Long Melancholia Poems
Long Melancholia Poems. Below are the most popular long Melancholia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Melancholia poems by poem length and keyword.
Between hours from morn to sundown
I drift in a place of nowhere--
and though birdsongs seemingly coo
“It’s alright; you are young"
frailties leave me wanting
each and every move that twines us.
These doleful eyes hide away
behind a cloud of ebon shades,
expressing numbness or
is it vulnerability quite undone
when melancholia seethes, aimless---
our world, our co-owned pledge
disconnecting us from a language
now unknown like torn ampersand.
I press my hand on a montage
and wonder about all possibilities,
yet times flit along zones once alive
only to bury dreams, unless unless...
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Your Best Free Verse 2020 Contest
For John Hamilton
Written 5/19/2020 Re-Submitted 5/24/2020
At the time of night that men call 10:30,
I sit in a corner bar by myself,
Watching two tables---
Clusters of life and sound---
A softball team and their wives/girlfriends/lovers
Drinking softly into the evening
A child's face, released from mother's side,
Floats around the tables,
Serene and white in tavern dusk,
Asking a quarter from each adult
Until finally someone gives him one
To make him gone
And for the millionth time
I look into the mirrored tile behind the bar
And see you there beside me
You're looking down---
Digging through your purse---
And the wound that never heals
Opens just a little more---
A quarter's worth---
A golden ornate cup once full
a mystical reservoir filled
now half-emptied of love and emotions,
as if the night would be emptied
of moon glow and starlight;
sipping in and savoring, bitter delight
in the last few remaining drops
of inner peace and tranquility,
harbinger of melancholia time
bewitching poetry of sage and antiquity;
inebriation, intoxication, imbibed tippler,
the maudlin sour darkness of sleep
rest and forgetfulness of the forlorn soul
the old soul, the soothsayer extraordinaire,
a primitive, ecclesiastical realist;
give me rest, satisfy my thirst
quench my fears and anxieties
in restful sleep and dreamscape
awaiting escape, release, freedom
through this chalice of night.
1/18/22 The Chalice of Night
contest sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
Melancholia
Sometimes my soul aches, in the morning light
Dappled as it arrives through the curtains
My dad says it’s a beautiful day and, indeed,
I perceive it as beautiful..trees, people
But something cold runs through my blue veins
As I inspect my wrists to make sure they’re mine
I find my eyes unsure of where to settle
Glazed over like a foggy mirror
Seeing but not seeing
I ask them not to take my picture,
For behind my eyes water sloshes around
As if in a glass, threatening to pour over
Choking out words for people, all alive in conversation
I feel I am peeking in at their world, mute
As it rolls by in laughter and togetherness
As the sun comes up and falls away again
I walk down the road that has become a desert
And I keep walking, watching, waiting
For the next mirage that I can try to hold onto
~For Craig Cornish’s Contest “Anatomy of Melancholy”
Fathers Day
A melancholia has crept into this day,.
and into the dreams of the days that follow.
To bed I went, knocked out by the final blow
to this friendship, a friend I just do not know.
A friend who just cannot seem to find mellow.
I awoke to little hope, explanations ?, no way
was I to feel the presence of my little Girls
as thoughts of them , through my brain swirls.
For a brief moment, the phone rings, few words,
from my youngest, it was Melanie, that I heard
offer an acknowledgement of my fatherly position.
Silence comes to my ear, I wonder, I have suspicion
that maybe I just do not deserve this to be my day.
A father – they may feel and rightly so – no way !
Lift that bale, tote that barge, drive that van
and so, for Joyce, for Share, I do the best I can.
Supper I make and eat on my own.
From family, I am left alone
and so, along the river I walk.
A few humans – homeless – I talk
with for a minute or two, leave the Pitt,
on my way, say goodbye to Spirit
and all her cronies
as thoughts of the phonies
I have come to know
as onward, towards home I go
to a night of movies on television,
thoughts of my Children, - in my vision,
my dreams – and all I did not give
to my, Beautiful Girls, of myself.
A little man, a thoughtless elf
is all that I seem to be, to live.
Fathers Day, a day for real fathers,
not a day for a name, for men like me
and this is what today has me see
as to why it is empty of my Daughters
B. J. “A” 2
June 21st 2004
Like a tree with a broken limb
This broken branch begins to bend,
Like the splitting hairs caught in a comb
I sensed the void on my own
I look and seek deep in my soul
In hopes to find something to console
Dull and deep is its shaded abyss
For there is nothing in its mist
But dust and spirits, of the disappearing
For I am the one that has become weary.
