Long Memoir Poems
Long Memoir Poems. Below are the most popular long Memoir by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Memoir poems by poem length and keyword.
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At dawn, the peacock unfolds his ocellated fan~
a tail with a thousand spots blinking open,
each iris a universe spun
from sapphire and jade.
He’s a venerable avian creature
who once danced on temple steps
where Krishna’s flute still trills,
and Saraswati’s forgotten wisdom
clings to his quills.
Christians once buried mosaics
with his likeness, a thousand eyes
staring up from catacomb walls,
each plume a scripture~a symbolic
promise of resurrection:
this body is not the end.
I watch him parade through
dawn’s sunlight, untouched,
his peacock’s tail
dragging stars behind him
like a bridal veil.
You may read the related memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/summer_of_the_peacock_13620
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The keys remember her fingers~
soft thief stealing ivory light,
the hammers whispering
through felt and dust.
It waits, a black whale
beached in the entryway,
its ribs humming Debussy’s
Clair de Lune.
Play me, it murmurs,
and I will give you back
the weight of your mother’s hands,
the way they lingered
like slow rain
on a Sunday afternoon.
I do not know how to play the piano~
no one comes and the pedals rust.
And somewhere,
inside the walls,
a spider spins
a web of silent chords.
I understand that this poem is a memoir poem although PS doesn't have it as a cateogry to select.
(Note: This poem was written shortly after the 2022 Olympics and after Richard Branson and Jeff Bezos rode their rockets in a new space race for billionaires.)
Races
By Mark D. Stucky
Our country had a Space race
to beat Russians to the moon.
Decades ago, we left lunar footprints
and brought back rocks and selfies.
Rival billionaires build rockets now
for suborbital joyrides above.
We periodically join Olympic races
to go fractionally faster than others
for prestige and multi-metal medals.
Hosting countries spend billions
to applaud athletic bodies.
But for all that cash and hype,
we get no cure-for-cancer hope,
but viral spread and doping.
Our world needs better races
toward things that truly matter.
We require a Race race
to travel much faster
toward equity and healing
than ever gone before.
While we wish for a quick sprint,
a marathon is what we’re running.
Ending slavery long ago,
this race’s qualifying heat,
was just one stride
beyond the starting line.
Jim Crow still taints the track.
Systems still are prejudicial.
Supremacists still conspire.
Voting rights still are suppressed.
Vigilantes still chase and shoot.
Police still harm the unarmed.
This crucial marathon
has many miles to go,
but if we struggle to the end,
contenders might all be winners.
(Originally published in Small Town Anthology VIII: Entries from the Eighth Annual Tournament of Writers, Vicksburg Cultural Arts Center, 2022. See also my poems "Closed Community Prejudice (an Alphabetized Memoir)," "Weapons of Wonder," and "Hate Vacuuming?")
(Image by Braden Collum on Unsplash.com.)
Every year for me begins with an earnest goal,
One only, which I genuinely aim to achieve,
This year I attempt to accomplish my life-long
Poignant dream, an honest tale, a memoir to weave!
This true story my passion for a few years,
Fuse my unfeigned thoughts as sincerely as I can,
Memories turn into reverie, stem from soul, my
Humble quill tries to keep up with the ambitious plan !
At dawn, draw inspiration from magnificent sky,
From radiant sun, delightful wind swaying trees,
Chirping birds, fluttering butterflies my muse,
They surround me with mirth, and frolic with breeze!
This memoir honouring my parents, my ancestors,
Children to realize through adversity they did shine!
I write for the world yearning to delve into the past,
Many may find with wonder their own stories in mine !
Through endless streams.. my heart beats
Two lovely words..."Thank You" flows..
Filling up family, friends and foes.
Saga of the memoir.. soon completes.
Beyond the bounds of a bountiful life
Can I thank them.... they make us aware..
How to care and repair.. the water and air
Saving the Earth ...of worrisome strife.
Thank You for growing the flowers and trees
Thank You for showing the Clean and Green..
You are saving the Earth ..from Man and Machine.
Can I give thanks to you.. endlessly, please?
Dated 10th November, 2018
An Enclosed Rhyme within 12 lines on the theme :What are you thankful for?
Submitted for the Thankful Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
If you’re a woman, whoop-dee-doo!
Today’s the day that’s just for you
To celebrate the role you play
In life, despite unequal pay.
There’s surely been some progress made,
Perhaps deserving a parade,
For you can go to school and vote,
Run for office – win and gloat.
You can own a home or store –
They can’t stop you anymore.
Join the army, lead a band
Wed your girlfriend, buy some land.
Host a talk show, get real rich;
Run a business, make a pitch.
Write a memoir, practice law,
Protest ‘til your throat is raw.
Still, you aren’t equal yet
For some still see you as a threat
And if your rights held equal sway,
You wouldn’t need this special day!
Genealogy
—The beginning of a family tree—
For my great, great grandfather was a son of a slave,
he also was the slave,
and he grew up with a sad and appalling bedtime story
under the dim candlelight flickering in mother’s deep and painful sigh.
