Long Interrupts Poems
Long Interrupts Poems. Below are the most popular long Interrupts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Interrupts poems by poem length and keyword.
for Wake Me Up When September Ends Contest
Sponsor: Daniel Henry Rogers
They’re in conversation
with a crisp breeze as it sings
about the summer lost.
The proud sun colors skies gold
but shadows grow long.
not much is said
but they know
something’s changing
Once young, they cling
onto branches but know
one day they will take
their last breath and fall.
a song
about passing days
lingers in the air
Frantic calls of grackles
stir the air as they land
on branches before a swirl
of them cloud the sky.
the cacophony
interrupts
tranquility of the day
the passing sun whispers
and at dusk skies bleed
leaves surrender to time
*Image of Accountability.
It's More Than "A" Habit
In an early eve, an errant truck parks neath the glow of a neon light that reads 'OPEN'.
A hefty man in his truck blows out a steady stream of cigarette smoke,
it drifts in puffed breaths that linger, while a family waits for an early eve of a mouth-watering meal indoors.
He opens the truck door and ere exiting he mutters,
"You know,
(as a crushed cigarette butt, douses in a truck ashtray),
that I had always planned to cut back."
While a truck door closes, a large man postures and takes a deep breath,
inhaling the crisp fresh evening air then exhaling it all-out, all the while he tugs at his already tight belt.
He pulls out another cigarette, lighting it while a family exits a truck door, and gathers in front of a smoking man, tugging at his pants.
Another interrupts saying, "Planning to cut back at what?"
"I ...,
(inhales then puffs out the smoke),
planned to cut back ...,
(inhales puffing smoke out again),
my habit of ...
too much ...
eating!"
A man nears a restaurant door,
tugging and puffing
away.
2022 March 01: Revised Date
2020 January 10: Original Date
*Originally written 'Not For Contest' Free Verse poem, titled, 'Habits'.
Me and the wall
Like an imaginary friend when we were a child.
My thoughts bounce off the wall and then get filed.
Mrs. Beasley, Shilo, and Winnie the Pooh.
No matter what you said, they believed it was true.
My wall let's me figure it out with me and God.
And it's funny, but I never end up feeling odd.
And as I sit here amidst all the reflections.
Somewhere inside I'm ok with the recollections.
Having thoughts that no one else interrupts.
Allows time and space where nothing corrupts.
And in the process of sorting through the muck.
Insight and common sense prevails with any luck.
Introverts and extroverts and everything between.
Hopefully, you mean what you say, when you say what you mean.
Cause when this world get's it's way and in your head.
Sometimes, come what may, it's their thoughts instead.
So, hello old friend, it's you and me till the end.
We've travelled many avenues and around the bend.
Somehow I'm ok with the way things turned out.
Reflective perspective has removed most of the doubt.
The Beauty of It All
red yellow gold
glistening beauty
sparkling dew
falling floating
winds blowing
rustling paths
through the woods
morning sun rising
new day lighting
evening darkness
hovering covering
moon glowing
through the trees
revealing beauty
of autumn leaves
God forever painting
like a canvas
ever changing
natures majesty
Early in the morning, walking up the rocky hill, taking in the autumn air, I think of the swampy terrain of my past life in the south. Such a difference in climates, from the humid, hot days, but green winters to four pretty seasons of the Midwest with gray winters. Lost in my thoughts of this beauty, My daughter interrupts,”Mom let's go shopping when we are through hiking”.
Autumn leaves falling
Around corner snow
Coats and boots in fashion
We head back to the car to get in style. Awe the beauty of it all
I met my shadow, it was right behind me.
It stalked me, in sharp-edged silhouette
It bore my shape, but evoked a darker hue,
Mirroring truths I’d buried and denied.
In rooms beneath our conscious rooms,
The shadows linger, nap in silence and uninvited.
They arise, get glued to our backs, as trailing capes
Of truths hidden behind eyes looking forward.
Our shadow walks with us, a companion up close —
a slave, a twin, a buddy deaf and mute.
When summoned it reveals what we hide from sight,
It knows the dark things left unspoken inside.
It is a mirror echoing only in black,
It reflects only what light dares not shame.
Revealing not evil things, but truths we suppress.
And refuse to see as what limits and misshapes us.
Shadows are born as presences, not absences.
They bloom when something interrupts the light.
Filtering out the colors of deluded truth.
To clearly show, what really burns inside.
They highlight the parts we choose to exile,
The half-self behind the mask of feeling fine.
Darkness outlines what light dares not reveal.
We mistake their quietude for something healed.
When we avoid our shadows; we misread others,
Seeing their flaws, as those we fear ourselves.
For our shadow is not a ghoulish monster,
But a map, a key to what we can become.
Our longings for relief deepens as day retreats.
As shadows stretch longer towards dusk.
We beg for night to take them back,
To detach them, send them packing to their rooms.
