Long Laments Poems
Long Laments Poems. Below are the most popular long Laments by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Laments poems by poem length and keyword.
Cracker-Barrel Sage
The whittler
Atop the rickety steps
Shavings piled at her ancient feet
Eyes the blade
Needing attention soon
The mongrel
Head on paws
Yawns
One eye open
Watching chips fall
Wondering
Why whittle
Worries
Boredom
Purpose
Dust swirls gritty remembrance
Tumbleweeds careen
Weathered saloon sign dangles
Jailhouse door swings aimlessly
Both hinged with rust of the past
Wind stops
Silence
A canine's whimper
A whittler's sigh
Eroded stick now a toothpick
Whetstone works the blade
A foreshadowing gust turns page
Beckoning next chapter's portent
Prophetic air anxiously awaiting
Yesterday's memory
Today's forever cycle
Whittler laments knowingly
from afar
the dark flows
pride
beholden
before chance
hearing
the call of love
then
notices the sunlight
&
feels its wonder
weeping
behind a cloud
years of
decay
with its neighbour
care
is pleased to answer
with
supreme surprise
curiosity
appears
unfettered
yet
perplexed
by choice
uncurls
in fear
yields
to sleep
impulse
is flattered
&
pretends
to displace despair
&
doubt
excites &
invents
nerves
to blight
all life
today
conceit
possesses the staid
provokes
change into
flight
where concern
stands
discrete
splashed
by peace
&
found at dawn
in belief
reason laments
the night
begins&urges
the
spread of vision
dressed
by
the good
on
the
brow
of mankind
brevity
discovers design
innate
yet
as an impulse
comes in
ahead of purpose
a gift
to flood
the future
thought commands
&
dominates
talk
forsakes merit
aloft as
vapour
descends
to the abode
of sound
attends
the dance
to
partcipate
with
charm
once forgotten
Than lady liberty
Than the lamp of democracy
Land of the free
Land of the brave
Land of so many freedom fighters
Letting us be masterful poets and fanciful writers
When things don’t go your way
There is still Free Press to sway
Rights over dress, we can always redress
So many flaws
Filled with humans we are after all
She is the descendant of Marianne
A republic in a new land
The left laments, lighting inflaments
The right closes their eyes to just causes
Of the forgotten on the wayside of strife
The middle road and the middle path
The many, stoically building the abundant bridges
Towards our great destiny lying ahead
Challenges exist, evil cyanide persists
The people together shall be of all colors
United under the strength of the American umbrella
Chavez spouted his propaganda
To his followers with no bananas’
Kept them poor
Said communism will make them more!
“Of time you would make a stream upon whose
bank you would sit and watch its flowing…”
From On Time, by Kahlil Gibran
If you could imagine time as a beauteous spring
Blossoming your life, charming euphoric dreams
I am sure you will regret not having enough of it
Reveling fondly, vibrantly, on prairies, tributaries
Bouncing blue-tides gaily, buoying cerulean seas
Traversing through seasons without ever ceasing
Yet, it lengthens or shortens much to our chagrin
Depending on whether in happiness, or in grief,
Reminiscing in love, or despising pensive memories
Days of yesteryears, though long gone and spent
Seeds that were sown then, now produce harvests
Either wailing in laments, or lauding of goodness
Time yet to come may find~ a tomorrow elusive
So invest it on today, elevating it to exhilarating
When your song is playing, opt to waltz and sing
Paint time immortal on portrait of angelic deeds
Hang on the walls of future your timeless legacy
Be the finite world priceless, that ticks to infinity
Let your time accumulate to meaningful centuries,
Don’t watch it pass you by, decaying in unworthy,
Offer time an inspiration to build your own destiny
November 7, 2021
Placed 1st: “T” Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Time
GREED
While cutting woods beside river strand,
axe of an wood cutter slipped from hand
and fell into stream.
Then, he had to scream
on such a big loss, too tough to stand.
Angel appeared out of the river.
Being kind, asked, what was the matter.
He was lamenting
‘My axe is missing.’
Angel assured to search in water.
Angel again came with axe of silver.
‘Is it yours? I have found from river.’
‘No Sir. This is fine,
but cannot be mine.
Oh! Ill luck. I lost that forever.’
Next, Angel appeared with axe of gold.
‘Is it yours?’ He casually told.
‘No. This is not mine.
I can’t imagine,
axe of gold to be built and sold.’
At last by Angel real axe was brought.
Delighted wood cutter thanked a lot.
Gold axe came as prize,
Great and grand surprise
The lesson of honesty was taught.
One cunning wood man heard the story,
dropped axe into water in hurry,
started loud laments.
Within few moments,
Angel appeared, ‘Why are you sorry?’
‘Sir, in deep water my axe is lost.’
‘Silver and gold axes, I have got’.
Angel showed the pair.
‘Which is yours? My Dear.’
‘Gold axe is mine.’ His answer was prompt.
‘Liar! Simple honesty you do lack!
Greed has painted your mind and heart black.
Gold, you cannot own.
You have lost your own.
You do not deserve to get that back.’
