Long Milk Poems
Long Milk Poems. Below are the most popular long Milk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Milk poems by poem length and keyword.
CRYING FOETUS
Hearing through the ears of my mother’s skin;
the voice of confusions rushing like waters on the earth; am coming to stay.
Crying in the womb of my mother; tears becomes my milk;
I Cried for my endangered life hearing;
From my mother’s complains; complains of hardship and,
unsafe world awaiting me.
As the river flow on the rock and the waterfall cry ; advising me to stay,
She cried for God’s provision when I come.
In my helplessness, the womb pushed me out into this world of endless sorrows.
I am crying for the sorrowful life am coming to live, and endured.
Crying for the danger of rape;
if am female; and, if am male, struggle continues till I return.
When I remembered my turning around in the womb,
Which one is better; to return, or to face reality of the pains;
The pains to pay my father’s debts, pains to renovate his old building;
Or the pains to cope with heartless Leaders.
Stop crying, said my afterbirth; return, if you can’t cope.
- Pastor Alfred Brown.
I was so glad to welcome you
And it was such a joy to hold you
Never wondered how life could’ve been without you
For I wish My womb could never have carried you
Feed baby feed on some milk
Do not cry with fear i am right here
Close your ears listen to what I want you to hear
If I am to protect you with my life I would cover you in arms
I know you are starving and my body is drying
I can’t produce any more milk for I am starving too
Oh child
If I had knew tomorrow would bring war and harm you
I would never wished for your existence
My heart is bleeding my eyes are flooded with bloody tears
Can’t imagine how lonely you might be
Are there no mother angels please cuddle my child and tell him not to cry
Oh my dear child
I plead for peace
I plead for Justice
I plead for calmness
Is it not what we are fighting for less worth than our lives
Than the young children
Is pointing guns at one another necessary than a talk on a table
A talk on a table would save our tomorrow
While releasing the twilight to his bed
from a silent mountain
the leaves of the big trees are falling
the birds wander aimlessly
embrace the clouds as home
floating without wings.
The rain fell weeping on the steadfast corals
watched a stallion busy training
with a swirl of power in his eyes
like tendrils spreading the colors of rain
on his back which was soaked and flowing profusely
without anyone knowing
mama's tears drowned with the rain debris
weaving the history of the wounds of the earth's body
because there is no better season to love him.
When the body is burned by every word that hurts
with hot breath meeting eyes
the source of life opens its lips and flows
all the strands that are shattered
at every moment that greets and spins your shadow
on the circle of the breath of love itself.
With every downpour that cuts off your head and throws it to the ground, as a sign that the eye of life is shrinking back to a small garden—its origin.
To the grove that calls me to understand that every solitude i have ever known is a silence spewed by birds and trimmed lamp wicks—casting shadows on the bare walls and telling stories flavored with the milk of my ancestors, but like an unblown bud that will never hear or know such stories.
Each seed—centuries ago—was a living heart that grew in the black soil of her body and was forgotten among the tense bodies.
As the sun set, they rumbled like snails opening their mouths and spoke of her body's suffering, neighing with their endless pain.
And together we sipped palm wine from different coconut shells, savoring each separate memory, with the ash falling from the sky, entangling her body with roots that gripped the soil tightly.
On this land—I will step again toward rebirth, with the prophecies of the gods touching every probing finger and walking the same path, with my body lying on the grassy shoulder like a broken noose.
Oh; The flowers of the night awake
like eyes without lids
a child's laughter stutters weakly
under the whip of the rainy season
the fire of the eyes dims and goes out
and under the sun that every day
bathes in blood and rises in an empty house
is a sign that—we are not angels.
Atambua-NTT, December 3, 2025
Today when I lay down on a cot
Under the marigold tree
The moon was rolling slowing
Playing with clouds and stars
A game, they were part of
And which started on ugly note
Now enthralling everyone
Moon enjoying its importance now
More than before
Marking the beginning of new era
Month, days, occasion, festivals
Even the seasons, brightness of beams
The rays falling on the leaves
Making it silver colour as if
The milk is pour on them
The waves reflecting the light
Guiding the travelers, it made moon immortal
Whereas everyone wanted it to die
A silent death and get buried under the
Dark thick mountains now
Became the center of the attraction
and galaxy awaits the arrival and departure
of its proud son…..
First Placing : Poetry Marathon 2025
Sponsor: Mark Toney
{ FREEDOM “We may want to linger, to stay, to arrest the flow and talk about it, photograph it, lyricize it. Yet this beauty is mercurial and we must let it go, for it is already slipping away to be replaced by the new.” -Stuart Sovatsky }
YELLOW FIELD OF WHEAT
Angel of Death skims blacker than tar
a skeletal knock overturning bowl of oats
smelling of frankincense and ashes
to carry you to a yellow field of wheat
where you will dance radiant waltzes
haloed free
your laughter pranced across blue walls with
Michael Jackson, Spider-Man, cheeky elves
relishing Kentucky Fried Chicken as you
played scrabble with forlorn neighbour
bony body birthing revolutions of
roulette with green life and grey death
how you endured those precision needles
wanting to drum tapered fingers on
waiting desk overflowing with car sketches
your thirteen year old bald head smiling
veins on an enchanting spring moon as our
hidden tears crystallised hospital sheets
we tried to keep up with you scoffing
encyclopaedias, Dickens and muffins alike
cancer like a chess game mastered chemo
doctors and nurses becoming kings or pawns
time was now or endless pathos stalking minds
Laurel and Hardy keeping hearts unlocked
on Merlin’s star-patterned couch you will
jokingly converse with Pele and his team
soccer ball silent under quiescent table
my ink cannot pen sad lines as I feel
your lips still sucking dripping nipple
freedom moonwalks on a
yellow field of wheat
The white man
In Algarve, I met the world's tallest poet
blessedly free of athletic prowess and
dressed for a warmer clime, perhaps Swiss
or some other country nearby
Alas, he suffered from high education and
tended to overlook people, which, in his
case was understandable, but he had
a great sense of irony
He spoke French to my wife, who came
into my study to tell me she looked like
Sophia Loren, who am I to disagree with
a woman who speaks seven languages
The tall poet and I went to the beach
I noticed he was white as unchurned milk
people looked like he came from Mars
whitest human they had ever seen.