Since there was no book to turn over the leaves
no colorful pictures to see or fine letters to read.
The story was from the lips of dear mother,
who worn out from a long and hard day’s labor at fields,
and it was the most touching story he ever heard.
He, therefore, with his poor mother’s image
by his bed side though grievous,
carried this sad and heart-rending story
as an unforgettable boyhood day’s memory in his heart.
The story was, then, handed down generation to generation
and it was the story of Uncle Tom,1
one of most beautiful human beings,
agonizing under the heartless master’s lash,
gasping his last in the bosom of
a gentle-hearted young Mas’r from Kentucky
where the Tom-less Tom’s cabin on the sunny side hill still stands.
Nonetheless, Struggle was the only word they knew
to survive though not as human beings but as a simple living thing,
nonetheless, Struggle was the only word they have to bear in mind
in order to eke out an existence
though not as a dignified being but as an insignificant thing.
They struggled for their lives throughout their never-ending
tiring days, throughout their dark and restless nights.
Although my great, great, great grandfather’s father was
a proud warrior of a tribe
which dominated the wilds in the coast of the Black Continent
where the glow of a setting sun kisses yonder horizon to redden
the ripples, to call the stars and moon from the other side of sky
for the undisturbed and peaceful rest at night.
However, when the evil-spirited wicked ones
whose domain encompasses to and over the seven seas
invaded this peaceful land, though he was a courageous warrior,
whose strength was greater than the king of the beasts
he was trapped and lost his mighty strength.
Able to run faster than the cheetah in the wild
he was shackled and lost his swift legs.
The wings, which enabled him to soar higher
than the eagle were broken to pieces as he was captured.
1Cf: Harriet Beecher Stowe. Uncle Tom’s Cabin
Why did you destroy my heart?
Someone loved you. Just an ordinary person. A European lonely guy
My life’s desire was unknown, but the desire brought a beautiful flower
Your life created a new one. Wishing your heart. Don’t forget this mood
My life is yours. My life is the depth of my grave for you. Black marble
Silver letters, antique style, just a memoir, silver black tulip, and a white
“This is a Stone for a Lost Love, in this Memorial Park. Rest in Peace”
Rest in Peace
Peace find him
I love the Peace
We live together
My love on Earth
Be at rest in peace
I am waiting for you
We will live here
Together, forever
.
grab thuh pen
write...
the thinker whom yourn
grabz
likewise
hern
lock'd like
tite tight
tyte
inadvertently
cauze'd mine solomon
notwithstanding
mine enter'd
i pray
daily for knowledge
for i fear
wisdom
my find'n thuh must
i know
oblation
uv
mine
habitude
*Etymology uv the word tite:
The word tite comes from early Scandinavian
and was first used in Middle English. It can mean
taking place without delay, or being the closest or
most direct in effect.
In Kannada, tite meanz;
an uneasy or restless desire
Etymology uv the word tyte:
The word tyte comes from the Old Norse word
þjóta, which means "to sound" or "to rush".
I asked the shards, whose were on the walls of this narrow corridor.
What is this self? What are this one to do with this life?
Pass through here and we shall write on your husk the answer.
And so this one did, went forth.
Each slice revealed another, once dormant, memoir.
There, at dawn all had to leave their shelter to do what they did not like, for beings they could not care less about.
Every day, from dawn to dusk inside the metal worm accompanied from the faceless shadows.
Turning around, that pain, he was quite familiar with.
This one does not fathom the meaning, told to the shards, all you did was to open this flesh and gifted this one with scars.
No, we wrote on thy husk the emptiness of the meaningless that is to keep going.
Thee went trough us, though them, without desire, got scars, got pain, suffered, struggled. And yet, you need a reason, is not the pain and scars a lesson enough? At the end, you are more empty than before. Why is that?
I do not know. Why?
Forwhy there's no meaning, no higher purpose, no nothing, life itself is a disease, and you know, the other husks as well, how to get rid of it. Keep struggling, if so you wish. But take heed of us, there are nothing worth beyond.
At this point, this one decided to stop looking, he felt empty.
You told me to look, they told me to look, and less than that was not done.
Yet nothing was found, but what this one already knew, but denied.
To breath brings nothing but painfulness episodes to that what you told me to be worth the conflict.
I often get lost within myself.
But she help me find my way out. Cold. Sharp. True to its nature.
One. Two. Three, still cannot feel and you cannot understand, but I am back.
She brought me here.
As it goes dripping down, small portions of me, making small pools of crimson mirros
The very same spot where I can spy all the faces that once hated, where I can hear the laughter, the mockery, once more and feel the eyes judging and the fingers condemning.
I ask the table next to me:
What am I to do with what I've found?
Fill the void in thysellf, she told me.
I knew what she meant. I have to use the needle, the white dust and the stones.
To fly higher than this realm, fly away from myself.
Perchance, to find the end. And after it, may find a purpose...