Long Marks Poems
Long Marks Poems. Below are the most popular long Marks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Marks poems by poem length and keyword.
A screen door
creaks
small incursions
into rip and hole.
Unseen, a creeping grub and thriving,
chitinous mandibles
munch upon the desiccated dead,
thrive in the thrash and mingle.
Corruption forms its disorderly queue,
jointed question marks
walk on segmented legs
spindly limbs pry
where slick eggs incubate.
As time swings its metronome,
splintered chips
flake away, wood
cracks its rotting bones.
Internal scaffoldings
crumble,
mold multiplies,
mildew clings to
muck.
A festering wriggles forth.
"Honey, can you oil the back door,
it's creaking again."
I scrunch my butt deeper into the sofa.
"I'll get on it after the game." I say,
making a mental note
to get more beers in,
Tomorrow, slap some paint
over the wormholes
maybe.
Foliage glows midst color-festival
Nature’s marvelous artistry displayed
Green leaves turning orange marks revival
Masterpiece of God wondrously replayed.
Brilliant canopies of golden fortress
Exude great creation’s iridescence
Cheerfully relieving mountain-trek stress
Along rejuvenating crisp’s incense.
Offering respite, sometimes nostalgic
With festive environmental dazzle
Exposing season-enigma’s logic
Welcoming chills of delightful drizzle.
Autumn radiance keeps scintillating
Vivid scenes make perpetual painting.
*Psalm 19:1 The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.
November 12, 2019
Honorable Mention, "STRAND SPECIAL 2..." Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 12/14/2019.
Looking upon the Eucharist that clips our heart.
The sole journey to the promise Land of thought,
Not as that which ended up in forty years.
But the one that has brought sorrow in laughter to our face.
From the first year of life,
Had our lives made to see the lens book.
That mama with cane and pampered,
Launched us to face the hit of that which looks so Arabic to the eyes.
In this our castle was built till adulthood,
That all stressed out for gaining admission.
As Hanna in Shiloh it was granted.
With a spirit filled in joy acceptance was made.
But as the children of our slave Marsha, bill was lashed on us.
For the joy that has laid in our heart that we dare look not.
With no knowledge that pant will be the source of promotion.
While awaiting the burial of CGPA for any refusal.
Save, oh save dear great divine!
For the joy that needs to await our brides are taken for marks.
Please hear me as I make a prayer.
For an order of injunction to restrain the brides
From this place of lettered.
And for such further order or orders as my Lord may deemed fit to make.
No, oh no,
This will be heartless and inhuman to them.
For our world will be dark should this be granted.
Rather the prayer must be,
Please hear me as I make this prayer in respect of our brides.
For an order that the joy of aftermath of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Be that of those whom libido have lost its track.
An order that the prayer of Joshua on those that rebuild,
The wall of Jericho be that of the people.
And for such further order or orders as my Lord may deemed fit to make.
© olorunleke olorode
She came out of the darkness
Said, "Sailor, have you got a light?"
I said, "I got everything you need
Would you like to spend the night?"
Her eyes flashed and she smiled
Saying she couldn't have wanted more
Then she told me to be careful
Of the things I'm asking for.
She told me she was lonely
So she comes out once in a while
She said it had been a long time
Since someone made her smile.
We went back to my place
And stayed there until dawn
Maybe I was dreaming
In the morning she was gone.
Could it have been just a dream
That made me feel such a wreck?
I couldn't explain the puncture marks
In the right side of my neck.
Fear
loathe
pity us Not
We scars
so judiciously brought into existence
by silent shreds
of emotion:
Jagged sighs,
wretched smiles,
come journey Dysfunction.
We beg your brave outsiders' senses
to peer
Are you
Perplexed by soft whispers
that emanate Clear
from each
line?
Does our breadth
of a slice
of depth
of vice
the stripping of seams
to bloodlines
within,
defy perfect dreams
of sweet nectar
skin?
Dare you touch these velvet ropes
muddied
from cold steel
hue
now dry
in caked puddles
of lost hopes,
once winding
thick
through?
Fear
loathe
pity us Not
We scars
so judiciously sought into existence
by silent shreds
of promise:
Sound larks
of empathy's
song,
Heed the marks
of our concern,
liquid and long...
We merely yearn
to be forgotten
in realms of healing
Hope
begotten.
The lip trembles slightly with the first sip in the morning.
Searching for the rim the hand is slightly shaky.
Eyes half-opened and ears seized by silence as the breath
inhales the vaporized memory of slow rising steam.
The second sip more confident finds the soothing liquid quickly.
The throat opens wide welcoming body sighs of mild comfort.
The third sip in the morning is the best as anyone who drinks it will attest.
The body now awake is fully prepared to take a fitting gulp.
No longer sipping, fairly zipping in the body’s quest for alertness.
The tongue is sharp to mark the measure of the draw.
The back is straighter as the body stands more tall.