To turn and face a shadow is to walk within.
Confronting shadows with self-awareness,
Making dreams and doubts conscious,
Shedding the darkness with enlightenment.
The Tortured Poets Department has a writer's division that has to approve every poem
And my mind is tired of being held hostage
A loose-leaf definition of writer's block was once defined by the utter of: I don't feel like writing
Is this even good enough, my hand only works for the remote today
Then she interrupts my train of thought to ask: why have you never wrote a poem about me
It's not that I haven't
There are hundreds getting as comfortable as you can be in the waste basket
The last poem I Kobe shot to the trash can started like this:
An eye lash is trying to make your cheek more than just a Sunday service sanctuary
It wants a home
I know you'd like me to remove it
But who am I to destroy a home
I can't help but think how beautiful you look with that eye lash
As it rests there like a pair of doves flirting on a branch not far away from me
What are you starring at, she exclaims
Oh, nothing I reply, today I'll let the eye lash remain
On
Your rosy cheeks, kissed by my dead rose petal lips
Reminding you of the time we went camping and you hated that you smelled the outside
And I kept teasing you but hiking, visualizing, and tenting next to nature is maybe the closest thing to
Falling asleep to your beautiful
Falling asleep to your beautiful
Falling asleep to your gorgeous
Ugh I can't never find the right words to describe a tenth of your gorgeous
And it makes me want to drop dead out of frustration
Because the writers need to feel exactly what I do when they read:
Holding her hand is to get a glimpse of forever before I die
Holding her makes my heart resemble the flight of a butterfly
Holding her hand is to crush all my battles in the palm of my hand
The writers consist of a various assortment of personality; often referred to as me, myself, and I
And as I get ready to seal this poem to you the writer’s block me every time
p.s. I haven't learned to love myself enough to love you...
We taught the silence to wear our name,
called it tomorrow, a fragile frame,
hung every heartbeat on a melting seam.
hours sag like sleep from a wounded tree,
minutes forget who they’re meant to be,
the past hums heavy in the ribs of me.
then two lost clocks began to align,
your breath finding time inside of mine,
as if our souls had rehearsed this climb.
I followed my shadow through folded air,
measured my worth by the depth of care,
until your presence answered the prayer.
meaning arrives when the chase stands still,
when love interrupts the force of will,
and yet here we are.
Oh... you just don't get it, I really don't care,
Your not my type at all, even down to your underwear,
Why is it now that I see this, and then you reach out,
It's not that I don't care in friendship, but a relationship I doubt,
I finally feel free from the bondage I felt from long ago,
The picture you painted of who I thought you were,
The idea of you finally let go,
The irony in this can only be God, I ask him what in the world is going on,
I really thought that this was all he wanted to show me, but obviously I'm wrong,
What do they call it when your heart is just too tired to know more?,
And then God interrupts your train of thought, and says wait there's more in store,
And then of course you groan to God, and plead you're too tired to see,
Haven't I already been through enough, he once tried to suck the life out of me,
As I feel my eyelids get heavy, and all I want to do is just sleep,
He wakes me up and says surprise I'm here.. and I think it's just like you to do this to me,
So I'm going to give you my sleep drunken self in my overwhelmed and overworked state,
And maybe then you'll think I'm weird once again, but with my luck you'll probably stay.
RUDIMENTARY MASTERPIECE
a curt four year old grimacing at scrawl
comments, “that’s ugly. what is it?”
i teach the sicklier of two twins to reply
with the truth, “i’m not finished, yet!”
the impressive duo of longsuffering —
a pair of candlesticks in God’s presence.
remember the next time someone interrupts
your opus ink, your rudimentary masterpiece,
drip some wax, seal your verse with a kiss,
find your virtue in the sedimentary apropos
of glacier ice, where splendid hexagonal crystals,
like dendrites morph into a blue-butterfly Frost.*
4/2/2018
*Robert Frost wrote a lovely poem called “Blue-Butterfly Day”
It’s a swill no one interrupts—
A pill that consumes and corrupts
Our honor's been jailed
And truth’s will is impaled
As the blood PAC tempest erupts
Author's note: Many of the super-rich (who do not yet have it all) are determined to have more of the pie since their multiple residences and bank accounts are not enough and their yachts and jets are too small and range restricted (OMG). There are about 600 people who have donated more than $1,000,000 to presidential political action committees (PACs). The very rich, who also are trying to buy Congress, are in the process of remodeling our society. They liked it when society was feudal--when the rest of us were consigned to serfdom or were slaves. This weekend, the Koch brothers are interviewing candidates to see who they will spend almost a billion dollars to elect. Are we to believe their propaganda (that they have our interest in mind)? That is why I support the only candidate who does not have a super PAC who is running for President--Bernie Sanders. Enough is enough and maybe, just maybe, we can prevail over the corruption of wealth. The truth always matters and can never be denied over the long term.