
until it’s time to drain
blood from the radiator
in the cross-hairs of crucifiction,
copulation of seven-inched nails
click of steel, snap of heels,
tails,
tongues flickering to embrace
the gutters of my cells
reaching for unopened chapters
strewn through sanctified pain,
and I waiting
for your drive through
the brothel of my mind,
forsaken
lashed to the altar,
my anguish screeching
our prayers,
your black, softer
gold annihilated to smoke
ravishing the reek spiraling up
from my nostrils,
your unspeaking
crawl through catacombs
whispering mouldering truths
under my fingernails scraping remembrances
from your hair
caressing cathredrals rent into
matchsticks to prop heaven
apart,
shriven thighs
toxic-anointed sighs,
poison of my ache for
the healing venom
of your eyes,
soothing darts of darkness bathing dead-zone paramids
with the musky
perfume of sorrow and
floundering celebration
dug from primordial pits
by scrabbling fingertips
clutching for a remnant of your heart
wrapped in wonder
around my pulse staggering, ragged edge of jazz
scraping across windowpanes
in a shriek freezing the soul of god
and dried ice
begging to plunge into embers of your blood
lost in my veins
running from room to room
in my house, our house,
teddy bear, knothole yawns and
oven with gaping jaws,
medicine cabinet of numbness,
sobbing pills
ceiling lowered to a stoop,
tatters
patterns
snow-crystals following a trail
through our window into traffic jams of children
cascading out of the chapel – my gutter-cell
longing to be unlocked
by the sound of your voice…
… ressurection in the
octupi-night…
During a session when I was young,
My therapist asked about sexual assualt.
Me being young and unaware of the event,
I replied quickly and confidentely with a no.
"Well... actually, yes." said my mother in a final tone.
I did not ask for this.
While I was asleep, he tugged at my underwear.
I remained unconscious as he got caught by my mother.
Moments after she left he returned again,
This time to put his hands on my body.
I did not ask for this.
After getting an itchy rash on my chest,
I had asked my grandfather for itch-relief ointment.
I protested greatly at him applying it on me himself,
Declaring my autonomy.
His hands wandered against my collarbones and I could
Not face him, nor look him in the eye as he began to
Pull my shirt towards him so he can see my bra.
I did not ask for this.
As I developed into a teenager, I noticed a change
As to how people view and treat me differently.
So when I was in the swimming pool of my best friend's
Cousin's house enjoying my time, I was being watched by
Her uncle, his eyes boring through the walls
That kept me hidden.
I did not ask for this.
When he finally joined us in the water, we rotated to
The ladder and yet his body was blocking the only exit.
He grabbed my friend's waist and picked her up,
continuously twirling her around and feeling her up.
I could not look, I could not speak, I was frozen.
The water moved around me as he inched towards me
And not soon after his hands found their way beneath my top.
I did not ask for this.
When my mother found out nearly a year after the incident,
She asked if I was sure it wasn't on accident.
I was sure. My head shook no.
She asked if I wanted to take him to court.
I wanted to. My head shook no.
She asked if this was a misunderstanding.
I knew it was not. My head shook yes.
Making me apologize to him was one thing, but
The meanings felt different than my words.
I was apologizing for being a female,
For being vulnerable, for being a child,
I was apologizing for being a victim of sexual assualt.
#MeToo
late night thoughts 27//8.19.2017 3:18 A.M
Form:
she listened to his whisper
he was so chipper
she listened to his whisper
their desires finally met
she only wanted to dip her feet wet
it was just so right
for that first night
just only her feet
getting royaly treated
he wasn't going anywhere
so he had all the time to spare
... this was love
two graying doves
the next time
it was a different rhyme
this time the water touched her knees
she began to panic and freeze
it was nothing to be alarmed
again he said, no foul no harm
he gave her ample space
free to be on her own terms, and pace
the next time
it was a totally different rhyme
water inched higher past her thighs
she began to scream and capsize
her eyes began to roll
as the water took it's toll
his romantic aroma
sent her off into a coma
it was nothing to be alarmed
again he said, no foul no harm
he let her graze
to her own leisure
he lead his deer
without any fear
as the water inched passed her naval
his horses came out of their stable
wild eyed and looking for oats
nudging it's way to her moat
it was nothing to be alarmed
again he said, no foul no harm
this time she let him graze
to his own leisure
then as his ... horses began to explore
she let out a loud roar
her less traveled pasture
so fully enraptured
feeling his mind boggling heat
her heart skipping a thousand beats
their minds singing a song
as both horse backed along
his reins on her train
her train on his mane
steadily on verse
to both's thundering cloudburst
the tale of dipping her feet
once so sweet
taking small steps
to higher water depths
her feet
lit the street
lit the spark in their day
to more replay
lit their candle
for all that love can handle
for in their engraved hearts
to death do they part
connie pachecho
1/2/17
October 30th, 1863
Halloween eve, before the clock turned the day- almost midnight.
The moon just right, full, and nearly hidden behind a thin layer of dark grey cloud. A perfect day for a walk through the cemetery, I thought. Minding my own business, keeping quietly sound, I walked gingerly around all the burial sites reading the etchings inscribed in the stone by the survived loved ones. Wilfred White- 1862-1882 "Here he lay- R.I.P." is all it read. Another-
Dorothy White- 1865-1882 rests beside her brother.
Behind them- two stone nameplates embedded in the ivy-covered dirt. Belonging to- Wilfred White Sr. and beloved wife Emily.
