Long Millstones Poems
Long Millstones Poems. Below are the most popular long Millstones by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Millstones poems by poem length and keyword.
*Image of Excitement Unlocked giphy by Escape Hunt.
Time
Life millstones pressures creation to sort
through essential time, balms the albatross
over seasonable means, paid in court.
A past fraught in qualm, trading ourselves short,
wills the clock face, hands smile--it sates the loss...
life millstones pressures creation to sort,
from the moment that stretches to distort,
spoke present to a fresh reference, toss
over seasonable means, paid in court.
Seconds, minutes, hours ticking by, assort
cleft role of abled spread twinklings as moss.
Life millstones pressures creation to sort
that infinite future's schedule, escort
zealous flashes duly, that run across
over seasonable means, paid in court.
Shapes an hourglass, together, we support
an eternal measured us, reach across.
Life millstones pressures creation to sort
over seasonable means, paid in court.
2020 June 30
*1st Place*
A Brian Strand you choose
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 August 12
*1st Place*
Time- 8 Word Challenge
~~Constance La France: Judged 2020 July 06
A Wisdom Download
One Sunday morning
When walls in pale hues of sage
Coaxed me into a womb of praise
Hard pews reminded me to listen
Rather than slip back into sleepy malaise
As wisdom tapped me on the shoulder
Then tied a hallowed string around my finger
Reminder!
Remember!
Throw off que sera sera into ditches of blind fate!
Embrace
This sparkling celestial a-ha
Where wisdom drips like honeyed dewdrops
From tangled spider webs
In the holy chalice of choice
Sacred silence births wisdom
From a question now poised and posing
To change the direction of my pilgrim tides –
A river flowing in not out –
Cross waters for my soul
Choose the burden of my insatiable ego
Or
Amazing grace that soars casting off millstones
WAM or WAY
What About Me?
Or
What About You?
Inferno of never burning divine fire
To purify my mindless, untamed intentions
Into grace of gold for my quester spirit
Me - first
Or
You - first
What about this divine way!
To walk in sunrise or choose midnight?
What about….
4-11-23
Contest: Wisdom Download
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
Birthday's
By
Tom Wright
When we are young,
With life seemingly before us,
Birthday’s come to slow.
They are counted milestones,
Both feet are on the gas.
We're in a hurry!
When in mid life,
With life seemingly half spent,
Birthdays are picking up speed.
If forgotten, it is o.k.
We are in neutral.
Just idling along!
But when we're older,
With our lives mostly gone,
Birthday’s come too fast.
They are now millstones.
Both feet are on the brake,
We’re yelling whoa,
Ah said whoa!
The moral of this nonsense,
Make each day count for something.
Read Psalms 118 - 24
3/4/98
Forever Young
David J Walker
No
I should have said
I knew you when we
Were both brand new
And we knew
nothing of life
And not a single thing
of each other
Except the unquestioned attraction
And the sad redaction
of the entanglement we thought of
as love
And what I know is
the resolution stands
fast in the past
and cannot be
undone
locked in the lockets hung
round our necks
like cherished millstones
made into clocks
I know you from another
Place and time
When I was yours
And you were mine
Another century
another millennium
Where
We will both be
Forever young
Ideas, thoughts, feelings
inhabit space and time,
they come to mind .
Baggage one carries throughout life is but an evil spirit,
it kills, slowly, the soul, is the enemy that keeps one
from being free, is the bondage – like Bob Marley’s chain -
that is dragged across one’s subconscious memories,
upon life’s experiences, weighing down one’s brain
like millstones, from long ago, wrapped around the throat,
forced to carry around the neck until drowned
- for those not strong enough – in the waters of living.
These pieces of a past – be it yesterday, today, tomorrow
or from yesteryear – drive down the spirit, the soul of women,
of men into the depths of an abyss, a hell, and into the rivers
of a life best left in the gloomy darkness of the past
from whence they came, after being brought to life,
into the light, into sight, to be touched,
to be acknowledged and understood,
to release the heart from being wood.
They, these shadowy pieces, should be given wing,
set free after having spoken their piece, letting the heart sing
of their passing, as they pass into the darkness, into the either,
from whence they creped, like a snake, so that neither
the experiencer nor experienced need handle that baggage,
- live out their troubled lives in a cage, full of rage -
nor carry that baggage, but once, to some waiting train
or given wings, leaving the shattered soul and this plane.
