Long Interred Poems
Long Interred Poems. Below are the most popular long Interred by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Interred poems by poem length and keyword.
For Tom's 1984 The Fall of Big Brother
In the dark soil
beneath the weight of stone and silence,
the meek are not mere shadows,
they are tubers,
reaching deep in furtive places,
attracted by the throb of earth’s abandoned wisdom,
nourished by murmurs
from organic charcoaled scrolls,
faded fusain etchings,
and ageless voices interred in the dust.
The surface cracks open in silence,
quiet shoots, that tremble at first,
slowly stimulate,
soon infusing the veins of the earth with life.
The weak do not break in fear,
they weave like vines,
twirling toward the zenith.
Each node they gather is a leaf,
each bud, a fibre of strength.
They do not rage with the storm,
but in the slow turning of seasons,
they grow...
The martinet’s canopy is but hollowed branches,
its strength is not in the vigor of its limbs,
but in the roots, it deems it controls.
Yet, roots multiply beneath the surface,
Silent, unstoppable,
Turning the soil until the earth itself rises.
The language of the world is written in the earth,
and the meek now speak it fluently.
They do not ask for permission.
They are the outburst of small things
growing through cracks,
creating an unshakable forest,
overrunning the walls of the empire.
Through knowledge and unity,
they cradle the sun’s heat in their hands.
And when the crown falls,
it is not with a sound of thunder,
but with the soft rustle of leaves
that once whispered fear,
now screaming freedom.
*“The evil that man do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;”
Shakespeare in Julius Caesar
Self Love
Time has now dawned to start loving myself
After fifty-five years serving others
In public sector with love and passion
With striking sincerity of purpose
With deft devotion and dedication
With candid commitment and conviction
With integrity as the best friend
And holding honesty in the right hand
As inscribed in the contours of my fate
Irrespective of who`s at helm of state~
Serving at diverse rungs of the ladder
From the lowest steps to the highest stairs
Caring for the health of the public purse
Sinking in the sea of stark stagnation~
Carrying bricks to rebuild the country
To make the land a better place to dwell
For all, heedless of caste, colour or creed
Regardless of tints of flags they brandished~
Oft stuck between the anvil and hammer
Serving as screen against storms and showers
With the shoulders burdened with heaps of loads
Some times to the detriment of my health.
Now ditched down the deep well of oblivion
By so-called friends, envious of my seat
Who used me as props to climb the ladder
And nestle themselves with safety at ease
As ravenous wolves in sheep`s clothing
As lizards changing hues to suit their needs~
Such is the fate of the evolving world
Where one`s goodness is interred with one`s bones*
Or turned to ashes and sprinkled away
To sink in the solitude of the sea.
Now with hair turning grey and the bones lean
When moving hundred steps is a burden
When the body night and day pines with pain
I feel that during my long journey of life
I have turned my back to loving myself~
And now is the time to carve a small spot
In the corridors of my senile heart
At long last to grow the grains of self love,
But not to close the door to share with friends
Lessons learnt to brave the wafting wild winds.
My voyage of life has brought to the fore
Self love is not synonym of ego
But at day`s end a decent desired goal
To be myself with my stress, strains and strength
Just a solitary human being
Singular like a single shining star
Scanning the deep sea of the inner self.
Nautdah
Nautdah, they called you,
In your real life they named you,
When you knew yourself,
When you lived out on the unforgiving plains.
As Nautdah, Comanche captive,
You Became Comanche;
Leaving behind the girl
Who was Cynthia Parker
Sloughed off like an ill-fitted skin.
You gave birth
To their greatest leader, Quanah
In a field of wildflowers on the Texas plain;
Forsook your language and embraced
That century of blood and pain
For the sake of a people who's way was dying
Even as you butchered bison on the endless sea of grass.
They recaptured you and made you a monument to what their wildness
Had made of you:
A woman of the Elements, a woman who would not be cowed
By the conventions of her time;
A woman who would never cease
Trying to return to the people to whom she really belonged,
To the people who belonged to the Sky, the Earth, the Wild Horses.
Before Quanah died, having lived with his feet in both Worlds,
He arranged to have your bones interred near his,
Where the two of you could lie together
To dream of wildflowers, and Freedom.
She’d kept the pewter dusted and displayed
since 1959.
A verdigris had leached out of the urn nevertheless
She had been hard on him, had forgiven little,
but felt much closer now.
The television became a corner coffin,
its screen a penumbra she often spoke to.
She had interred it in 1974 after Nixon left office
“Disgraceful.” She had said both to his ashes, and the set.
A part of her husband remained to dwell with her;
the homunculus felt like a much-chewed jaw-bone
rattling in the urn.
She began to dream.
His tweed suit walked from its closest,
to make love to her,
sleeves caressed sensitive pockets.
When she awoke she smelled of mothballs,
Brylcreem and Old Spice.
The television came to life;
the blue monochrome face of Nixon appearing -
he was crying.
his permanent five o’clock shadow damp with tears.
“Sorry Mabel.” He said.
“You should be.” She retorted hotly,
yet her heart skipped a beat as the screen died.
She was troubled.
