Long Keening Poems
Long Keening Poems. Below are the most popular long Keening by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Keening poems by poem length and keyword.
There is two –D, three-D, and Mile Johnston-D.
In grays and with fortitude he shows a truth
Not seen in other paintings
He strips away sadness,
Presents faces taken apart, or quadruplicated
There is an unexpected component in his art
That rivals Dali’s, but in gray tone, not color.
Nurtured and excited, I study his drawings
There is a hollowness that somehow completes them
Makes them more real than other drawings
His chronic faces, ability to strip the mask off,
Or change the body into a triplicated or quadruplicated vessel
Amazes and astounds me
One thing for sure, there is a haunting to his art.
A longing, a keening, and once you have seen his creations
You can never again see another one without knowing it
Belongs to the brilliant Miles Johnston.
The waves dash themselves
Against the rocks,
Sending geysers of spray
High over the seawall,
Half drowning the cars
That are creeping slowly
Through the sandy lakes
Forming on the road.
The wind screams
And pounds its fists in a
Tantrum on car windows.
The angry sea hisses
And spits a frothy foam
Onto the curling mountains of
Emerald and blue-black water.
A lone cormorant dips and bobs,
Appears and disappears
In the unaccustomed,
Roiling surface of the salt
Pond across the road.
Beyond, the trees whip and
Thrash their arms,
Moaning and keening
In the driving sheets of rain.
Pieces of their shattered limbs
Litter the roadway, and
A single strand of wire
Flips back and forth,
Sparking red in the gloom.
People park their cars
Away from falling limbs
And dash for leaf-strewn
Porches, chairs all spun awry.
They shed their dripping coats
And watch the raging storm
Wreak havoc, safely, from inside!
More than ever, being pain-free means more to me than ever before.
When you have been wailing and keening in pain you will understand.
Before this pain, I would have said God, my family and my life mean the most.
I have to say being pain-free means more than I ever thought possible.
I have a spiritual belief that death is going to be a rebirth, a wonderfulness
Such as we cannot possibly fathom in this earth life.
I was begging God to take me, to give me the gift of death.
However, He would not let me go, there is more for me to do here. But what?
Is it to be a role model? Is it to build people up to their best degrees?
Am I to finally start my creative writing center/art center for children?
If so, where is the money?
I should be praying for whatever
God is planning, but I have no plan; it is has not been placed in my heart yet.
I am waiting, because I now know there is more for me to do.
God is love. God is benevolence.
He would not have kept me in a torturous, keening wailing screaming state, unless there was a plan.
I am listening. I am praying. I am here, God. Let me know, please.
I am your servant, and I am willing. I am more than ever your servant now.
Written 6-6-2016
Contest: More to Me Poetry Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
I put my arms around you, your heart melts into mine;
the borders of your anguish I can easily define.
There is no need for language explaining agony,
I perceive a griever’s heartache in black telepathy.
Your landscape is familiar, I know one similar
in the trackless barren places, in the lonely city spaces
where people neither know nor care.
I gleaned shriveled fruit from withered vines,
crushed, distilled, and drank the acrid wine.
I climbed the treeless summit, trekked the tundra of despair,
heard the mountain winds dark harmony
to a mourning mother’s keening prayer.
I know because my heart has heard
within its depths your soundless words.
Copyright, July 11, 2026
My wailing has turned to keening
I cannot stop; I am despondent.
Fully reversed in my feelings.
My confidence has disappeared.
I cannot do this! I scream
Only it is shrieking.
My house is silent, except for my screams of despair.
No one to reassure me; to lift me up.
It is the time I should be reaching out to friends.
My depression will allow none of that.
My black curtains are closed, locking out the sun
A ray of hope or optimism cannot reach me here.
The phone has been ringing for three days.
So I put it on airplane mode,
Reveling in my rage,
Fanning the flames of despondency
Until I am scaring myself
The dog tries to cuddle, but I turn her away.
Living my hurt in the deepest well I can find.
Milanda keeps the voice to herself; she likes the keening of it.
The wails keep her on her toes, as the poltergeist rules her.
The shudders are drawn, and there are ghoulish shadows.
This is as it must be the poltergeist whispers in spook voice.
Milanda’s parents are alarmed, they take her to a psychiatrist.
He prescribes lithium which she pretends to take. Ha Ha.
For they are not going to take her demon girl from her.
She has a life now fashioned against all of their principals.
She is eager to find out about the darkness of the world.
The poltergeist moves her on demonic strings.
She resists in no way, glad to blame another for her antics.
She used to be on her own, but now there are two of her.
What is happening? Her mother asks. Talk to me.
She is the enemy the demon girl hisses. She nods, understanding.
It is the two of us against all of these others. They paint the room black.
Lie in the bed, whispering things that would alarm the girl’s parents.
Her father comes in to speak to her. She is annoyed beyond her threshold.
