Long Lacking Poems
Long Lacking Poems. Below are the most popular long Lacking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lacking poems by poem length and keyword.
Deny the lies
Remember the cries that I utter
I fear this...I fear that
Someone will eavesdrop
And deny those implicit lies
They don't see it
They won't believe it
I can't hide my confessions
My bones are no longer fit to fight
If you only knew what kind of rejections
I face every day
Now this world has turned away
Deny these filthy lies
Don't creep in on them
No one told me you were leaving
Stricken by words
Crippled by your powerless passions
You will never know
I have been tripped with your outbursts
Don't bother...leave me in the dust
You must
Return with all the hope you have left
Yet there's a feeling of betrayal
Your face is awfully pale
Disguise as a defender
Don't be embraced by vultures
Run as you can...
Toil and misery is waiting beneath your bed with lacking, misleading eyes
Greed is rushing through me...your innocent...you could defend yourself
I am angry and torn by discernment
Deny the lies
It's almost like a crooked radio repeating a verse that's dragging
Do you realize it is a reaction
That separated
The truth and twisted it into violence
Acid is crawling side to side
Get ready to collide
I am wrapped in dripping lies
Deny this...I told you so
Enraptured deadness
Sweeps upon a destroyed village
We can explore it
It would be unreal
We don't have to pay a deal
I hear your cries
But I can't help but remind you
Deny the lies
Though life's a trampled street
Deny the lies
The slightest breeze turns the air redolent
with the smell and fragrance of a flower
The mind unravels tickled into an
interlude of dreaming among the stars.
Its beauty mystifies, ethereal
yet how fleeting is its life, it blooms then
dies, but not before it inspires the heart
to yearning, to transcend to the heavens.
without the color of flowers, the world
would be bleak, lacking in luster, dreary.
the woods breathe the myriad scent of flowers
birds taste and have their fill of their flavors
To touch and hold a flower in your hand
is a flight to the unknown, a moment
that feels like a fragile bubble might burst,
you want to capture this blessing of joy.
Behold a flower's petal how it draws
insects to drink from it then leave pollen
footprints over earth, to breed more flowers;
the world dazzles, a vista of color.
Find a pearl of wisdom in a flower
how it wakes up the spirit to be free
uncluttered, be innocent, without guile
to reach the peak of our lives loving all.
@jjote 012821
Sausage Mannnn super Hero to the people
Protector of his city
Was happy…. yet something was just lacking
That being …..His love life was not so pretty!
It had been quite some time now
Since he had a lady by his side
Feeling somewhat lonely
It was time for cupid to be his guide
One morning while in his favourite cafe
Sausage Mannnn met the girl of his dreams
Romance and love happened quickly
Destined to be together it seemed
“Sausage Mannnn” fought the bad guys
Knocking them right off their feet
Then wrapping his weapon tightly around them
Taking the bad guys of the street
He had never shared with her his super hero status
Or the size of his weapons entity
Afraid of how she may react
To knowing his true identity
The day had come to confess his truth
As a proposal was on the cards
His sausage heart was pounding
Hoping she would still hold him in high regard
He mustered up his courage and told his beloved his truth
Nervously asking “ Are we still be going to be life partners”
With a grin from ear to ear, she replied
“Oh Absolutely!!…. and we will make lots and lots of chipolattas!!”
Everything you did to me
Is already done to you
What a weak man it takes to rape
You can never take my essence
In fact your muddy mutters rather
Sound like desperate crimson cries of an infant
One who had too little of this too much of that
And still your parents are not your scape goat
You choose to try and take what is lacking inside of you
You refuse to strive and make your soul worthy of a view
that even sinners have a shot at redemption and forgiveness
So as sordid sips and Freudian slips you dip inside ME
trying to find YOU...oh lost soul.
Here is what happened to me
after the rain shame and defeat dissolved
I remained a level of anger that is
quiet and reserved but strong as in an activist
You can not take my innocence for your strength
It does not work that way for I am a magnet
I pull your strength and grew the balls
you wish you had to be a real power
that flesh between us is temporary
but the soul we have is eternal
and you stain yours with cruelty and lack of worth.
Please fall in lust with me, remember years
when all you sought was time to ravish me
In secret tryst we’d meet despite our fears
For passion would not wait or let us be
Oh fall in lust with me, think of the days
When wonder filled your eyes at curve of hips
A time when whispered words spoke of the ways
That we’d make love as kisses burned our lips
Please fall in lust with me, oh let me burn
From touch of hands deranged in passion’s fire
Oh let me pant your name, oh let me yearn
For time when slave you were to your desire
Now, fall in lust with me, and only me
Forget the other one whom you adore
You pledged that love would ever constant be
a passion that would blaze forevermore
So fall in lust with me, and let me be
The mistress once again who rules supreme
For love devoid of lust is killing me
Bring back to bed the lust of youthful dream
Jade Celeste
This poem is the cry of many people in long standing relationships. That first fire and passion needs stoking to be keep blazing brightly. When the fire isn't tended to, there is danger in looking elsewhere to find what is lacking.