Syllable count 9 9 5 5 9
02/27/17
Fable Contest by Nayda Ivette Negron
Second Place
Muscle-bound goons. The kind that rape the world. Self-satisfied, in no hurry to devote their remarkable faculties to understanding another’s mind. Such wise men. Stares as blank as summer nights, red and black, tricolored, golden star-stung steel: twisted features, leaden, pale, inflamed; hoarse guffaws. A grim onslaught of pretense. To hear what these kids would say about Cherubino in their rough voices and violent ways. They’re heading to town to get it from behind, all decked out in sickening luxury.
A violent Paradise of runaway sneers! But no match for your Fakirs and hackneyed theatrics. In costumes sewn together with all the taste of a nightmare, they strut through assorted laments, tragedies filled with all every brigand and demigod missing from religion and history. Chinese, Hottentots, bohemians, fools, hyenas, Molochs, ancient lunacies, sinister demons—they slip savage slaps and tickles into your mother’s old chestnuts. A little avant-garde here, some three-hankie stuff there. Master jugglers who use riveting comedy to transform players and scenes. Eyes ignite, blood sings, bones stretch, tears and red rivulets run. Their clowning can last minutes, or months.
Only I have the key to this savage sideshow.
:: 07.31.2022 ::
Tenebrous night steals autumn days,
Invading ink subtracts the breath of light,
With tarnished mingling edge,
With dusty dusk’s laments.
Tenebrous night of immutable grave,
Infiltrating melanin loots the golden glow,
Where criminal and crucifix sink,
Where dream and delirium drown.
We are merely complexions of being
With frivolous hearts,
Chalking pigment lines to cleave
The cloak of skin we all share,
Chasing the encasing that divides us.
Across the planet, lines of disparity,
Lines of uneven imparity,
Across the globe, lines of ruling class,
Lines of the toilers and indigent class.
We are merely complexions of being
Carving rich from poor,
Along lines of race and class.
We dread what may come to pass.
Tenebrous night our final gasp,
The tenuous squandered
Dwindling light we grasp.
Published in Dissident Voice: November 28th, 2021
Quietude endows hushed mystical space
Admonishing words have no role to play—
Look how in solitude its posture bends
Bowing in deference to calming intellect.
Listen to the utterance of wailing heart
Where grieved voices subtly resonate
In stygian echoes of aches and pain
As bawl of mortal life kneels down to pray.
Touch of gifted hands magically illuminates
Enlightenment of soul’s secret message
Setting aside obtuse incredulous images,
Silencing the whims of infuriating regrets.
Glowing in epiphany of truths ornate
Emanating from the heart’s regal reign,
Voice of divinity in conquest reverberates
Winning decisively dissonant arguments.
Gaining wisdom of supreme knowledge,
Free from shackles of ordinary, mundane;
Revelations disarm the earthly laments
Basking in discovery of heavenly solace.
March 2, 2020
Poem of the week on March 8, 2020
Placed 1st: Picture prompt poetry contest
Sponsor: Brenda Chiri
Placed 2nd: Your Best Free Verse 2020 Poetry Contest
By John Hamilton
Write me a poem, urged the Lover
As I slipped into bed with him,
Fearing the tremors of the night
As heavy rain poured outside,
Bidding thunder to growl its boisterous song
Compelling lightning to dance in ungraceful ways!
Why should I, asked I in a detached tone
While keeping my eyes glued to the bedsheets
Why should I? Would you even care to read
If I wrote for you?
Why should I not, asked the Lover in a dangerous tone
Can you not see the genuineness of my intentions
Reflected in the expression of my eyes?
Can you not hear the laments of my heart
In my deep and profound voice?
Can you not feel the booming beats of my heart
As it somersaults each time I merely think of you?
I lifted my eyes and let them plunge in the expanse of his
Pray, how I am to write for him
If I did so, my heart would be left bared and defenseless
If I did so, my feelings would be exposed and disrobed
If I did so, the shield protecting my vulnerability
Would be thrown off, broken into millions of pieces
And I would be left unsteady and unguarded!
But the expanse of the Lover's eyes pulled me closer
In these I could see how stars birth
In these I could see what lies beyond the veil of the universe
In these I could see my meaning
In these my pulsating annoyances felt soothed
In these I chose to plunge, even if I can swim not
And soon, I was no more in control of myself,
Barely conscious that outside, the rain poured harsher
While thunder sang still more deafeningly
And lightning danced, caring not if anyone was watching it!
When he turned over to sleep
I got out of bed, opened my diary
And wrote a poem for him!
16 October 2017
I do not like to see my face floating
At the foot of a ewer,
nor in drops of water, nor in the glassy eye
of a slaughtered goat.
I am beautiful, but water and cloudless gems
distort, they are torturers of disfigurement.
Since I saw my reflected beauty
I have been unable to mirror that perfection.
I have ardently endeavored
to emblazon the beacon of that first time,
when I, suffused in beams of crystalline air,
beheld my countenance clear
yet now I am caught, caulked, and diked
forever dogged by a stark magicking
from ever parading that delicate radiance,
that inaugural art of my gift,
my exquisite features.
Yet ever my mind’s eye returns
to that translucent and timeless time
that empyreal morn, so fine and fair
where I beheld what I thought was there
and believed upon it.