Long Life story Poems
Long Life story Poems. Below are the most popular long Life story by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Life story poems by poem length and keyword.
The ooze ought to bestow fear on its forms.
The torrid heat of July gags your sacred calling.
It holds inside you, humbly inviting storms.
Singing in the gentle light of root caregiving.
Their activity heedfulness is vanishing.
Hanging pixie wings are sharp, yet blurring.
Daffodils, once joyful, are now luckless.
This late gap is bred by the deity endless.
Each one should heed this hidden tone of truth.
Earthly grief openly evokes settled insight.
Eschew sinking sand in blurring tracts, youth.
This area's lands grasp a waning and fading sight.
When we omit our inner tone, we get a breeze.
We've joined a so barren and chaotic apostasy.
Deep murk, sluggish heart, stifled worries ease.
A moving, rolling wind minds us on our life story.
Bear not the soul to untie ruin across each plain.
As the world deems you, you expect likely to rain.
The culminating bashes are quick and hastily thrown.
Each day gains betterment and outgrown.
Written: April 25, 2022
For me there is no narrative,
no story within a story, no life story that
encompasses all stories.
When death comes
the narrative I have been retelling myself
will become a set of images,
a small bundle of moments,
a memory of a memory.
I recall killing a murdering bandit
chased him all over North Thailand,
The satisfaction of putting
two .22 Magnums slugs
into his head after he surrendered.
I could write a book about that,
detail and narrate, perhaps elaborate and fudge
all the circumstances that led to that moment,
but none of it matters
only the look in his eyes as the lights went out,
that’s the image that stays.
Of my first boyhood crush
only the one image remains,
her sour look seen through a teardrop.
My father holding his arms aloft
after the chemotherapy
A victory salute two days before he died
in the hospice.
Of course there are other images,
but there is no story worth reinventing.
Each image is a fractal an incomplete mosaic of a whole,
though clearer than any story
that could be set to paper
as a word-web of truth and fiction.
When all that matters is what we see
in a broken mirror
then that splintering will speak for us
not any story narrated
by our own
slyly embellishing ghost writer.
The pain that young man felt was very close
to what hell would be like. Richard watched
and heard this poor soul scream and beg for
his life over and over again. Richard
did not have a conscience. The beatings that
he took from both his parents created this
monster. He was immune to someone else's
horrific pains, It didn't bother him. When he
was a child he would tie two cats together by
their tails and throw them over a clothesline,
and watch them claw each other to death.
The film was completed. The poor man was
eaten to where most his bones were exposed
and his flesh was gone. He then delivered the
the film to his boss, a well known mobster.
9/18/2015 PLEASE READ IAN GUYLER'S
RATMAN COMETH..................................
You can actually see this horrendous video
by going to You Tube and going to Serial
Killer Hitman Richard Kuklinski The
Iceman Documentary. This is not for the
fainthearted. WARNING VERY GRAPHIC
MATERIAL for those of you that want to
view this. Also he was also known as the
Iceman. A book The Iceman written by
Anthony Bruno is his life story. It will
turn your world upside down. Incredible
reading.
Like a jelly fish, I quake
It came as the biggest blow
With a volcanic outburst
That almost broke my heart into ashes
I sneeze while shivering
My mouth aches, as my ribs quiver
Do I hear you well ma?
I echoed within and aloud at once
It was 12.48am of a May 19th, 2007
“I am fed up” she threw caution into the wind
It is the signal to end a seven years sojourn
With my once loving Thuja.
Still my ears far off my mind
Was this happening to me I soliloquy?
Reality dawn on me instantly
It was the end of a reign of my Arkhaggelos
My Thuja, of the beautiful
Lovely and lively African tree
Whom I promised to hold tighter
Without withering, until we roll in the alter
Indeed, she just altered the alter promise
I wept from my very within
Tears of which was not seen outside
It was a dream shattered
Suddenly all plans seems scattered
As I refused to be flattered
By my kinsmen’s on the said matter
What a cruel world, I ponder
Why someone would shut a door of a house
We had lived for seven years
Without blinking an eye for love
I think aloud as her voice re-echoes in my mind
“Sorry, I am fed up with everything”
I took solace within
No cause advanced for shutting the door
May be, she can’t wait no more
May be, she had my love replaced in her heart
May be and may be . . .
Still wandering in a manger of no love.
I saw the owl smiling
But still looking ugly
She pretended as If all was well
At last, the owl warbled in a fusty voice
Here comes the echo of the evil omen
On this day 19th May,2007
I grudgingly took up the gauntlet
As I close the book of my dottings
My promise to Thuja wane with fury
Alayande Stephen T.
2.45am
19th May, 2007
My personal experience, indeed, a true life story.
