Long Middle Poems
Long Middle Poems. Below are the most popular long Middle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Middle poems by poem length and keyword.
How do I shed the label
of a white oppressive man
Do I listen to the message
of Obama's "Yes we can!"
Perhaps I'll go out marching
With women take to the streets
Hold placards of "Black Lives Matter"
While trying to feel their pained heart beats
Still I wonder should I feel guilty
for horrible things my race has done
Or would it not be better
If I instead loved everyone
My friends are many religions
Jewish, Muslim, Christian Too
I've conversed with Jehovah witnesses
if you are Sikh I can learn from you
I'm unconcerned with color
or the kind of clothes you wear
I'm more interested in your story
and the heart you're willing to share
Don't see me as an enemy
Just because my skin is white
Understanding will replace our fear
Conversations can make things right
No one wants to be looked at
through the lens of a clouded eye
If you and I are both willing
a different logic will apply
In the end we are brothers and sisters
there is but one human race
Each person wants a sense of belonging
It's up to us to create that space.
Entry for Debbie Guzzi's " What is White?" Contest
Header Note
Contest: Rhythm and Rubble Poetry Contest
Prompt: A Single White Rose
Sponsor: Kerry Bernatchez
Poem Title: A Single White Rose in the Rubble
Form: Free Verse
Date of Submission: July 10, 2026
A Single White Rose in the Rubble
* single *
* white rose, *
* blooming in the *
* broken stone of a town *
* that fell apart in minutes. *
* The ground shook. Streets turned *
* to dust, like a desert swallowing *
* everything. Buildings fell, roads *
* split open. The noise of life, *
* of laughter—all buried. The *
* sky went red. Fog and *
* smoke rolled thick. *
* Whispers turned *
* to loss. *
* * *
|| Footsteps turned to silence.
|| Everything became dust.
|| But at the end of the cracked
|| street, something was still growing.
|| Small. Stubborn. And there,
|| barefoot in rubble, a little girl
|| in a white frock. She wasn’t crying.
|| She held a photo frame tight
|| to her chest. Her family smiling
|| back from the glass. No house left.
|| No voices left. Just her, and
|| the rose, and the quiet between
|| them. Purity didn’t leave.
|| It stayed. Right here, in the
|| middle of what was gone.
||
||
Ego ran away in the middle of the night with my favorite mask.
I did not realize it was gone until morning
When I saw my bare face in the mirror
My twelve-year-old vulnerability with freckles.
I had not seen myself without protective covering for many moons
You cannot go out in public that way! I chastised myself.
You are too fearful, too delicate, too fragile.
Where is your mask?
The mask was long gone, eaten up by the hard-on-me-monster.
Ego apparently thought he was being too accommodating.
She wanted to turn him into a minion for herself.
I fastened a concrete wall around myself,
hoping to fool the masses into thinking I was a grown up.
—Memorial Day Elegy—
The grave site
where the men and women of patriotic spirit fought bravely
in the battlefield and fell for glory of the nation,
abandoned everything that they have, buried
at an age that is too young to die lie as headstones.
No matter with how many brilliantly shining medals
to decorate these warriors
and to honor them with all kinds of eulogies,
alas! sad as ever, they just stand there without a word
as the tombstones identical in size and shape.
The warriors were, though, not that strict
that evil must be paid with evil and good must treat with good,
held arms because the nation was attacked by the enemy,
and security was at stake;
to them, it doesn’t matter whether it is good or evil,
they have to restore this national emergency
with whatever means available.
The warriors, therefore, without the slightest hesitation,
dashed in the middle of the gun smoke and bullets,
into the battlefield where the cannonade tears the ears,
and blasting fires pierce the eyes.
The warriors,
who fought with every means to protect nation,
even traded their lives for nation’s security,
now stand there as the tombstones
with relief and great pride,
looking proudly at the fluttering nation’s flag,
that they protected with all that they have;
during the day
beckoning the passing clouds,
at the night
calling twinkling stars,
telling the stories of how gruesome was the battle
and how hard it was to fight.
The songbirds are plentiful where I live in the middle of oaks
I had four birdfeeders, but white tail deer slammed into them
Until they broke into bits, for they were plastic and did not survive
As they were being deer-bashed against the trunk of these oaks.
To discourage the deer, I bought new metal bird feeders.
It brings in up to eight cardinals, and a blue jay daily.
Wrens, robins, sparrows, and wood peckers arrive before nine.
Rat-a-tat sound on my oak bark; I enjoy watching their heads bob.
My forest is full of tweets, peeps, whistles, coos, and caws
There is a huge the influx of crows, which I also welcome
Playful squirrels are fun to watch, but their fingers are too deft
Daily they unscrew the tops of my bird feeders, laughing at me.
Allowing all of the bird feed to land on the ground, in a clump.
Bottoms of feeders roll into driveway, so I have to drive around them.
A plethora of activity, a menagerie of lively animals including rabbits.
Sassy squirrels chastise me when I come out; thinking it is their yard.
I Hear your voice :
I hear your voice so loud and clear,
it is if you are very near,
I turn around to see if you are near,
but I don't see you anywhere.
