Long Mass grave Poems
Long Mass grave Poems. Below are the most popular long Mass grave by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mass grave poems by poem length and keyword.
The park is nothing but a mass grave
for the plant kingdom when unravels the night.
Winter's spectral feet whisper like a knave.
The flowers they did not save.
A cloud barrier and light.
The park is a mass grave.
Every bough exposed, prepared to slave
many months carrying clumps of white.
Winter's footsteps whisper like a knave.
Mother's light diminishes like a hollow ocean wave
grass letting go of green sight.
The park is a mass grave.
An old eucalyptus looked upon the ground and forgave
the clouds who stole the sun and bound him in blight.
Winter's gait whispers like a knave.
Light charged with icicle breath and the sky steeped in iron, let's be brave
before gravity's chants begins and the ground turns. The truth will bite.
The park is a mass grave and winter's stride whispered like a knave.
Time used to be gentle
like bike bells singing harmony
with a summer breeze.
Time seems to be picking up speed.
A freight train without an engineer.
A Hendrix electric guitar on amphetamines.
When did time become a runaway brute?
A trickster, a taker-a mass grave maker.
The shell game player. Raper of dreams.
Whisking everything you love to the far away...
Putting your cries on mute.
Time is picking up speed.
Withering things but never planting seeds.
Plucking the shriveled blossoms of memory.
Dumping them in a landfill.
With broken dolls, rusted 5 speeds, black lantern dreams.
Time is yellow rings of selfishness.
Forever hungry- lacks any empathy.
It devours the cream of life.
Turns the radiance of innocents into junkyard eyes.
Splashing gray onto the temple.
Welding bent hand to crooked cane.
Smashing everything in its greasy path.
Time is endless clownish-black comedy- a careen off a cliff.
A vintage violin at the bottom of a winter stream.
Time blasts into celebration when you're down to your last breath.
...But while talking at a diner on day
Autumn happened to make a remark
that being a woman meant giving life,
that pregnancy could bring joy to the heart.
She didn’t know a tranny sat behind her,
a man who pretended he was a girl,
he/she reported Autumn’s errant talk,
and down cashing came Autumn’s whole world.
She was arrested for assigning gender,
her intentions served as no defense,
saying the womanhood may mean children
was deserving of strict punishment!
Autumn protested, she tried to make clear
that she counted herself among the left,
wasn’t left enough to silence the mob,
they wanted scalps and scalps they would get.
Worse still the prisons, now overflowing
with souls convicted of heinous thought crimes,
were not enough, so works camps were opened,
she was sent to slave in a copper mine.
Ten hours a day, just bread and water,
doing labor that made the joints hurt,
no chance for a lawyer, she was now ‘fascist,’
things like justices such ‘kinds’ didn’t deserve.
It got worse still when the guards noticed her,
decided that they wanted to play,
now instead of hauling ore all the time
she was merely brought aside and raped.
By the time that first awful year was over
three times had poor Autumn miscarried,
between the rough treatment, and not being fed,
she had lost so much weight it was scary.
One morning she went out to the pit’s edge,
staring down eight hundred feet below,
with not a single emotion on her face
she stepped forwards and let herself go.
They tossed her body into a mass grave,
acted as if Autumn never were.
She wouldn’t defend the freedom of others,
so none were left to stand up for hers.
I stroll through the small resort town
at the southern end of Lake George,
William Henry rises above,
the famous colonial fort.
From the French & Indian days,
the original stood right here,
it didn’t last half a decade,
this one has stood seventy years.
Makes me wonder which of the forts
we’d call the ‘real’ William Henry,
the one that’s stood the text of time?
Or the one lost to history?
Not far off is the Bloody Pond,
where they say the water ran read
during the Battle of Lake George,
when ambush left so many dead.
It seems to be just a marsh now,
the cattails waving in the wind,
my mind digs up a ghoulish thought,
did all the bodies fill it in?
Nearby is the town’s paved bike path,
once the old colonial road,
where troops and supplies once flowed through,
now joggers and kids come and go.
Across the way imported sand
arcs around in a massive beach,
do they know bateaux landed there
delivering guns for the siege?
That some of their hulls still remain
rotting in the lake-bottom muck?
I’m sure some like the past like me,
but I can’t imagine it’s much.
The girls in tight bikinis
don’t think of the hell that once reigned
on the spot where they drink up sun,
and excited young children play.
The shops where they buy souvenirs,
once trenches zig-zagging the earth,
dug under fire by Frenchmen
trying to get guns to the works.
The central road where they drove in,
where the massacre did go down…
Do we drive over a mass grave
every time we come into town?
It’s not only these grim events
I see when I’m walking about,
a grand hotel once stood right here,
the old kind that really stood out.
Built in the nineteenth century,
lavish Victorian style,
broad porches looking on the lake
where folks could relax a while.
Now a modern hotel stands there,
lifeless square block, concrete and steel,
the first one destroyed the fire,
the kind of loss a town still feels…
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
At the cradle of my nightmares,
My future is a horror film,
I track my ghosts,
Like a junkie in withdrawal.
I am a true clandestine calamity,
A mass grave of silent suffering,
A candelabra of pain soothed by dirty money,
I hate the human race,
And I will never have a pet.
I am a loner addicted to silence.
I only write in the dark, to deathly sounds.
A mix of gloomy feelings,
I walk in the darkness of my imperfections,
My hands are no longer innocent,
Since I’ve handled weapons of war.
I am a child of the slums of the third world,
I know perfectly the orifices of misery.
Another damn sleepless night spent monologuing in the darkness of this cold room,
The devil covers his ears to the atrocities spilling from my confessions.
I’ve already used gunpowder
For a firework on the edge of legality.
