Long Innocense Poems
Long Innocense Poems. Below are the most popular long Innocense by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Innocense poems by poem length and keyword.
"Fragments and crumbs of life, all the little pieces"
John Ruskin, 1853
With innocent bewilderment
she surveyed her new abode
midst warm welcome of strangers
introducing themselves with sweet assurance
asserting, “We are your family --- starting today.”
Such captivating innocence
would soon grip my heart
when she candidly confronted me
with this question I found it hard to explain to a six year old…
“Why are you now my Mommy; why so?”
Illumining her innocence with truth I prayed to impart
my soul reached out to her, cognizant of her status
as one among our orphanage residents...
I knew then --- she felt my care, and that of my fellow staff
along our reverberating, “We love you;
yet God loves you so much to bring you here.”
Her innocence vis-à-vis home verities has been enlightened
through pieces of life realities along Scriptural precepts:
her exposure to relationship-fragments
as well as her tastes of togetherness-crumbs
enabling her not to be ignorant about genuine family essence…
In her Senior High graduation* testimonial speech
she jubilantly expressed:
“I thank God for granting me a family**
through the Orphanage…”
Meeting her teary eyes
revealing her gratefulness
my vision with faith’s lens
beholds her --- as a precious blessing
the Lord is perfecting by His workmanship.
*Graduation ceremony was on August 31, 2020.
**Psalm 68:6 God setteth the solitary in families…
September 1, 2020
2nd place, "All The Little Pieces" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 9/3/2020.
Well, well"aint seen nothin like me"?
No one is shocked a person of darker pigment can pass a football or do anything they set out to dream with heart in hard work. I think you better stick with a spork, instead of hotknifing that herb, rubbing that lambp of piper sheeptoslaughter jerk.
Catch more bees with honey, plus you can use that plastic spoon to dig your way out of the backstabbery,
but Hollywood Idols love their trophys
especially silver spooned ones, Campbell's Chunky for coddled athletes, who got nothin else to do
but compete for biggest cat in a cradle,
Golden icons on the silver screen.
"bet they never considered me"???
Is there anybody else? I ask you, seriously?
Now I'm with you at the oscars those old Satanic, "Elites" only give awards
Like diplomas in the schools of mystery it apparently seems,
as Necromancers of the record industry getalongs and benedict prostitutes, keeping an ear to the breeze,
you don't want to be in that number,
the Saints ain't no kind of football team. The game is on, we need team leaders, not divides of conquering.
It's better to have a little humility, better to have your soul than to have to whole world at your feet in servitude, for athletic ability?
I don't want some black child to feel left out, underdeveloped, overlooked, that's my little brother, my little sister.......C!?
anyone can clearly see from watching Nickelodeon that people like Ms. Downs are underbooked, a stage of perceived demographic,
it happens like a fairy tale, till their claws tithe Capt. Hook.
Commodities we are, playing a part, innocense took,
trafficking, tracking pings, by Disney, by English Queens, blood exploited by achy hearts in the ritual bloodletting, usually on set, when the Mother goes missing.
If innocence is as observed by me,
A carefree behavior is all we see.
In Its presence we know not, right from wrong,
And we will soon learn, and it won’t take long.
In youth it appears when we’re having fun.
Innocence has faces, there’s more than one.
We see the changes as we run and play.
Living life changes us, day after day.
Our innocence changes as we mature,
Both joys and sorrows we’ve learned to endure.
First a child crawls, before walking the floor.
We grow through innocence, then it’s no more.
Innocence is changing, there’s no debate,
The passing of innocence is its fate.
Mother died a long time ago
In a land without a snow
It was years before I was born
Years of her being silently torn
She was no more than seven
Sent to a place she thought was heaven
She got to know what she thought was love
She was just a little girl as gentle as a dove
And in that land not so far away
They withered mother's innocense night and day
Disguised as a life of laughter and fun
The love she knew was all a lie under the sun
Still, mother knew nothing of its weight
So she shared her story before she turned eight
Yet to her dismay, she was ignored and not heard
Everything to her now seemed blurred
Mother's life was never a walk in the park
Her laughter and joy were of tears cried in the dark
Some would say her life was of both worlds
But mother's wounds echoed through her bleeding words
I may not know all of mother's wrath
Of how she came to be the sinner in this path
But I know mother when she's gentle and kind
It was my mother before she died
-----Sept 23, 2025-----
Anthony had always been cautious and wise about matters of morality. But
this time, his eyes were dim to matters of reality. That December day was
relaxed and peaceful. The "back then's and remember when's" began to leap like antelope across many years in his memory zone. But trouble lurked
ahead, and he was home alone. All was calm and silent, but it wasn't even night. The day wasn't holy, but it was sunny and bright. In the quietness of his
blessed home, out of curiosity, he picked up the phone. He never should have made that fateful call. It cost him dearly, and he nearly lost it all. It was
indeed a normal beginning of the winter season. But sometimes normal changes course for any reason. Like falling leaves of Fall, innocense graced
that first call. A happy season, it was Christmas Eve as I recall. It would have been better had he gone shopping at the mall. But instead, he was curiously
driven, unaware of what would befall. He simply wanted to touch base with his past, and that was all. He never realized his future was moving toward a huge
waterfall. It's funny sometimes how a bit of curiosity can lead us astray. But it's not funny when we realize how we can easily lose our way. For seven
months, he ignored the teachings of Jesus, Peter, and Paul. As his resistance grew weaker and smaller, his became a battle royal. There were songs that
came to mind making him feel 10 feet tall. But without warning, he felt one song penning him against the wall. That song spoke of a Southern city on
Southern summer nights. And I tell you, for seven months, he really had no desire to be right. In his heart, he knew he was wrong. Within a few weeks,
he realized he really was not that strong. It's funny sometimes how initially we have no misguided intention at all. But it's not funny when we come close to
a great big fall. His deed was detected, causing a bit of dismay. But in process of time, it was to his delight that he was brought to the light. In due time
there came along one like a lion on the prowl with a mighty roar. After being pulled from the jaws of the bear, Anthony began to thrive and soar, and like
an eagle, he mounted on the heights. Doubtless, he would surely have been devoured had not God sent someone to help him fight.