I hear your voice so loud and clear,
I hear you tell me you are still near,
I turn around but you are not
here,
I hear your voice but you are not here.
I hear you tell me not to cry,
but tears drops from my deep blue eyes,
You tell me to be happy not sad,
but some how I can not do what
you ask.
I hear your voice so loud and clear,
but you are no where my dear
I wish you were here for me to see,
but you left me for a better place
And
I look forward until we meet again
so be can be together again.
I hear the whimper of a sad owl in the middle of the burning night
I hear the tears falling from silence.
I hear the whisper of the beating, living, loving heart.
I hear the pain of the paper, the brittle, torn-apart.
I hear the trembling voice of a singer-mute,
I hear the glory in the hearts of youth.
I hear the thundering thoughts of a curious mind,
I hear the music of a broken light.
I hear the sorrow of a happy smile,
I hear the everlasting love, everlasting time.
I hear the whimper of a sad owl in the middle of the burning night,
I hear the tears falling from a distance inside.
I hear the glaze of the autumn rain beginning to fall,
I hear it as I write.
I hear it all.
By Aliza Kashmala Kiran
Erewhile took hoisted oath crushed cod,
'pon Cecilia 'n' cramped Cynthia's nod.
T' his lusty lover he'd rehearsed
pored pledges gored b' lanky love's lurch.
Damp dell 'n forg'ry hewn dark deceit,
'n which sassy smirk 's draped - smothered spree.
Furred fabrics ergo "f cloning sewn
torn was b' bounty blitzkrieg b' time thrown;
"Trade thy love with me. I'll borrow",
thrived oft - offshoot "f th' ticker's sorrow.
But untutored mind 'n deceit lagged
"s her words smarter than visage nagged.
Anon did wielded wits 'witch him,
'n' anon sent he her 'way raging.
'20:07:25:11:00
Note:
a) of damp dishonesty
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Erewhile - long ago
ii) Cod - a man
iii) Cynthia - moon
iv) dell - young woman
v) ergo - then
vi) oft - often
vii) visage - face
viii) Anon¹ - immediately
ix) Anon² - At once
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) 'pon - upon
ii) 'n' - and
iii) t' - to
iv) b' - by
v) 'n - in
vi) 's - is
vii) "f - of
viii) b' - by
ix) oft - often
x) th' - the
xi) "s - as
xii) 'witch - bewitch
xiii) 'way - away.
My garden comes alive at night,
many flowers do not bloom by day.
In the middle of the night,
my garden is in full swing.
The Blue Bells are swaying,
ringing their bells to the beat.
The big full white moon,
starts out singing a lullaby.
Butterflies are coming to this musical party,
they are dressed in their finest colorful wings.
In the middle of the night,
when I am fast a sleep.
The beautiful butterflies dance from flower to flower,
dancing as the big full white moon is singing along.
Come on down to Inclusive Town
We will throw you in by your knee or chin
Come on my friend, and you all are
Matter of fact,
Become our holiday star
Rappers, scrappers, mappers too
You are all welcome
Yes!
I do
Mean
YOU!
Come on down and pick up a fiddle
They are on the floor.
Also in a pile.
Grab one in the middle
Come on down to Inclusive Town
where the air is free, and the dirt is brown
Come barefooted, wearing your holiday tops.
The music is free, and it never stops.
Want to paint?
Easels are free along with paint.
Don’t talk right?
We love your “ain’t”.
Shoe-tapping music all over this place.
Inclusive Town open to every religion and race.
You have three eyes?
From a different planet.
This place is for you.
We’ll rename you Janet
Or Pete or Clover or Cockeyed Sue.
The main thing is, we are waiting for you!
Is Donald Trump a saint or a sinner?
This question hangs
in bars and in corridors of power
This man, Trump, is habitually torn to shreds, by political editors representing the opposition, while some
people point out the country was in good shape under
Trump's leadership and middle America applauds
Donald, let's see him as a golf-playing human is criticized for his tie, which appears too long, he is also obese, he was but is not obese anymore.
The daftest accusation is that Donald doesn't drink, which should be an example for all politicians, did they think a Donald- drunk, like Yeltsin but funnier.
When the intellectual class and the Washington elite are
up in arms over our Donald, it is time to ask what the ordinary workers and the small shopkeepers think about
him; to the elite group( those who drink French red wine for lunch) surprise Donald, the man, who is admired.
Yes, the people of middle America, the flyover states
who supply the army with soldiers to wars called to free
the local of the wrong tyrant, who will be replaced with one they say is a true friend of democracy
They are the people badly informed by the mass media
endlessly lied to; Donald enters and tells his audience the untarnished truth, and the wind of hope sweeps over
Minnesota, Idaho, Indiana, and Kansas, at last, a man who cuts through the waddle in Washington and cuts to the chase. They are the people Hilary Clinton, called
the deplorable, well, they are back and bit her ****.
I don't think Donald Trump will win, the black cabal of Washington will see to that.
If something good has to come out of this sorry saga it must be not to take people for granted.