Long Infant Poems
Long Infant Poems. Below are the most popular long Infant by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Infant poems by poem length and keyword.
Drapes clashing from a clear, dark night
The remarkable scene- the risk I must take flight
Don't listen to all the commotion
You are an attrition to hunger
Save it for leftovers
Molded out of anxiety
Have no fear
Fate is far from here
Nurture in burning threat
Appease to sorrow
Deny it...no borrowing from the library
Take your flight, you sunlit fairy
On a cloudless, scarlet sky
The stars will motionlessly
Churn your fate to royal destiny
Take your flight, feel free to flee
Out of the grip of society's downfalls
Replace it with honor...be my hero for good
Your traits are nothing sinister
As a carefree, scarlet night
Conquer the unfailing life
Taking away all the sporadic soars
Please take away the malaise and
Don't burn me up, majestic star
Space of wonders
How could you burn our hearts?
How could you mutter those
Floating aspirations?
Canceling your circulations
Tangled by lips-spoken twist of lies
Pouring out misunderstood darkness
Outriding the black hole
Who knows what these dark shadows reveal
It's mysteries-- as hard as a bolt to a door
Thrive to carry on,
you carefree infant
Untie the tightening ceases
I'm unable to catch up...reach out
Overcome this rotting intuition
Severe, sincere sunshine
Hear my morning mourning
It whispers:
"Goodbye to midnight lust...
Good morning to betrayal"
Good morning...
To you, oh miserable soul!
River of weeping wonders
Pass by with a suitable
Recognizable, scarlet bliss
Send love swimming in
Open water
Fulfill it with
Morning deligh
Not long ago
Say, about 300 years
Two Indigenous tribes
Nearly disappeared
Others came
From year to year
Hunters, trappers
And future peers
John Sutter
A Swiss guy
This city became
The place to try
At Sutters Mill
Gold was found
In Coloma
Now ghostly grounds
But this place of new
With its foundations down
Pre 1849
It was just a town
February 27th
1850
This town now
Became a city
In its gorgeous valleys
With 2000 fruit tree's
It's agriculture was born
A taste to please
To the modern world
You should see it now
High rise buildings
A place so proud
As we all remember
From it's infant years
Like every other named city
Shared strife and tears
The past has been
As our future tells
But a certain few
Have to be remembered as well
What these tribes left
So little to show
But a city grew
Called Sacramento
" For Barbara Gorelick "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/america.php
I came where warmth had learnt to outlast flame,
Not by ascent, but by remaining near;
The vapour lifted, paused, then forgot my name,
As steam does—faithful only to the air.
The vessel bore the grammar of long hands:
Its rim worn thin by wrists that came and went.
One palm approached—then checked itself—no bans,
Just habit pausing into judgment spent.
This broth had practised patience twenty years;
I counted weeks—my age still learning weight.
Here time was tasted, not arranged in tiers:
What lingered longest proved itself most late.
A spoon mislaid its purpose in the air;
A line was read, misread, then left to cool.
My verse—still breathing—entered unaware,
Not finished, yet not asked to finish rule.
No sound accused the moment into law;
A nod occurred—small, private, easily missed.
Someone revised the word final with a drawl,
Then doubted even that, as cooks insist.
Thus sense accrues the way a broth turns dense:
By not insisting, by remaining there.
The carrot softens into acquiescence;
The onion learns the virtue of delay.
I broke my line—
it did not ask for pardon.
Not strong enough to prove, nor weak to flee;
It stayed, the way a bowl stays warm in kitchens
After the reason’s gone, but heat agrees.
So this—if names must be endured—is home:
Poetry Soup said softly, once, and set aside.
I ate among the old, unknown, unshown,
And found that belonging does not arrive—
it remains.
Time is slowly creeping upon us and
And an awful stench lingers in the air
The smell of death surrounds us
And an uncontrollable era besets us
quandary is twisting its stubborn head
unfurling from a vengeful distance
precarious sound whistling in the breeze
Dead bodies decaying in the street
And the scavengers are looking for meat to eat
A proliferating aura saturates the atmosphere
Filtering malignant perfume everywhere
Human feeding on human flesh
dragging and pulling them to their death
The wealthy perishing in the streets
And the poor crawling on their broken feet
The cracked earth could not contain them
Their bleeding soul is crying out for help
Severed hands and severed leg
punctured skulls bleeding in the hole
infant bodies littered the avenue
and multitude of skeleton piled up
on top of each other
young women, young men
grandmothers and grandfathers
all succumb to a painful death
The prison doors flung open and the
furious prisoners break loose
But one by one they fall victim to the deceptive truce
The earth is on fire and the scorched birds are running for shelter
But the glowing trees quickly fell on their trembling knees
And the red-hot earth consumed by its own gut.
High on a quaint little hill,
In a quiet, quaint little town.
Wild Orchids, once plentiful,
Were nowhere to be found.
It was a mystery to all there,
So sad, such beauty, now gone.
What once blessed their vision,
Amber sunsets, golden dawns.
A pall fell upon the town,
All their sunsets disappeared.
Such beauty lost, bred sorrow,
As another Winter drew near.
Then tragedy struck the land!
War ravaged their small township.
All young men were called away,
All the women knelt in worship.
Time seemed to wane wearily,
Anxious hearts feared the worst.
Then news came of twelve casualties,
And every heart there would burst.
Twelve, flag-draped coffins, carried,
Every young man, bred and born.