How dare he act like things are normal, when he was the one who split her.
His antics are what drove her to develop a demon girl in the first place.
She sends him out, consternated, not understanding his princess at all.
At least he did not touch us, the demon girl poltergeist says.
Milanda had hoped that he would. She is feeling strong and savage now.
She would have torn him apart, gnashed him with her teeth.
She would be glad to destroy him as he had destroyed her trust years ago.
aching blazing
ceaseless desire-
erotic fathomless greedy heavenly
incomparable jubilant keening love
magically nurturing
overflowing penetrating
quivering ~
rapturous
sublime throbbing unparalleled-
velvety wanton
xade yearning zig-a-zag-ah
____________________
September 22, 2015
ABC
_____________________
Note:
xade is a French adjective for ultimate perfection, as in a beautiful man
zig-a-zag-ah is from the Urban Dictionary meaning to enjoy oneself
Monsters are sneaking out of closets in the middle of the night.
Tiptoeing around your bed, waiting to give you just the right fright.
Clown dolls with maniacal attitudes are waiting underneath your bed.
There are some scary TV characters like Freddie living in your head.
We children think we are safe, but mommies cannot save us tonight.
Harry Potter’s dreaded dementors are blocking out the light.
They are silent and serious as they creep up to our bed.
Ready to tear our faces off and turn our sheets blood red.
I shut my eyes more tightly, thinking I can somehow survive tonight.
But we all know I am a goner if I open up and see them bright.
There is a witch in the corner, cackling, urging the monster on.
I begin yelling “Mommy! Daddy!” terrified from now ‘til dawn.
Someone grabs my foot and pulls me under the bed screaming.
It is my evil cousin Ned who is laughing until he is keening.
I hate you! I tell him, because he has made my heart stop.
He laughs himself sick, because he is full of soda pop.
Wailing, screaming, and keening were things I was not
familiar with, until I got the shingles in a very tender place.
Then they became my go-to-noises. My husband had to wear
headphones, because it was so loud, so guttural and horrific.
He could not take it, and frankly, neither could I. I had never made
these sounds before, I did not know I could, but I did.
I have new medicine that means I no longer wail or scream.
Weirdly, I am also no longer able to stand upright and walk without
almost falling down. I am not alarmed because I had twelve
kinds of pills before a doctor prescribed something that kept me from
spending my whole day screaming, wailing, and keening, begging for death.
I am now stumbling around in a fog, but falling back into bed is better than what I had been doing for the past seventeen days.
Every once in a while it feels like a tiny devil with a pitchfork puts gasoline on
it, and lights it with a campfire and shoves it up my right hip,
This is preferable to the fifteen minute intervals it had been
happening for seventeen days in a row. These new meds are
keeping me down, because I am afraid to get up, but I am
snoring in a very comfortable deep sleep, which is so preferable
to running around screaming, shrieking, wailing and bawling louder
than I have ever bawled in my life.
I am a rag doll, only wincing in pain once in a great while rather than
every ten minutes. I am understanding drug addicts much better now;
maybe they started out just wanting their pain to stop. I had no idea what
level of pain a person could endure before this affliction grabbed me and stabbed me and burned me and kept me keening, wailing, and screaming. I believe I will be better at my job now, more empathetic, and less judgemental toward people who wisely decide to reduce their pain.
Hear unsilenced hope here,
Nothing is not lost.
Hopelessness the enemy
of justice
round some other's bend.
Music resounds appositions
against fear.
Anthems rise solidarity
within Earth's righteous anger.
Praise conserves liberal motion.
Emotion co-arises dipolar passions.
Climate pathology may not become
the responsibility of white privilege.
Yet, healthy climates may heal
both our oppression of Earth's sacred integrity
and our white privileged victimizations.
Wealthy multicultural opportunities
re-present risks for and of further monoculturing fragmentation
apartheid
disassociations
conserving silos
of hopelessly unfree silence.
This is our liberal conserving health,
Earth wealth
cooperatively inclusive,
interdependently webbed
agenda.
We know we are conservatively listening win/win leaders
when liberally correct issues
are also Earth-centered conservational anthems
singing courageous praise
against the fake win/lose face
of either totalitarian power
or universal fear.
Active hope
is the ally
of Earth's great restoring justice
for all,
they and we
eco and ego
yin and yang
universal health and unitarian wealth.
If all faith speaks with liberal political correctness,
so too
all hope erupts from silent win/win conserving power
noticing risks of disempowering silence
missing opportunities for re-empowering healthy natural wealth
between all souls
among all soils
all fearful angry lynching
all courageous songs unflinching.
Music heals through wind and water carried
keening
secular mundane hate
become sacred epic texts
re-formed ego-wind with eco-water lyrics
singing unsilenced sorrow.
Hear hope here.
Nothing is not lost
through complacent silence.