I never agreed to sleep on an empty stomach,
I’ve risked my freedom since I was ten.
I’ve learned to walk among hungry beasts.
I’m already at war with my demons,
I know I’ll end up in the flames.
I know I have no right to trust a human being,
Being a slave to shine is impossible.
My enemies squat in my imperfect flesh.
I don’t smoke crack,
I don’t smoke cannabis,
I don’t snort cocaine,
I don’t drink alcohol,
I sometimes burn a few cigarettes.
I avoid psychotropics,
I’m not a poet,
Just a tormented mind,
Prisoner of infernal loops,
Where murder scenes repeat endlessly.
My tears stopped flowing down my cheeks
Since I saw my friend crushed by a logging truck.
I am an angry man with murderous impulses,
I commit suicide each time in this same nightmare that has repeated since my childhood.
I’m approaching fifty,
I’ve stopped meditating on the whims of the reaper,
I’ve stopped wandering in graveyards.
Let the universal force show mercy on my impure, tainted soul
By the poisons of lust,
I accumulate transgressions to have a throne in the furnaces of hell.
I don’t believe in paradise, but I know I’ll burn in the abyss’s celestial flames after my twilight.
A deep philosophical reflection in the ramblings of my delirium.
I hate the spotlights like those criminals on the run,
Too many regrets hidden in the closets,
A clean criminal record like the entrails of Christ’s mother.
I blaspheme to darken my divine fragment.
Sauntering into the pub from out of the fog
the varnished wood paneling on the walls
reflecting the amber light from the Edison bulbs
in their Art Deco fixtures hanging overhead
the air scented with a mixture of lemon and leather
I see you sitting alone at the bar as you always are
your hair glinting gold with the slightest hint of red
You greet me as I seat myself at your side
the bartender placing an Old Fashioned in front of me
identical to your own but for an extra orange slice
He knows by now that’s the way I like it
I take a sip as you compliment my dress
then inquire as to how I’ve been since last we met
I tell you that nothing’s changed or I wouldn’t be here
Noticing your glass is nearly empty I order you another
dropping the cherry from my own into it
as Al Bowlly croons a tune about the moon on the radio
I recall how he was killed in the Blitz and buried
in a mass grave as if he was no one of any consequence
You gaze at me with your azure eyes as I light a cigarette
asking once again why I insist on murdering myself
I answer you as I have a hundred times before
I'm already dead as even someone as celebrated
as you will be someday so what does it matter
This is all an absurd fantasy anyway
The real you doesn’t give a damn what I do
are you so afraid to look at death because it would impair your ability to live?
or are you that self-induldged that you can not find it in yourself to forgive?
time is near the layers of corpses will be eased into a mass grave on a slide
are your thoughts full of memories of death that hinder the limbic region of your mind?
the hand cart is rolling for the tare those seeds will be thrown into the fire
and the weakened thump of a vragant vessel loses compassion and desire
will your soul be magnified or diminished before the throne of God?
will you be weighed for righteousness or pointed out by the saviors
rod?
I knew it was you all along, trying to compose a different song, I knew you were standing in the line when the bullets explode into the sky
Everyone had to run for cover and hold onto what they could find; they use handkerchief to cover their mouth as billows of smoke climb up the roof and encircle the place, where they dug the mass grave.
Screams and shouts echoed in the street and people were running right and left shouting profanities to the blazing sky, shoes scattered on the ground and the goats were flung out of their safety nets lying in the street gasping for breath.
The grocery store where they always have the disorder and grocer was always cutting corner was no more; he and his grocery store went up in flame and they all perish in the heat before the fire truck came.
Everything was sudden and the heavens was filled with trouble, rockets were not going up, it was the manche that sail through the air that created much fear and the kingdom robe in his gown stood on the other side hugging his bride and counting the harvest and the abundance it brings. And somewhere deep down inside, they found comfort on which to rely.
What on earth could have caused that explosion; it wasn’t a suicide bomber or a pressure cooker; it was a magnifying glass reflecting in the sun that sets off the plastic bottle in the bush that cause that big explosion. Everything thing quite down and the first responder left the town and everyone was homeward bound.
The narrow path saved their lives, the narrow path made much sacrifice, the narrow path knows how to roll the dice, and when you get lost get back on the narrow track and you will obtain the victory that you seek.
The narrow path is where you score goal.
The mighty wind buffets
And the trees cry bitter tears
I try to hang on to my limb
"Don't let go!"
shutting my eyes to the debris
I'm torn loose,
blown away
through the empty air
nothing to cling to
panic sparks as I'm rolled
over
and
over
pulled this way................................... then that
too much wide open space
I'm battered against something solid
breaking,
cru
mb
ling into dry pieces
I
fall
to
the
ground
into a mass grave
of mirror images. mirror images
mirror images. mirror images
He feels he possesses a high tolerance.
Living side by side
with those he abhors
Tolerating the smells
and the sounds
of those lesser men.
He is of a proud race,
blonde hair blue eyes.
A future master of the world
he bides his time,
tolerating those lesser men.
Smiling, imagining the day
when he will rule.
When he will take
what should already be his.
Fortunately he is a truly tolerant man.
Tolerance of course does have its limits.
Tolerance can only last for so long.
He holds onto his glimmer of hope,
imagining those lesser men hung with rope,
one day their fat turned into soap!
When the time comes a joyous parade,
within a mass grave their bodies laid...
But for now he bides his time,
with tolerance he toasts with wine.
The visions in his head are so sublime
he wants what's theirs, he says "It's mein".
A sad chapter in human history, sadly these men still walk amongst us.
Read my other poem I wrote called "Tolerence" to know my thoughts".
For Debbie's "You say you want a revolution" Poetry Contest.