The void I walk is very deep
Who knew these hills could be so steep.
However, I am who is broken
Yet, everyone wants a token.
Thinking they have givin me something
When in turn they have provided nothing.
I feel the pain of my psychosis,
For my mind has become atrocious.
The nullness and the empty space,
I knew would win the race
But there is nothing more
For I have become
Null &Void
Savage beasts run rampant on the path between my ears, turning sound to silence, thoughts there to fill the void.
We run and we hide but there seems no way out of this cyclical sentence, years to life.
My creaking joints are a reminder of my humanity, but the alien in my head begs to differ.
I am sworn to secrecy, a pinky promise between two hands of the same being, fingers tied in a knot
The unwelcome banging on my door snaps me back into a state of internal slumber, They will never find out.
Through drainage and desolation
My feelings develop congested and hindered
Common folk chatter aimlessly, but I sit and ponder the fearless death of fallen leaves
Raindrops race down glass, I watch as I fill with an encroaching melancholia
The sound of my cries echo in the hollow auditorium of my chest
Although pounding with in my ears, they are silent to the world around me
I reach out my hand only to be met with the bones of a friend, I wasn't the only one
Am I living a delusion?
for I have
a mania, a verbo grapho obsession
oh yes, I have a fixation
for words and writing . . .
sometimes, I am wrapped in melancholia
free-floating in strangeness
euphoria is when I am writing necro
unhinged, perhaps
maybe
I just have this urge to pen death
after all death has been my best friend
since forever it seems
but, in general
this writing madness is my daily thirst
I must feed my passion
my compulsion, my ravings
in nature I get lost in my mind
I have a fancy for flowing streams
and quiet forests
where birds sing insanity . . .
my ink must fall on white daily
or I am sure madness would invade
oh, lunacy may not be far off
I feel that I am locked in a bottle
unable to escape
oh, that is silly
these fits of mania are just
the hunger and need of
a writer . . .
___________________
October 20, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/Feeding My Passion
Copyright Protected, ID 10-9573-79-20
All Rights Reserved, 2017, Constance La France
back door breeze.
relief from sophistry.
sounds of ink
dipping into darkness.
I see moonbows,
or I’d like to; believe
in wings of brightness,
breath of sweet season.
quicksand takes my breath.
soothing tunes of velvet
like romantic violins
reel me in; I need briskness -
a cold blast. I need leaves
to relieve my melancholia.
don’t refuse me the hues
of Autumn, a drift of falling.
In the twilight of my thoughts, I drift,
An inward journey, an endless quest,
Self-knowledge, an adventure, a hidden gift,
That carries me far, into the depths of my chest.
Through the corridors of my mind, I wander,
A stream of consciousness, a boundless sea,
Reflecting on shadows, both near and yonder,
In the labyrinth of self, where truths are free.
Comprehensive knowledge of the shadow, they say,
Can cast a veil, a profound darkness,
Personality problems arise, like a stormy bay,
Unimaginable struggles, silently found.
For this reason, the alchemists spoke,
Of nigredo, melancholia, a blacker than black,
A darkness so deep, it seems like a joke,
Yet within it, lies the path we lack.
In this shadowed realm, I find confusion,
Mental mazes, twisted and intricate,
Each step forward, a powerful illusion,
Of clarity gained, through the fires of yearning.
The shadow within me, a mirror so stark,
Reflects parts of me, unknown, unseen,
Into its depths, I embark,
On a journey through the unseen and in-between.
With each revelation, the darkness grows,
A blacker black, that swallows the light,
Yet in this void, understanding flows,
A beacon of truth, in the heart of night.
Self-knowledge, a profound adventure,
Carries me far, into the depths of my soul,
Through the shadows, where mysteries are found,
Toward a wholeness, a vision made whole.
In the flux of thoughts, I navigate,
The intricate dance of light and dark,
Embracing the shadow, my destined fate,
For within the black, lies the eternal spark.
And so, I wander, in this stream of being,
A mystical journey, deep and vast,
Through the shadow, I am seeing,
The true self, emerging at last.
For in the depths of the darkest night,
When shadows loom and fears ignite,
I find within, a hidden light,
Guiding me through the endless night.
With each step, the esoteric unfolds,
A tapestry of secrets, ancient and wise,
Revealing the mysteries the universe holds,
In the sacred dance of abysses and highs.
In silence, I hear the call,
Of ancient whispers, of cosmic lore,
An inward journey, where shadows fall,
To uncover the truth and much more.
Thus, I embrace the shadow's embrace,
A dance of darkness, a path of light,
For in this mystical, esoteric space,
I find my soul's deepest sight.