A million tears would rain,
Every broken heart would mourn.
The Winter, bleak and barren,
Each day just like the last...cold!
A lifeless, loveless town died,
Unsure of what would unfold.
When, on a bright and infant morn,
The whole town flocked in waves.
By the light of Spring's first day...
Wild Orchids lined the graves!
The Real Christmas
From Black Friday to Christmas Eve,
presents to purchase and wrap.
Office and family parties, visits to relatives
platters of food and gallons of alcohol.
Trees dressed to the nines in dangling baubles
and twinkling lights.
Continuous Christmas carols blaring from radios
and loud speakers.
Wreaths and decorations to adorn tables,
night stands, credenzas, book shelves.
Lights hung in strings so large that rows
of houses look like runways for planes.
Inflatable Santas, snowmen, reindeer and nutcrackers
compete for space in yards.
Nativities, pageants, plays special music
consume congregations.
Is this the real Christmas?
Or perhaps it is-
A silent night, two thousand years ago
in a dimly lit cave.
A babe wrapped in woolen clothes
lying in a sheep’s feeding trough.
Only shepherds and loving parents
in attendance.
An infant destined to change history.
The future savior of the world.
Herald the star that blooms, the trumpet and the scroll.
O God the bluest eye, it magnifies my soul.
Encompass calvary, the greatest light that shines.
Beautiful Bethlehem, the azure Winter pines.
Infant swaddled in love, the lamb in his stable.
The Great Shepherd asleep, star’s clearest timetable.
The rhythm of the sky, adoration of blue.*
Wrapped in azure blanket, star hangs over the Jew.
Circumnavigating, ornaments of the earth.
O see the living tree, little hands scarred at birth.
Predilection to save, open your newborn eyes.
The cross present in star, the blue heavens arise.
At birth…his death waiting, The Light opens her womb.
Before he turns 40, he walks out of the tomb.
A blizzard of azure, two men frozen in fear.
They’d get a taste of death, fearsome angels they’d hear.
These dreams are yours these dreams are mine
Yet misery seems to be this poor mans only paradise
Reality seems to be the only place to hide
Trying to make the best of what I have
This is my life’s engraved path
No mercy in tears
Only sympathy if you’re worthy of fears
Some one shake me from these seizures
I’m constantly burning of statistical leisure’s
Bed time story’s, kisses from head to foot
Anyway, you want to please her
Given age, I was born from a rapist
Forced upon passion, as an infant in a wound
How can I escape this?
Simply exposed to this diluted area
You never know, she could’ve recruited malaria
Possibilities that her insides polluted, scaring her
My collarbones hurt, the thought of rubbing a loser
Growing up a substance abuser
Strapped with intoxicated lungs and a low self-esteem
The tools needed for this living
all I have left are dreams
Trying to get by on less than minimum wage
Drooling over paper
like there is cinnamon on this page
I could be a heart ache
or I could be apart of the break
Cold water in my eyes, what ever it takes to wake
Bread crumbs in my left hand, I choose to give or try
Given life I’m only promised to die
Pencil in hand, thoughts bloating my brain
By gods’ grace, I have been scared with pain
Only washing my face when it rains
And most of the time, the skies release hail
So now I’m wondering to where will I prevail
A selfless act from a wealthy man
is usually a filthy hand
Should I live or should I die,
give a small sacrifice, and try
Forever I dream of heavens door
And if I should go
I want no tears to show
Forever dreaming of your saviors doors
Humans' prominent promises were shattered
Mingling, striking, searing, poorly down-pattered
They react quickly and pause to stay conscious
And in the face of denial, that's just obnoxious.
Poverty appears in a variety of forms and shapes
Money is now an issue, as are dreamy escapes!
I'm putting forth a real smorgasbord of hunger
It shatters the ego jaws aiming to rise stronger.
He clutched a placard in his withered hand
Near him, his malnourished toddler takes a stand
Eyes as large and round as plates without food
Asking to be served."Everything that helps is good".
Low-income minds were trained to overlook the pain
Adorable infant food wishes are refused once again
Before the fire, as his wife vanished, he hailed above
Is money clashing with his view of a serene dove?
Totality jingles like a dead man's pocket coins
Life is hammering a beggar pocket, hot loins
Healed seems to be a loss that only labor has faced
Free and single, with no rent to pay, the past is erased.
We believe that we are all-knowing genius
Only we can confront this moral weakness
Disengage from one another and the Divine
Where trust and respect are the core lines.
History reveals the true heroes of its time
We were led to the truth by an unseen sublime
We are a forsooth haughty and conceited race
Hiding from all the divine facts in the face.
Written: March 27, 2023
2nd place contest winner
Theme#1: Poverty
Writing Challenge - 'P' Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
The phone call came on a Monday,
My wife had taken the day off,
I was working in the office
Dreaming about a round of golf.
For years we went about it naturally;
Then artificially we tired,
But pregnant we could not get;
My wife cried her poor eyes dry.
So we went down the adoption path,
Even though forty was in the rear view mirror;
The desire to nurture an infant
In my wife was never clearer.
The phone call came on a Monday;
We thought we’d have more time.
A baby boy was delivered that Sunday
In the last minute the mother made up her mind.
“Can you get on a plane to Chicago,
And pick up your baby boy?”
My wife nearly fainted at the sound of those words,
Overtaken with so much joy.
Nearly seven years have passed since then;
Our family grows stronger in every way.
Spencer was our special gift
When the phone call came on that day.