She broke the glass front of the TV
placing her husband's urn inside.
The urn grew greener as if it were full of Ohio River water.
She saw herself as a young girl swimming;
the river as refreshing as a lime phosphate.
The urn glimmered as new images surfaced,
a tenderness gnawed at her.
Her late spouse teased her with fingers
plucked from her own lap.
He brushed her lips with threads of gray.
Her bitterness
become a speck she kept in a jar of Pond’s facial cream.
“Just in case,” she thought.
The journey lasted for not more than forty glorious and blessed years
Before your smiles gradually faded as you journeyed to a land far away,
The hearse swallowed you into its belly, while hearkening not to our fears,
It sirened off with the streams of our cries flowing far beyond our doorways,
You were interred in that hot harmattan afternoon of November
With no winter to wither the sombreness of our soliloquys,
But surely for many more years to come, you shall be remembered,
Tho' it is certain that one day, we'll meet again by the heavenly quays,
As long as the tears of the skies wet the earth and the stars still continue in the sky to twinkle,
You'll forever be loved, even if the tears that flow in our hearts make our cheeks appear dry,
We'll just keep keeping in touch with you in prayer even after our skins completely wrinkle,
Tho', no matter how bitter our heart is, your goodness can't be brought back by our earthly cry.
But the shares of conviviality you doled out will always be there for us to appreciate,
A quintessential celestial reception for you, is what we, on your behalf, will daily apprecate,
May the almighty God compensate you for the goodness, everyone knows you gave,
May God count you worthy of being chosen as one of his beloved faves.
That Diaspora represent a piece of my identity,
Strewed my views on the squires of taciturnity,
Inconspicuous lines and depictions,
And then there's the pencil wizard,
Follow my body's rhythms, that I used to bury,
A meandering deer in the tangle of conscience,
I interred it in the depths of my gentle soul,
He was doused in letter ink,
I interfered with him in some proper link,
The beater is nipped by a beehive,
Following the poke scores another shove,
Silence and no ardour, to mitigate brain's fury,
An ink would be dainty, to soothe mind's rage,
The gap was scared, so he squeezed a sunrise,
Swollen and grown, with that slammer,
Reluctantly urge her to endow what she's realized,
I swore an oath of ultimate devotion.
Her moral sins were washed by the Lord.
You didn't hook sight of her fastening orbs.
Twilight's deeper level starts eagerly with a rally.
Written: February 20, 2022
Is there anywhere cool?
Everywhere there is heat
A summer of 'Dog Days'
Cool air is what I seek
Not this mirage of haze.
Is there anywhere cool?
People wilt, sweat runs free
Even the shade is hot
Our home we cannot flee
Suffering in hot spot.
Is there anywhere cool?
All things subject to heat
Everything breaking down
Temperance obsolete
In perspiration drown.
Is there anywhere cool?
Yes, just wait for winter
The thought might make you frown
When summer is interred
And safety underground.
My thoughts are with all brave firefighters. A heartfelt thank you....
Pixabay Image by: Pixelman
In a virtual reality
I found my father online
Though he died before the internet
a man of his time
So how is this possible
that an email appears?
From a website immortal
in cyberspace near
I knew it was him
with each line that I read
I knew it was him
from what he left unsaid
In trying to print
my screen crashed in error
“No document found,
the message interred”
Was I just imagining
or losing my mind?
His words never clearer
for me to then find
I’ve thought of him often
as I’ve struggled and fought
And carried inside me
those lessons he taught
With every search engine
I’ve looked and I’ve prayed
For just one more message
—to rebalance my days
(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2018)
Based upon an entry in the mid-19th Century autobiography of Presbyterian Theodore Clapp, who lived for several decades in New Orleans, Louisiana.
Of the many young brides who I’ve married,
None were more exquisite than her.
Her pleasant charm, and smile so merry,
Both made my old heart stir.
Her fiancé loved her deeply
And she cherished him like no other.
Her father gave her away happily,
In front of her joyful mother.
In the afternoon wedding her vows were said,
While a bouquet in hand she carried.
Their reception next was well-attended,
like many young couples that I have married.
A few hours later, she fell deathly ill.
Then suddenly, she no longer stirred.
Later that night, in her wedding dress still,
And with bouquet in hand, she was interred.
Deep within her family sepulcher
Remain four questions unanswered.
Why then? Why her?
What purpose was served?
And how does one assuage the ones who loved her?
Cry of the night is seldom heard
When ailing heart's silent tears fall,
Muffling sound of voices unheard
Trapping her behind callous wall.
When choice is stark, facing soul dark
Cry of the night is seldom heard
As dreams deferred squander the mark
And bawl of love remains interred.
Enduring pain, feelings are stirred,
If no one dares to sound alarm
Cry of the night is seldom heard--
Alone she bears impending harm.
As stone-cold beats silently moan,
Hurt by fear of bashing incurred
And thrashed by blows of someone known,
Cry of the night is seldom heard.
February 2, 2020
HM: Strand contest #680 by Brian Strand
Distant refrains poetry contest
Eight syllables per line (howmanysyllables.com)
Sponsor: Joseph May