This is the sip of the day. The first full taste.
Not done in haste but savored for the fullness of the flavor.
This is the quiet sip. Transporting you to the easy comfort
of a welcomed day. The easy sink into the softness
of a welcomed resting mind. The sip you are reluctant to relinquish.
That fair elongated moment of the magic third sip that stops time.
And then you gulp your way across the line that marks the end
of the cup and the beginning of the day.
Softly uttered, beneath cold biting mist,
footfalls muffled through stifling drifts, empty sidwalks embrace noone,
Frost heavily pluming, clinging on each sigh
In night's brazen stillness, beneath eerie lamp glow waning,
When dawn's long in coming, and all sleep like the dead,
Ah, then lets take a walk shall we , you and i?
Strolling as one, hand in hand, through icy winds
Past the churchyard gates, snow laden and chained,
Beyond empty glances of headstone cherubs,
Far off in darkness, solemn bells toll with straining conviction,
as winds moan wistfully, the tolling pierces the heart,
And I wonder in passing, how many more walks have we,
Beneath the silent moon overhead, white as bones in a shroud,
Shall the secnt of cinnamon haunt me into my dreams, yes i am certain,
For your eyes resemble heavens gates, amd my soul longs for redemption,
An angel draped in my tattered, time-worn jacket, littered with marks of life's ventures,
And yet you bear no wings to fly, but still you comfort me as morning draws nigh,
Crosstown bungalow, windows shuttered, still as my breath
As you I guide you once more up treacherous steps,
Our hands we let fall, a yearning stare betrays me,
"Tomorrow night again? Or when shall it be??",
Only a nod and a smile left imprinted to my heart,
"Hang on to the jacket. I'll pick it up in the morning."
Your smile never falters, unweathered by the wind,
And I turn to leave this night and you,
Leave this world behind for the rising sun,
An arm reached out, gripped with sorrow and infinity,
Pulled back into your everlasting embrace,
A kiss so deep, I feel I'm drowning,
God, let me drown...let me...drown....
You're gone.
Empty streets the morning finds,
save for me and my memories, trapped between time,
Stray dog struts past, hunting eagerly some alleyway breakfast,
But my business waits at the churchyard, still silent, still chained,
I climb over and drop, the gates clank in protest,
Between the rows of headstones, I walk in solemn sprit,
Thirteen rows now, then fifiteen, I know the way well,
And upon the eighteenth row, I find without mistake,
And draped across the frozen ground.....
My tattered, time-worn jacket.
Form:
I watch him mumble, lines of treble notes
Bones flinging on park so emerald clean
The old man droops, his shape a curving moat
Weary the shirt that covers marks unseen
Throwing bread crumbs to hide a balmy scene.
My eyes attack this figure‘s shade, rumpled
On dusky night when glows of moon cancel
Lost frolic, changing beam into a smirk
Raised temper glares at how his body leers,
Craning dry neck, I question stranger’s quirk.
For while he pined, cold hands in light remain
Through fallen wind and chill that rip them down
Stammering, pale voice rasps if his dog has lain
Upon the range to scout for food around
Eyelashes blink, my tears fall to the ground.
Blind is he searching for pet in depth of moans
I lift his arms, with gentle nudges intoned
“ Let me bring you to your own gate, dear Sir
Till your companion finds it way back home,”
He glides a smile, taming my heart’s error.
(c)
by nette onclaud
Do You Understand Contest of Cyn Mac Millan
A bag full of medals and honors by his side,
he holds it cuddled to his uniform with pride-
legacy of those years.
Amnesia plays with his fading identity,
he wants an abode of lasting serenity-
struggling against his fears.
Ghosts of valiant shadows emerging from war drums,
his trembling nights still echo haunting gloomy strums-
deep scars of blazing spears.
Wars have destroyed his paradise in insane sparks,
he finds a tranquil home to remove raging marks-
hopes dance behind his tears.
Blissful mellows wrap his sizzling pain in starlight,
an old age home welcomes a lost glorious knight-
veteran with new peers.
August 1, 2020
Tail Rhyme Stanza Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Marks can get you a degree or fame, But life doesn't play the same game. You memorize laws, quote the rules Still stumble when life bends the tools You can top every subject and win every race, Yet still lose direction in life’s lonely maze. You chase good grades because that’s what they praise, Yet no one teaches how to survive the hard days. You polished essays, following every rule But life has no syllabus and that’s it’s cruelest rule When the bills knock hard or the gas stove sparks, No one ask’s u about your calculus flair They'll ask you to mend what life tears apart, Not just recite what you've learnt by heart. They'll need you to fix a flat tire's plight, or cook a roti when the stove's not right. So, focus on skills that truly matter, Not just chapters that make your grades flatter. The answers that matter don't come from a page, They find you somewhere between fear and age Perhaps, Books may give you a career or name, But only wisdom teaches you how to play life's game. - MOKSHA JAIN