07232017PoSoup
The appendix and punctuation and learning new words
As they sift and make the dough pliant and smooth verbs
The morning dew drops and the ear infections , as you had your inactive gold ear-rings, paired
The early morning, haphazard memories and yet so long for so long a ribbon, tightened.
"Rabbi zidni Ilman", and the wisdom, and the turtle and the slow and the steady, for a steady pain, off and on.
They beat around the heartbeats , and beat around the bushes too, in the fish-o-fillet
Or a thousand dollar contract with relocation to move your sofasets, beds and the canopy that added on, in toothpaste
bad-mint-on when Rome must burn!
Why so much noises around a sunlit day? When nothing matters in a significant way?
still the passing day felt a mere Sigmund truth, shivering in high fever and so to say.
Noise walls and Walgreen corona tests in Michigan, they all seem in perfection, to sync in tune, in an asynchronus way. Attuned though.
I am no one in this wide world, a mere plain thinker in a simple living, coping underneath a magnificent sky, visible from a petio.
And the visible impeccable the enormity and We , as the next week may see, might never be,
as the story must go on, replaceable by a wiser call, when unseen faith should debate less,
even without a visibility, aftermath serenity and among the prettiest face,
an innocense that grew up, on its own, for many reasons to disown, within a traveller's grace.
Still, I saw you there, also, at the end of a tiresome day
I felt, I am a longevity in a dark silence, where supplication in faith may
Without pointing fingers to a mannerism in equity and dwelling in a voice synthecizer...
As kalshi was looking back in the black and white again, before we parted, for ever.
1:37 AM
8-6-2024
What breed is this?
Sage or Lunatic,
Chess-Piece or Bard.
Do they see silver in the bloodstream,
hearts pumping hard.
Turning lead to gold.
Re-frabricating a life lived hard.
Pieces of eight, to pay for a life of piracy?
Or innocense stolen, seeking equilibrium and sanity?
Do they have knowledge to pass on,
an altruism
of animal, magnetism,
a charged badge of honor, crested in heart,
emboldened home-sheath, sleeve to cry,
then hone your metal upon.
What propels them on?
Is it the real Olympus, clear,_- Mountain Dew?
Atlantis estranged in Camelot, pouring rivers by the light of the moon?
What propels,
which witch is the spark?
Is it one of Union and Love.
Or did they lose the game
and menace for vengeant troves, of the dark.
Do they Familiar the con of silver,
alchemy,
mesmerism for the greedy?
I want to believe they are rivulets caroming
among the needy.
So I wonder.
Do they speak in a different tongue?
One that reaches out like a serpent,
feeling for the vermilion colored heat under the Son.
It is true, one is the saddest thing.
Reach out, it is the Festival Season
starring a Carnival of Souls.
Stars, not so far out.
North shining to a ship of fools.
Saints and Angels,
under the sleeve of the Triune One.
Of this I have no doubt.
LET ME SING YOU A LULLABYE
To the child that was in the womb for nine months
But never had a chance to breath the breath of life
You are a angel in heaven
Let me sing you a lullabye
To the child that hungers for love
But only has known abuse of their innocense
I pray you are found and given a hug
Let me sing you a lullabye
To the child that is hidden somewhere
Waiting and wonders why hasn't anyone found them
I pray you are found and set free
Let me sing you a lullabye
To the child that was playing outside
A accident took their life too soon
I pray for you peace and hearts go out to the families
Let me sing you a lullabye
Everyday we cannot escape it, always on the news
SO SAD, WHY, a tragic story
I can only want to hold you so softy and comfort you
Sing to you a lullabye
Written by: Debra M. Falgout
It starts with a quivering lip
threads a touch from patches
to little swatches of fabric from
various phases various places of us
the first shirt you gave me
off your very back
was gray with a cartoon face
the hat from your kinky head black
and I use a piece of that
the jeans that romanticized everything
on that patch you asked
me to be your destiny
and on this very cloth
relic of the day we lost emotional innocence
the day we became familiar
it is peculiar we made love but never had sex
without emancipating clothing
we made love like a quilt
and it was my first strawberry passion.
Adult days keep rolling faster.
We attribute this to aging,
but it’s routine, firm as plaster,
that induces each years fading.
Adult responsibility
eliminates most mystery.
We don’t absorb what happens next
when we’ve memorized each day’s text.
But there is the joy of fireworks,
those spontaneous dreamworks,
where our free inner child still lurks
and adult brains forego their works.
We find awe, glee and excitement
are not feelings left behind us.
Vibrant bursts grow our amazement,
color pops our gushing gazement.
The joy in all we do not know
(what follows next, when will it end),
gives grown senses a childlike glow
and then, oh yes, then, time does bend.