I am not alone, but I live in solitude
I know you don’t meant it, you’re not trying to be rude
My life story, so many times I’ve viewed
You neglect how I feel, could care less what I say
Although you say you love me, it doesn’t appear that way
Throughout the day, I pretend to be content
Because to and fro is where my heart has been sent
Never have I bent, the rules, or even stretched the truth
But my life story is living proof
That by remaining honest you’re not guaranteed happiness
In all sincerity, it can bring only trouble and stress
I must confess that I envy everyone I know
For they don’t care as I do, they have only joy to show
Deep down below, all the skin and my flesh
Lives a heart so lonely, a soul so unblessed
Depressed and forgotten, no one cares to care
No one knows my name, just another child, someone who’s there
Why can’t I realize the truth, face reality and see
That I live alone and no one really loves me
My life story
I was eighteen years old
In the cold quiet days
We had buried my father
In the few past days
My mother a woke me one morning
And told me things had changed
She talked of my schooling
And said it was challenged
The wings were broken the flight was canceled
“I’m handing you to the world, our battle is lost”
Her voice was deep but her smile was lost
“Luck you have learnt, more than the most
And now that you have learnt, remember the cost”
Few days after, i left her door
And walked all the ways across the plains
Holding the brush, scrubbing the floors
Cursing my life in the field of grains
But i thought if i lived longer someday
I would pour my tears in lines
And now that i have lived up to this day
I hold my pain in musical rhymes’
(not really, but just wanted
to get your attention.)
Thus "NOT FAKE," but
poetic quasi true anecdote
infused fictionalized
by this ole goat
with prevarication
to enliven of no note
characteristic, and certainly
not worth quote
ting - for any future
reference material, imp poet
tent to sketch a biography
of one otherwise tote
tem mick drab existence,
that happens
moost would vote
as exhibiting blank pages,
which means no ghost
for me life story needed since
no words needing tubby wrote.
thus the crux of foraging
into how the missus
snorts in her sonorous way
the one repetitive sleepy tune,
that doth not
warrant a veejay,
nor and thespian to reenact
a zonked out spouse from
exercising at the
Y.M.C.A. today,
but each increment of time
imposes additional wear
and tear on the body electric,
thus no place...(except...
Swiss Side or
Willoughby), to runaway
from senescence process
so one must savor
to the maximum propinquity
of each moment
analogous as if one received
money for their
existence as being payday
before day of reckoning,
which could occur any
minute, hour, second...
with no noway
opportune time will
provide any leeway,
especially for those
ping folks immediately
at ground zero, where
husband or wife
kept awake from partner
mercilessly growling drones
hell bent on then simply jay
ping, when agent provocateur
awakens only to find
themselves bound and gagged
unable to attend the
Scottish celebration of hogmanay.
Journey Journal Page
NEW YEAR’S EVE 2023
For Ann
Here on the verge
The old year droops
With weary sighs
As distant highs
Fade in odd scoop
Can joy emerge?
Here on the verge
Last jigsaw piece
Old strains now fade
In a rough trade
A new life lease
Can cheer emerge?
~~~~~~~~~
Bold thoughts emerge
With timely take
With anxious feel
With strange appea
With unsure stake
Here on the verge
Bold cheer emerge
A certain change
A new day brings
A new year springs
A cast most strange
Here on the verge
~~~~~~~~~
On New Year’s Eve
Resolutions
Can spark new rhymes
Can slot in time
Can frame action
New flair, new gifts
On New Year’s Eve
Resolve to be
A better man
A time to plan
Just be happy
New flair, new gifts
~~~~~~~~~
My dear darling
Hand-in-hand we
Walk our journey
Be most happy
As we can be
As good thoughts spring
My dear darling
Our life story
Unfolds lovely
Our chemistry
Simply, aptly
As kind thoughts bring
~~~~~~~~~
Sing to the dawn
Happy New Year
A blank page here
To start good cheer
That now draws near
A lovely morn
Sing to the dawn
Let faith purge fear
Most crystal clear
As gracious cheer
Succeeds right here
A timely dawn
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
31 December 2023
Singapore
My life story
I was eighteen years old
In the cold quiet days
We had buried my father
In the few past days
My mother a woke me one morning
And told me things had changed
She talked of my schooling
And said it was challenged
The wings were broken the flight was canceled
“I’m handing you to the world, our battle is lost”
Her voice was deep but her smile was lost
“Luck you have learnt, more than the most
And now that you have learnt, remember the cost”
Few days after, i left her door
And walked all the ways across the plains
Holding the brush, scrubbing the floors
Cursing my life in the field of grains
But i thought if i lived longer someday
I would pour my tears in lines
And now that i have lived up to this day
I hold my pain in musical rhymes’
I think Annie is going to shoot me.
She smiles and winks;
this is what she does best,
the little lady is deadly accurate
and pert with it.
She takes aim. "Right ear." She says.
Bang! Her Winchester
explodes my ear.
She laughs girlishly
tells me to wake up,
but the dream is way too interesting
and I stand there dripping blood
until she magically replaces it.
We go to a lake,
recline on a mattress of meadow daisies
while she relates her life story,
I already know it
and just want to make out.
Annie sings a lullaby
a crow taught her in the Ohio wilderness.
"Would you rather have a 1960's
Coup Deville Cadillac
or me?" She says suddenly.
My hesitant silence speaks volumes.
I ask: What color?
The feisty gal
kisses me with her Kathrin Hepburn lips,
then shoots my ear off again.