Suddenly, a voice...I heard. The sound of shoveling soon began to echo causing my knees to shake uncontrollably with every scooping sound. A screeching sound that of a chalkboard rose the hairs behind my neck. With the clouds, now completely gone, and the sky even darker, something very scary almost made my eyeballs pop out of their sockets. The moon and stars completely faded out of sight and the sky was pitch black. The shoveling continued and the screeching got louder. My curiosity could bear no more, I had to walk through and around the graves to get to the corner of the yard where the old beat-up cottage sleeps. That is where I heard the noises come from. As I got closer, I saw an old man with a shovel in his hand. Through the filfthy window of the creepy looking cottage, I saw two children playing tic-tac-toe on a chalkboard. Then, out of nowhere, a humped black cat inched slowly towards me, with every step he took did I become more terrified. And I thought It was a perfect night for a walk through the graveyard.
I was wrong. In fact, I was dead wrong.
So, I did the only thing l could do...
I disappeared and went back to rest again...
beneath the stone dated 1862-1882
~The ghost of Wilfred White
A Ghost Story Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Angela Tune
1/8/2022
I didn’t mean to invade her privacy,
I was simply taking the trash out late that night;
I never noticed how from the back of the house
You could see right into her bedroom when she turned on the light.
The curtains were sheer and not completely closed,
Her silhouette was outlined and her flesh exposed;
I am not a peeping Tom but in my tracks I froze,
Watching her tantalizingly removing her clothes.
She stood in front of her full length mirror;
I inched a little closer to see her clearer.
It was as if she was even teasing herself,
Slowly undressing and watching her own reflection;
Her fingertips caressing the smooth exposed flesh;
Her exhibition demanded my full attention.
She is twenty-five years old and my neighbor’s daughter;
I am twice her age and a little bit more;
I know I am wrong to be standing here watching
But a more beautiful nubile I’ve never seen before.
Her clothes are now strewn on the floor by her feet,
She is totally naked and pleased by the sight;
Slowly she turns looking over her shoulder,
Making sure all of her parts are shaped just right.
God must be very angry at me,
But, God created this wondrous beauty.
She took inventory of body parts with both of her hands,
Pleasing herself with her delicate touch;
I knew that I should be turning away;
I was enjoying her exploring a bit too much.
She kissed her own reflection returned in the mirror
Then turned and walked toward the windows;
Just before pulling down the night shade
She waved to me hiding in the shadows.
Ashamed of myself and embarrassed by my actions,
I returned to my house all alone;
She knew I was watching and vexed by her beauty,
It was me she was teasing all along.
Yet it brought back memories of when I was younger
And my wife more beautiful than she;
Although I’m a widower for seven long years,
That night, again my bride was with me.
La Isla del Encanto
(El Poema del Linda)
There was no Elizabethan
Changing of eyes
On the Isle of Enchantment;
No sudden moment of charm or bewilderment.
Rather, came a delicate awakening
Like soft dawn rising over groves
Redolent of plantain and nectar.
The Linden tree calls her
Soft and tender
So too a neo-Latin name for
Beauty
As she was
Ever
Native to islands
Born from sea spray
A soft mystery to be read,
Explored, and never concluded...
And now I see it
So absolutely like
The shawl settled
Across her shoulders
Lifting in the breeze
Ushered in by grace.
As such,
She wandered to my bed where
Passion can burn in one candescent night.
But where love
Is a different calendar.
Not precise and never numbered...
Indeed, ahead unfold
A concatenation of days
Accruing as a mausoleum of memory
Where gentle spirits lay forever
Eschewing sleep in favor
Of allowing auras to seep into
And inform
The ever-expanding present,
Of an interlocking reverie.
Slow growth,
delicate and steady...
Becoming more entwined
The moment fingers locked
And we ascend towards bloom.
A lattice made from mutual mistakes
Holds up, defiant ---
Lends skeletal strength
While mapping the body of
One ardent dream.
And what soft lumen roused me
From my torpid slumber
Waking me to lilt of sea-song?
Aurora's nascent dactyls
Inched up horizon line
Ascending like aspiring wisps of hope
Spreading warmth unnoticed
Until, by zenith
All shall be bright and clear
Where we share a common tongue
But speak a deeper language
Not private, but privileged.
Granted only those who move
Beyond number and word
To caress contradiction
Embrace the ineffable
Partake of the fabulous Dane's
Mystic leap of faith.
If this be the reward to come
In learning from the past
Then let me, please
Mistake no more...
Could be any day now,
waiting for that last breath and a peek,
an opening, of glazed orbs once blue.
Wanting him to stay forever
even though his body laughs at me.
Each consuming cell eager for his parts;
each consuming cell seeking malice against him.
Time rips away
as cafeteria food tears apart my stomach.
I churn altogether with labored breaths we share –
One, two… three, four… neither of us ready.
I hunger for a smile from ragged ends of lips,
holding a crushed pastry in my hand and looking
on the first man I ever loved.
Down sterile hallways and up to floor three,
past gleaming instruments waiting for purchase,
where days ago he inched forward, struggled, bending,
working at leaving there –
Twists and pulls and penicillin and Jello.
“Getting out of here tomorrow.”
Yet room 3220 never released him.
Eighty-two years, some tattered, some fulfilled,
his face before an enchantment of warmth.
I kiss him and his cheeks dampen and he cannot hear me
because the whispers devour him in such a small room,
poised to yank grandfather away from me.
I yell, surprising myself, worried about his safekeeping.
And they tell me the angels’ surround him.
But I fear giving him over to strangers
and question everything then, right then,
while mourners touch him, all eyes able, all mouths perfunctory motions
Of grief and despair that only I should share with only him.
And these angels… are they good enough
to take his hands turning blue,
and his second-hand hearing aids?
At three a.m. I cringe at my own suspicions
and with the fifth breath I believe in that place, for him,
anything (even that) I will believe, for him.
His prayers are mine as long as the pain ceases,
though my angels are morphine and the twelve-hour shifts
of Margaret and Sam and Betty,
who have known him three days and call him “sweetheart”.