In twenty years from now, should I survive
with no worse complications of my health,
I would be grateful just to be alive
in spite of lacking monetary wealth.
I’d love to travel, do a cruise or two,
and visit friends I’ve met by internet.
But I suppose that I’ll be making do
with simple things that I’ve not tired of yet -
Like chatting with my sisters and my friends,
preparing meals and writing poetry,
and also, I expect (if God intends)
a great-grandmother by that time I’ll be!
In twenty years, if I can get my way,
my life will be much as it is today.
May 1, 2017
A sunny corner
Dandelions, hair gone gray
In a spiked farewell
A howling wind
An ogre trimming its beard
A solstice shadow
Nipping and sipping
A scattering of empties
Dancing in the snow
Rainbows of promise
Stained glass shadows in the snow
Promises broken
Christmas promises
Lacking the honesty of
A raggedy angel
Visible presents
Old dogs covered with tinsel
Toothless chew toys
Once upon a time
I was merely prescient
in genes and blood
and air and water
and other ingestions
and digestions
of our ancestors.
Among these were Elders
who may have stopped along the banks
of the Connecticut and Hudson Rivers
to drink from their sacred streaming source
and fish
and camp under maples and oaks nearby.
When these elders return within prescient me
to see these same rivers now,
perhaps from nearly these same spots,
now eight-lane concrete highways
for transporting faster capital-invested competitions
lacking sufficient slow river-time for healthy redevelopment,
together we hear and smell,
but dare not taste
nor feel compelled to feel
cool once-clear bathing and drinking water
as when we were here
back in the day
and nights of great river love
and life,
happiness and vocationing prosperity
with plenty of clean and delicious water
and fresh fragrantly invigorating breezes of quiet joy
with pine needles needless
under sometimes naked running feet.
But we,
my generation
and that before
and before
back discontinuously through industrializing
and commodifying
and commercializing
and capitalizing degenerations,
we are now trying to remind ourselves
that what we currently must not drink
or even taste,
probably don't want to touch
much less smell
and even less actually jump into it
and all the broken glass
and rusted car parts
embedded in its toxic death bed,
this is what we must accept as our new normal.
This unraveling of my Elders' rivers
to the point of toxic exhaustion
is my expected price of admission
to all my New England happy birthdays
for continuing prosperity
and freedom and dignity for all,
except the rivers
and the air
and those they feed,
and the pine needle kindling
that remembers our Elders to this day,
back when we were more cooperatively invested
in asking and responding to
Why can't we all just get along
together?
Rather than compete for how rationally
we could tear apart
memories of Elders
first seeing and hearing and smelling
promising prescient delights
of bountiful Hudson
and Connecticut Rivers
still healthy flowing
for and with and of and in their great grandkids.
Days without poetry are like days without sunshine
Our thoughts stay hidden and cold
The world's not as beautiful and is lacking that glow
Until we allow our love words to roll
A day without poetry is so sad and without passion
Doesn't allow our feelings to share
We're not really able to express our desires
We're sometimes too embarrassed to dare
But poetry will usually do away with inhibitions
We're free to use those flowery terms
The kind that are used by the greatest of poets
You too can sound like Robbie Burns
Days without poetry are like days without sunshine
But allow us to be happy and share
Our feelings of happiness and absolute joy
There's a feeling of goodwill in the air
© Jack Ellison 2013
After many years, I sat in a church service filled with culture, custom, ritual, and tradition. The experience took me back and reminded me of the early years of my childhood. The religious and worship experience of my childhood left much to be desired and afforded very little awareness of a Biblical world view. Today, as I sat, observed, and participated, I felt no real presence of a Christ-centered worship experience. No, I was not in a critical mood. These were my brothers and sisters in Christ. Instead, there was a deep cry in my heart and a weeping in my spirit. I do not deny that it is possible that I built a personal partition that may have hindered my worship experience. However, I knew what was lacking and so did others among them who had been massaged and soothed for many a year, but there was too little backing for long-awaited changes.
Realizing my stay would be shortlived and my contribution toward changes would be nill, I left with a feeling of helplessness but also with a hope and a desire to pray that God would rain upon the desert in a little church called Promise Land.
111712PoSoup