Give that baggage a well-deserved vacation!
Walk away – forever – never again set foot in that station!
B. J. “A ” 2
May 3rd 2002
Coagulation Starter – 3-28-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coagulation
Finally, my blood began to coagulate,
Flowing like insomnia
Between the wounds of dawn and dusk
When wounded memories drip pools of enigmas,
Fleeting gossamers of absolutes,
Drying into sticky puzzles.
Bloodied dreams wander labyrinths,
With no exits,
Leaving spatters of millstones
For ruminating relics to follow,
Thin images of wispy encounters
Fade
In lost chords of words,
Ghosts gel from gashes.
Impostors of reality
Spit rebellious clots into ruminating plateaus,
And phantoms,
To leave a crimson stain
On unwelcomed daylight and martyred Mondays
Stirring penance from clotting confessions.
Tourniquets unbound,
Veins transfused congeal in coalescence
As platelets and corpuscles gather yesterday
Into the flow, a cadence, blood pressure restored,
The pulse of reminiscence throbs
Memoirs course through venous vessels,
Then seek a place
To dream.
Words
Oh how we love them
They lift us
Build us up
Inject love to the centre of our being
Painted into pictures colouring our dreams
Writing or reading or tumbling from our tongues
Words fill our minds and our lungs
They are the wings on which our spirits travel
Ecstacy
We are freed with their meaning
Words
Oh how we hate them
They trip us
Cause us to fall down
Words rip our hearts from our chest
We are transported to lands of gray matter
Knocked off of the rungs of our ladders
Millstones tied to our ankles
Desperation
Frustration
Words on a page
Help release rage
What we hate can heal
Layers that we peel
Spokes within the wheel
In the end neither good or bad
We need both happy and sad
No day without night
No surety or fate
Words are just a tool
A gift to satiate
So we all drink
The words that others think
We can love or hate them
But in the end
Words create a link
Inspired by my friend Eileen Ghali
The American Revolution describes the process whereby one George was replaced by another
Though Jack has climbed his beanstalk,
Saint George his dragon slain,
Gulch-Mammon lives on happily
And myriad is his train
His belly is enormous,
Yet full it ne'er will be.
The moment luncheon's over,
It's time to start high-tea.
Gulch-Mammon's teeth are millstones
Whose grindings rarely cease.
His slightest indigestion
Is menace to our peace.
And every time he sneezes,
Things worsen, though they're bad,
And every time he belches,
The Richter Scale goes mad.
Perchance he bored with eating,
He starts to smoke and fume.
You'll always know his whereabouts.
Just watch out for his plume.
His home is just palatial,
For gold is everywhere.
His rest-room seat is golden,
A thing most choice and rare.
No one knows for certain,
The income that he draws.
Whatever you are making,
It's vastly more than yours.
There on his vast plantations,
Some kine are thin, some fat,
And many laws and statutes
Did little to change that.
Are Jack and George just sleeping,
Or are they in his pay?
Whoso may know the answer
Seems disinclined to say.
I have a passion to hold a lamp aloft,
to capture one acre of starshine
before the sun writes a new dawn.
Rusting Chevys bloom in the half-light.
Nightjars depart on shadow wings.
Shimmering’s walk toward my window
on silver slippers.
A native mildness calls me out
to the green hollows
where poppies cling to secrets.
I’ve a yen to lean like a greening barn
that’s honeycombed with sky.
The dew bathes, hills run with deer.
The woods hold aloft their nocturnal dreams
while the sky turns those to mist
I am invited to be kin,
to the verdigris of millstones,
to the mist and blood
of feuding legends,
to the weather-worn
secluded places
where dirt roads end
and life proclaims
its right to be free.
The gristmill of war leaves its dead frozen
to lay on the blood soaked crusted floor of time
lifeless bent shapes, the ones chosen
in wars, caused by twisted mind's of mankind
only mothers wash blood from time's threshing floor
and only hate fed millstones grind children to death
left for the shifters who seperate no more
the hand of man, the sickle that sweeps away breath
the dead are aligned like rows of bundled sheaves
beneath etched names in stone fields of green
the marrow of life is vanquished, soil recieves
monuments of stone vanish, as time intercedes
for time swiftly passes, and man will be gone
so will the madness of death man tasted
when he rose from the muck, in the paradise of dawn
with a passion for killing, and the souls he wasted
5/24/18 contest The Gristmill Poetry contest