One day, he disappeared, going back to
Swiss where people tend to wear solid
shoes, but I remember he recited a few
poems, full of wonderous thoughts.
Five stones closing times
radiograms & seventy-eights
school caps sticklebacks
saturday flicks pooh sticks
Charabancs steam trains
linoleum oil cloth
mangles fish paste sandwich spread
Hot towel shaves cut-throat razor
shopping baskets paper bags
braces, & plimsoles
short back& sides
Wizard Beano & Hotspur
lending libraries &picturegoer
roadfilms Bridget Bardot & Marilyn Monroe
Dripping coal fires
antimacassars
nylons suspenders
crumpets &toast
Brown &mild barrelled beer
conkers
school milk
blackboard rubbers & liftup desk lids
times-tabled school-kids
Draughts & allotments
rusty bikes roller skates
satchels &scrumping
with mates
hence
no
pounds shillings or pence
We were in married student housing, a frumpy place.
But it was ours, and we thought it great.
We were given free paint, if we picked it up.
We brought home yellow, green, and blue I believe.
it became a tiny bit more cheerful with color on the walls.
Tipped over stacked red milk cartons were our end tables.
We purchased two fat bubble lamps that screamed late sixties.
They had silver bases and were turquoise and green.
We went around and around about the TV.
For four hundred dollars we could buy a small colored one
Or a large black and white console with a large picture.
We choose the grayscale, so we could have something big.
The wife next door was friendly, cooked all the time.
We could smell their spices through the walls.
We had sparse furniture, a small kitchen,
It was a two bedroom, about six hundred square feet.
We thought it was terrific
Because we were in love,
my husband was in college,
and it was cheap.
In the runic depths of time's pearl
and before
its emerald space implored upon
it's shore, frequency waves-a moredraws -forth.
A living tesseract??? stage, where mystery
doth lay- in homage for the one who would give
love a crystal place,
and to have endearing face to peer.
One of it's own,
Looping in a swooning of Seraphiic Queen,
as a cosmic puzzle where the stars did frolick
and sway in mounts, and lick at the milky way of her crowns.
Like a girl eating milk and honey-watching Pandoras brother find them in his adventurer way.
God's Chosen journeyed- through the purple void,
giving chagrinal mysteries - challenging that our souls shall employ.
The infinite tesseract, a shape unseen by
unfaithful eyes.
It is the realm of secrets, where all things convene
flowing one to another in a blessing of phi.
A box within a box, a portal to the unknown,
but yet known
as dreams merge with new placeholder
for reality to make home.
An infinite journey, a cosmic singularity,
like a child playing in the soils of
the sea before Family Supper Bell is called Motherly.
Where Sisters eye curiously, mischieviously,
unspeakably.
Where visions- journey through unseen
worlds and truths are shown intrinsically-beckoning,
a compiling analogy unfurled.
Like a magic carpet and geniic lamp
and a rub rolled into one and all.
A mathematical beauty in geometric form,
of the living in praise and
the authority to be come.
The to for the people of the Ancient of Days.
Unlocking the secrets of the universe-
given spirit and living bone.
Where Man is given crossroads,
enigmas, deja vu
and an ultradimensional throne.
To rule the adventure through,
but not alone.
E is the beginning of EXPENSE, the acrostic series.......
Expensive…Imagination caught my eye…I couldn’t afford losing you badly,
even if you’re worth is worth a pair of decent-looking shoes, but what are
really made of in the inside? Slip your feet inside my shoes for one moment in
your life…for all my life, I was left with a mystery with absolutely no clues…do
I have to find my way out of my solitary dorm? The ghosts are jeering at me
and intimidating me again and again and again and again… scaring me out of
my boots! No one gives any hoots! Untangle me from the comforting shell of
fatality – a story let to tell! You’re only a phony fool, in other words, a
worthless, inadequate tool! I’m climbing the Mountain of Gracious Glory,
gaining back my alienated ambition – I know where the wicked wind flows –
it flows in the land of milk and honey…it sweeps something grand into my
brain and seeps inside of my wobbly body altogether…it marinates in my brain
signals and I receive thoughts of endless sensations and luminous notions!
Deplorable Reality’s strategic tragedy stings like billion’s of buzzin’ busy bees
out of their honey dens or hives! My noggin is runnin’ wild in circles and my
mind is whirling like a seething storm that’s body-quaking me…controlling me
like a steel-made robot…these particular pangs of regrets makes my guilty
conscience overflow with low self-esteem and anguish…lamentation has fallen
upon us all! We all must stand tall…remember to brave & hop over our
obstacles optimistically and assertively like a horse during his training for the
biggest race he has ever trampled into! Do you have any clue what I’ve been
through? My notions that are spinning around in my brain is like the
vegetables, water & the spices, mixing well & swell into a stew, restoring
peace to my verse…Is my life a gift or a curse? Deplorable Reality’s strategic
tragedy stings like billion’s of buzzin’ busy bees out of their honey dens or
hives! I’m climbing the Mountain of Gracious Glory, gaining back my alienated
ambition – I know where the wicked wind flows – it flows in the land of milk
and honey…that’s where you and I will flee!